Prince of Malorn is an action/adventure fantasy novel geared toward young adults. In it, one major obstacle stands between seventeen-year-old Prince Korram and the throne that is his birthright: Regent Rampus. Temporary ruler of Malorn, Rampus has no intention of giving up his position when the crown prince comes of age – or of allowing the prince to live long enough to reach that age.
Desperate to build an army of his own to stand against the
regent, Korram treks into the Impassable Mountains to try to recruit the one
segment of Malornian society not under Rampus’s control. But can he lead a band of untrained hunters
and gatherers to victory against the full might of the Malornian military? Or will they all be crushed by the grasping
hand of the regent before the prince can claim his rightful throne?
Following is a brief scene from the perspective of a villain in the novel. Scroll to the bottom to see how to purchase your copy of Prince of Malorn!
Dannel reined his horse up before the last building on the street,
a one-story brick structure with peeling paint and a sagging roof, typical for
this part of town. Torches flickered invitingly on either side of the closed door,
fainter torchlight leaking through the cracks in the window shutters along with
strains of off-key singing. A hanging sign cut in the shape of a wide cup
announced the tavern’s name: The Rusty Flagon.
A man smoking a pipe was leaning against the wall in such a position
as to have easy access to the weapon obviously hidden under his cloak. He eyed
Dannel silently, and Dannel gave him a courteous nod as he dismounted.
At this early hour, the hitching bar out front was only half
full, so there was plenty of space for Dannel to tie up his horse. He took his
time strolling up to the door, staring into the torchlight all the while so his
eyes would adjust and he wouldn’t have to walk in squinting.
When he was ready, Dannel turned the handle and pulled the
door open, the sound of raucous singing flowing out into the night air as he
did so. The Rusty Flagon was a nondescript establishment, notable neither for
its appearance and cleanliness, nor for the quality of its food and drink. But there
were plenty of little tables in dim corners barely touched by the light from
the torches up front, where customers could carry on secretive conversations or
finalize shady business dealings under cover of the music. The bartender,
Dannel was nearly sure, hired people to belt out drinking songs over and over
to cover the sound of any conversation guests might wish to keep private. The
watchers outside, including the one Dannel had seen and others he knew must be lurking
nearby, were always quick to give warning if authorities were ever spotted
approaching. The proprietor never asked any questions of his guests or tried to
engage them in casual conversation. As long as they paid for their drinks and
left a tip to cover the cost of any damage, he didn’t bat an eyelash over the
occasional unexpected mess or business deal gone violently wrong. Dannel knew;
his own blood had contributed to the stains on the floor in one of the back
corners many years ago.
The bartender, his strength and agility belied by the belly
that hung over an apron as stained as the floor, was making his rounds of the tables
with a pitcher of beer in one hand and ale in the other for refills. Dannel
caught his eye, and the man hurried over to join him.
“That fellow at the table there by the left wall,” Dannel
began, pointing with his eyes. “Was he here last night too?” It was too dim to
see a face clearly from across the room, but Dannel recognized the profile. The
bartender would have seen him when he first entered and again when he ordered a
drink.
“Oh, I don’t pay no attention to who’s here when,” the man was
quick to assure him. “Folk can come and go from the Flagon whenever they want,
and it’s none o’ my business. Besides, I got a real bad memory for faces.”
Dannel fished a silver coin from his pocket. “Try hard to
remember.”
The man glanced at the coin, peered in the indicated direction,
and frowned as though in thought. “You know, it’s coming back to me now. He was here last night, and the night
before as well. Sat alone at that same table for a couple of hours before he
finally left, and he looked kinda worried if you ask me.”
Good. Smiling, Dannel
pulled out a second coin and handed them both to the man. “Bring me a pint of
ale, and keep the change.” He wove his way around the tables toward the left
side of the room, his shoes sticking slightly with each step.
Annie Douglass Lima spent most of her childhood in Kenya and
later graduated from Biola University in Southern California. She and her
husband Floyd currently live in Taiwan, where she teaches fifth grade at
Morrison Academy. She has been writing poetry, short stories, and novels since
her childhood, and to date has published seven books (three YA action
adventure/fantasy novels, one puppet script, and three anthologies of her
students’ poetry). Besides writing, her hobbies include reading (especially
fantasy and science fiction), scrapbooking, and international travel.
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