The Sword And The Pen (2 page)

Well, almost opposite. He wasn't flabby. He ran and worked out regularly to keep in shape, but he didn't have Donoval's sculptured physique. No real man did, did they? And, he wasn't dishonest. He wrote his own books, paid his bills and tried not to cheat people. But was he honorable? In today's world, what did that really mean? And, fearless? Not. He had more phobias than he cared to think about. He abhorred physical violence. Large crowds made him cringe. Insects sent him running from a room. Animals of any size gave him the shudders, and he ranked children along with animals: creatures better left alone.

As for being a legendary lover, his limited understanding of real women--a failed marriage was proof of that, a failed marriage that had caused him in his fictional world to make marriage a permanent condition. Divorce wasn't an option, so his characters thought long and hard before making that true 'til death do you part commitment--left him wary of the trap of sex. The few minutes of physical gratification women provided weren't worth the cost in time, money or emotion. As true as he realized they were, his ex-wife Wanda's scornful comments about how he'd avoided her by living in a fantasy world still stung. Thank goodness his marriage ended long before he started making any money.

Actually, it surprised him Wanda hadn't turned up on his doorstep looking for a piece of his success. Or, maybe he was just too well hidden. Being a recluse had its advantages. Although, a direct assault wasn't her style. When she turned up, and he was sure she would eventually, it would be a sneak attack--something his infuriating creation seemed to be refusing to consider. Damn Serilda!

He tuned back in to Hillary's tirade.

"Maybe you can avoid your fans and the press by rusticating in that hick town, but you can't hide from me," his agent continued. "I'll be there a week from Monday. That gives you a little over a week. I want to see the end of this book and at least the first three chapters of the next. Or else!"

Brandon winced at the sound of her slamming down the phone. The answering machine beeped, and he turned back to his computer screen. The cursor blinked at him in mockery.

Telling Hillary that he wasn't writing any more Warrior Woman books wasn't going to be easy, and she wasn't going to be happy with the ending of this book. But, he could do it. He'd written many, many books before, and he'd finished them all. While Serilda was his creation, a warrior woman of amazing beauty and skill, after one more chapter, book seven, her last, would be done. All he had to do was keep her from killing Roark outright in this scene. But he had to have the villain escape without making her look stupid or incompetent.

Not possible.

He groaned. In the three months since he'd decided to kill off Serilda and end the series, he'd been hearing a sultry, sarcastic female voice in his head. The voice was the reason he was behind schedule. The voice fought his every decision, arguing for scenes to go her way. He'd fought and won every battle, but the resulting scenes seemed flat and forced.

He'd written and rewritten Serilda's death scene a dozen different ways. Though none felt quite right, he'd have to choose one soon.

He'd heard of authors who claimed their characters were real people who managed to take control of their stories, but he'd never had that problem. He was a realist. Despite his grandmother's fanciful warnings, characters were fictional creations, figments of the imagination, not real. He controlled them in a way he'd never be able to control real people. That was half of their appeal!

Or at least he had controlled them until this book, until that sultry voice began whispering in his ear.

As satisfying as it might be to just kill her off, he started rewriting the book's climactic scene so she didn't die:

Serilda placed the tip of her sword against Roark's throat. Blood trickled from the tiny cut her blade made. She pressed forward and Roark's dark eyes widened in fear.

"Would you kill me, your. . ."

Brandon stopped for a moment. Before Serilda's final deadly confrontation with Roark she would learn the truth--that she was Roark's daughter--but that came later. It couldn't happen yet. Brandon continued typing.

The would-be king paused and seemed to think better of what he was about to say.

"Would you kill an unarmed man?" He spread his arms wide and gave her a small smile of defeat, but his body stayed tense and ready.

Serilda took a step back. "Pick up your sword." She motioned to the blade lying at his feet. "I'll kill you in a fair fight."

"Yeeek!"

At first Brandon thought the shriek was an electronic whine that came from his computer. Panic threatened. When was the last time he'd backed up his files? It had been during that bad electrical storm three months ago when he'd almost lost everything, the same time his writing troubles began. Fortunately the freak power surge from a lightning strike only fried his monitor; his CPU hadn't been harmed. He should have learned from the experience, but writer's block had driven him past rational thought. The idea of losing what little work he'd managed to accomplish these last few weeks made him choke in fear. He scrambled to hit Save.

"Hell, no! Roark doesn't deserve a chance to defend himself. And even if he did, I'm not stupid enough to give him the opportunity to skewer me. That's something Donoval the Honorable would do."

At the sound of the familiar yet condemning voice behind him, Brandon whirled. He slipped off his chair and landed hard on his tailbone. Pain shot up his spine and blurred his vision.

"What? How did you get in here? And who the hell are you?" He stared up at the woman and gulped. The sword in her hand pointed straight at his heart.

"You know damned well who I am."

The woman didn't sound happy--and didn't look sane. She loomed over him. Her attire, a short, tight leather skirt, a leather bra, and knee-high boots left a lot of skin exposed to his view. The smell of leather, fresh air and warm woman teased his nostrils.

"What are you?" She poked him in the arm with the tip of her sword.

"Ow!" He scooted back, nearly under his desk.

"Warrior? Priest? Sorcerer?" She crouched down to rest on her heels, and stared at him. The position put her full breasts nearly in his face. "Definitely not a warrior." She pinched his arm. "You have muscle, but not enough to wield a sword in battle. No courage, either. Priest? Unlikely. They don't fear the sword. Only their god makes them cower. Wizard? Perhaps, but not one of any power, or else I'd be at your feet. So, you're the wizard's assistant most likely." As if satisfied with her conclusion, she rose to her feet.

"Get up. I'll not harm you. I wish to speak to your master. He and I have business to discuss."

Brandon eyed the woman warily. Though her speech and clothing were odd, she sounded and looked extremely familiar. Why? Was she a crazy fan he'd somehow communicated with before?

To be honest, she bore a striking resemblance to Serilda, if shorter. She was five feet seven or eight inches, rather than six feet, and she was less buxom and had softer features than the character he'd ultimately developed. Actually, this woman was more like how he'd envisioned Serilda originally, when he'd introduced her in Donoval's second book: an extremely feminine woman forced to survive in a harsh world by denying her nature. Hillary had convinced him that in her own books Serilda needed to be stronger and have more sex appeal, hence the height and the bigger chest. The change hadn't sat well with him, but the public--men
and
women--loved her, and the books had hit all the bestseller lists. As a result, he had a thriving series, a pending movie deal and cash in his once empty bank account. Success was hard to argue with.

Despite the trampy clothing and hard scowl, she was attractive. Reddish blonde curls framed an elfin face. Dark lashes fringed large, cat-like green eyes. Sun-kissed skin covered high cheekbones, and her lips, though currently set in a hard line, were full and red.

"I said get up!" She grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet.

He was surprised that, when he stood, he topped her by a good six inches and probably outweighed her by sixty pounds. That size difference gave him a bit of confidence, but the nasty-looking sword she held with such self-assurance negated it. One could never trust the actions of a crazy person.

"Who are you?" She looked him up and down then seemed to dismiss him.

He pulled himself to his full height and stared down at her. "Brandon Alexander Davis. This is my home."

Unimpressed, she laughed. "Brandon? What kind of name is that? Bran is what I eat to ease my bowels."

Heat crept up Brandon's neck. Being compared to a laxative made him angry, which helped push fear away. "Who the hell are you? And what are you doing here in that ridiculous costume?"

"Who I am and"--she paused, and two spots of color stained her cheeks--"what I wear is a matter I will discuss with your master. Where is he? Has he run to hide from me? It will do him no good. I'm determined to find him and solve this."

"I don't have a master. I live here alone." Damn! Why had he told her that? He eased back from the lunatic toward the phone. Could he hit speed dial for 911 before she skewered him? Then what? Even if he succeeded, it would take the police a good fifteen to twenty minutes to reach his isolated home. Could he wrest the sword away from her before then?

His size would be an advantage, but even standing at ease, the woman radiated strength and skill. The odds seemed against him. To win he'd have to hit her--hard--and he doubted he could bring himself to do so. The lessons of chivalry his grandmother had taught were too deeply ingrained. In that way, he and Donoval were of one mind. No matter how greatly provoked, men didn't hit women.

Although, the thought of wrestling with this woman was appealing.

"No master? Do not lie to me." The lunatic's fingers flexed around the hilt of her sword.

"Why would I lie?" he snapped. "It's obvious your beef is with someone else. If I knew who and where he was, why would I protect him?"

"Because you're a coward. A powerful sorcerer inspires fear if not loyalty in his minions. But you should fear me more than him," she warned.

"There is no him! I'm the only one here. And I'm not a coward." Being called one triggered something inside him. Having phobias about crowds, insects and small furry animals didn't make him a coward. Not really.

She gave him a thoughtful look. "Is it possible? Are you the one?"

"The one what?"

She ignored his question and studied him. Her intense perusal made him squirm.

"Why didn't I see the resemblance?" she murmured.

"What resemblance?" He didn't like the turn of this conversation. Come to think of it, he hadn't liked the original direction, either.

"To Donoval. You are him--in form at least." A bit of fear crossed her features, though anger quickly erased it. "I'm loath to believe it, but you are the wizard. Did you construct me so you could play God in my world? Does it give you pleasure to toy with me?"

"What the hell are you talking about? Play God? I'm just a writer trying to make a living. I write stories for people to read and enjoy. It's just entertainment."

*** *** ***

A writer? A scribe, perhaps, a scribbler of words? No, he meant more like a bard or a troubadour. But--impossible.
I'd almost come to terms with the idea I'd been brought into existence by a wizard, but I hadn't imagined that my whole world, everyone and everything in it might also be his creation. If nothing of my past or my world was real, what did that mean for my quest to destroy Roark? If they never truly existed, was I yet bound by the vow I'd made at my mother and father's gravesides?

Stunned, I sank into a chair. In my distress, its comfort barely registered. My sword dropped between my knees.

I must have gone pale, because my tormentor looked concerned and said, "Are you okay? Is there someone I can call for you?"

"Call?" My whole reality was in question and he wanted to yell out the window? I could hear no servants in this dwelling, and he'd said he lived alone. "No, there's no one." It was true, even if I
were
real and back in my own world, there was no one--no family, few friends, no lovers. Roark had seen to that. I was as alone there as I was here.

"Stay put. I'll get you a drink." He hurried out of the room.

Yes, a good strong drink would be nice. Something to wash away this nightmare I'd fallen into.

He came back with a tall glass filled with a colorless liquid. Whatever else he might be, he was wealthy. Only the very rich could afford glass of such purity and craftsmanship.

My hands trembled as I took the container, lifted it to my mouth, took a swig and spat.

"Do you try to poison me?" I shouted, jumping to my feet and throwing away the glass. It shattered. The tip of my sword pressed against the villain's chest.

He used his fingertips on the flat of the blade to push it aside and spluttered, "W-what are you talking about? It's just water."

I stalked forward, tipping the blade upward and dropping my hand so that the point touched just below his chin. He scrambled backward into a piece of furniture. "Exactly. You would see me sicken and die in agony from the drinking of water. If you seek to kill me, I would prefer an honorable death. In battle."

He gave a quick nod and winced as my blade nicked his skin. "Oh, I forgot, in book two Roark polluted your country's water supply. It needs to be mixed with strong wine to kill the germs. It was a mistake. The water here is clean. I promise it won't make you sick."

"If you've created everything in my reality, how could you forget this?" Part of me still wanted to believe that my world had an actuality beyond this man's sorcery, that only I was his creation. There was some solace in that thought.

"There are a lot of details that go into world-building when you're writing a fantasy novel. It's hard to keep them all straight, especially when one of your characters is holding a sword to your throat. Do you mind?" he grunted.