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A Young Boy Assaults a Usurper King

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Description

Mark, whose father has just been carted away and whose mother has just suffered disgraceful indignities at the hands of a usurper king, attacks his foe, only to face the harsh reality that the \"king\" is a force to be reckoned with.

- Excerpted with permission from \"Evening Falls,\" Book One of the series, \"The Song of Deteen,\" by J. E. Kestner.

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Vocal Characteristics

Language

English (North American)

Voice Age

Middle Aged (35-54)

Accents

US General American (GenAm)

Transcript

Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
he stepped near again, and before anyone could think slapped her across the face, something exploded inside of Mark. He had watched everything else in pain. Silence, however, this was too much. Before Robbie could stop him. He gave a rage filled cry and hurdled without thought toward the king and managed to recover herself in time to see her son jump and land with all his weight against the side of the arm and king. Even a grain of sand can cause the scales to tip and mark small. Though he waas carried with him enough force to knock Sir Richard to the ground, they fell in a tangle of arms, with Mark landing on top. Immediately, he began losing his fury upon his foe. His hands bled where he hit sharp metal instead of skin, and he was cognizant enough to realize it should hurt. Instead, he felt insoluble rage toward the man who mocked his father and disgraced his mother. All else was superfluous. Soon he was being dragged off by someone stronger. He continued fighting, only to find himself put in a headlock by the young soldier, Mark Paul, that the strong arm but his throat was collapsing in his vision, blackening stilling his fight. Let him go! So Richard barked. The soldier released him. Mark felt to all fours, where he gasped for breath. He was so focused on breathing, he didn't see Sir Richard approach. He felt a blow on his side that knocked him to the ground. Ah, horrific cracking sound jolted his ears as his vision exploded into stars of pain. Before he could process what was happening, he saw foot connect with his midsection and what little air had been left in his lungs. Left in a rush, he gasped helplessly. Don't hurt him. He heard his mother cry. Restrain her. Mark saw the young soldier take hold of her, but we looked as if he'd rather be holding hot coals. That's all Mark saw before Sir Richard kicked his shoulder again, forcing him on his back. The struggle to breathe returned, and he focused on pushing air in and out of his body until Sir Richard placed his booted foot on his chest and began pressing downwards. Mark didn't even have enough air to gasp in pain, the pressure threatening to collapse his lungs. He tried to push the foot away. With all the feeble strength left to him, he heard a sword being drawn. Is it true if this boy dies? So does the Pointer name. Though the pressure on his chest seemed enough to kill him, Mark recognized enough to know his mother's silence had answered. Sir Richard's question. A long line of only sons. Isn't it the same what he want? She asked, a tremble in her voice. There was only minutes ago you told me I would never see you beg. I want to see it, though. Get on your knees and beg bag and I will think about sparing your son's life. Mark was losing consciousness when the foot lifted his battered ribs, shrieked in pain with every breath. Yet he sucked in as much air as he could, regardless rolling on this side for easier breathing. He saw his mother on her knees before the king, who stood with his sword in his fist in triumph in his eyes. When she finished Sir Richard Warren air of contemplation and walked again to mark Get up, boy, stand and face me, he demanded, prodding Mark with his foot. Mark felt shaky all over. He stood as well as his battered body could facing the big man trembling before those cold, scrutinizing eyes took effort more immense than his boyish years and his courage faltered. This man was going to kill him, no matter how his mother begged. And he was desperate with fear. No mercy. Warm those cold eyes only hate He was going to die. He has your nose and mouth and the rest belongs to Henry. I say he would be the spitting image of his old man. When he has grown, he squared up to mark with a snarl. Too bad you will never know for sure. So many things happen next that Mark couldn't process it all. Sir Richard raised his sword, preparing to strike it across marks chest at the flash upwards marks. Legs gave way and he fell to his knees. Justus. He heard a gutter A war cry. Suddenly his mother was there, colliding with Sir Richard's chest, knocking him off balance. As he stumbled, his sword came down and cut into the top of her shoulder. She started to cry out, but never finished. So Richard was a military man, reacting instinctively to being attacked. His armored hand flew in the direction of his attacker, contacting and square on her face, knocking her to the ground. She didn't move anymore. Time seemed to stand still. Mark, Sir Richard on the young soldier all looked in varying degrees of horror. Mark recovered first and crawled to his mother's side. He rolled her on her back and cradled her head in his lap. They were angry gashes from her temple all the way down her cheek. They didn't look deep, but they still blood freely. Her shoulder was worse, bleeding a river of blood that soon covered his hands, his lap and the ground beneath. Everything about her was limp except the subtle rise and fall of her chest. No, no, no, please, no. Mark sobbed over and over. His tears fell in her bruised face but did nothing to revive her. He looked up to plead for help, though he knew he would find none. The soldier was completely aghast, and at a total loss for words, Sir Richard concealed most of a shock, but market still see. He was shaken. His countenance was awash with fear now, and he flexed his hand over and over again as if hoping he could waive the blood guilt away. Get them out of here, he ordered. Is he trying to re sheath his sword for where? Where do you want them? The young soldier stuttered. So Richard's hands were quaking so badly his sword point missed the sheath and cut through the leather on his palm. He swore loudly and dropped the sword. I don't care where. Just get them off the property, Sir Richard Bellow to the boy. He cast another nervous glance at Mark's mother before storming away toward the house. Mark raised his tear filled eyes to the boy soldier, who was a scared is he? They studied each other, both bewildered. Finally, he walked to mother and son. I'll be gentle with her, okay? He told Mark as he knelt beside his mother.