DVD EXTRAS II

Readers of my original series know that, often, there are scenes and/or characters that are cut out of early drafts. Sometimes these are removed because they are not working, sometimes because their sub-plot is slowing down the action and sometimes because I need to get back under my 180,000 word limit!

Now, when you buy a DVD, you get to see extra scenes that were left on the cutting room floor.

Here, you get the DVD extras from Bridge Of Swords. These scenes may give you some extra insight into characters, or you may well judge that it was a good thing I cut them out!



SENDATSU’S ARCHERY LESSON

`Sendatsu!’

He turned with a grin to hug his friend.

`Gaibun! We’re going to learn the bow! I can’t believe we are finally going to learn how to shoot arrows!’ Sendatsu laughed.

`I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking of it,’ Gaibun confessed.

A slim elven girl slapped him on the back of the head.

`Really? You were so excited about having your fingers scraped raw, your back aching and your arms so sore you can barely lift a spoon?’

`Yes, Asami, I am!’ Sendatsu told her.

`Proves you must have been dropped on your head as a child. Well, come on then!’

Sendatsu led the way, the three of them racing through the streets, laughing and dodging the adults they saw there - most of whom merely smiled indulgently, to the city‘s archery range, on the outskirts of the forest.

There were a score of other youths, boys and girls, all about the same age, between seven and eight years old, waiting patiently with an older elf, with a shaved head and huge shoulders and arms.

`Glad you three decided to join us. We were thinking of sending out our best trackers to find you,’ he told them, with a slight smile. `But don‘t be late again.’

`Yes sensei,’ they chorused, as they took their places in the line.

`Good. Now take your bows. We shall begin at the same time every day - archery is all about practise. You will find these bows hard to draw at first but, as soon as they grow easier, you must choose a bigger, stronger bow. Until you have a bow with full draw weight, I don’t want you ever using these easily.’

He showed them the bows made of yew, how it was made of both the heartwood and outer wood of the tree, so it would withstand the tension of the spring and snap back with the pace and speed to send a long arrow 200 paces.

`I never want to see you draw back only to the eye. Aiming is easy enough then, but you have no power. Draw to the ear and learn to think the arrow to your target. For the first year, the safest place for me will be standing right in front of the target but you shall learn!’

He showed them how to draw back, how the tension was spread through the arms, chest, shoulders and back, how to release the string between breaths so the bow did not move and throw the arrow off target.

`We are the only race in the world to use the longbow! The humans are not clever enough to use the bow, nor do they live long enough to be able to spend the 10 years necessary to become an archer!’

`Why do we learn the bow?’ Asami asked grimacing with the effort of drawing the bow. `We do not hunt animals for their flesh, and we are protected from the humans by a magical barrier.’

`That we are. But magic can be breached, or can fail. A strong arm and a strong bow will never fail. These are the best defences we could ever have, should we need them.’

Sendatsu had enjoyed the lesson, although his arrows had gone nowhere near the target, even though the tips of his first two fingers on the right hand were sore and red at the end of the lesson and his shoulders and back were aching. Gaibun was even more excited.

`Did you see me hit the target? Did you see? I was the only one who did it!’ he laughed all the way home, while Sendatsu and Asami teased his claims that he was a natural, an archer born.

`Shall we get something to eat and then go down to the park? I want to swim in the lake,’ Sendatsu suggested.

`We’ll meet down there,’ Asami agreed.

Sendatsu raced inside his house, intending to grab something from the kitchen before finding a towel. Perhaps his mother had been baking cakes. His stomach rumbled at the thought. But he skidded to a halt as he came through the door to find his father sitting at the kitchen table.

`Benneth! Back from archery already?’

`Yes, father,’ Sendatsu nodded, unconsciously trying to stand straighter.

`And how did it go?’

Sendatsu grinned and began a hurried recount of the lesson, how they had worked until they ached, and their teacher had called a halt.

`And Gaibun hit the target!’ he finished. `We’re going down to the lake for a swim…’

`Did you hit the target?’ his father asked sharply.

`No father, although I got close …’

`And you thought that was good enough? You thought it was acceptable to go out and enjoy yourself afterwards? Reward yourself for failure?’

Sendatsu gaped at his father.

`Answer me, boy!’

`But the teacher said…’

`I don’t care what your teacher said! Do you think failure is good enough?’

`No, father.’

`Come with me.’

Miserably, Sendatsu followed his father into the garden, where an old archery target hung on a tree. His father, a tall muscular man, took out an old bow, smaller than the massive one he used but still bigger than the ones Sendatsu and his friends had tried at the archery lesson.

`Here, take this. This is the bow I used at your age. It is bigger and stronger than the ones they give you at the start, but that is good. It is not acceptable to be the same as everyone else. You must be bigger, stronger, faster. If you are to take my place on the Elven Council, you have to prove yourself worthy. Are you going to let Gaibun become the best archer of your age? Do you want to be a lesser elf? He is your competition, and you must beat him!’

`But father, he is my friend …’

`Friends make you weak. You must be strong. Take up the bow.’

`But father, my hands are sore and my back aches…’

His father brought the bow stave whistling around in a vicious arc and Sendatsu jumped in pain as it whiplashed across his backside.

`Talk back to me again and you shall regret it! Now take the bow and string it!’

Sendatsu took the bow with a shaking hand and, exerting every ounce of strength, just managed to bend it enough to slip the string into the nocked horn tips. His father watched grimly, then dropped a sheaf of arrows at his feet.

`Every day, you will come back here after your lesson, string the bow and put 10 arrows into that target. Each day I shall remove the arrows - and woe betide you if I come home and find anything less than 10 in that target.’

`But father, what if I miss?’

His father’s face tightened and Sendatsu reflexively took a step away. `Did you not listen to me boy? I want 10 arrows in that target and I don’t care how long it takes you! Begin!’

Sendatsu bent and picked up an arrow. Shorter than the yard-long shafts the adults used, it was still a good six inches longer than the ones he had first tried. He fitted the nocked end to the string, then drew a deep breath and drew back. His already sore muscles protested, while his fingers felt like fire.

`Pull back! What are you, a little girl? Pull, boy! Put some effort into it!’ his father snapped.

Grunting with the effort, Sendatsu pulled it back and released, barely aiming. Luckily the target was only 10 paces away but, even so, the arrow only just stuck in the very edge of it.

`Aroaril, boy! If that was your best effort, I can see we are going to be here until dark. Come on, make me proud of you for once!’

Sendatsu leaned down and selected another arrow. This one was even harder to draw back. His arms were trembling with the effort now and while the release was sweet relief for his muscles, it was pure agony for his fingers. He looked down in horror to see the rough hide string had taken the skin off the pads of his fingers and they were red raw.

`You missed, boy,’ his father said coldly, dropping the arrow at his feet again. `Come on, I haven’t got all day but I will stay here if that is what it takes.’

Sendatsu laid another arrow into the string and pulled back. He could feel the dampness of blood from his fingers on the string, while silent tears rolled down his cheeks.

`It is not good enough to be second best. You must be the best! Now pull!’ his father roared at him.

Lost in a world of pain, Sendatsu tried to do what his father told him. At that moment, the only thing he hated more than the bow, which was tearing his muscles and cutting his flesh, was his father.



SENDATSU AND ASAMI AFTER A TRAINING LESSON WITH JAKEN

Sendatsu lifted his tunic to let Asami rub a soothing salve on his welts and bruises.

`Mother says this will take down the swelling much faster,’ Asami said softly, her fingers light across his wounds.

`Thank you,’ he smiled gently at her.

`This is terrible,’ Asami sighed, her fingers tracing a long welt from his upper back down to his ribs.

`It’s getting better. I’m getting faster. He doesn’t hit me so much now,’ Sendatsu told her, trying to say something to keep his mind off her hands on his skin.

`I still think you should have told someone,’ she finished with the salve but he caught her hands before she could take them away.

`But then I wouldn’t have you do this for me. And that makes it worth it,’ he said softly, leaning closer to her.

Her hands went to his back again and drew him forwards into a long kiss that seemed to last a moment and for ever.

`I thought we were all going to pick strawberries?’ Gaibun’s voice snapped them apart and Asami jumped to her feet.

Sendatsu was slower to get up, partly because he was sore, partly because he needed to pull his tunic down to disguise the bulge at the front of his trews. He met Gaibun’s gaze and was shocked at the anger in his friend’s eyes.

`If I did not know better, I would say that you were doing this for sympathy,’ Gaibun said coldly.

`How could you say that?’ Asami demanded. `Haven’t you seen his bruises?’

`Aye. But not the way you have, obviously,’ Gaibun snapped.

`I’m going now, before I say something I shouldn’t,‘ Asami warned, and stalked away.

`But what about the strawberries? They’re your favourites!’ Gaibun protested.

`Pick them yourself!’

They watched her walk away, but all Sendatsu could think of was the way her hands had felt on his skin, the way her lips had felt against his.

`Come on. Those strawberries need picking, whether there’s two or three of us doing it,’ Gaibun said gloomily.

Sendatsu followed him, but his eyes lingered on the departing figure of Asami.

`You are lucky,’ Gaibun said softly.

`What? You still think I got these bruises deliberately…?’

`No. That she likes you. She knows how much I like her but won’t let me near her. But you …’

Sendatsu looked at his friend and could see only sadness in his eyes now.

`We will still be friends, no matter what,’ he said defiantly. `Asami is not something to be fought over. She will make her own decisions.’

`I know,’ Gaibun agreed. `I promise it won’t come between us!’

DVD EXTRAS I

 

Readers of my original series know that, often, there are scenes and/or characters that are cut out of early drafts. Sometimes these are removed because they are not working, sometimes because their sub-plot is slowing down the action and sometimes because I need to get back under my 180,000 word limit!

Now, when you buy a DVD, you get to see extra scenes that were left on the cutting room floor.

Here, you get the DVD extras from Bridge Of Swords. These scenes may give you some extra insight into characters, or you may well judge that it was a good thing I cut them out!

HUW AND RHIANNON

THE city of Cridianton, the capital of Forland, was impressive. It was meant to be. It said to everyone, this is the pre-eminent country, the biggest and most powerful in the world.

To Huw, it was stunning. It looked like something out of the stories his father had told him when he was a boy, stories of elven cities.

Of course the stone used was grey, rather than white, and the towers were squat and powerful, rather than tall and beautiful. The practical part of him knew much of it would be filthy and miserable, crowded streets and misery, hunger and rats. But the romantic within him thrilled at the sight of the colourful flags snapping from the top of the city walls.

Once a year, King Ward allowed performers to try out for his court’s amusement. Ward and his court were insatiable for entertainment and they quickly became bored with seeing the same thing. Those singers, dancers, jugglers, clowns and bards who angered the Forlish King were lucky if they escaped with their skins intact - but those who pleased him left the court after a year with their pockets full of gold. And, better yet, they were assured of work at every town in Forland. Every minor nobleman and rich merchant wanted to see an entertainer who had delighted their king. Huw estimated he could return home within two years with enough money that he could pay for labourers to take over his father’s farm, as well as build himself the finest house in the village.

Many of those heading for Crondon were hopefuls like himself, while others were those looking to prey on them or profit from them. Up ahead was a long, mostly good-natured queue of those looking to get inside the gate. The guards were speaking to all before they could enter, which was taking time but Huw was not worried. The trials were not until tomorrow and he was in no hurry. There was so much to look at! Stalls had been set up at the side of the road and it seemed to be turning into a fair.

Beside the road, a young juggler was performing for a small crowd, sending three small painted wooden tops soaring high into the air before catching them. Huw stopped also, partly through interest, partly because he could see the nervous sweat on the man’s face, see the way he was snatching at the wooden tops as they went past, rather than letting them drop smoothly into his hand. He tried to will the man to stop while he was ahead. The juggler was tall and good-looking, blue eyes beneath a shock of blond hair, a cheeky smile and a square jaw. Huw knew looks should make no difference to talent but the sad fact was, people liked their entertainers to be handsome or beautiful.

Huw reflected enviously that if he looked like that, he would have more than a small crowd around him. But he knew enough to stop while they still wanted more. There were a dozen people watching him, and if the juggler finished with a flourish and a smile, he might get half a dozen coppers, and the same in silver.

`And now for the finale, I shall attempt four!’ the juggler called confidently, and Huw groaned inwardly. He had seen many entertainers performing at Forlish inns these past few weeks - and at least three jugglers who were far better.

`Where is my helper?’ the juggler shouted, oblivious to Huw’s concern.

A small child stepped forwards, a fourth top, this one painted red, in his hand.

`Now throw it to me!’

Huw could see what as going to happen long before it did, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He just had to watch, wincing, as the last top was thrown clumsily to the juggler. The man reached out for it, lost his rhythm and the tops went in all directions, the last one - predictably - landing squarely on his head.

The juggler staggered a little as the crowd roared with laughter and then turned as one and walked away, looking for more entertainment. The small boy gaped at the wreckage, then was tugged away by his mother.

`Wait! I have more tricks, spectacular shows that will amaze even our great King Ward!‘ the juggler called, but jeers followed his claim and the people moved away even faster.

Huw moved also, but to help the juggler, who had slumped to the ground, rubbing his bruised head.

`Here, let me get these,’ Huw offered as he gathered up the fallen tops.

`My thanks to you,’ the juggler gasped. `Now, if you could but bring the crowd back…’

`You almost had them. It was just the child as a helper. It was a good touch, bringing with it laughter and support from the crowd but it meant the act failed, where an older child might have given you the better conclusion to the show,’ Huw handed over the tops.

`You sound like you are a performer also …’ the juggler’s voice tailed off as he glimpsed the lyre in its protective case slung across Huw’s back.

`I will also be performing for King Ward,’ Huw admitted.

`Well, that is wonderful! We shall win contracts together!’ the juggler said with a smile. `I am Bertwald, from Browns Brook. And you?’

`Huw, of Patcham.’

`Patcham? I have travelled widely but I ever heard of that village. Where is that? Balian or something?’

`No, it‘s in the Vales,’ Huw said proudly, now collecting the rest of Bertwald’s props. Then he noticed the juggler was not helping him, was just staring instead.

`The Vales? But where’s your beard?’ he asked dumbly.

Huw chuckled. `We don’t all wear beards and shag sheep in the Vales! We have a proud history of song, and heroic tales…’ He trailed off, horribly aware that Bertwald was neither laughing or smiling, and seemed to have no interest whatsoever in the history of the Vales in song.

`You’re Velsh? And to think I was actually considering travelling to the capital with you!’

`Well, why not? What’s wrong with travelling with me?’ 

`Are you mad? King Ward will throw a stinking Velshman out of Crondon before he even gets the chance to open his mouth! And anyone who travels with them would get the same fate,’ he declared, hurriedly packing the last of his props. `I want nothing to do with a filthy Velshman. Stay clear of me!’

Huw gaped at him. Bertwald had seemed pleasant enough, if lacking in talent. Where had this come from?

`If you’re smarter than the average Velsh oaf you’ll turn around and go back to whatever shit village you crawled out from,’ Bertwald continued. `But stay away from me!’

`Look, you have it wrong, but we can still travel together. I just won’t tell them I’m Velsh,’ Huw offered with a smile, although the words of his father Earwen were flooding into his head, about always being proud of where you came from.

`Get away from me!’ Bertwald pushed him hard in the chest and Huw staggered backwards, falling down but twisting at the last moment so he did not land on his precious lyre. He sprang to his feet and checked it anyway, then brushed the grass and leaves from his cloak angrily. The juggler was hurrying away and he knew he should go after the man, throw him down to the ground and repay him for his rudeness and that push. In his village, if you were pushed over, you came up swinging fists. At the very least he should tell him a few facts of life, about how unwise it was to be rude towards helpful strangers, and how the Velsh were not strange barbarians who were overly affectionate to sheep but his feet would not move after Bertwald and, worse, the words to say that would not come to him. It was not because he lacked for words, he made his living from them. But a combination of shock and fear stilled his tongue. Not fear for himself, he told himself loudly, but more of causing a scene. How many of the other people here would think the same as this juggler? If he began an argument about the honour of the Vales, would the people listen or would they side with the handsome Forlish juggler?

He watched Bertwald scamper away, still staring darkly at him, and made sure there was no stains on his clothes instead. He swirled his cloak around for a final check and wondered if it might not be better to pretend he was from some isolated Forlish village. After all, if Ward did hate the Velsh, perhaps discretion would be the better part of valour. Impress the Forlish King first, then when he had won a contract to perform there, reveal where he came from - and then none could doubt he was a proud Velshman, he told himself. That would be the smart thing to do.

Reassured by his own logic, he walked across to join the growing queue of hopefuls being interviewed by a pair of men in court clothes, flanked by a squad of bored guards.

 

`Make way there! Make way!’ the call came up from behind and craned his head, trying to see what was coming up the road - then wished he hadn’t. It was a long line of people - men, women and even children, filthy and dressed in rags. But the real horror was the way they were tied together, rope halters around the necks, even around the necks of the youngest, boys and girls no older than ten summers. Huw watched, his mouth sagging open, as they were driven along the road by a score of armoured riders with whips, who were not afraid to use them.

`No slacking there! We didn’t keep you alive just to let you lie down now!‘ the leader roared, plying the whip on a pair of stragglers.

Huw was outraged to see one of them was a young girl. He glanced around, expecting everyone else to be as disgusted, but heads hardly raised, from the queue of hopefuls to the many stallholders, farmers and merchants going about their usual business. Or, if they did, they merely looked then went on with whatever it was they were doing.

His first instinct was to rush over, to protect the women and children being herded down the road into the capital like animals. No, worse than animals, for the sheep, cattle and goats he had seen go past him that day had been well-fed, cared for. But he found his feet were frozen to the spot. The cruelty, the anger, on the faces of the guards told him they would not listen to reasoned argument about the nature of freedom. Still he knew it was the right thing. He had to do something, say something. His father would never have let such a sight go past.

`You have to stand up for what you believe in, or you will end up living your life on your knees. And that is no way for a man to spend his days,’ Earwen often said.

He could imagine what his father would do. He would pull one of those arrogant riders off their horse, take their sword and free the prisoners. Anyone who tried to stop him would be cut down. But Huw could not move. All the riders looked huge in their armour, and all carried long daggers and curved swords at their belts, as well as the cruel whips. On horseback they seemed huge, forbidding. Huw could not imagine wresting a sword from one of them, nor freeing even the smallest prisoner.

`Who are they?’ he managed to croak.

The man in front, another bard by his costume, turned and looked, as if seeing them for the first time.

`Another pack of Balians for the slave markets. They bring back a string or two of them every week. They make good slaves, once they have had the nonsense whipped out of them. They should realise that Forland is their ruler. They should be happy to be slaves to the greatest country in the worldI’

Huw felt sick. The line of Balians passed close by, and he watched each face in horror, seeing their pain, their exhaustion, the fear and dread etched into every line. The ropes had rubbed red wounds around wrists and necks, while their feet were torn and bloody from the road. One young man, no older than himself, had a dozen vicious weals across his shoulders as well. Even as Huw watched, a rider slashed down with his whip, opening another wound across the man’s upper back.

Huw looked up angrily - and wished he hadn’t. He locked eyes with the slaver, who leered at him.

`Like the look of that one, do you?’ he winked. `I promise not to damage his pretty face. That’s what you’re looking for, after all, isn’t it?’

Disgusted, and afraid, Huw looked away. 

`Come and see the slave markets tomorrow. They’ll be for sale soon. But bring your purses - prime Balian slaves like these are hard to find!’ the rider called, widening his sales pitch to everyone within earshot.

`He’s lying,’ the bard in front said quietly. `The market’s choked with slaves from every part of the continent. The strong ones will fetch a gold piece, the young, good-looking women double that, but the rest can be had for a few silvers. The King should be ordering the army to kill more of them, rather than take slaves. It’s wrecking the whole economy. Even the beggars can afford a slave these days!’

Huw realised the man expected him to be sympathetic but it was all he could do not to vomit. In the Vales, every man was free and the thought of owning slaves was as repugnant as sleeping with the sheep. And the Forlish called them barbarians! He knew what the right thing to do was. He should walk away from here, go back to where the air was clean, the people honest and no man was another’s slave. It was what his father would do and he could almost hear Earwen’s voice telling him to do exactly that.

And yet … he had known the Forlish were corrupt and greedy, had known their army was rarely at home but instead was ever widening the lands King Ward could call his own. He had known and he had still come here, because this was his dream. Only here could he truly become a bard, only here could he earn the money he needed to look after his parents. If he returned now, he could walk away with a clean conscience but he would have to give up the lyre, have to become a farmer. Every sacrifice his father had made would be worthless. Everyone in the village would nod their heads, declare knowledgeably that they knew this would happen all along. This was what came of having impossible dreams. Velshmen did not become bards, they became farmers or miners. He would forever be laughed at, forever have to live with the thought he had failed.

It is only for a year. I shall walk away by then, he told himself. And, perhaps, he could earn enough money to purchase slaves which he could set free. Walking away would not help those poor people, he told himself, warming to the task, but staying and making so much gold that he could release them would save them.

He seized upon that idea like a man dying of thirst reaching for a cup of water. It would be better if he stayed, he could do more good that way, he decided. It took courage to walk away, but even more to stay and do something about the slavery.

Feeling much better about the decision, he straightened his shoulders and rejoined the queue. The last of the tortured Balians were moving through the city gates now and the slavers were disappearing from sight with them. From the reaction of the crowd, the horrific little scene might never have happened. That did shake Huw’s determination to stay, a little. If these people could ignore what was being done to women and even children, what else would he discover behind the city walls? Something deep inside his gut was telling him he should go, that to stay was a betrayal of everything his father had taught him. But his head was in control and, after all he had gone through to get here, he had no intention of going.

 

Bridge Of Swords tour wraps up

After five weeks of full-time touring, plus another three weeks of part-time touring, the Bridge Of Swords promotional tour, which I dubbed Save Our Bookstores, is finally over.


Time to get back to work, time to finish off a couple of tweaks on Valley Of Shields for HarperCollins and time to get cracking again on Wall Of Spears.

The last weekend went well - first up was Infinitas at Parramatta, a different sort of appearance because it was down to people coming in specially to see me. Thanks to all who did, thanks to Tim and thanks to Meredith and also Guy, two people who had just dropped into the store anyway but ended up buying all four of my books and getting them signed!

Up the road to Dymocks Castle Hill and we swiftly sold out of Wounded Guardians, while racking up the sales of Bridge Of Swords. It didn't begin that well, as Castle Towers has one of the craziest carparks I have battled. I thought Miranda Fair was maddening but it has nothing on Castle Towers. Apparently modelled on a Dungeons & Dragons floorplan, it seems to defy the laws of logic and, quite probably, space and time. I finally found a carspace and hit the store almost 30 minutes late.

Nevertheless, I met some wonderful people and sold a bunch of books.

The very last store on the tour was Dymocks Charlestown. This is a huge shopping centre in Newcastle, absolutely packed with people and the Dymocks there is a new expansion store, after NSW's second city lost almost all its bookstores in the A+R collapse.

Sadly the store is in a dodgy location, stuck in a little backwater and surrounded by health fund shopfronts. The owners, Uday and Anita, are lovely people and it's a fantastic, family-run store. But the area was DEAD. I ended up bellowing at people on escalators in the hope of dragging a few in.

We sold out of Wounded Guardians (yet again) but it was a little bit of a disappointing way to finish, on several levels. Not only because I didn't sell many books but more so because this is a store that needs help, in an area that needs more bookstores.

I can only hope more Novocastrians discover their new Dymocks.

Looking back on the tour overall, it's clear that the Canberra/Goulburn leg was by far the most successful in terms of sales, while the greatest pleasure was meeting so many people and introducing myself to new stores.

Receiving emails, Twitter messages and messages on Facebook from people who bought from me, loved the books and took the time and effort to tell me so is wonderful.

Making the Dymocks Fantasy Bestseller List, as well as individual store Bestseller Lists from one end of the country to another was a huge highlight.

It's a great foundation for book two.

So, I've talked the talk, it's up to Bridge Of Swords to walk the walk and sell itself, through word of mouth.

Meanwhile I can gather the energy for next April school holidays, when I'll hit the road once more with Valley Of Shields.

Let me know if there's a store near you that needs visiting!

Massive days in Melbourne

The last interstate stop on the Bridge Of Swords tour took me down to Melbourne, where I would be experiencing life in a Dymock-racy (so to speak) with four Dymocks stores on the list as well as a drop-in to the specialist sci-fi/fantasy store Minotaur.
This was going to be much easier than Canberra and Brisbane thanks to my friend and busing author Jason Gale, who was not only giving me a bed for the night but also driving me around from one end of Melbourne to the other.
Things didn't begin that auspiciously, with a lady at Newcastle Airport attempting to convince staff that the three bags she was carrying were in fact two and she should be allowed to board the plane with them, even though she was well over the carry-on luggage. That went so well that we were 15 minutes late out of Newcastle but, again, luckily I had some time up the sleeve before my first bookstore.
Things got easier when I met Jason at the airport and hit the city nice and quick. First up was the big CBD store on Collins St. This is downstairs, so I had position at the base of the long elevator and could snag people as they came down.
This worked really well - although they had none of the original trilogy and once again we all missed out on some sales. Still, I sold 27 copies of Bridge Of Swords in between chatting to Jason and devouring the world's most expensive toasted cheese and ham sandwich.
It's a great place to chat to people and I had a great time meeting some wonderful people, including one lady desperate to buy The Wounded Guardian! In case she hasn't yet, Dymocks Knox, Southlands and Camberwell all have copies now ...
Second on the list was Minotaur. I've been to all other specialist fantasy stores around Australia and was keen to complete the list.
Things didn't go quite so well as they weren't really expecting me and I had apparently interrupted lunch there and they only had two copies of Bridge Of Swords.
I was half-expecting Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons to appear around the corner and utter the immortal words: "Worst author visit ever!"
But it was still good to speak to the staff, to let them know a little of what my books are about so that next time things might go better ...
Last stop for the day was Dymocks Southlands, which was a nice place to finish. Good sales, great people and a chance to relax and refuel for the next day afterwards.
Friday started with a flurry - my Twitter account got hacked and I was deluged by warnings from people. In between sending messages begging people not to open any links purportedly sent by me and changing passwords, I was lacking a little focus.
Things got back on track meeting my cousin Nat, her husband Emanuel and their lovely children for coffee at Knox before arriving at Dymocks Knox.
Knox was great and the sales piled up as the people poured past. I was reluctant to go but had one more stop before flying out - Dymocks Camberwell.
This is in a curious little shopping centre on a busy road in a hip suburb but there weren't many people around.
That was a real shame because Camberwell had the best specials of any store on my books. If I'd been at the CBD store selling Bridge of Swords at $5 off and buy the original trilogy and only pay for two books ($46 vs $67) I reckon I would have sold 100.
Sadly I couldn't do much for Camberwell, as it's a lo vely store but planes wait for nobody (unless you're an angry woman with excess luggage, it seems) and I had to hit the road. Or skies.
Next day it was out to Dymocks Rouse Hill, one of my favourite places. There's something about the area and the people that just makes it so rewarding to work there.
I had a bunch of people turn up specially to see me, which is always thrilling, as well as meeting all sorts of other lovely readers. One girl, whose name was Rhiannon, had to buy Bridge Of Swords as the main female character is, of course, Rhiannon!
Three hectic days of bookstores but the best was yet to come ... on Monday the Dymocks Fntasy Bestseller List came out with the news Bridge Of Swords had cracked the top 10!
That was huge - the first series sold very well but steadily until Radiant Child leapt onto the Bestseller list. To get onto the Bestseller List with the first book of this series is fantastic and a very proud moment.
Thanks to everyone who bought it!

Crazy weekend of touring

One of the definite highlights of this or indeed any other tour I've had was appearing at Gosford Markets with Kate from All Good Bookstore Gosford and a couple of Forlish warriors in Uhtred and Osric - otherwise known as Mason and Hayden!
These brave blokes (it was in the high 20s) dressed in chainmail with metal helms, sword and shield and bashed each other senseless in order to draw attention to my attempts to chat to people and sell them books.
It was a lot of fun and when I get back to work and retrieve my BlackBerry USB cable, I'll be uploading video onto here as well as my Facebook page.
They really went the extra mile and you have to hand it to a couple of big blokes who like hitting each other with lumps of wood and metal.
The only drawback was the sun and the fact the Gosford Markets' promised marquee never turned up, leaving us all with a slight case of sunburn ...!
Still, we met loads of people, handed out stacks of bookmarks and glowing reviews of Bridge Of Swords and sold quite a few books as well.
I also helped Kate coin her slogan: `Available at all good bookstores, particularly this All Good Bookstore!"
Well, I never met a bit of wordplay I didn't like ...
Sunday was less sunny but also action-packed, as I popped into Dymocks Chatswood for the first time.
Bridge Of Swords copy editor Abigail Nathan of Bothersome Words popped in to say hello and tweet as I attempted to sell to what was a bit of a sparse crowd that Sunday. It's always great having someone there, even if your conversation consists of about 20 little snapshots as you break off to speak to people walking past.
They may have been few in number but they sure packed a punch ... sold 38 books in a couple of hours, including a personal best of 10 to one person!
This wonderful bloke called Steve came in and bought a trilogy for himself, a Bridge Of Swords for himself, then came back and bought another trilogy for a friend, then came back another hour later and bought a third trilogy for another friend! Now that's a friend worth having!
It was a great afternoon, thankfully out of the sun and the stupid GPS even failed to get me lost. The damn thing couldn't find any satellites around Chatswood but, by the time I stopped swearing at it and it discovered where we were, I'd found my own way back to the Pacific Highway!
A big weekend indeed ... and I had a few days off before trying Melbourne ...!  

Beautiful Brisbane

I was very excited to fly into Brisbane for two days travelling around bookstores and meeting new people. Brisbane Dymocks was the place where I discovered The Radiant Child had made the Dymocks Fantasy Bestseller List. Not surprisingly, that buzz enabled me to sell out their entire stock that time! Plus I was going to visit TLC Books Manly, a small bookstore in a little arcade in a quiet part of town but a fantastic place that has been a great supporter of mine and exactly the sort of bookstore this tour is all about trying to help.
I was also a little sad, as three of the Borders stores I had visited that time were all gone.
It all began a little curiously, as walking out to the plane were a large hairy bloke in a wedding dress and his (normally dressed) mates. I'm assuming this was some football-inspired dare but I do like to keep an open mind and if that's what he felt comfortable in, then more power to him!
I had plenty of time up the sleeve before an 11am start at Dymocks Brisbane, which was lucky. While we didn't have to pause to allow the Captain to conduct a mid-air ceremony, we did end up circling Brisbane airport. I caught the airport train in, which was unsurprisingly slow.
Interestingly enough, I had all sorts of dramas with Jetstar, which freaked out because I had booked three flights with them through Webjet and refused to let me do online check-in, then when I rang them up, the lady in Chennai or Manila or wherever their phone centre is based was completely unhelpful. Finally the check-in terminal at Newcastle also refused to help me. Luckily I was there early enough to get into the human check-in line and the lady there fixed it all in about 30 seconds and moved me to an emergency seat with extra legroom! Jetstar 0, Newcastle Airport 1!
On a positive note, I remembered the rough layout of the city centre from the last time I was there and found my way to the store with very little difficulty, stopping for a coffee along the way.
The CBD store doesn't let me cut loose on passersby but does have a steady flow of people for me to accost as they head up the escalators to the fiction section. I met some great people and really appreciate the ones who took the time to Friend me on Facebook, follow me on Twitter and drop me a line to say how much they were enjoying either Wounded Guardian or Bridge Of Swords. That's always a fantastic feeling!
Then it was off to Pulp Fiction, a specialist fantasy/sci-fi store and then the new Angus & Robertson store in Brisbane city. These were just stock signings, rather than my usual selling. It was particularly evocative to be back inside an A&R store again, after appearing at so many last time. They had been a bit surprised by Bridge Of Swords' popularity and only had four left for me to sign - next time it'll be much better!
Final stop for the day was Dymocks Carindale, where Bridge Of Swords was sitting at Number Nine on the store Bestseller list. That was a fantastic afternoon, meeting many wonderful people and chatting about books and my books in particular. I didn't sell an enormous amount of books that evening but had so many people interested in what I had to say that I am sure it will follow on.
Day Two felt a little like an episode of The Amazing Race. I had taxicab vouchers to get me around and met up with one friendly cabbie, called Manny, who stuck with me through the day.
First up was TLC Books, then Dymocks Chermside. TLC is such a lovely little store, in a delightful centre. Tanya and the team are so nice there that I simply have to keep going back! Both went really well, with Chermside particularly a success in book terms. They only had Bridge Of Swords, which sadly cost us both in terms of books sold but when I had finished, they only had two copies of Bridge Of Swords left.
There was a fantasy stand of books just behind me - and if anyone perused that, they received a smile and a bookmark from me. That led to three sales right there!
So I flew out of Brisbane, ready for a big weekend at Gosford Markets and then Dymocks Chatswood.
And that was to prove quite a fascinating adventure!
That was even before I got off the plane. I was flying Virgin (so obviously didn't expect to see the large bloke in the wedding dress 36 hours after his big day) and their plane experienced what the Captain described as"severe turbulence" on the way back. I would describe it as a case of severe turbulence in the squeaky bum section.
I had my seatbelt so tight, there was little blood getting to my legs and even so I swear my butt lifted of the seat twice as we dropped and bumped. To say I was glad to be back was an understatement. To say there were a few people who needed a spare pair of underpants urgently was also probably accurate!

Glass is always half full

When you do a bookstore appearance, as I have been busy doing over the past five weeks, you absolutely have to approach it with a "glass half-full" mindset.
If you focus on negatives, then you will end up underneath the table that the bookstore kindly set out for you, locked in the foetal position, wailing slightly.
As I have said before, you are going to get knockbacks, sneers and even the odd casual insult. Focus on those and it will mess with your head. Instead, you have to concentrate on the positive.
Take, for instance, the Macquarie Centre Dymocks appearance I did.
This was on the Saturday before Father's Day and the place was packed. But everyone was in a rush and many had a specific book in mind as a gift. I was getting many, many knockbacks amid the sales and it would have been easy to focus on those. It was still a good day and I still sold plenty of books but I was copping a bit of verbal punishment along the way.
I refused to focus on that. Instead I looked at those who did stop to talk to me.
One teenager who made the entire day worth it was a delightful young lady called Emma, who worked for Baskin Robbins and popped in on her break.
I chatted to her first, then she was so excited she came back with money and bought The Wounded Guardian - and then she came back once more, to shake my hand and thank me for talking to her!
Instantly that made the 50+ sneers about fantasy and books that I'd received vanish in an instant.
Each person who does talk to you is a pleasure. Each person who buys one of your books is a joy.
You may have spoken to 50 people before them but, to every single person, that is the one contact with an author they have had that day. It is up to you to make that special for you both.
I use the memory of the wonderdyl people I speak to, to inspire me to go on and on.
For me, the glass is always half-full.