After Ed’s death in September of 2024, I had a major downsizing to do from a six-room house to a studio apartment. Of course, going through boxes of old files was part of the job.

To my surprise, I found a completed manuscript that I had finished 35 years before. Back then, I had queried a few publishers unsuccessfully. Disappointed, I had filed it away.

From that moment two years ago, I determined to get it published. Still, it was laid aside as I moved, settled, travelled, and published Doggie Devotionals.

Anticipating my current UK visit, I set a goal to prepare the manuscript for publication in 2026.

Yesterday, I truly immersed myself in the project, rewriting the first four chapters. Herewith, I post the first chapter of The Dual of Weddenskeep. You are the first audience to read it. Let me know what you think.

 Chapter One: The Twins ~ ~ Like Serfs in the Dirt          

Roesall and Halbaer glowered at each other as they circled in the dust. Fists clenched; jaws set; breathing quickened; each waited for the other to lunge. Spirit matched spirit; the seething concentration of one equaled the other. One was burly and brash, able to overcome an opponent with brute strength. The other well-muscled yet trim, fought with both strength and studied skill. It was he, Halbaer, who broke the standoff; for suddenly he straightened and stood, waiting. The unspoken challenge was clear to Roesall. He would have to strike first.

The familiar ploy disgusted him and increased his wrath. “Why do you play the coward?” he growled. “Our subjects see you as a cur, whipped, with its tail between its legs.”

The instant reply was intense and cutting: “And you are like the volcanoes of the Nether Isles, spewing vileness over everyone.”

Roesall’s rage snapped as he bellowed, grabbing for Halbaer’s waist. His powerful arms hugged the lighter body to his brawny chest. He began to squeeze the breath from the lithe Halbaer. But the sharp pain of a boot driving down upon his instep broke his grip. And in an instant his breath was expelled by Halbaer’s penetrating elbow punch.

Stepping to one side, Halbaer swiftly plied his boot to the back of Roesall’s knees, bringing him to the ground. Then he clasped his hands and raised them above his head to bring them crashing down upon his younger brother when he was thrown five feet by the mighty backhand of Roesall.

“Stop!” a command rang forth. The stocky form of Clitus strode between the feuding twins. Their tutor and fencing master for ten years, the graying Clitus raised his arms to part the duelers who had regained their wind and their footing. “Stop, I say, in the name of the king!” Then in a lower voice he censured, “You again disgrace your father; the both of you shame his grace and his goodness before his subjects. You are princes of Trahcotim, but you fight like serfs in the dirt.” His anger flowed through his hands, each clutching an arm. His eyes flashed from one to the other until he could feel their wrath subside. “Now to your rooms. Wash yourselves and change your clothes. Your father wants to see you both– immediately.”

Roesall wrenched himself free of Clitus’ grasp. His glistening brow furrowed and his mouth tightened with swallowed rage. His burning gaze continued to challenge Halbaer’s mounting imperturbability. With a snort, he jerked around and stomped off.

Not taking his eyes from the rankling Roesall, Clitus quietly asked, “What started it this time?”

“I don’t remember,” Halbaer’s response was heavy with frustrated shame. “You know how my overgrown brother is—quick to make a mountain of a molehill. Then it exploded! I warrant I said something wrong, but I don’t know what it was.”

Clitus looked into the face of the honest Halbaer. The straight, strong jaw line was like Roesall’s. The well-shaped mouth rested in a determined yet softened line. The dark brown eyes reflected regret as they stared after his filial foe. Clitus shook his head, understanding the feelings of Halbaer; for he, too, knew the shock of Roesall’s sudden anger, the confusion it caused and his own answering fury that conquered his reason. Laying his hand sympathetically on Halbaer’s shoulder, he spoke. “Come. your father waits.”

All comments, negative or positive, are valuable and useful in the editing process of preparing a manuscript for publication. Whether your remarks deal with grammar, style, content, or clarity, I will be very grateful to receive them.