By Crafty Dogma, February 28, 2010. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/legalcode It's been a while since I've done one of these. The below example shows work on conciseness and fluency in the text. Hopefully it is of some use! Excerpt from Sovereign of the West (my Work In Progress), sixth book in The Fledgling Account.
Unedited
“And what is this?” someone barked in a Tarhian accent behind them both.
Fritz whirled around, still grasping Talmon with an iron hand.
“Father, please!” Talmon cried. He broke off into desperate Tarhian: “This man is crazy. He does much sorcery and asks me of things I do not know -”
The man before Fritz was clothed in immense bear furs that made his extravagantly tall figure seem much broader than it really was. His chin bristled with a dark brown beard, and his murky eyes were narrowed to slits. He wore a round fur hat on his head, even though it was now early spring in Siana.
The stranger gripped a long, black staff, and he pointed it at Fritz now.
“I am Harcwin Tiran,” he said sharply. “And that is my son. Who might you be?”
Fritz straightened, his muscles tensing.
“I am the king of Siana.”
The unspoken text was that this was the first man who had crossed the Jarnian Mountain Range in Sarient, and survived. This was the man who had conquered Tarhia and divided its territory in half, so that everything west of the Jarnian River now belonged to the Sartians. This was the man that had pillaged, crushed, and killed in the name of his country, in the belief that he could never be wrong.
The merchant considered. He drew his staff back.
“Your grace,” he said, bowing his head and making to kiss the hem of Fritz’s coat. Fritz snatched it away, giving him a filthy look. “I am the man you look for. Do not punish my son; I am his father, and I will take any penalty -”
“I’m not looking for anyone,” Fritz lied, dragging Talmon closer to himself. The young boy was trying to break away. “I am looking for information.”
Harcwin’s face darkened as he watched his son’s agitations.
“I say nothing until my son is released,” he hissed.
Fritz stared into his eyes.
“You are a bold man,” he said. “It may earn you much trouble one day.”
He released Talmon, who shot behind his father and buried his face in the furs. Fritz tore his sword from its sheath and thrust it to Harcwin’s exposed neck. Harcwin flinched.
“You will tell me everything you know of the yerra herb,” Fritz said.
“Ah, but this is a little known herb, your grace,” Harcwin said softly.
“I am aware,” Fritz said, his teeth grinding. He had asked Adelphia about it, and normally this tactic was like consulting the world’s best botanical library. It was the first time she had not been able to tell him something about a particular herb.
“This is a secret that has been guarded by my forefathers and I,” Harcwin whispered.
“Tell me,” Fritz said quietly. “I do not intend to spread it.”
“Why does my grace wish to – ach.”
Fritz had pressed his sword against the flesh and given it a twist that was enough to draw a single drop of blood.
“Father!” Talmon screamed from behind him, gripping his furs. He lifted eyes full of fear to Fritz’s.
“The yerra herb is a small plant that only grows in the valley of Odor in the Jarnian Mountain Range,” Harcwin muttered. “Only one man has ever tried its effects for himself, and he is not awake to tell us of it. It has been used on many animals, and so my forefathers discovered that it can prevent death. If it is inhaled or applied in the moment of death, it puts the user into a deep slumber and heals the body. The body sinks into a very deep coma, and there is no heartbeat or breathing.”
“And how does one wake from the coma?” Fritz breathed.
“This I do not know,” Harcwin said. “I and my forefathers have used it on hares many times. We have broken the hares’ necks or slit their throats. Then we have applied the yerra herb. The rabbit appears dead, and may continue bleeding for hours. But the next day, it looks very different, and does not feel as cold as a corpse. Months later, it does not decay. Then we take the animal and dip its paws into the fire, and it wakes.”
A mental image of someone dipping Fritz’s feet into a fire appeared in his mind. His eyes widened in alarm.
“Has this never been tried on a man?” he said. “Your forefathers have had the secret to immortality at their fingertips – and they have never tried -”
“Ach, it only works once,” Harcwin snapped. “We have tried again on the same hares, and their bodies no longer absorbed the yerra. They died and decayed. But my father has tried the yerra herb, yes. A man attacked him and stabbed him, and so he applied the yerra herb quickly. But he is still asleep. We have tried dipping his feet in the fire, but it only burnt -”
“Yes, thank you,” Fritz said.
His mind worked frantically. What if he used this herb, but could not be woken later? He would be as good as dead.
But Rafen was the Fourth Runi. He had united the times, and Fritz was sure Zion must have equipped him with some ability to wake those in a profound stupor.
“You will find me some of this herb,” he said.
“I have none.”
His eyes darkening, Fritz tightened his grip on his sword hilt. Harcwin’s black-haired hands shot into his furs. Talmon held onto his father very tightly, as if afraid he would vanish.
In another moment, the merchant had removed a single, flannel-textured leaf with four fingers and a purple stem.
“Do not deceive me,” Fritz said sharply. “I want all.”
Harcwin muttered something in Tarhian under his breath, before bringing out a cloth, in which three more leaves were folded. Fritz lowered his sword fractionally and accepted the leaves with his free hand. He fingered them, his heart racing.
“How is this prepared?” he murmured.
“You must crush the stems and grind them. A man can use the juice, and let it soak into his wounds. Or he can grind the palm of the leaf into powder and breathe it.”
“Thank you,” Fritz whispered. “You have done more good than you can know.”
The merchant stared resentfully at Fritz’s sword point. Fritz lowered it slowly.
“Talmon,” he said to the boy glaring at him with dark eyes from behind his father’s back, “you have a better heart than you know. Never listen to an Ashurite.”
Talmon raised an eyebrow, uncomprehending.
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Edited
“And what is this?” someone barked in a Tarhian accent from behind them both.
Fritz whirled around, still grasping Talmon with an iron hand.
“Father, please!” Talmon broke off into desperate Tarhian: “This man is crazy. He does much sorcery and asks me of things I do not know—”
The man before Fritz was clothed in immense bear furs that made his extravagantly tall figure seem much broader than it really was. His chin bristled with a dark brown beard, and his murky eyes were narrowed to slits. He wore a round fur hat on his head, even though it was now early spring in Siana.
“I am Harcwin Tiran.” He pointed the long, black staff in his hand at Fritz. “And that is my son. Who might you be?”
Fritz straightened, his muscles tensing. “I am the king of Siana.”
The unspoken text was that this was the first man who had crossed the Jarnian Mountain Range in Sarient and survived. This was the man who had conquered Tarhia and divided its territory in half, so that everything west of the Jarnian River now belonged to the Sartians. This was the man who had pillaged, crushed, and killed in the name of his country, in the belief that he could never be wrong.
The merchant considered. He drew his staff back.
“Your Grace.” He bowed his head and made to kiss the hem of Fritz’s coat. Fritz snatched it away, giving him a filthy look. “I am the man you look for. Do not punish my son; I am his father, and I will take any penalty—”
“I’m not looking for anyone.” Fritz dragged the struggling Talmon closer to himself. “I am looking for information.”
Harcwin’s face darkened while he watched his son’s agitations. “I say nothing until my son is released,” he hissed.
Fritz stared into his eyes. “You are a bold man. It may earn you much trouble one day.”
He released Talmon, who shot behind his father and buried his face in the furs. Fritz tore his sword from its sheath and thrust it to Harcwin’s exposed neck, making the man flinch.
“You will tell me everything you know of the yerra herb,” Fritz said.
“Ah, but this is a little known herb, Your Grace,” Harcwin said softly.
“I am aware,” Fritz said, teeth grinding. He had asked Adelphia about it, which was normally as effective as consulting the world’s best botanical library. It was the first time she had been unable to tell him something about a particular herb.
“This is a secret guarded by my forefathers and I,” Harcwin whispered.
“Tell me,” Fritz said quietly. “I do not intend to spread it.”
“Why does My Grace wish to – ach.”
Fritz had twisted his sword against the flesh, forcing a single drop of blood.
“Father!” Talmon screamed from behind him, gripping his furs. He lifted eyes full of fear to Fritz’s.
“The yerra herb is a small plant that only grows in the valley of Odor in the Jarnian Mountain Range,” Harcwin muttered. “Only one man has ever tried its effects for himself, and he is not awake to tell us of it. It has been used on many animals, and so my forefathers discovered that it can prevent death. If it is inhaled or applied in the moment of death, it puts the user into a deep slumber and heals the body. The body sinks into a coma, and there is no heartbeat or breathing.”
“How does one wake from the coma?” Fritz breathed.
“This I do not know,” Harcwin said. “I and my forefathers have used it on hares many times. We have broken the hares’ necks or slit their throats. Then we have applied the yerra herb. The rabbit appears dead and may continue bleeding for hours. But the next day, it looks very different and does not feel as cold as a corpse. Months later, it does not decay. Then we take the animal and dip its paws into the fire, and it wakes.”
A mental image of someone dipping Fritz’s feet into a fire appeared in his mind. His eyes widened in alarm.
“Has this ever been tried on a man?” he said. “Your forefathers have had the secret to immortality at their fingertips – and they have never tried—”
“Ach, it only works once,” Harcwin snapped. “We have tried again on the same hares, and their bodies no longer absorbed the yerra. They died and decayed. But my father has tried the yerra herb, yes. A man attacked him and stabbed him, and so he applied the yerra herb quickly. He is still asleep. We have tried dipping his feet in the fire, yet it only burned—”
“Yes, thank you,” Fritz said.
His mind worked frantically. What if he used this herb and could not be woken later? He would be as good as dead.
Rafen was the Fourth Runi. He had united the times, and Fritz was sure Zion must have equipped him with some ability to wake others from a profound stupor.
“You will find me some of this herb,” he said.
“I have none.”
His eyes darkening, Fritz tightened his grip on his sword hilt. Harcwin’s black-haired hands shot into his furs. Talmon held onto his father very tightly, as if afraid he would vanish.
In another moment, the merchant had removed a single, flannel-textured leaf with four fingers and a purple stem.
“Do not deceive me,” Fritz said sharply. “I want all.”
Harcwin muttered something in Tarhian under his breath, before bringing out a cloth, in which three more leaves were folded. Fritz lowered his sword fractionally and accepted the leaves with his free hand. He fingered them, his heart racing.
“How is this prepared?”
“You crush the stems and grind them. A man can use the juice and let it soak into his wounds. Or he can grind the palm of the leaf into powder and breathe it.”
“Thank you,” Fritz whispered. “You have done more good than you know.”
The merchant stared resentfully at Fritz’s sword point. Fritz lowered it slowly.
“Talmon,” he said to the boy glaring at him with dark eyes from behind his father’s back, “you have a better heart than you know. Never listen to an Ashurite.”
Talmon raised an eyebrow, uncomprehending.
