I am juggling ten thousand different projects – a 15.000-words story I have to deliver in ten days, a 70.000/130.000 words novel I need to to start and finish by Christmas, two ebooks to go as stretch goals for my (very successful! Yeah!) crowdfunding, the next Buscafusco, the new Corsair, and then I need to start planning my online courses…
Whew… my mother was right when she said that as a shop clerk I’d have an easier life.
Anyway, as it usually happens, as soon as I am buried in work, something different comes to my mind.
Like, the start of the next Aculeo & Amunet story, that goes more or less like this…
“Are you ready?”
The Roman blinked in the glare. A black silhouette stood in the burning frame of the door. A short man in a cloak, his head misshapen, or wrapped in a turban, or both. “What if I am not?”
The man in the door snickered. “It is not like you have any choice, my friend.”
The Roman lifted his hand. The chain on his wrist rattled on the floor. “We are not friends.”
“Because you are a fool,” the man said, rubbing his hands together. His parchment like skin made a sound like crickets. “A man in the pits of the arena needs all the friends he can find.”
He stepped aside and two men entered. Wearing pale tunics, they smelled of sweat and grease. One of the guards opened the Roman’s chains as the other kept a spear leveled at his chest.
“That’s not a good idea,” the Roman said, massaging his wrist.
“What?” the shadow in the door asked.
“A spear in a confined space.”
In a flash of motion, with his left arm the Roman slammed the closest man against the wall. He then lunged and grabbed the spear, kicked the guard in the gut, and disarmed him.
The man in the door gasped and took a step back.
The Roman whirled the weapon around, and the sperarhead traced a line of sparks on the ceiling. He snapped the shaft in half on his knee. Moving lightly on his feet, he used one half to hit the first guard on the head, and with the sharp end slashed the second guard’s heel tendon. The man screamed in pain and rolled on the ground, holding his leg.
The Roman was through the door already, the bloody spearhead pushing against the neck of the man in the turban.
“No!” the man shouted.
But it was not a plea for pity. The four guards surrounding the Roman froze, their swords high in the air.
“This will cost, you, Roman,” the man in the turban smirked.
A single drop of blood ran down his scrawny neck, and the Roman grinned, before he dropped his weapon. “We’ll see,” he said.
What do you say, guys?