We are delighted to welcome D.E.M. Emrys, author of From Man to Man, who joins us to share a guest post and excerpt.
Guest Post: Can there be such a thing as too much fantasy?
Is the fantasy world over-populated? It’s a valid question and one that keeps raising its ugly head in the current era of ‘Lord of the Authors: The Fellowship of the Fantasy’.
Without battling out the topic of Indie vs Traditional, I want to take a moment and talk about fantasy worlds. A simple blog post can’t cover every single fantasy tome to have ever graced a book shelf (or a digital market place like Amazon, for all you e-publishing gurus), but we can highlight a few.
J.R.R. Tolkien with his elves, and his dwarves, his hobbits with their hairy feet, and his trolls. Ringwraiths, a dark lord, and a powerful artefact that is a curse to all those who bear it.
George R.R. Martin with his thrones, and his games, the squabbles of men, and the treachery, futility and thick-fast plots (oh, and if you’ve watched the tv adaptation, there’s a fair share of boobage, too).
Peter V Brett – demons galore! How ‘man’ (and woman!) can overcome their fears for what they believe is right.
Mark Lawrence explores the moral depravity of a Prince who won’t let anything – or anyone – stand in his way, even if that involves burning the world just to keep warm.
Michael J Sullivan brings bromance to the fold (Webster’s unofficial definition of bromance: bro-mance, a combination of brother and romance, meaning ‘a brotherly romance’ between two males. Often seen sharing large quantities of bruises, beauties, and beatings) with a healthy dose of death-defying escapades and swashbuckling adventures.
John Gwynne breaths fresh life into the folklore and legend side of fantasy, giving Giants, Wyrms and even Angels a gritty new lease with a Nordic/Celtic feel.
Brent Weeks forefronts assassins in one, and mages in another, but above all else they struggle with their own powers for further means.
Brandon Sanderson…magic, need I say more? But then again, his world-building is second to none.
Joe Abercrombie touts more knives than any sane man should ever need, but lucky for us not all of his characters can be deemed sane enough to count or care for that matter. But when all is said and done, it’s down to being what you’re meant to be, and (as he often states by way of infamous barbarian Logen NineFingers) once you’ve got a task to do, it’s better to do it than live with the fear of it.
I’ve barely even touched the surface here. I could go on for hours. James Barclay, David Gemmell (big daddy of British heroic-fantasy), Robert E Howard, Patrick Rothfuss, Robert Jordan, David Dalglish, Mazarkis Williams, Moses Sirergar III, Ben Galley, Steven Erikson, Christopher Paolini…ok, ok – I’ll stop.
So, fantasy is a busy world(s). But each and every one of them is different. Yes, a lot of them share themes or creatures (elves, dragons, hobbits, dwarves, damsels in distress…hobbits, or other creatures with hairy feet?), but would you really say: ‘No more’! Heck, I’m sure if you asked a lot of these authors they’d admit to being inspired by one another. Of course they would.
Ok, let’s imagine if someone said ‘No more’ to Robert Jordan. Would we have the Peter V Brett’s, and Christopher Paolini’s of today? ‘Put that pen down’ David Gemmell…and voila, no John Gwynne’s or James Barclay. How many would we lose if Robert E. Howard had run out of ink on the first page, and Conan had been lost to an unfinished sentence?
IMAGINE THE CHAOS if someone told J.R.R. Tolkien to shave his hobbit and write a romcom. Think of the children, pray for their futures!
Publishing is an ever changing industry, and fantasy is an ever changing realm of possibilities. If you’re Indie or Traditional, reader or writer…could you really say NO to one last fantasy? And before you start culling dwarves, shaving hobbit feet, or cashing in dragon fangs for the last copy of ’50 Shades of Grey’ from Amazon…just remember:
A Fantasy author isn’t just for Christmas. They’re for life.
(And even then, they’ll think of a way to come back and haunt you from the afterlife – they’re fantasy authors after all).
Excerpt: From Man to Man
I.
‘I never meant to let you down.’
Draven lifted a stray curl of his wife’s hair from her face. She smiled in her sleep as if knowing he was there. As silently as he could, he leaned over the bed and kissed her softly on the cheek.
‘I’ve tried everything.’
Rising slowly, as quietly as he could on the wooden floorboards, Draven retreated from the bed. By the fractured light from the shutters he made for the bedroom door. The walls of the house were thin and he heard a creak from the neighbouring room.
‘Best be off before Kale wakes.’
Reaching for the door behind him, still facing the bed and his sleeping wife, Draven paused. Drawn, painfully drawn like poison from a wound, he found his eyes stray to the chest at the foot of the bed. Shut away from the world under key and lock, he lingered a moment longer.
The chest stared back blankly.
‘I promised…’
The chest never gave up staring at him.
A stained apron had been discarded atop the chest. He had tried being a server at the tafarn, only to start a bar brawl. A pair of muddy boots sat before the chest. He had tried being a hand at the farm, only to get into a punch-up over accidentally letting the chickens out. A horseshoe, a misshapen pot, a scattering of nails – proof that he had let her down.
The chest never once looked away.
‘…I gave you up for her.’ Draven looked to his wife, to the chest, to his wife, and back again a hundred times or more. ‘I’ve known your way of living too long, it’s time I left it behind.’
Even though he turned his back on both his wife and the chest, Draven had chosen between the two. Trembling, he opened the door. A cold breath greeted him as he stepped from the room. It coiled along his neck, curled at his chin. It bid him to reconsider. He glanced back over his shoulder.
“No,” Draven said to the chest.
Silence.
‘Good.’
He snatched the axe from its resting place against the wall and left. This time he did not look back.
II.
‘So, it’s come to this?’
Draven stared down his opponent. The axe was heavy in his grip, knuckled white. Circling to the left, boots crunching on the forest floor, his breath came even and steady. He circled back to the right, sizing, gauging. Hefting the handle high, blade glinting in the sun, Draven’s muscles coiled.
‘I’ve traded my old enemies for just this one…’
The axe thundered home.
‘…I miss the old ones.’
Crunching the head back and forth, Draven wrenched the axe free. Even as the spray caught him in the face he swung the axe again.
Twice more he struck, then a dozen times more. He felt nothing – thought lost in the rhythmic economy of each axe-fall. The spray continued, shards and splinters flying.
Draven’s opponent groaned.
With a final yawning cry the tree surrendered. The ground rumbled as distant thunder, branches cracking as the trunk crashed to the floor. Draven advanced on his fallen foe, axe resting over his shoulders.
The dull drum of other axe-falls wore at his patience, the heat of the summer day stifling under collar. He dared not work bare-chested for the other fellers kept enough of a distance without seeing the scars of his old life. He ignored them and they ignored him. It had worked. So far.
‘So, it’s come to this.’
The trunk bled sap from its mortal wound, the final crackling of branches rattling a dying breath.
A voice cut through Draven’s thoughts as he knelt beside the tree. “Strong arm – t’ain’t no tree-feller’s arm, though!” The voice was gruff and hoarse, more used to shouting than speaking.
Straightening up, Draven turned on the speaker.
The speaker picked his way through the graveyard of stumps, scratching at the seat of his pants. Paying little attention to the other fellers working in Splitter’s Cross, the stranger pulled short of Draven and crossed his arms.
“You’ve just moved into Hidann?” The stranger’s tone was more accusation than question.
Draven nodded. He did not recognize the stranger. Portly but stout of muscle rather than glutton, the man was thick of beard and brow, sleeves rolled to the elbow, leather apron marred with soot and pocked with burn-holes. His forearms bulged with muscles as he wrung his large hands together, the hairs on his skin scorched and blackened.
The stranger tugged on his fist-length beard. “Things t’ain’t working out for you, I heard. Started a brawl in the tafarn the other night? Cost ya job and a day’s labor mending the chairs you broke.”
‘What’s it to you?’
Draven grunted.
The stranger rambled on. “Job at the farm ended the same way. Broke Herdsman Raines’ nose and spent an hour or so fetching the chickens back.”
The axe was a welcome reassurance to Draven as he remembered how his other jobs within Hidann Village had ended. Though the other fellers had yet to take notice of the conversation, Draven could feel their ears pinned back as if they were eyes on the back of his neck.
“T’ain’t had much luck working as a villager.” The stranger smiled a gap-toothed smile. He rolled the word villager on his tongue as if it were a promise of riches.
‘What do you know?’ Draven let the axe drop to his side. He caught himself tensing. ‘Stop it.’ The urge took more than a thought to banish and Draven forced his hand to settle the axe against the tree.
The stranger glanced to the axe. Draven could not help but smile when he saw the man waver. The axe was still in arm’s reach and the stranger stood within the axe’s reach. It would take a moment and nothing more.
Draven growled, “Villager work takes a little getting used to.” He stepped away from the tree, leaving the axe behind.
The stranger visibly relaxed. “Aye, that it does. Takes time to settle in – took me long enough when I became a villager.”
Draven pulled the bandana from his crown and mopped at the sweat on his brow. “How do you know?”
The stranger’s brow furrowed. “Know? Know what?”
“Don’t try pulling the wool over my eyes. Villager this, villager that. I came here to get away from it all – I’m trying to get away from it. But, you’re bringing it all back.”
“T’ain’t no harm meant by it, by Fraid and Govannon’s bloodied blades I swear it!”
Draven fixed the man with his best glare. “Start talking or start walking, now.”
“You’re a Merc-”
Draven interrupted the stranger, “I was.”
“No offense meant, none at all! I seen you visit the Huntsman last winter. You and that other one – the big man with the big axe.”
“So?”
“So, nothing! Nothing at all.”
Draven clenched his jaw, retying the bandana about his head. “What do you want then?”
The stranger looked down, feet shuffling in the scattered splinters and twigs. “Got a job for you,” he murmured.
“What kind of job?”
“Not one for a tree-feller’s arm – not a villager job.”
Draven turned his back on the stranger. “Sorry – not interested.”
“But it’s what you do!”
“I’m retired.” Draven fetched the axe from its resting place. The haft felt good in his callused palm, though not half as good as a sword-grip.
His thoughts strayed to the chest at the end of his bed.
“I can pay! Forty silver-marks. Twice as much as feller wages – for a day’s work. All you’d have to do is-”
Draven spun on the stranger, cutting him off. “What’s your name?”
The man took a step back. “McGowan.”
Few of the other fellers looked up from their work but Draven took no notice of them. “What do you do, McGowan?”
“I’m the village Blacksmith.”
“Well, McGowan the Blacksmith, I’m Draven the feller – best you remember that before I remember what I was before this -” he raised the axe, nodding to it. “This might not be the tool of my old trade, but it’s got a blade all the same.”
About From Man to Man (2012)Every man has a past, none more so than Draven Reinhardt. Abandoning his old life to settle down as a villager, he struggles to fit in, let alone hold down a job. When opportunity offers the much needed coin, Draven is torn between a promise and a purpose.
But, what’s one last job if you’ve already got blood on your hands?
‘From Man to Man’ is the story of how one man can change – or not – for the best. Prequel to the upcoming novel ‘It Began With Ashes’, the short (6400 words) introduces the reader to a world of suspense, intrigue, and action.
D.E.M. Emrys. Author. Soldier by day, Soldier by night – Writer in between. Knows war to write war.
David Emrys, known as D to his friends, is a serving soldier and author. He has clearance to know more than he should, but not the sense to know better. Leaving education with no more than a fifteen year olds understanding of English Literature, D’s storytelling craft is self-taught.
Growing up with the heroic tales written by authors such as David Gemmell and James Barclay, D was inspired to write stories of his own. After joining the army D used his free time to focus on his dream of sharing shelf-space with his idols.
D testifies to the fact that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword – but swords make for better letter-openers. He lives where the army send him, but home is in Chelmsford with his girlfriend. They say that behind every great man there is a woman pulling the strings, but she lets him dance to his own song whilst being the perfect partner in step. D claims that his books would not have been written without her.
David Emrys is not his real name.
Nor is D.
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