Z-Plan Castle - Castle Fraser

Castle Fraser is located in Aberdeenshire and is the most elaborate of all the Z-plan castles in Scotland.

But wait – what’s a Z-plan castle?

Basically, it’s a castle with a rectangular tower in the middle and two towers at the corners, positioned diagonally opposite each other.

Castle Fraser was built between 1575 and 1636 – and when we say ‘between’, I am pretty sure that means that’s how long construction took, not that we’re unsure of the date. It appears an older square tower occupied the site before Castle Fraser. Funnily enough, the current castle was built by a chap called Michael Fraser. Well, not personally – he planned and funded it. On the northern side of the castle is a panel signed ‘I Bel’ which is believed to be the mark of master mason John Bell, so I guess he built it. Well, not personally. I suppose he supervised other people who built it. Lots of other people. Another master mason, Thomas Leiper, was also involved in the construction.

The castle is five stories high, and after the initial building of the Z-plan castle, an additional two wings were constructed, which obscures the castle's basic design. The castle was further modernised in the late 18th century, including the addition of a new southern entrance and sash windows, which I suspect weren’t part of the original castle defences. The interiors were then entirely reconstructed again between 1820 and 1850, and the castle was then partially restored by new owners around 1950.

Castle Fraser appeared in the movie The Queen in a scene where Helen Mirren (the Queen) is stranded by a river and sees a stag. She then visits Castle Fraser where she learns the stag has been killed by hunters. 

Castle Fraser is a beautiful impressive castle – if you’re ever in Scotland, consider adding it to your list of sights to see. I think I’ll be stopping by in 2016 when I’m there!

 

This is an A to Z Challenge post. If you enjoyed this post, please feel free to check out my previous posts if you haven't already. If you're finding yourself here often, you might like to join as a member, sign up to the blog through RSS or email, or sign-up to my newsletter. Check out my March Newsletter if you missed it.

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You Must: Love Enough (Part 3) - Free Fantasy Fiction

Welcome back to the third and final installment of Love Enough. If you missed Protestations: Love Enough (Part 1) or Sentenced to Death: Love Enough (Part 2) make sure you check them out first! 

* * * 

‘I am sorry.’ Annael proffered the dagger she’d retrieved from the darkness. A tear trailed its way down her perfect cheek. ‘I do this for you and our son.’

‘But you ask me to wield the knife.’

‘The blade must strike true. No spark of life can remain for them to fan into flame, or you both will die.’

He curled his thick-knuckled hands into helpless fists. ‘I can’t. No matter the reason, I can’t.’

‘You must.’ Annael’s voice lowered, insistent. The lyrical notes tugged at Dagon, luring, seducing, and persuading. Annael had never turned the power of her voice against him, but she did now. 

The gentle persuasion sank into his bones. What she said was right, he must, it was imperative…

‘Don’t!’ He yanked himself free of the soft, seductive glamour.

‘I just –.’

‘I know.’ Reaching out, Dagon stroked his son’s dark hair. Quiet, the baby watched him with huge, sleepy green eyes. Annael’s eyes. Must he spend a lifetime haunted by her ghost?

‘Would you be more at peace if I did?’

‘Yes… no.’ Reluctant, his hand reached for the knife. ‘If I do this thing, I’d rather do it of my own free will.’

‘They’re here.’

High above the stone circle, something moved - a mere hint of shadows on shadows. Only his demon eyes discerned even that much. Annael would sense them inside her head, coming for her.

Ishafal.

‘What… what will they do to you?’

‘Imprisonment, trial, punishment. Execution. They won’t allow me to die until they track down our son. Then they will kill him, out of hand, like the mongrel they believe him to be.’ Her hands tightened on the baby. His green eyes drowsed closed.

Dagon’s breath caught in his throat. ‘Punishment?’

‘Torture, if you will.’ Her shoulders hitched gracefully, as if she were indifferent to hate, but her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths.

Torture. He couldn’t do what she asked to save himself. He couldn’t even do it to save their son. The passion engendered by the ardesco wouldn’t allow it.

But he could do it for her, to save her the suffering.

‘I’ll do it.’

‘You will?’ Her eyes shone liquid in the light of the dying torch, betraying mixed surprise, fear and relief. ‘Quickly. We have little time.’

Annael arranged herself beneath an arch, leaning against one massive pillar. The baby lay asleep in her lap, for lack of an alternative except the muddy ground of a rainy night.

Dagon placed the knife point at her breast and hesitated. ‘Will I see you on the other side of the Curtained Gate?’

Annael leaned forward, heedless of the blade pricking her chest, and kissed him, soft and slow. Her lips tasted sweet against his, and the saltwater tang of her tears brushed his tongue. He savored the taste, let it linger, bittersweet, aware this was the last time he would know the touch of her in this life. A tear slid down his cheek, and another, until they streamed down his face, mingling with the rain. She caught one on her finger, and clutched it to her breast as she lay back against the pillar. The other hand brushed the downy hair of the sleeping child before drawing a blanket gently over the boy’s eyes.

The rustle of wings impervious to rain drifted down out of the dark. A voice echoed in the distance.

‘Hurry.’ Annael’s hand covered his on the hilt of his dagger. Perfect teeth dragged at her bottom lip and she blinked, too quickly. ‘I will see you on the other side, though I pray many years pass before you cross that threshold. Tell our son I loved him... I loved him enough to sacrifice everything.’

Dagon nodded once, jerkily, tears falling so fast her flawless face blurred. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. Was he really about to do this? The image of her broken body and disfigured face flashed through his mind, the tiny infant dead at her feet. He couldn’t.

I must.

He shoved the blade home. Blood spilled over his hand, hot and sticky. Her last breath sighed from her lips. In the depths of his chest, his heart broke with a profound silence. As though a dam burst within, guilt, despair, and agony flooded him. 

The night exploded in screams and voices calling; Ishafal experiencing the sudden passing of Annael, and crying out in anger and grief and triumph, an emotion for every voice.

Dagon stumbled, and fell backwards in the mud. The tears wouldn’t stop. Deep, shaking sobs threatened to tear his frame apart.

The first Ishafal thumped to the ground bare yards away. Dagon skidded to his feet, slipping on muddied grass. Steadying himself, he grabbed the sleeping baby. The child woke, screaming the strident call of a frightened newborn. Another Ishafal landed heavily to the right. Steel gleamed in the flickering torchlight.

With the baby clutched to his chest, adrift in the sea of his own agony, in the tears threatening to drown him, Dagon stumbled blindly towards the torch. The two Ishafal closed on him. His hand seized the rough wood of the torch, and he yanked the brand from the earth, the flame scribing a line of fire through the rainy darkness as he spun.

The Ishafal behind him shrieked, and jerked back. Dagon felt the impact of the torch vibrate up his arm. Flames erupted in tinder-dry feathers. An explosion of light assaulted his eyes.

Dagon spun again, waving the brand and squinting into the brilliance. The flaming Ishafal screamed, the beauty of his voice lost in desperation. Dropping to the ground, he rolled in the mud and the wet grass. Flames engulfed his clothing and the screams escalated to terror. The other Ishafal stared, shocked. More winged people spiraled out of the darkness, racing towards the pyre the Ishafal had become. A few voices lifted in shaky song, a fragmented attempt to douse the flames with the magic of their voices.

Dagon hurled the torch at the back of a singing Ishafal. The song faltered at the second explosion of flame and light, and he spun and fled into the dark. The screams of the burning Ishafal drowned out the distressed cries of the baby. Dagon whispered soothing words, and the wails eased to whimpers.

He ducked under a branch, and ran into the cover of the forest, trying to outrun the Ishafal, the pain, and the blood smearing his hands.

They were distracted by the Ishafal he’d set alight, delayed in order to save them. If he ran fast enough, and far enough, in the dark and the rain, they’d never find him this night.

And then, when he was sure the pursuit was lost, only then would he stop; to grieve, to shed the tears, and to cradle close to him the only thing remaining of the woman he loved.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fiction piece is part of the A to Z Blogging Challenge and has not been to an editor.**

 If you enjoyed this post, please feel free to check out my previous posts if you haven't already. If you're finding yourself here often, you might like to join as a member, sign up to the blog through RSS or email, or sign-up to my newsletter. Check out my March Newsletter if you missed it.

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Monday Morsel: X is for eXhumation - An Extract from ‘In the Company of the Dead’

Welcome to the Monday Morsel feature, where I share short extracts from the first draft of my adult epic fantasy/fantasy romance, In the Company of the Dead.

* * * 

‘None may pass here.’ The priestess folded her arms and blocked their way, though she was slight enough Lyram could have lifted her out of the way if necessary.

‘We have the permission of the abbess,’ Ellaeva said. ‘And you know we couldn’t have come down this way unless she allowed us passage past the altar.’
The silence stretched. Darkness concealed the features of the priestess inside her raised hood, but her gaze held a weight that made it clear she studied each of them in turn. Finally, she grudgingly reached for the door.
‘Do you hear something?’ He spoke without forethought, in response to something on the edge of hearing so subtle he couldn’t even place it.
Both women turned to regard him.
‘Like what?’ Ellaeva quirked an eyebrow.
‘I don’t quite know. It was so faint I couldn’t place it – a scratching, or a shuffling maybe? Perhaps I imagined it. I can’t hear it now.’
She held his gaze a moment, and then, shrugging, addressed the priestess. ‘Unlock the door.’
The priestess released the bolts, and Lyram seized the handles and hauled. The heavy door swung open, stiff hinges protesting the movement with a long drawn out groan that echoed off the stone walls and through the clinging darkness.
Ellaeva nodded her thanks to the doorkeeper. As the door yawned open, she stepped forward.
A skeletal hand, flesh hanging from the bones, grabbed her wrist and yanked her staggering into the darkness. 

* * *

Thanks for dropping by! Don't forget, this is a first draft, and as such won't be perfect. If you like what you read, and are so inclined, show your support by leaving a comment. I am currently 65% of the way through the first draft of In the Company of the Dead. If you'd like to sample more of my writing, check out my novella Confronting the Demon, or any of my free short stories.

If this is your first visit to Monday Morsels, find others in the series by clicking on the ‘Monday morsel’ tag, or go to the first installment.

More about In the Company of the Dead:

Lyram already crossed a prince, and now he finds himself on the brink of crossing a god.

Son of a duke and second in line for the throne, Lyram is exiled to a lonely castle after assaulting the crown prince. When a hostile army arrives to besiege the castle, he believes the prince wants him removed – permanently.

As though answering their prayers, Ellaeva, the Battle Priestess of the death goddess, arrives unexpectedly. But she has not come to break the siege. Instead, she is in pursuit of a necromancer of the evil god of decay. When misfortune after misfortune befalls the beleaguered defenders, Lyram realises the necromancer is hidden within the walls, sabotaging the very defence.

Against the backdrop of clashing gods, Lyram must fight to save himself from the political machinations of his prince, and the dread plans of a necromancer. But as the siege lengthens, he realises the greatest threat may come from another quarter — a woman sworn body and soul to a god tempts him to pay a terrible price.

This is an A to Z Blogging Challenge post. For more information about the challenge, check it out at A to Z Blogging. If you enjoyed this post, please feel free to check out my previous posts if you haven't already. If you're finding yourself here often, you might like to join as a member, sign up to the blog through RSS or email, or sign-up to my newsletter. Check out my March Newsletter if you missed it.

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Writing Personal Conflict

At some point in the story, the conflict must become personal. 

A simple enough #writetip but one that sparked a heated discussion, and so I thought perhaps the topic deserves greater exploration than can be achieved in 140 characters.

The counterargument was that in an historical conflict around a war, the protagonist has no personal beef with the opposing king.

Of course not. Well, you could write it that way, depending on who your protagonist is – but assuming your protagonist is a mere soldier, then no, that would be artificial.

Don’t confuse your setting with the conflict. A war, historical or otherwise, is a setting. Perhaps an important part of the setting, and perhaps one that breeds conflicts, but it’s not the story. For example, my WIP In the Company of the Dead occurs during a siege, and although that's part of the story, it's not the story.

Another example is disaster stories. Impersonal, right? Wrong… The setting is the tsunami, the blizzard, the asteroid… The conflict is what it means for our protagonist, what it stops him getting, and how it will affect him. That’s personal.

The day after tomorrow by MarkinhoO. Impersonal storm - very personal conflict

Stories are about people not events – as opposed to history, which is largely about events. You know those chronological lists of dates with what happened on those dates? Yawn…. That’s history.

A story takes a person and tells us about them. You may learn some history along the way. I know about the Battle of Culloden because of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander books, but the story is not about Culloden or the Scottish emigration to America or the revolution or the Declaration of Independence or any of the other true historical events depicted in those books. No, the books are about Claire and Jamie Fraser. It is their story. And their story is very personal. Their conflict is not the Battle of Culloden, but the risk they may lose each other – a risk heightened and deepened by Culloden.

The Battle of Culloden (1745) by David Morier, oil on canvas.
Setting or conflict?

Making the conflict personal simply means the protagonist has some personal stake in the outcome of events. If he doesn’t – if he is a dutiful soldier, who goes off to war because he is told to, does his job, and comes home an unchanged man – where is the conflict? Why do we, the reader, care?

We don’t. But maybe he has gone to war in place of his conscripted brother whom he loves too much to let die. Or maybe while he is gone, he risks losing his sweetheart to another man. Ah – now it’s getting interesting.

A related concept is motivation. If there is no personal conflict, what is the protagonist’s motivation for seeking to resolve the conflict? What are his goals? He doesn’t really have either.

If we take this back to goal, motivation and conflict (which I discussed earlier in April in How To Use GMC Charts to Plot A Novel), the goal is what the character wants, motivation is why he wants it, and the conflict is what is stopping him getting his goal. Looked through this lens, it’s much easier to see why these should be personal. Wanting something is inherently personal. Being stopped from getting what you want is also inherently personal. Your motivation is why you will keep fighting hard to get it and that drives a story. 

Any story with personal conflict will be stronger than one that is impersonal. 

This is an A to Z Blogging Challenge post. For more information about the challenge, check it out at A to Z Blogging. If you enjoyed this post, please feel free to check out my previous posts if you haven't already. If you're finding yourself here often, you might like to join as a member, sign up to the blog through RSS or email, or sign-up to my newsletter. Check out my March Newsletter if you missed it.

Don't forget to share the love and spread the word on Twitter, Facebook or StumbleUpon (or other social networking site of your choice) if you know other people who might also enjoy this.

Thanks for stopping by and visiting!