The Iron Lily (Part 8)

The sky had taken on a sheen that told Halthor dawn was due. He did not wait for daybreak to get on his way. When he awoke, he bought bread from the innkeeper and a jug of ale. He was riding out of Wynnwode as the watchman was grumbling into his bowl of gruel at the opposite end of the town. Moving farther southward, Halthor noted that Wynnwode seemed a flat place at the top of a hill. When he came to the river Isben at the next valley, he swore.

Not only was he only a few scant hours away from Wynnwode, the ferry across the river was locked in place by ice and the ferryman's hut looked as it may be deserted. Halthor looked back along the slate road to Starhaven. He saw the dark blue-grey stone visible beneath the rime of ice at the water's edge. It seemed as though the road went down into the river and marched across. Halthor had no illusions that his gift pony from Wye was strong enough or tall enough to ford the river. Nor was he mad enough to attempt to cross it himself. He looked towards the east and saw the arms of the forest come up close to the water. To the west, the river narrowed and grew louder.

Deciding he may find a means to cross in the trees, Halthor took hold of the pony's halter and began to lead it along the river's edge. He had walked halfway to the trees when a voice shouted from the far side of the river. Halthor looked south and saw the ferryman hustling to the barge. "He'll probably charge me double for this," Halthor muttered but he turned and walked west to the crossing. He reached the road almost before the ferryman. The ferryman was almost a shapeless lump beneath his furred cloak and heavy woolens. He looked over at Halthor and then to his pony.

"Three groat for the beast, two for you," the ferryman said as he looked up at the weather. "Storm coming," the ferryman muttered, "Get on or go back." Halthor lead the grey pony on to the barge, noting with some surprise that it was an honest boat rather than a raft of rough hewen logs. The dog with the red ears yapped at something northward of them. The ferryman looked over Halthor's shoulder. He saw a small group of men hustling over the hill. The ferryman squinted. "Eh, one more and they'll have to wait for spring," he said, deducing accurately that Halthor was attempting to escape pursuit.

"Get on the water, I'll pay you when we're across," Halthor answered. The ferryman poled the barge away from the water. Halthor turned and motioned for the dog to come to him. The dog ran around in a circle. Halthor shook his head. Just when he thought that the dog was going to remain on the northern bank, the dog lept. When the dog landed on the barge, the ferryman started slightly and the pony chuffed with displeasure. Halthor looked sternly down at the dog. "Bad dog," he said. The dog whined and covered its muzzle with a paw. The ferryman watched the exchange out of the corner of his eye and laughed.

"Bad as a child, he is," the ferryman said with a chuckle, "Lollygag and mischief. That's what you get with the fey hounds, you know." Halthor looked over at the ferryman with curiosity. The ferryman noticed a chunk of ice drifting between them and their goal. He pushed it aside with his pole. When they came to the shore, the ferryman looked over expectantly at Halthor. The dog trotted off the barge with its tail wagging gleefully. Halthor opened his sack and pulled out five heavy silver groat coins. As he dropped them in the ferryman's hand, the older man nodded with approval. "Full groat coins," he said thoughtfully, "You're an honest man. Rare around these parts."

As Halthor lead the pony off of the barge, the ferryman motioned towards the road. "Go on a good league or two. A traveler's rest is kept by my brother not far from the cherry grove. The village here... it is an ill place for a northern man like you," the ferryman said. Halthor looked over, surprised by the ferryman's statement. "Only a man from the north would pay with full groat coins for a short trip like that," the ferryman said, "I knew one long time ago. If he kept his coins in his pocket, he'd have kept his head. It was a shame. I did like him. Harald was a foolish but good man." Halthor nodded.

He started through the village and noted that the people seemed reluctant to go about their business. At the tall temple of the Storm Lord, a goat bleated in its pen. A priest was breaking the ice in its trough with a long stick. Halthor felt the pull to stop at the temple. Thus, he lead his pony behind him to the fence. The priest looked over at him, his expression initially one of annoyance at the interruption. Then his eyes widened slightly and he blinked. The priest motioned Halthor over to the gate into the pen. Halthor approached and the priest opened the gate.

With a gesture, he motioned Halthor to lead his pony into the pen. The priest took hold of the pony's halter and lead it to the stall. He swung the door that stood open before taking the packs off of the pony. In a bit of a rush, the priest haphazardly buried them in the pile of hay at the back of the stall. He slipped the halter off of the pony and hung it up on a hook. The priest then set out a pail of grain for the shaggy haired pony. He then walked up to Halthor and gestured towards the temple.

Halthor, who had concluded the priest must have been mute, followed the old man's guidance. They walked into the great room and Halthor found it impossible to resist the sigh of pleasure at the warmth from the braziers. The priest motioned Halthor to sit in the sanctuary before he disappeared off around a doorway and down a narrow hall. Halthor walked into the sanctuary. He sat down on the bench nearest to the door. At the far end of the space, a roughly worked statue of the Storm Lord stood. To Halthor's experienced eye, he could tell that the statue was cut from a single massive piece of wood. Nearly the size of a man, the statue had a fierce air about it. The sharp, angular features of the icon seemed deliberately made to exaggerate the ferocity of the Victorious Sun.

Halthor was contemplating the statue when the priest walked up and put a hand on his shoulder. The builder looked over. The priest held out to him a small sack. Halthor took the sack and started to look into it. The priest put a hand over the opening of the sack and shook his head. He then pantomimed eating. Halthor realized that the sack held some food in it and he set it down. "I thank you, good father," Halthor said politely, "I must go farther down the road before night, though." The priest shook his head and pointed up at the ceiling. He made a gesture as though something were falling from the sky. "I know a storm is due," Halthor answered, "I want to make to the traveler's rest." The priest's expression hardened and he shook his head. He took a candle from the stack waiting for petitioners to light and place before the icon. The priest mimed blowing out the candle and covered his eyes. "Of course dark is going to fall," Halthor said, "Night comes every day."

The priest shook his head again. Again, he mimed signs of darkness. Halthor looked at the mute man in confusion. The priest looked at Halthor critically. He pantomimed holding a book. "Do I know letters?" Halthor asked, grasping at what the priest could be seeking to know. The priest nodded is grey head. "Only a little," Halthor replied, "My master taught me what I needed to tend his business." The priest gave a look of small relief. He clapped a hand on Halthor's shoulder and motioned for the builder to follow him. As Halthor followed the priest out of the sanctuary and down the small hallway to his living quarters, he wondered how a single old man could maintain the temple by himself.

Craft of Writing: Setting the Pace

It is hard to be an author. It is especially difficult when you frequently feel it is an 'all or nothing' prospect every time you take up the pen or sit down to type. With challenges like NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo, it is easy to get caught in that particular deception. After all, when the challenge is structured where prodigious output is the goal and people in the community that are praised generally are ones who seem to hit all the high notes, it can be discouraging when you are not churning out words like some kind of machine. I, for one, struggle a great deal with this deception.

Some days, I feel like I should just give up entirely on this grand dream of being a successful author. I look at my own work and I feel like my paltry daily production is just evidence that I am not cut out for this. I have days where bitter envy over other aspiring authors' successes is like bile at the back of my throat. This excessively harsh tendency to judge my work as flawed or my efforts as doomed to failure is simply another manifestation of that 'all or nothing' view. It really is something that I struggle with everyday in just about all areas of my life. (I'm working on that with my therapist, who says I am making progress. Pathological perfectionism is not healthy. Don't fall into this trap, please.)

The thing that helps me keep going is giving myself benchmarks to meet. I make myself work towards goals with fixed and visible signs of accomplishment. Sometimes, I will expect myself to meet a timetable that is unreasonable. (It's a bad habit. I don't recommend short changing yourself time for any project to anyone. It just gives you more stress. Learn from my errors, please.) My execution of this pace setting maneuver is not the best, I'll confess. It is, however, something that helps me stay sane.

With out those visible signs of accomplishment, I start making wild demands upon myself based upon the false notion that others in similar circumstances are doing more. Comparison with others, I have heard it said, is the death of self-esteem. Take control of your situation by making a list of concrete goals. Determine your success by your own measure. Don't expect yourself to write the Great American Novel in two days time, unless you are in favorable circumstances that encourage you to do so. And, even in those circumstances, allow yourself the forgiveness and understanding to accept that it may not be 48 hours from first word to the finale of the manuscript.

It may take some time and some practice. When you do your goal setting exercises, you are doing more than just getting experience meeting deadlines. You are learning what pace you work best at. Once you have learned where you do your best work, create the environment that encourages it. Don't demand that you do more than you can accomplish on a bad day. It sounds counter-intuitive, true, but setting your pace against the less productive days makes you feel more accomplished when you meet your median day production rate.

Setting your pace according to your abilities keeps you from falling into the trap of 'I must do EVERYTHING RIGHT NOW' or 'There is NO POINT, I can't DO EVERYTHING RIGHT NOW.' Your goal is progress, not perfection. The best way to make progress is with a realistic assessment of just what you can do right now. Yes, it is excellent to want to improve your skills and accomplish mighty goals. The way to do so, however, is to be very good at what you can do now and learn more at a pace that does not make you panic.

It may be that for one month, your goal is to get an hour of writing done. It doesn't matter that your next door neighbor can commit to an hour of writing every day. Their lives are different from yours and they have an entirely different situation they are working in. Focus on your goal. Once you can meet that goal consistently, make your next modest step up.

We are not born with the ability to write a novel, run a marathon, or be the best car salesman. These are skills we acquire with consistent, conscientious, and careful effort. Take baby steps at a pace that doesn't make you panic. Give yourself time to learn. As you make progress and grow more, you will find that the advanced things are not quite so intimidating and that the process gets easier (and faster) as you go.

Set a healthy pace. Focus on progress. You can do this. Rome wasn't built in a day. And that's ok because eventually, Rome became one of the world's first superpowers as they perfected their skills over the course of a natural growth curve. Seek your own natural growth curve. Build your empire.

Late in the Day.

It is nearly 10 pm (eastern time) and I am only just getting to writing anything on the computer. Admittedly, I could have been posting an hour ago but I was too busy getting caught up on Facebook drama. (If you are in the NaNoWriMo group, check out the horse gif that is making the rounds. All I could think when I saw it was 'Oh, that's Stormchaser with anyone OTHER than his chosen people.' Stormchaser has an attitude. Even the animals are characters in my books!) I suppose I could have taken this lap top with me when I was out and about, but there really is nowhere to plug the thing in at the park. And, to be honest, running the fan to keep the apartment below the mid-80s was a higher priority than typing things.

Today was long and tiring. The boys had off from school. Like I said, we went to the park and were there pretty much all day. I was surprised to see that there were very few families out today. I know it was really hot and humid but I can not fathom keeping the kids indoors all day. When I wasn't watching my eldest try to swing the highest he ever had on the swing set or my youngest attempting to build the largest 'mountain' out of sand, I was writing in my journals. As I was writing, it struck me that I could be making better use of my writing time.

Most of my writing is unplanned and free form. This makes for some awkward moments and a great deal of inconsistency. I apologize for that. When I was sitting and staring at my journal, desperately trying to think of something to write, I realized that I had the most success last year with more organized writing. I realized that giving myself some sort of structure to work within made for easier effort in producing the work. This thought kept bouncing around in the back of my mind this evening as I was looking at stuff about art journals. (I am seriously considering starting one in the vain attempt to finally get my sketches done. I had this mad idea that I may actually make a few illustrations to slip into a book or something. I have my tools but I've just been intimidated by it all and have done nothing on it.)

I can not promise that there will be a huge burst of work produced over the next few days. I have two very active boys who suck up a lot of my time. I also am in the midst of preparing to set up a possible book signing at some point over the next two months. This matter of promoting my own work is a bit more challenging than I thought it was going to be. (Which is hilarious considering that I am a social-phobe who didn't think I had to meet the public to sell stuff. Irony: lighting the world one supernova at a time.)

The History of the World (Part 2)

In the previous post, I covered much focusing upon the history of the kingdom of Evandar and immediate environs. East of Evandar lies the kingdom of Ranyth, whose fate is closely entwined with Evandar's. The elves of Evandar passed through Ranyth to the mountains that stand north of this kingdom and the grassland of the Plains of Llyrian. Evandar is a place of pluralities. Ranyth, however, is more a place of less robust diversity. This is partly due to the fact that unlike Evandar, Ranyth has been a single kingdom for a substantial period of time. It is also due to the fact that the people of Ranyth tend towards somewhat xenophobic attitudes.

The hostility of Ranyth towards outsiders arose due to the waves of assault that it had endured over the ages. During the era before the Great War, Ranyth was caught up in wars with the kingdoms to the south. The Cyrenaican Empire sought to unify the lands around the Sea of Dreams. Their successes against their neighbors on the southern shores of the Sea of Dreams made them bold. Thus the Empire set its forces in motion against Ranyth and its satellite holdings along the eastern shores of the Sea of Dreams. Ranyth was embroiled in this conflict when the Great War broke out.

The Cyrenaican Empire took hold of the satellite lands of Norcium and Muretania as Ranyth was struggling with the deamonic incursions. These incursions drove the kingdom of Ranyth out of their place along the Sea of Dreams except for a few ports nestled in the end of the mountain range known as the Dragon's Teeth. The size of Ranyth was reduced by approximately half when the Great War was done and the Cyrenaican Empire deemed the mountainous boundaries to the south of Ranyth too great of a problem to continue their campaign of unification. The Empire also found itself unable to continue its aggressive expansion campaigns due to uprisings in Epirus, a region that was under great stress due to the deamonic forces and their allies on their eastern front and due to the way the Empire focused a significant amount of recruitment for their armies from this zone.

Following the Cyrenacian Empire's pressures on Ranyth's south-eastern neighbor, Bythynia, the people known as the Kordid/Cordid/The Riders, were driven into diaspora. These tribes moved into the grasslands Elspar, which has been known for seven generations as the Plains of Llyrian and considered cursed. The peoples native to Elspar put pressure on the Kordid and scattered the tribes after many conflicts. The Kordid were then driven into Ranyth. There was a period of conflict through northern Ranyth during the westward migration of the Kordid. They were driven farther north in some cases. In other cases, uneasy peace was made between the tribes and the people of Ranyth. And there were many tribes driven east back into the Plains of Llyrian.

Have a little faith.

I honestly didn't think I would be saying this, but I sold out of my hard copies of book one. I have learned a valuable lesson today. Get more than what my pessimistic anxiety says is going to sell. I walked in to this month's spinning guild meeting with three books in my bag. After holding up a copy and giving my elevator pitch to the group, I quickly sold all three copies in around five minutes. And I had several people asking me where they could find it on-line and if I was going to bring copies with me next month.

I walked into the guild meeting feeling like I was going to make one sale. I walked out with all of my books sold and several people interested in acquiring it. I have learned that I really should have more faith in myself. I spent a good while being worried that my elevator pitch was pretty awful. I spent a while being afraid that my work wasn't good enough to see the light of day and worrying that all of this effort to be a 'real' author was just vanity. And then today happens and I learn that I actually can do this.

I am thrilled beyond words. I am humbled by this also. I offered people my book at what functionally was the cost of printing and shipping. They paid me that and a bit more. One person actually gave me double that. I sit here now with enough money to possibly buy dinner for my husband and I. (I don't think, however, he will agree to that just yet. I think he would exhort me to reinvest that into the books.) I haven't stopped smiling all day.

Today is more than just a good day. Today is a magnificent day. I have accomplished a massive goal. Thank you to everyone who has helped make this happen.

Stepping out of the Comfort Zone

Today was a day much like any other for most of the people in my household. Beloved went off to work and did things great and small to keep things running smoothly there. The boys went off to school and did all manner of educational things (and had a little fun in the process). I started the day off just not feeling well because I haven't slept well in the last several nights. When I did finally manage to get all my ducks in a row and get moving, I discovered that the mail had arrived. With it all was a big, brown, cardboard box that I was actually expecting to arrive next week.

I opened it up and found that the handful of copies of my first two books in the Umbrel Chronicles had arrived. It was with great delight, I brought the first one on the pile to the gal down the road who had expressed interest in buying a copy just a few weeks ago. I walked into the restaurant where she works and at first she thought I was there for another one of their spectacular beef brisket sandwiches. I will be honest, if I hadn't had lunch a bit before then, I would probably have indulged. Their stuff is amazing.

When I held up the book, she lit right up like a kid getting the present they were hoping to get for their birthday. It was adorable. She immediately handed me a bit of money for the book and insisted that I autograph it. I was more than happy to do so for her. She asked me to keep a copy of the second volume aside for her to pick up when she finishes book one of the series. I think that the best part of my afternoon was watching how excited she was.

On Saturday, I am going to go out to the monthly meeting of the spinning guild I'm apart of. I will be bringing some of the books with me. I get to give my 'elevator pitch' to a room of approximately 100 people. I am not too great at public speaking. I think, however, I am going to do well. I have been rehearsing this pitch for a while. It is less a matter of landing a contract from some big publishing house and more a case that I want to get things sold by word of mouth.

I am a little nervous about this. I am also excited as all get out. I hope this goes really well. In either case, I just made my first sale today and I think that is an auspicious thing.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The large print version of The Dragon's Daughter is available for purchase as a paperback through Amazon. Here is the link. It will be available as an e-book sometime within the next two weeks. If you are interested in picking up a hard cover version, it can be purchased via Lulu. Here is the link.

The Iron Lily (Part 7)

The cat stopped and sat down in the middle of the road several yards away from where Halthor stood with the pony and dog at his side. The burnished gold of the cat's eyes gazed impassively at them. The dog beside Halthor barked but did not move from where it stood rigidly. The wild cat's tail flicked but aside from this, it gave no sign of concern at the dog's outrage. Its straw colored coat gleamed faintly in the light that filtered down through the thickening snow clouds above. As fat flakes began to swirl down from high, Halthor moved towards mounting the pony.

The cat made a noise that was a cross between a yowl and cough. The dog growled as the cat stood. Halthor frowned. He considered what to do. The axe was an almost comfortable weight in his right hand. As the cat began to pad forward, the dog moved to stand between it and Halthor. The cat yowled and raised its right forepaw. Halthor leaned down and picked up a chunk of ice off of the slate roadway. He threw it in the direction of the cat with a shout, "Get out of here!" The cat backed up and hissed at Halthor.

He leaned down and picked up another rough slab of ice. Again he shouted at the cat to leave. When the oblong bit of ice struck the cat's shoulder it snarled but moved farther away. He was in the midst of grabbing a broken stick off of the side of the roadway when the cat looked back, as though it heard something. The dog went quiet except for a low, threatening growl. The cat turned and began to run south down the roadway in the direction it had come from. Halthor put the axe back through the loop on his belt where he customarily kept a hammer. As he mounted the pony, Halthor wondered if they were going to meet the cat farther up the road.

He patted the grey pony on her neck. As she shook her head, Halthor said, "Go on, you." The pony moved forward at a walk. Halthor held the lead from the halter in his left hand. He did his best not to think about how sore he was going to be later or of how much his thighs ached from his first day of riding. As they passed beneath the trees, he mentally assessed the arboreal giants. He recognized ironwood with its rust red bark. He saw several beech trees that looked as though they were afflicted with some sort of sickness for they seemed stunted and gnarled. As they passed by the one closest to the road, he wondered if the wood would be useful or if it would be weakened by the mystery illness.

Upward and onward, Halthor followed the road south and up the hill. It was beginning to draw near to evening when he saw the trees thinned out. At the apex of the hill, Halthor saw a dense grove of pines. He frowned and remembered the bailiff of Wye's warning. As he drew closer to the trees of the ledge, as the bailiff has called the place, Halthor pulled the axe from its loop and set it across his lap with a fold of his cloak covering it. The dog trotting beside him began to growl as the wind shifted and blew from a more southerly direction. "Probably that damn cat again," he muttered.

"Ho, there!" a voice called from among the trees. Halthor's right hand gripped the axe haft tighter. A man stepped into the road. Halthor noted that the man before him didn't seem armed but he doubted that the man was alone. Thus, Halthor did his best to watch to either side of himself as the road delved into the grove. Out the corner of his eye, Halthor saw a pale faced man coming forward from the trees towards him. Halthor raised is right hand and revealed his axe. The man approaching him from the left abruptly stopped. The one that tried to come from the right found himself facing an angry, snarling dog. "Call off your dog," the man standing in the middle of the road demanded.

"Call off your men," Halthor answered. The watchman of the royal road into Lord Cuthbert's holding glowered at Halthor. The man on the left took a step towards Halthor. Halthor moved the axe from his right to his left hand and fixed his would be opponent with a dark look. "I'd prefer it if you went back into the wood, friend," Halthor said to him.

"Who do you serve?" the apparent leader of the group asked. Halthor didn't give him a look as he stared down the bearded man at his left. "Answer me," the man demanded angrily. Halthor pointed at the man at his left with the axe. "Clear off," the leader barked at his subordinates. They moved back as Halthor looked forward.

"I serve the King and no other," Halthor answered. The man before him squinted at him. "Let me pass," he demanded, "I am bound for Wynnwode and south." The watchman opened his mouth to say something more when Halthor cut him off. "I'm not sleeping in the cold for your sake. Let me pass or I'll ride you down," Halthor said, trying to sound bolder than he felt. The watchman bared his teeth in a scornful snarl.

"How am I supposed to know that you're not being sent to cause trouble by Lord Wintrin?" he spat at Halthor.

"A night in Wye is hardly an audience with a lord," Halthor snapped, "I'm a builder going south to do work. Now let me pass." The watchman's companions observed the exchange with some irritation. They were growing bored with watching the builder argue with their leader. The dog did not move from Halthor's side and Halthor did not let his attention stray from the man nearest to him. When the leader of the group started forward, Halthor looked over at him. "What do you want from me?" Halthor demanded, "Coin? Food?"

"You're coming with me," the watchman said, "Wynnwode is a way point to Lord Cuthbert's castle. You are going to remain there until I know what your business is going south in the dead of winter." Halthor gave an exasperated sigh. The man at his left darted forward, thinking to take hold of the pony's lead when Halthor was otherwise occupied. Halthor's axe flashed and the man staggered back, grasping his upper right arm where blood gushed out. Halthor looked at the other two.

"Are we done?" he demanded as the man gripping his wounded arm swore mightily. The watchman looked at his companion. Suddenly, he didn't feel quite so cock sure of himself. It didn't help that Halthor was the first person he encountered that actually resisted. "Get on wi' yeh," Halthor said to the pony. As the grey mare began to walk forward, the leader of the group stepped back, careful to keep himself outside of Halthor's reach. The trio watched Halthor ride down the Royal road into Wynnwode. As the man who swore shouted vulgar things after Halthor's retreating back, his leader cuffed him upside the back of his head.

Halthor ignored them, deciding that he wanted to get to the inn at Wynnwode before dusk came. When he reached the town, he realized that Wynnwode was much larger than Wye. He road down the Royal road where it parted the town in half. On the western side, Halthor saw the ramshackle building that served as the temple of the Bound God. He usually would have been indifferent to the state of the holy building except there appeared to be someone living within the ragged place. As he passed by, a priest dressed in black and red came out. The man glared at Halthor. For a moment their eyes locked and Halthor saw the priest's expression move from irritation at a new arrival to utter loathing for some reason that Halthor was not aware of. As Halthor continued on to the inn, the priest's lips moved with some muttered incantation.

Inwardly, Halthor prayed that the Light Father would keep the evil of his cursed brother away from him. Halthor rode up to the inn and a stableman came forward. He awkwardly dismounted. The man with straw in his brown hair looked him over from head to toe. Halthor anticipated a sharp comment. Instead the stableman said, "Two groats and yer beast has shelter and feed. Three and it will be a blanket too." Halthor rummaged around in his pack. After a moment of searching, he pulled out a purse with coins in it. He counted out three of the heavy silver coins before putting them in the stableman's hand. The stableman nodded and helped Halthor take his sacks off of the pony.

With three sacks thrown over his shoulder and two held in his left hand with his purse of money, Halthor walked into the inn. The innkeeper looked over. Her eyes narrowed slightly until she spotted the purse. Soon, she was talking to him about a room for the night and less than subtly hinting that she could warm his bed for him for a bit of extra coin. Halthor made noncommittal comments as he paid for his room and a hot meal. When he had finished his food and made his way up to his small room, Halthor found himself bone weary. He fixed the purse to his belt and laid down on the narrow bed. Wrapped in his cloak, Halthor was soon asleep.

The sound of the door opening woke him deep in the night. He opened his eyes to see the watchman of earlier creeping into his room. Halthor took the small axe from where he had hidden it beneath the mattress. When the other man was at his side, Halthor brought up his axe and pressed it to the man's throat. The watchman froze, alarmed that his quarry was indeed awake and armed. "Leave and you will yet live," Halthor said quietly. The watchman looked down at him, troubled by the fact that his night vision was substantially worse than Halthor's. The watchman stepped back a pace. Halthor watched him. When Halthor sat up and put his feet on the floor, the watchman fled.

It was difficult for Halthor to sleep for the remainder of that night.