“Oh, no, Mrs Blakescroft,” the woman smiled. “I'm not on your side.” She caught her eyes, held them, said nothing more.
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Requiem for the Wicked
"Why do I have to?" the boy moaned, dragging his feet through the camp. This, of course, threw a good deal of dust onto his black breeches and doublet. "I don't want to," he added sullenly, making a show of looking at the ground. When he thought she wasn't looking, he hazarded a peek up at his sister to see if he'd garnered any reaction.
"Mother is hosting guests, Edward, so we must dress to greet them," the girl responded, hitching her own black skirt and skipping forward. "Don't kick up so much dust! You're going to ruin my dress, not to mention your own clothes. Not that you'd care." Around them, the scattered tents, fires, and work tables were quiet and still, the noon-day lull before preparations for supper began.
"I hate this doublet," the boy continued, not changing his steps in the least. "It pinches my armpits."
"Then have Martha add some darts," was the girl's exasperated response. They had reached a broad pavilion in the midst of the encampment, and she paused at the door to collect herself. "We certainly won't be getting anything new while we're living out here."
"Martha already added darts twice and said I should stop growing. Oof." Eyes downcast, he had run into his sister's back. "Watch it, Molly!"
Without looking behind her, Molly flailed her arm backwards to slap at her brother. "Hush." She scanned the interior of the pavilion quickly. Her mother, beautiful and regal as always and presently quite pregnant, sat behind the broad table in the center of the tent. The Baroness's ladies in waiting stood arrayed behind her, and her knights stood off to the side. A few functionaries stood or sat in the back of the tent. "I don't think the guests have arrived yet."
What Is Rooksbridge?
Rooksbridge is a series of short stories released as digital chapbooks every month. Each chapbook tells its own story, but together, the chapbooks tell a much bigger story set in a place called Rooksbridge. It's not unlike a television series that you can read.
In this fantastic world filled with knights and sorcerers, nobles and commoners, a handful of characters strive against tall odds to win for themselves a life worth living. In these stories, you will meet Sir Sedgwin, a stolid knight trying to find his way when everything he relied on has been upset; Dame Sophia, a sorceress who speaks with the spirits in the service of her mistress; Milton of Roxley, an architect and sapper who destroys as much as he builds; and the Baroness Theresa Bramwood, who never asked for the feudal responsibilities that have been thrust upon her. Each one comes with their own mottled past, and each one will have their opportunity to grasp for their desires, if they muster the will to outstretch their hands.
The first chapbook, Dirty Work, is available for free download in PDF format (or read it on your iPhone or other mobile device). You can get it and read it right now. Go ahead; I'll wait for you here.
Later chapbooks will be released every month in PDF, iPhone, mp3, and print formats, each available for just a couple bucks. The chapbooks will always be available right here. You can subscribe via RSS to be updated when the next chapbook drops, or subscribe via podcast to hear the spoken-word previews every month.
I have a lot of hope for Rooksbridge, and I'm looking forward to the stories that I'll get to tell in this exciting format. I hope you'll join me.
— Josh Roby
Autumn on the River Collection
$20.00
Get all four in Dead Tree,
Inconvenienced Electrons,
and Droning Author formats!
Inconvenienced Electrons,
and Droning Author formats!
From the first time Sedgwin and Sophia step into Guilford, through trial and tribulation, to the Baroness asserting her right to rule as a peer, the Autumn on the River collection sets the stage for the greater story of Rooksbridge.
The first four chapbooks, Dirty Work, Getting By, The Divide, and Ravens, Rooks, and Crows are available together in all three formats (print, digital, and audiobook) for one bundle price.
$20.00Goodwill, Bad Blood
The hawk wheeled high in the sky, its pinions tipping it left and right on the winds. And then it tilted forward and brought its wings close against its body, plummeting down towards the earth in a stoop. It streaked past the treetops and then seemed to strike the ground and swing upwards again. Something small squirmed in its talons, and with now lazy wing beats, the bird found its way to a high branch to enjoy its meal.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" the big man, broad across the shoulders, told his companions, a smile infused with admiration on his lips.
The woman riding beside him nodded absently. "Indeed, Sedgwin. Fascinating."
The other man, this one slight, dark, and with an eye patch, chuckled. "Fascinating is the word for it. That's the third falcon you've made us watch. You need to get out on the road more often, old man."
"It's a hawk, George," Sedgwin corrected mildly, and looked between the two of them. "My apologies if I'm boring you. I've been in Guilford for months."
"They don't have hawks there?" the woman smirked, stirring her horse forward again.
The two men followed along after. "It's not the same," was the big one's reply.
"I take it you're not as happy as Sedgwin to be out on the road, Dame Sophia?" George Aldcourt asked.
Where There Is Smoke
Thirty or forty souls, mostly workmen and a handful of villagers, formed a knot of bodies at the bank of the Fosse. The volume and tone of their shouts, which knifed through the morning river-mist, made their agitation plain. They closed a tight circle around two men-at-arms wearing ravens on their livery, who looked uncertainly at each other and kept their hands on the pommels of their blades as they shouted for the mob to make space.
The Baroness Theresa Bramwood surveyed the mass of people warily as she followed her knight Sedgwin down the bank. Minutes ago she had been asleep in her tent, one of the rare moments of contentment that she had come to treasure since coming to Guilford. Then the broad-shouldered knight had started shouting for her through the canvas. Now she tried to will away the fog of sleep so she could confront this thing, whatever it was, in her dressing gown.
Sedgwin had declined to explain what had provided the stimulus for her rude awakening. He had simply claimed a lack of words. This in itself was nothing unusual — the knight was a man of few words — but it was also true that Sir Sedgwin had no sense of drama. He did not withhold information to create suspense; if anything, he was mute because he really could not put the situation into words. Which meant it required her attention, and quickly.
Ravens, Rooks, and Crows
They came crashing down the forest roads, carts and coaches rattling, horses pounding and snorting, drivers cracking their whips and cursing one another. They came as fast as the wheels would carry them, over mossy flagstones and through lukewarm puddles and over fields that no one seemed to be cultivating. They came without stopping, without rest, rushing forward in the calm, gently rocking interiors of their carriages, sipping wine and wondering aloud what was taking their sweating drivers so long to get them to their destination.
The train of carriages tore through the forest like tiger's claws through a soft, unsuspecting belly, scattering flotillas of oranging leaves and herds of bleating goats in its wake. The thunder of hooves went out before them, rattling stoneware dishes and their peasant owners alike. Cavalry? An army? The leash cult, taken up arms? But then they were past and gone, leaving behind them wheel ruts and broken fences. What was that, the hierophant's retinue, an otherworldly train of spirits, some strange circus, late for an engagement?
The Divide
Get the third chapbook, The Divide, for free in digital or audio formats. All you need to do is... Check In at Rooksbridge.com, Check Out a Free Chapbook!
Morning light filtered down through thick white river fog, mingling with the scrape and grunt of shovels and the workmen attached to them. The river Fosse, wide and cold, stretched out into the misty edge of sight. Its water lapped and purled, making quiet and innocent-sounding conversation with itself as it flowed past. The workmen, five in all, crowded a diminutive island set in the center of the river; they weaved around each other in a plodding, slow-motion dance, careful not to tip each other into the drink. Their shovels carefully scooped up the earth they stood on and flung it out into the water, slowly and painstakingly reducing their refuge down towards the water line.
The sound of the digging had fallen into a rhythm a while ago, scoop and grunt and splash repeated in an endless round, until the heartbeats of the workmen seemed to follow along. Then, suddenly, a shovel blade sounded an off note as it hit something hard; the cadence stumbled to a halt. The workmen looked at the man who had done it; he looked back at them just as dumbfounded. Then as one, five shovels turned to where he was digging, pulling away the earth and diving for the same hard whatever-it-was.
Getting By
"Can you do it?"
"It's not a matter of can I do it. Of course I can do it." The smaller man didn't bother to look up at the larger man. "The question is if I can be arsed to do it." The two of them stood beneath the shade, an autumn meadow stretched out below them, and beyond that a wide blue-grey stretch of water. A rocky bank, low hills, and sun-bleached meadows sat on the other side. Lazy tendrils of smoke on the horizon marked the village of Guilford, just out of sight.
The second man, broad across the shoulders, raised his own eyes to squint out over the river. "No one's conquered the Fosse since the Imperials."
"No one's been arsed to," the short man retorted, waving down at the rushing water, "since the bleeding Imperials."
"You make it sound like any builder can do it," the big man smiled slightly, teasing. "Does this mean we can escape your fee, Milton?"
The smaller man snorted. "Any builder can try, but this is a year's construction at the least." He waved his hands at the panorama before them, as if tracing lines of stonework and masonry. "It's not the building itself, although that's a chore and a half. It's recruiting the workers, getting the materials, keeping everything going. Making sure the fuckers don't drink themselves stupid. I can count on one hand the men who can pull that off."
Dirty Work
It was pissing rain in the dilapidated town of Guilford, sheets of water coming down on bowed walls and makeshift windows, splashing mud from the churned-up ground so there seemed to be an even coat of runny brown on everything up to a man's hip. The sun might have set an hour ago, but it was impossible to tell with the grey and black storm clouds that canopied the river valley. A few yellow, oily lamps were posted outside the stables, the rectory, and the tavern; their meager light was all there was until the lightning would light up the entire little town, and then whoever was caught out in the downpour would be blinking away the flash, the light from the yellow lamps forgotten.
Down the village's main road, such as it was, came two figures, moving slowly. One stumbled ahead, the reins of a horse tangled in his limp fingers, his broad shoulders bowed as deep as the leaning walls around him. Slung over the horse and tipping side to side with its stride, the second figure could barely be said to be riding. It was more the horse's ability than anything else that keep the rider in the saddle and stretched out along its neck. The horse, in fact, beneath the muck that coated everything but its mane, cut the strangest figure: it was a destrier, a war horse, huge and strong and incredibly out of place in the forgotten little town of Guilford. But then, so were the colors the two figures wore, barely visible under their own patina of mud and blood: black and silver livery, bearing a raven crowing at the sky.
Just beyond the lamplight, hidden in the dark alleys between buildings, came the two figures' pursuers, such as they were. Hard-eyed villagers with rough hands and rough-spun clothes, hugging hammers and pitchforks in their trembling arms. They glanced sidelong at each other, then back to their quarry, the tang of uncertain excitement hanging in the air. One spine short of a mob.
About Josh Roby
Hey there, I'm Josh, and this is all my mess.
When I was about four, my mother was home sick, so I decided that I'd entertain her. I took a few sheets of blank paper, folded them in half, and stapled them together to make a rudimentary booklet. I grabbed some markers and a teevee dinner tray, and I marched into my sick mother's bedroom. I handed them over and told her that I would entertain her by telling a story, which she could write down for me. Yes. I made my sick mother take dictation for me. That's the first time I can remember experiencing the impulse to write a story, and since then, that impulse has become a constant part of my life.
