Please welcome my guest author, Bret Bouriseau. Take it away, Bret!
The Prince of Knocknafay in three sentences;
Travers McCraken, a dashing and magical Irish highwayman, rescues a beautiful sultana, Marguerita Francesca de la Rosa, from the harem an evil djinni. He then raises a ship and crew of rogues and vagabonds to return the voluptuous Latina to her homeland in the Creole city-state of Cibonay. During their Homeric adventure, shenanigans ensue as the djinni and his villainous inner-circle give chase.
1st Page excerpt ;
Chapter 1 The Lost Highway Tavern
When last we left Travers McCraken, the outer doors of the Royal Harem of Amon Sin Algol were giving way under the combined weight of three large guardsmen. The sultan was due back from the Council of Sinister Magicianals by nightfall. He would not be pleased. To further worsen matters, the harem had only been half-serviced while cognac rations ran fearfully low.
Hearing the sound of wood splintering at the other end of the seraglio, Travers knew it was time to get dressed and prepare an elegant farewell for the lovely ladies he so regretfully had to leave behind.
“Attention, m’ many loves m’ minutes that fly by oh so quickly.” He spoke in a clear Irish voice that rumbled slightly like distant thunder. It gently commanded all within the sound of it to listen. The one hundred and eight wives of Amon Sin Algol rose as one and moved closer to the young wayfarer.
“A toast,” he continued. “I crept in t’ y’r beds, like a thief in the night/T’ plow through y’r gardens o’ earthly delights/Alas I must go—but return o I will/With a stiff drink in me one hand…an’ in the other…/Somethin’ far stiffer still.”
For the next few moments there was much giggling and clicking of glasses. Suddenly the happy mood was broken by the sound of the inner doors to the harem bursting open. At the sight of the trio of burly men with their scimitars drawn high, Travers decided it was time to make his exit.
He was above all else a lover, but since many a husband seemed put out by his chosen profession, being a fighter had become a necessary second vocation. Sadly, he grabbed the next to the last bottle ofL’Esprit de Courvoisier cognac he had brought then shattered it against the head of the first eunuch guardsmen to reach him. The defender of the harem fell like a stone. The wives of the sultan descended on the other two but reinforcements had already been summoned.
Travers put on his boots and britches. He casually tucked in his shirt and buckled his sword belt as if time had agreed to go in slow motion until he was ready for his grandiose exit from this garden of pleasure. He then donned his longcoat, a gift given to him by the sorceress Tammera at the start of his ramblings so many years ago. With equal parts flourish and flair he snatched up his last bottle of cognac, flung open the tails of the longcoat and put his fingers to his lips bidding the harem a fond farewell.
Before Travers could fall back into the folds of the coat as he had done so many times in the past, a jewel caught his eye. It was Margay, the olive-skinned favourite of the sultan. Her almond eyes pleaded for Travers to take her with him. He knew well why the sultry sultana was Amon Sin Algol’s favourite. In a move both foolhardy and fateful he grabbed her warm, willing body. They kissed deeply. She closed her eyes and sighed as they fell through the portal at the back of his magical garment.
When the royal guards finally made it through the beautiful multitude to where Travers and his eager captive once stood, all they saw was a magnificent longcoat, woven of the finest thread, free-floating before them. It hung in mid-air as if occupied by a headless phantom.
Suddenly a hand shot out from the interlining, bejeweled fingers outstretched. It grabbed the lapel and disappeared back in, taking the free-standing coat with it. There was a rustling of heavy cloth flapping together, then abrupt silence. Next a tiny pop broke the stillness, caused by the sudden rush of air filling the space where the coat and the couple stood only a jiffy before. This was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of the last bottle of well-aged French brandy shattering against the quartz-tiled floor.
A familiar voice shouting, “Noooooo,” echoed on every wall of the marbled bath.
Travers McCraken offered to Bacchus, the god governing such matters, a curse-filled prayer. He prayed that wherever their journey ended, a blazing fire, good companionship and a well-stocked liquor cabinet would bid them a warm welcome.
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BIO
Bret Bouriseau currently lives in a never-completely renovated farmhouse with his wife, Marguerite and two sons, Walker and Morgon, in rural Missouri. In the spring and summer he enjoys travel. During the fall and winter he prefers a warm fire, a dark brew and reading stories that were originally printed on pulp. As with most writers, he loves cats and would be eager to exchange recipes.
