GUEST POST: Tales from Frewyn by Michelle Franklin

I love this series from Michelle Franklin and have read and reviewed this early last year, but wanted to participate in this awesome tour. Please find below my part in a read-a-long, this is part 3. Plus there is a fantastic giveaway at the bottom too!

How Bryeison Broke the Latrine

Part Three

All were sworn in, all saluted, and after the commander roared his first orders, he took to assigning Draeden and Bryeison the remainder of their new regiments. They were not only to lead as captains, but they must now also train recruits themselves, and though Bryeison had little doubts as to gaining the obedience of his men, Draeden had his uncertainties. Would they dissent, would they take to his style of fighting, would they refuse to obey him due to his being prince were all questions that accompanied him as he danced from the lines over to the broken latrine.

"I only heard Suilli shouting a few minutes ago," he told Bryeison. "Fortunately, I had fallen asleep in my uniform, otherwise I should have been late on my first day as a First Captain, and that would not have shown me very worthy. Why didn't you come to wake me? And what happened to the latrine? It was very well last night. Did you use it this morning?"

Bryeison half smiled, and his eyes twinkled. "I did."

"And did you have something to do with this? Of course you did, otherwise you should not be grinning so. How long were you in there?"

"About five minutes."

"And you managed to do that in such a short time?" Draeden looked unconvinced. "You cannot have had to go that terribly."

"It required more force than usual."

"Well, that's what comes from not eating enough fresh fruits. I know all your love is for vegetables and meats, but a good bit of milk in your diet will help regulate you."

Bryeison could not help laughing.

"Well," Draeden huffed, "that is the end of our nice latrine. Now I shall have to walk all the way to the theatre."

"You could go in the hunting grounds."

"And have someone mistake my business for fewmets? I don't want to find a hunting hound at my bunk and wake up to it gnawing on my leg." He glanced charily at Bryeison. "You did wash your hands, I hope."

Bryeison shrugged and smiled to himself, considering how had cleansed himself on MacMillian's tabard whilst carrying him to the cleric.

While they were waiting for all the men in their new regiments to be assigned and collected, they went to the tower by way of the parapets at a casual pace, but once they came to the peristyle, Draeden began to hasten and hop about.

"I do hope Langliegh can be put to for fixing our small latrine soon," he said hastily, breaking into a trot. "Now whenever I shall have to go in the middle of the night, I will have to dance all the way to the tower. I loathe being made to mount those steps when I have to go, and it is so abominably cold, especially in winter. The draft from the bottom is insufferable. I shiver unmercifully every time I sit down- and don't tell me to stand up while doing that."

Bryeison rumbled with mirth. "You could appeal to have a furnace installed in the collection chamber."

"That is true, but the stench of roasting filth should molder me. It is bad enough in the summer. I know my father has all the latrines and chambers cleaned thoroughly once a day, but really-" Draeden opened the latrine tower door and groaned. "Bryeison," he cried, lamenting over the endless staircase before him, "why did you have to break our lovely latrine?" He mounted the stair, pining with every stile, but all his complaints ceased and gave way to sighs of relief once he was beyond the chamber door. A few moments passed, and Draeden emerged from the latrine tower with a most satisfied countenance. "Perhaps we should appeal for a furnace," he mused, his features rapt in euphoric bliss. "My poor bottom was shivering, and my virility most certainly began to recede. I should have frozen if it were in any colder in there. Perhaps my father will concede to have a coal range installed if only to ensure the Brennin line has an heir. I shall be very sad if I should shrivel before I have any occasion to use my inheritance."

Bryeison laughed and shook his head and walked with Draeden back toward the training yard.

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Follow along the read-along!

June 4 -- Part One @ Moonlight Gleam's Bookshelf

June 6 -- Part Two @ JAustenwannabe Presents

June 9 -- Part Three @ Turner's Antics

June 16 -- Part Four @ Evolved World

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Title: Tales from Frewyn
Series: Volume 1
Author: Michelle Franklin
Publisher: Red Willow Press
Release Date: May 2011
Genre: Epic Fantasy Romance

The Haanta Series is the longest, ongoing, online romantic fantasy series. Thousands of readers visit the world of the Two Continents to enjoy the daily short stories featuring all their favorite characters from the Haanta Series novels. In between the business of the books, the commander, Rautu, Otenohi, Unghaahi, Leraa, Kai Linaa and Alasdair enjoy some time together in Diras Castle, but as the stories portray, mischief lies in every corner of the keep where spiders, chocolate pies, petulant giants and grouchy cooks abound.

About the Author

Goodreads

Michelle Franklin is a small woman of moderate consequence who writes many, many books about giants, romance, and chocolate.

~ Website ~ Goodreads ~ Twitter ~ Facebook ~

Giveaway

Open Internationally

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GUEST POST - Khantara Vol 1 by Michelle Franklin - BLOG TOUR

Today I have the second instalment of a short story written specifically for this tour.

Khantara Vol. 1 by Michelle Franklin

Release: November 16, 2012 / $2.99 (ebook) / $11.99 (print)

Epic Fantasy, Romance

Khantara tells the story of the Den Asaan Rautu's mother and father. 
Khantara is a Haanta conqueror, meant to wage war and rule over the enemy nation of Thellis, but after vanquishing Thellis and occupying a construction of a Haanta outpost, he meets Anelta, a woman enslaved by her own people bearing a brand of servitude on her neck. Khantara contrives to save her from a cruel home and bring her to the refuge his people can provide, but how can he do so successfully when the eyes of Thellis are upon him?

Guest Post

This short story has been split among five blog posts and to follow along with the story, please click HERE.

Remembering Kindness: Vyrdin’s Dream

PART 2

Piling the bricks in the field, Vyrdin was silent, rapt in rumination, remarking his work without being conscious of it, wondering why all his entreaties and faithfulness to the Gods had gone unanswered. Many asked for wealth and distinction, but all he asked for were the simple comforts of a satiating stew, a tepid bath, and the amber warmth of a lighted hearth. Family and acceptance no longer bore a strong hold on his heart; all his aspiration was now for finishing his work and finding a tolerable shelter before the coming snows should appear. He enjoyed being out while the snow made its drifting descent, the delicate white with its pearlescent sheen furnishing the northern countryside. He loved the soundlessness of the neighbouring hills under the authority of the quieting flakes, gloried in their tickling sensations as they tumbled over his face, but the dampness that came before the breaking of the skies was difficult for his broken and frail frame to bear. Everything around him was dull and grey, the ground was frozen through, the tilth was fraught with thick frost, and behind him in the near distance was the house, a beacon of ocher warmth, sharing its vivacity and brilliance with the barren garden beside, amidst the pale wreck of a prospect that was now become a mere imitation of its more vibrant time of life. Strange, he thought, that the warmest place on the farm was where its most unaffectionate resident resided, but he was unworthy of aspersions and checked them though he felt such hatred earned. His heart was sore, his body was bleeding and broken, and he was only bitter that those who suffered least seemed to attain life’s more gracious rewards. He had little idea whether the conversation passing over a table garnished with roasted meats and steamed roots promised any semblance of attachment: he heard no festivity, no merriment, no song, no carousing, no unbridled mirth, but there was food, there was fire, and as he piled the last bricks on the top of the kiln, he would have gladly accepted his master’s remonstrances and vicious conduct if only to be allowed to share in all the succour and revived constitution that a good meal could merit.

The kiln nearly finished, Vyrdin had only to seal the remaining cracks and collect some wood and kindle. There was enough clay to use on the crevices, and he was fortunate that the air was not past freezing that he could spread it over the bricks without having to race against the frost, but once the clay that had stuck to his fingers began to harden, he found it increasingly more difficult to continue and even went so far as to contemplate lighting the kiln before the holes were sealed if only to warm his hands. An hour more saw the end of the kiln’s construction, but his fingers, slathered over with hardened clay, were immovable, and the cold had finally defeated him: the bleeding cracks in his skin began to sting, his timbre frame crumbled under the anguish of undying hunger, and all his misery at being made to suffer under the burden of grueling labour prevailed him. What had he done to warrant such punishment? Was he never allowed one moment’s reprieve from his pain and penance? He searched his gloomy remembrance, endeavouring to recall a mistake, a transgression, an evil done in the impudence of youth that was owing to his present wretchedness, but there was nothing. Why did the Gods allow his master a home and a family, regardless of how small a house and how unfeeling the connection might be, and deny him these simple joys? What could he have done at five years old to warrant being abandoned, and what crime could he have committed whilst at the orphanage to merit such a cruel master? There was no answer. Tears welled in his eyes, and while his hands remained motionless, his heart moved between all the alternations of aggrievement and ruefulness.

He roused from his pitying strain when a voice called to him from the side gate. At first, he thought it might be Mr. Carrighan, coming to inspect his progress with all the vindication of an adjudicator as he often did, but when he went toward the gate and descried Gearrog the brickmaker calling him over, his consternation gave way to suspicion. What was he doing there, and on the eve of a holiday? Had not he a family to visit and a meal to eat?

“Came about the bricks, lad,” said Gearrog as Vyrdin approached. “Ol’ Carrighan’s tellin’ me today aft’ that you’s makin’ a kiln. I says you don’t got enough brick for that, is what I told him. Came to see if you needed ‘nymore.” His affable smile slowly began to fade into a frown of concern. “Where’d you get that there cut, lad?”

He was pointing to Vyrdin’s forearm, and in his ceaseless exertion, Vyrdin had forgot about the large gash he had acquired from cutting the turf a few days ago. He glanced momentarily at his arm and said, “From the slane,” with a level of unconcern which astonished the brickmaker.

“How long since you’s had that, lad?”

Vyrdin shrugged. “Since Gods’ Day.”

“Oughtta give it here and lemme see it.”

Gearrog moved to grab Vyrdin’s arm, but Vyrdin moved quickly away and stared at the brickmaker in sudden alarm.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you, lad,” said Gearrog, with grave suspicion. The tensing of his shoulders, the terror in the boy’s face, his hiding his arm behind him recommended a mind ill at ease, and Gearrog began to worry. “That cut’s lookin’ a-might bad, lad. Oughtta have that looked after ‘fore you finish your kiln.”

“It’s already done,” Vyrdin murmured, looking at his feet.

Gearrog’s eyes flared, his features half horror and half astonishment. “Done? Never did! Frannach aheon,” he swore, “in this here weather? With an arm like that? Lad, you’s off the cleric.”

He moved to take Vyrdin’s arm, but Vyrdin recoiled and said a solemn, “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Don’t matter if it don’t hurt, lad. I seen that colour ‘fore. That’s infection. You don’t get that right away cared for, you ain’t gonna have no arm to work with soon ‘nough.”

Vyrdin could be under no mistake that the wound was severe; the slane had cut so far into his arm that he feared he might have shaved the bone. He bled enough for it, but he had cleaned the gash and tied it off, thinking that it should heal on its own with time. He was wrong, however, and the lesion now exposed and riddled with infection had no hope of healing without a cleric’s attention. He wished he had been allowed to go to the infirmary the day the injury occurred, but Mr. Carrighan, with all his superior intellect and misguided understanding, had assured him that there was hardly any occasion to go to the cleric and forbad him from leaving the property. The roars of Vyrdin’s stomach overpowered the conversation, and Vyrdin said a quiet apology when the grumbling ceased.

“You’s had ‘nythin’ to eat today, lad? Gettin’ dark outside. Better to do the kiln after you’s ate a supper.”

Vyrdin said nothing; he only furrowed his brow and refused to look at the brickmaker.

“I ain’t leavin’ till you get that arm seen, lad,” Gearrog firmly insisted. “Don’t wanna come back here in two day time and find you without an arm from the elbow down.”

A quick glance at the house behind him, and Vyrdin’s sense of obedience was beginning to wane. Would that the brickmaker go away and take his wretched concern with him. He was gratified to be fussed over in any respect, but not now, not when his master had already caught him once in the midst of tarrying. His master should never allow him to leave until the tiles were baked, and to disturb him in the middle of his holiday meal while his family was visiting must be begging for punishment. He looked back at the house: he might go and return without his master’s notice, he might have his arm healed and be back to light the kiln in mere minutes, and he might spare himself the tirade and brutality by leaving his master to finish his meal without any interruptions. After a few moments spent in agonizing deliberation, Vyrdin yielded to the brickmaker’s demands and followed him down the road to the infirmary, his mind beleaguered by notions of insubordination and penalty, and his heart besieged by the terrific elation of enforced defiance.

About the Author

Michelle Franklin is a small woman of moderate consequence who writes many, many fantasy books about giants, romance and chocolate.

~ Website ~ Goodreads ~ Twitter ~ Facebook ~ Amazon ~

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