Prologue of 'When Kingdoms Crumble', by Ben Garry (Part 2)

Introduction and Part 1, here: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/prologue-of-when-kingdoms-crumble-by.html

The sun dawned golden and glorious on the first morning of the new age. General Cholem rose from his bed in the temporary quarters that had been allotted to him within the palace and crossed to the room’s floor-to-ceiling window, basking in the light. The cloudless daybreak was yet another good omen to add to the multitude that had saturated the Freedom Uprising from the start.

            The nobles from the surrounding area, most of them relatives of King Kaidezhe, had been brought into the palace over the course of the night, unharmed save for a few unavoidable flesh wounds. They were being kept somewhere in the far wing of the palace until their grand appearance later today.

            Cholem’s mind skipped from the prisoners to the forthcoming events of the day.  The rest of the Freedom Council should ride into the city in the next few hours, then, together, they would formally address the city’s population, the final step in establishing the new order in Jeshrual. After that, messengers would be dispatched to take their words to the other Jeshrulian towns and cities and they would be followed out by Freedom Council officials ready to take up local government posts in those areas. After years of bloodshed and struggle, the monarchy and its barbaric, ancient regime had been overthrown.

            A smile creased his strong, authoritative features, momentarily skewing his meticulously shaped beard. He slipped out of his night-shift before pulling on a set of simple clothes, the picture of humility, the embodiment of peace. With his head held high, he strode out into the palace corridors. A pleasant smell drifted into his nostrils. It would seem that his soldiers had encouraged the palace staff to prepare breakfast as normal. General Cholem’s smile broadened; today was a good day.

            In the suburbs of the city, supporters of the Freedom Uprising – and there were many – lined the street that widened out inside Horizon Mount’s inner circle to become the boulevard that led up to the jewel in the city’s crown, the King’s Palace. The people waved banners and shouted praise as the members of the Freedom Council rode past them, into the city proper. Each council member made a point of smiling and waving at the crowds from the backs of their beautiful stallions, riding regal and proud like angelic princes.

            They came from all corners of Jeshrual, the sowers of the seeds of sedition in cities from the north to the south and the east to the west of their country. Riding in pomp and finery, their status was clear to all and the people adored them as they had adored the kings of old, recognising the roles of these men in the shaping of their nation.

            Following the councillors up the street were ranks of Freedom Uprising soldiers, tramping in united solidarity, the heralds of a new order. The parade continued up the road to the palace where General Cholem waited to establish them in their power and thus complete the revolution.

א

            Jaish heard the rumble of humanity from beyond the palace walls and his heart became as stone in his chest. Had these people abandoned Adonai so readily? He turned to his wife, who returned his bleak gaze with a sad smile that somehow seemed all the more bleak than his own expression.

            “So this is what we’ve come to,” he sighed, crossing to their bed and sinking down next to her with a wince. He, along with his wife and child (who remained asleep in an adjoining room, exhausted from the previous day), had actually been given comfortable accommodation within his uncle’s palace. They could almost be considered guests of the Freedom Council but for the guards stationed outside the main door of their apartment.

            “Adonai’s will shall be done, always,” Dana said, resting her head on his shoulder and letting her loose black fall over his torso. She was vulnerability clothed in human flesh, but was he any different?

            “I just don’t understand,” he muttered.

            “Then don’t try. Just trust him.”

            Jaish pulled his wife even closer and kissed the top of her head, overwhelmed with love for the woman who was truly a blessing on his life sent straight from Adonai.

            He looked up at a knock on the room’s main door and watched as an armed guard entered without ceremony, grim-faced.

            “Nephew of Kaidezhe, General Cholem requires your presence on the palace steps,” the guard said, looking into his eyes without flinching.

            Jaish’s reply was measured, “I am not his servant to command.” He was aware of Dana’s cool hand on his arm and kept his visage controlled and neutral.

            “Don’t make this difficult for yourself,” the guard warned.

            Jaish exchanged glances with Dana, “I shall go.”

            “And your wife.”

            “What of my daughter?”

            “She may remain. A servant shall be sent in to sit with her.”

            Dana stood with Jaish and together they followed the guard out of the room.

            General Cholem stood with the other eleven councillors on the wide flight of stairs leading up to the palace. Assembled before them was an oceanic mass of civilians, almost the entire population of the city, interspersed with soldiers. They were the flock of the Freedom Council, the people of the new regime. He looked across the top of the steps at the row of councillors. They were a strong group, the perfect balance of youth and experience. They were the prophets of all the gods. They were the prophets of nothing.

            Silence gradually permeated the pores of the crowd. General Cholem stepped forward and began to speak.

            “People of Horizon Mount and all of Jeshrual, yesterday I addressed you to announce the fall of the old kingdom and the tyranny that it stood for,” he paused, allowing his voice to ring out around the trees and buildings that surrounded the crowd, allowing his words to settle into the minds of those gathered, “But today is not yesterday. It is a new day and it marks a new beginning for our nation. It marks the beginning of a time of peace and tolerance, a time of harmony and equality. And so, it is with great pleasure that I introduce to you eleven of our nation’s finest men. They are visionaries and revolutionaries, men who joined with me in purging this nation of bigotry and authoritarianism, men who will now join with me in guiding Jeshrual along the smooth, hallowed path of peace. It is an honour for me to introduce to you Marlial, Chair of the first Freedom Council by a unanimous vote, and my great friend.” General Cholem stepped back into the line as a smattering of applause became a thundering. His heart swelled with pride as he surveyed the crowd before him, adoring and free.

            Marlial, a slim, tall, middle-aged man from the northernmost region of Jeshrual stepped forward now, dressed in a beautiful robe of blue. His black-silver hair reflected the sun’s light majestically; he was an impressive figure to behold.

            “People of Jeshrual, today you may consider me the harbinger of change for this nation. What I have to say may shock some of you and you may not believe me at first, so I ask you to open your minds and trust that what I say is the truth. Trust me, and your lives shall change for the better to an extent that you would never have believed possible. These three words shall be your salvation: Adonai is dead,” as Cholem had done before him, he paused. The quiet in the crowd was terrifying, “For centuries, the worship of Adonai has been the dominant religion of this land. It has always been the religion championed by one particular group of people: our kings. But in recent years, I, and others like me, have come to realise that not only is Adonai dead, but that he never lived. You may be wondering how I know this, so listening closely, people of Jeshrual. This great god, named Adonai, was never more than a creation of Jeshrual’s kings, am artifice that they employed to control you and bleed your money away from you, employed to make you think that there was hope for you as they taxed you again and again, more and more each time! Do you see now? Therefore, from this day forth, there shall be no more public worship of Adonai; we shall tear down his temple.” He paused briefly to gage the crowd’s reaction, “Furthermore, the Freedom Council has decided to rename this city ‘Liberteria’. No more shall this place be Adonai’s holy city, we proclaim it a city of freedom and choice, the flourishing heart of a free nation! You will no longer be punished for a failure to adhere to the laws that apparently come directly from Adonai, for we shall create new laws, fair laws. You are all different and your beliefs should be your own. Let us stop judging one another for what they believe, or don’t believe, and let’s stop feeling pressured into believing in something that doesn’t feel right to us. It’s time to discover our own truths in this world. I saw it again: Adonai is dead!” Marlial bowed his head and waited. It seemed that the silence in the crowd would never end. Then a lone person began to clap, the more people clapped, then still more, before eventually, applause sang out from the hands of well over half of the people in attendance.

            General Cholem moved forward to be in line with Marlial and raised a hand to renew the silence, “We appreciate that this is a monumental change and an uncertain time for some of you, so to demonstrate out good will in these circumstances, we have some of King Kaidezhe’s nobility here in the palace as our guests!”

            Jaish emerged into harsh sunlight at outside the entrance to the palace, his wife alongside him. They stood in a huddle with around ten more people, all relatives of the dead king and, by extension, himself. He recognised all the faces, but no one spoke as they waited to see what the Freedom Council had planned. All were known to be devoted followers of Adonai. They were led to the top of the steps by a handful of soldiers. The members of the Freedom Council parted to accommodate them. General Cholem and Marlial, still standing forward to address the crowd, turned in unison and smiled benevolently at the newcomers.

            “My friends,” Marlial began to speak, his smooth tones seeming to flow over both the nobles and the crowd simultaneously, “Let me first say that you are welcome here in shining Liberteria. Your presence at the palace brings joy to hearts of me and my fellow councillors. We know that you were a part of King Kaidezhe’s regime, ruling towns and cities throughout the region in his name, but that regime is gone. However, this does not mean that your lives are in danger. We will not make ourselves hypocrites by advocating freedom for the masses whilst condemning you all to death. After all, your service to the monarchy was a mere accident of birth and should not be used as a reason for your deaths. For sure, you shall be stripped of your titles and your authority, but you may return home in peace as friends of the Freedom Council.”

            Marlial beamed endearingly at the nobles, before turning to the crowd to show them his pleasure. This time, the people’s response was instant, unanimous applause.

            Jaish looked out over the city, sick. He knew with utmost certainty that being pardoned was far worse than being killed or imprisoned. There would be no heroic martyr’s death for him. Marlial had ensured that if he or his relatives opposed the Freedom Council in any way then they would be seen as the villains, repaying mercy with murder. It seemed as if a heavy fog was wrapping itself around his brain, suffocating his thoughts. He stared at the ground, lost, as the ceremony came to a close. When he looked up, he caught the gaze of General Cholem. He would never forget what he saw in that man’s eyes.

'The Parcel', Chapter 2 by Steven Hardy

Here is the first draft of Chapter 2 from my novella ‘The Parcel’. Enjoy!

Read Chapter 1 here: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/the-parcel-chapter-1-by-steven-hardy.html

Alan was sweating, as he leaned back in his seat, though he was in no immediate danger, he felt on edge. As he looked around the cabin, all those innocent smiling faces, carefree laughs, it only made him feel a condemned man, a dead man walking.

‘Water or juice?’

‘Huh?’ Alan was caught unawares by the seductively dressed air hostess, ‘Water, please.’

She handed him the water - it was warm - and walked on. Time slipped away with Alan in a state of needless transfixed paranoia; he did not even watch a film, or sleep a wink.

‘Tsk – okay we are approaching London Heathrow’ the Captain gurgled through the PA system ‘Please fasten your seatbelt, and cabin crew please go through your final checks.’

 Alan in a robotic fashion obliged, and before he knew it they had landed in Heathrow. Alan retrieved his hand luggage and expressed his gratitude to the cabin crew, without ever meaning a word. Alan followed the throng of people through immigration control, where the gentleman behind the desk said, ‘Welcome home again’ and to which Alan thought is it? Is it really? In a solemn state Alan went to collect his luggage from belt six, and suddenly it dawned on him all he had to do was find Mr A. Gost give him the package, and it would be over, he would be a thousand pound better off, and all this worry would have been for nothing. He smiled.

Returning to his Mr Bean impersonation, with his grey hand held, without wheels luggage, he walked out to the arrival lounge. Confidently, he scanned the taxi men’s boards for his name, his heart skipped a beat when he could not find it, but trying to remain positive he walked to the group of taxi drivers.

‘Huh- hmm, excuse me, do any of you know Mr A. Gost?’ Alan asked,

‘Who?’ came the reply from a burly taxi driver, who seemed the same width as he was tall. 

I am looking for A. Gost?’ Alan repeated, to which the taxi drivers began to laugh at him.

‘So let me get this straight’ a tall, lanky Indian driver was talking now, in a strong Indian accent, ‘you are looking for a ghost?’

‘Yes, that’s right’ said Alan glad to be getting somewhere, but they laughed even harder this time. 

‘Get a load of this’ the Indian man continued ‘he really is looking for a ghost’ the drivers were on the verge of tears from laughing so hard, so after being made to look like a fool Alan stormed off. Frustrated and beginning to panic again, Alan suddenly realised why the taxi drivers were laughing at him, he was looking for a ghost. Oh how could he be so stupid he thought to himself, stretching his memory Alan tried to remember if Laos mentioned a first name, but he had not. Beginning to feel he was on the end of a stupid prank to find a ghost, Alan headed for the taxi stand, to end this nonsense. Walking out the terminals glass doors, Alan was suddenly hit by the chill of an English February afternoon, shivering he walked down to the line of yellow taxis waiting to pick up passengers. As he walked up to the first one, a small Chinese man leaned out the window, calling;

‘Hey, you, you wanna ride, I give good price, huh, huh?

‘Um – no thanks, do you know Mr A. Ghost?’

‘No, I know no Ghost. You want ride?’ the Chinese man responded.

‘Um – no thanks, have a good day.’

Essentially, Alan experienced the same sort of response from the next five drivers, however by the sixth he had a different response, an interesting one.

‘Hello, do you know a Mr A. Gost?’

‘Alexander? Yes’ said the taxi driver in a husky Russian accent.

‘Alexander Gost?’ Alan checked again.

‘Yes, I told you already’ the man in the taxi literally filled his cab, his head seemed to crane sideways just so he could fit in the vehicle, he certainly was not your average taxi driver, with a small cut down the right side of his mouth, and a small tattoo of a globe on the nape of his neck. Naturally, Alan was unnerved.

‘Um – okay – sorry, but where is he?’

                ‘Gone,’ the Russian monotonously replied.

‘Pardon?’ Alan must have misheard him.

‘I said gone,’ he repeated.

‘Oh, it is just that I have something for him,’ this seemed to capture the taxi driver’s attention.

‘What is it? He asked.

‘Oh – err- well I don’t actually know,’ Alan was back peddling now, seriously regretting ever telling this stranger about the package.

‘You don’t know?’

‘Err – no,’ Alan whimpered. They both locked eyes for what seemed like a minute, before he snapped out of this trance.

‘Look, Alan, let me tell you some advice, go home fast, okay?’ he spoke with an authority, which Alan was only too willing to oblige.

‘Yes – well, thank you, that is what intend to do.’

‘Good, you want a ride? I offer good deal?’ he spoke.

‘Um – no thank you, I have already booked a taxi’ and with that Alan walked away blushing, booked a taxi, what a white lie that was. Alan quickly strode over to the first Chinese taxi driver.

‘Err – change of mind, I would like a lift please,’ he said, as he opened the passenger door. The Chinese man smiled back at him.

‘Where to?’

‘Take me towards the south coast, I will give directions nearer the time’ Alan spoke with a confidence previously unbeknown to him; perhaps it was this unusual situation that required unusual measures. The Chinese man smiled back and nodded, probably a little confused as he pulled away from the taxi bay. Alan sunk down in his seat, and patted the package that nestled in his jacket pocket, what was he going to do with it now? Laos, will probably never know it was undelivered…maybe he should just bin it and forgot this situation. Feeling a little more relaxed, Alan played over the conversation he had with the Russian taxi driver, over and over, remembering his strange advice, ‘Look, Alan let me tell you some advice, go home fast, okay?’ The more Alan thought about this the stranger the advice sounded; of course he would go home, right? Where else would he go? But that was not the least of it, as Alan replayed the conversation in his mind it dawned upon him, that he referred to Alan by his name, yet Alan never told him his name. This chilled Alan to the core, the Russian man knew him, and was expecting him; maybe he was the reason Mr A. Gost had ‘gone’ mysteriously, that short period of relaxation had evaporated in thin air now, as Alan was now scared again, nay he was petrified. He felt as if he was a puppet, in someone’s cruel game, and what did they do to Mr Gost, kill him? No, no he was over thinking, Alan needed to calm himself, he felt he was suffocating in his own thoughts, so automatically wound open the car window and inhaled deeply, the crisp air cleared his mind temporarily, and he fought with himself for control of his body. The Chinese taxi man looked at him with an expression of concern.

‘You okay, mister?’

‘Yes,’ Alan had broken out in a cold sweat, but slowly began to calm himself.

‘You sure, mister?’

‘Yes fine, just please keep driving,’ said Alan almost inaudibly.

They drove for roughly an hour toward the south coast in stony silence, before Alan broke it to give directions. He lead the taxi driver through a quaint town, it appeared out of sync with the world, antique shops lined the high street, as did a butcher, and grocer, but no Sainsbury’s. The place seemed old fashioned and unassuming, one could argue derelict considering it was a Saturday afternoon. They turned off down a back road, two rights, a left, than another right, before they pulled into the driveway of a small bungalow cottage, with a neat garden, which sadly lacked blossoming flowers, however its tidiness was pleasing, nonetheless. A white cottage, with black tarred timber struts supporting its shape, it was not terribly fancy, but rather something your grandmother might retire in, nevertheless to Alan it was home, and there on his drive was his pride and joy, his silver Audi TT. Alan paid the driver, and tipped him too, he even waved him off as he pulled away. He smiled falsely, picked up his luggage and turned to enter his house.   

Conflagration by Mark Harris

Apologies for the delay since my last post, I've had a busy week. But today I'm posting something different than an extract from my novel. It's a (very) short story I wrote a fair few years ago. It was supposed to be for a fire-themed competition in a writer's magazine, but I never got around to sending it off. So I'm posting it here instead.

Conflagration

Amber flames lick at the smouldering night sky. I stand alone, watching in stunned silence as my workplace for the past seven months is torn apart in a withering torrent of fire. Nobody can stop it. Nothing can stop it. Not even the cascading floods of rain pouring from the heavens, nor the blistering wind.

It had been a typical Monday morning. I had been working alone on a presentation detailing potential advertisements for the company. We sold insurance. Not my dream job, but it was either that or the queue for dole, and I need all the money I can get to appease the debt collectors, to pay for a child-minder, and to buy Christopher the pinball machine for Christmas he’s been asking for since last January. It was going to be a surprise, but he found the receipt in the backseat of the car. That presentation was my first chance to show Jamieson and the rest of the board that I wasn’t a waste of space, and that I had potential. If they liked any of my ideas enough, I could have been looking at a pay raise. Few times in my life had I been so nervous. At least I’ll never have to finish that presentation now.

I have no idea how the fire spread so quickly, or how I managed to get out alive. Not everybody did. Some might still be in there, trapped within the burning building. Was this my fault? I was warned not to send anything to the second floor printer, but surely something as trivial as that couldn’t have started something like this?

I can’t go back now. It’s far too late for that now. The winter constellations gaze down upon the conflagration, shaming me for my cowardliness. I don’t deserve to live. The stench of burning fills my nostrils, and my eyes water from the choking smoke. Fiery debris soars through the skyline like tiny meteors, leaving behind them trails of incandescence. Salty tears and sweat pour down my smoke blackened cheeks, but my hands are paralyzed to my sides, and they refuse to wipe them away. I can feel the gentle warmth from the inferno, but I do not welcome it against the backdrop of the bitter night. Suddenly, I hear a stifled woman’s cry from within the burning building. Fear floods me. There’s no sign that the fire crews are anywhere nearby, and by the time they get here the structure might not be standing at all. Desperately trying to forget what I heard, I turn away.

It was for Christopher’s sake, that’s why I took the job at the insurance firm. At first I thought I would hate it, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I had expected. The people were friendly, and from the first day I was invited to eat lunch with them, as if I’d been working there for years. It was nice. Right now that feels like an eternity ago.

 I can’t go back now. Or can I? I can’t wait here forever, what happened today will perpetually eat away at my insides. I push my rain sodden hair out of my eyes, and take a deep breath of smoke-filled air, breaking into a coughing fit. When it stops, I take a step towards the devouring fire, but then freeze solid, as my confidence falters. Against all of my instincts, I force myself to take another couple of steps. As I feel the intense heat grow, pure fear flows through me. But this time I do not waver, and I break into a stumbling run.

Christopher is my son. At least, I hope he is. I divorced his mother, Andria, a couple of years ago, after I discovered that she was cheating on me for the third time. Each time she swore that it didn’t mean anything, that it would never happen again, but it broke my heart. The only reason we didn’t end it sooner was for Christopher’s sake, but the third time was too much to bear. Andria left the country two days after the papers were signed, on the arm of an investment banker, a man who could afford her, leaving me with both Christopher and almost £10,000 worth of debt, from her incessant internet gambling. I was once told that finalizing the divorce was the best decision I ever made. That could be true, I suppose, but it doesn’t feel that way. I didn’t ask where she went. Somewhere hot and expensive, I imagine. Despite everything, I hope she has a good life, even if I can’t be in it. I really do.

This is it. I venture through the splintering doorway, and into a sea of flames. I am almost overwhelmed by the chaos, but now I move faster than ever. I pull my jacket over my mouth and nose, creating a barrier against the deadly smoke, the soft fabric rubbing against my rough, sweat-ridden skin. Again, I hear a scream from above me, and I set myself in the direction of the cry. My mind is vacant, except for untainted determination. I see a set of wooden stairs, and sprint up them, with adrenaline pumping through my veins, still not believing what I am doing.

Arriving at the peak of the stairs, I glance across the landing, to see a man’s corpse lying in front of me, covered in scorching fire. I recognise him; his cubicle was two away from mine, but I never knew him name. As I watch, the floorboards beneath him gave way, and he topples down onto the ground floor. The piercing scream again stings the smoke infested air, not far away now, but my body is starting to slow down, my reactions delayed.

Summoning up the last of my strength, I launch a mighty kick at a door, and it cracks enough for me to force my way through. Inside, I see a petrified woman, crouched underneath a computer desk. I don’t know her name either; but she’s a member of the board of directors. She’s here to watch my presentation. She wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me. I rush towards her, and open my mouth to comfort her, but no words leave my lips. My throat was too dry to utter a single word. I grab the woman’s arm, and usher her towards the window. I try to open it but it only opens so far as to fit an arm through. I take a lamp from a table, and shatter the glass with it. Shimmering shards of glass tumble to the ground as smoke begins to seep through the floorboards. I am unsure whether the woman understands my intentions, but my doubts are dismissed as she clambers onto her feet, and prepares to jump. Her hands are pressed firmly to her stomach, and I realise that she’s pregnant.  Her eyes are half-closed, her movements subdued, and I know she will not last much longer if she stays inside the burning building. I grimace as I see flames creep into the room, peeling at the walls. It will not be long before the room is engulfed in the inferno, along with everything else. I manage a brief smile as I see her hang out the window, and then drop onto the tarmac below.

But now I feel the blackness creep over me.  Flames gently lap at my shins, and I drop to my knees. Toxic smoke fills my lungs, and my breathing deteriorates. I try to crawl towards the window, but in vain. My breathing ceases entirely. As I lie to sleep, I cherish the fact that I saved the woman and her future child from certain death. I never thought the end would be like this. I guess I’ll never be able to get Christopher that pinball machine. The last thing I see is his face, lighting up as he opens it from underneath the Christmas tree. I open my arms wide and he runs to me, but before he can reach me the scene fades to black. So much pain, I can barely feel a thing.

'The Parcel', Chapter 1 by Steven Hardy

Firstly, my apologies for giving you different work – again. I am busy juggling stage, screen and improve acting (on top of a degree) that I have not had any time to write new follow on material. So let me introduce my first ever novella ‘The Parcel’ I will give you chapters from this book over the next few weeks, whilst I am doing all my acting roles to bide me some time and I promise that during December I will write new follow on material to ‘No Separation’ my dystopian novella and my other work so that it makes some chronological sense. Enjoy!’

Alan never really liked his name, especially when he handed over his passport and ticket to the masked girl behind the desk. Well actually she was not masked, however the unholy amount of foundation on her face lead him to believe she looked nothing like that first thing in the morning. She took his passport with her long, claw-like manicured nails and recited ‘Alan James Ingram’.

‘Uhm – yes, that is me’,  In retrospect there was nothing wrong with his name, or his life to be honest. Alan was an accountant for a minor banking firm; he did not earn a lot, but it was sufficient enough to send him on this holiday to Brazil. However, now it was over it seemed like a sad waste of money. For all the stress induced by a holiday - the packing, the leaving, the security checking - the relaxation was by comparison not all that worth it. To be fair though, the sunshine and tasty food was most welcome…also that day trip to the monastery was rather quaint and very informative.  The most disappointing element in Alan’s life was that he was not married; honestly he was never really close to getting a girlfriend. I mean which girl really wanted to date a thirty five year old accountant, five foot six, who can manage to boast a head full of grey hair? Although in his favour he did drive an Audi TT, the average man’s ‘‘I want to be a rich man’s’’ car, and he managed to fully pay of the mortgage on his house. Unfortunately, in reality those are not the two strongest pickup lines in the world.

‘London Heathrow?’ the check in lady inquired.

‘Uhm – yes that is right’, he really did not have a charm with the ladies. Airport, and other busy places tended to disagree with Alan, and the fact he works London probably attributed too much of his grey hair. The never-ending carousel of meetings and deadlines according to his Doctor had led to his premature greying and general aged disposition.

‘Okay Mr Ingram, you are gate 21, please head toward the departure lounge.’ She smiled at him, which resulted in Alan severely blushing and mumbling to himself as he left. He looked back outside the terminal; the skies were clear, people were smiling and he was heading back to England.  He pocketed his passport and ticket in his brown corduroy trousers, righted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and set off with his grey suitcase without wheels, in essence Alan looked about as out-dated and awkward as Mr Bean. His trousers swayed about his ankles, revealing white socks, which over time have become slightly yellowed by sweat and dirt. He wore a brown blazer (corduroy of course) and a brown belt. It was safe to say that he wore the colour palette of murky water.

The hustle and bustle of passengers did not help his unease at airports but that was unavoidable. Without speaking to anyone Alan swiftly made his was up two flights of stairs at the end of the check in room and emerged into the departures lounge. The departure lounge was lined with shops selling their wares. Anything from perfume to new suitcases was available, and speaking of new suitcases, Alan could have done with one; however, the old saying ‘do not fix what is not broken’ rang true with Alan. Walking along with his eyes fixed on all these shops was a recipe for disaster, as he accidentally swung his grey leather suitcase into a small child holding his mother’s hand.

‘I am so sorry…’ Alan began.

‘You careless man!’ the mother chided, her son had begun to cry, she smothered him in her arms.

‘Uh- I’m sorry, is there anything I could do-‘

It was about this time her husband came on over from the coffee shop after seeing the commotion.

‘What’s happened?’ he addressed his wife and a brief description of the events lead to this tank of a man squaring up to Alan. The man had muscles on his body that did not look as if they belonged there and his skin-tight t-shirt only served to exemplify this.

‘I did not mean to –‘, words were not forming in Alan’s mouth, as he blubbered nonsensically.

‘If I ever see you again, you are in big trouble’ he dug his finger into Alan’s chest. It hurt. The husband then swooped up his son and luggage and walked away; his wife glanced back disapprovingly.  

His boring, unassuming self normally never led him to much trouble (with the odd exception of clumsiness) however, without realising it, today he was being watched, followed and chosen by people that seamlessly blended into the background. Alan was shaken up by his encounter with that family, not so much the whole ‘finger in the chest’ thing, but mainly because he felt sorry for the young boy: it was honestly an accident. He concluded he would take that as a life lesson, learn from his mistakes and think about it no more. Alan was very methodical like that. His Doctor said he had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but Alan just thought he was logical. Sure, he has to line up the television controls in a manner in which all were parallel, with an exact spacing of one centimetre between each controller and each controller was flush with the end of the table, but we all have our habits right? Promptly he made his way around the circular lounge and began to walk toward gate 44, his shoes rasping loudly on the floor as he did. He entered his gate, and displayed his ticket without ever saying a word and proceeded to sit down a full hour before the flight was due. The gate was virtually empty, except for a couple of families. One family had a young son who was crying, Alan swallowed hard, it was that same family and boy he had knocked over, secretly he made his way over to a seat at the end of the lounge without being seen by the boy’s father. There was also a tanned man, with a wild afro in a Hawaiian shirt, who perched himself like a vulture on his seat. He seemed tense, and the tension was tangible in the room. Alan began to read the newspaper that was left on the seat next to him, but there was nothing out of the ordinary: tax was being increased and somewhere in the world somebody had died, also another celebrity couple have filed for divorce, so as mentioned before, ‘nothing out of the ordinary’. As he was reading the newspaper, the Afro-man stood up. He looked a full six foot, yet was rather thin like a disproportionate stick insect. The stick insect – bird – man walked over to where Alan was sitting; Alan noticed he walked with a slight limp as he proceeded to sit next to him. Alan now felt uncomfortable and he began to finger the edge of his newspaper. The man smelt of barbeque and cigarettes, a sweet sickly aroma, as he leaned towards Alan and spoke;

‘Alan,’ he spoke with a heavy Jamaican accent, which to be honest typified his look ‘dawnt make a scene.’

‘How do you know me? Who are you?’ Alan's mind was racing as he began to breathe heavily.

‘Calm, Alan, calm’ the Jamaican man soothed, ‘I am Laos’

‘Okay – um – how do you know me? Please leave me alone, I have not done anything to you’ Alan was almost pleading now

‘It is nawt a question of what you haven’t done to me but what you could do for me, see Alan I have a favour to ask,’ Laos paused for a while, to let Alan absorb this new information, as he crossed his legs and sat back in his seat.

‘Talk to me Alan, can you help me?’ Laos inquired.

‘Look – err – Laos I don’t know you, and anyway how do you know me?’

‘Irrelevant’ Laos drawled, ‘Look Alan I have money.’

‘Okay - good - for - you, but please leave me alone,’ Alan insisted. He was actually quietly proud of himself, as this was probably the first time he ever tried to take authority.

‘I will go’ Laos said after some consideration, ‘If you deliver this package for me’

‘What? No I can’t trust you!’ Alan now began to feel uncomfortable again; this man wanted a favour.

‘Look, Alan, what are you afraid of? You deliver this simple package for me,’ as he spoke, Laos slid out of his cargo short a small brown envelop about four by two inches. It was padded, with bubble wrap Alan guessed, and was heavily sealed at the mouth of the envelope with masking tape.

‘Look, Alan, I ‘ave money’ Laos raised his eyebrows, sensing he might be getting his way.

‘Well – err – what if it is illegal, or dangerous, or gets me killed, or in prison or something’ Alan rambled, ‘this is an unusual request, I don’t even know you!’

‘Look Alan, you don’t need to know anything other than I am Laos and I have money. T’ink aboot it Alan, I have already got through security, pass dem sniffer dogs, through dem scanners, it is not illegal or dangerous,’ Laos spoke soothingly, and let his rhythmic Jamaican tones assure Alan.

‘Fine,’ Alan began to reason, ‘If I do this for you will you leave me alone?’

‘Yes,’ Laos monosyllabically responded

‘And I am I no danger?’ Alan asked, as he turned investigator.

‘No.’

‘How much will you pay me?’

‘One thousand pounds.’

Alan paused, and thought about this, the money would be useful; it practically pays for his airfare. Also, Laos is right he has been through security, so what he is carrying is not illegal. After much consideration;

‘Okay, I will do it,’ Alan confirmed in a confident tone.

‘Good’ Laos smiled, ‘At Heathrow, you will find a man at the taxi stand called Mr. A. Gost’ as he spoke Laos wrote the name on the package for him, and slipped it onto the newspaper sheet spread across Alan’s lap. Laos then reached inside another pocket and pulled out a small roll of bank notes.

‘One thousand pounds exactly, I counted it myself,’ he seemed proud.

Alan smiled weakly as he pocketed the cash, supposing that this was the proverbial signing of a contract, and from this point onwards there would be no backing out.

‘Now listen good Alan, do not lose this gift, guard it with your life, and finally, only give it to Mr. Gost, understood?’

‘Um – yes’ Alan felt nervous again, why did he call it a gift? Guard it with my life? That seems a bit extreme.

‘Okay goodbye Alan, stay safe’ Laos hissed the last words. Feeling uneasy, and already regretting this decision he looked down at the package, whilst mumbling something that sounded vaguely like goodbye. So many questions flew through Alan’s mind, primarily what is the package? Who is Mr Gost? Alan had to ask Laos now before he boarded the flight.

‘Laos?’ Alan said.

No reply, Alan looked up again, and turned his head left to where Laos sat, or used to sit, because now he had gone. Alan had almost jumped out of fright, how did this man vanish? Frantically, Alan began to look around the room, the two families were still there; the boy had stopped crying and was whimpering in his mother’s lap. Panicking, Alan involuntarily stood up and he began to pace around the waiting lounge, he stared down the corridor he had just walked down, but all he saw was a barrage of people heading toward him, probably about to get the same flight as him, but no sign of Laos. Conceding defeat, he sat back down in his chair, head buried in his hands, why on earth did he accept the deal? Stupid, stupid, stupid…. He repeated over and over in his mind.

‘Damn it!’ Alan unintentionally said out loud, attracting the attention of the mother cradling her whimpering child and her husband.

‘You!’ he said beginning to rise out of his seat, until his wife put a comforting hand on his arm, confining him to his seat. He made a motion with his hands, trying to communicate that either he will be watching me, or that he had something stuck in his eye.

‘Sorry,’ Alan mumbled, and he bore his vision into his lap again his heart missed a beat at the thought of being confronted by that human tank again. In all honesty Alan was not sorry, he was scared and annoyed with himself. Naturally, Alan began to reason with himself. Look, nothing bad has happened to me yet, I did not tell them where I live or anything. But then again he already knew my name, what if he has a whole file about me, overthinking the situation Alan concluded he would stop using Facebook or Twitter. All I have to do is give this package to Mr. A. Gost - instinctively he patted the packet that rested in his blazers pocket - and then that would be it, it would be over, he could return to being mundane Alan, the thought of which soothed him. His mind, entertained many ideas and thought each of which only lead to a chain of new thought, concerns and worries. Time slipped by as Alan thought deeply, and by the time he raised his head again, the waiting lounge was fully of passengers, and the stewardess was announcing rows twenty-seven to fifty-seven could board. That was Alan. In a sustained daze Alan stood up, gathered his things, and went to board the plane. 

Prologue of 'When Kingdoms Crumble', by Ben Garry

This novel is still very much a work in progress. I'm about a third of the way through, and if I'm honest, my writing of it only occurs in erratic bursts of inspired enthusiasm. I don't want to say too much, but the premise is that this world is not so far removed from the events of our own history, and it is my desire that people will be able to read this and think about how it might apply to them. First and foremost, I write to entertain, but with this novel I'm trying to strike a deeper chord. You can judge for yourselves how successful I've been.

The last king died with bloodshot eyes and a rasping breath. His killer took a step back and left the sword quivering in an unprotected chest stained scarlet with royal blood. One man died with fear in his eyes; the other lived on with the fire of victory in his own. Light a candle and mourn the passing of an age.

            “The king is dead!” The call rang out over a clash of bodies and steel, reaching every man, woman and child as it was taken up in a wave that swept throughout the city. The morning sun that had brought hope to the king and his army when it ascended in rosy dawn now seemed a cold and distant witness, passively observing their downfall.

            This same army was swept aside like cinders and ash in the winds of a hurricane, crushed as much by the death of their leader as by those that pressed against them with steel in their hands and murder in their hearts. What is there to live for when that which is most important to you is stripped away? The soldiers swayed limply and were cut down. The rebels showed no mercy; mercy was not something they were required to show. The blood of good men dyed the streets much as it had dyed the chest of their king, a cruel parody of the hopeful dawn. It was impossible to distinguish the cries of the dying from those of the triumphant as they merged together to become a single crashing of humanity. All over the city, a fatal dance was twisting along the streets and within the squares that transformed the place from a sleeping giant to something akin to a writhing ant hill. Weep, for it was not only the soldiers of the city caught in the slaughter.

א

            One man ascended the wide flight of steps that led up to palace of Horizon Mount, the home of kings, before turning to survey the sweeping boulevard before him. Sword in hand and dressed in battered and bloodied armour, this man was the war hero that his people wanted to see. General Cholem, leader of the army of the Freedom Uprising. The body of King Kaidezhe lay at the foot of the marble stairs, half in the shadow. The freedom of the new rising over the tyranny of the old.

            The rest of the tree-lined boulevard that stretched away in front of the palace had been cleared of bodies and washed clean with copious amounts of river water. It had taken several hours, but the task was now complete, and similar clean-up operations were underway elsewhere in the city, flushing every street, alley and square free of human detritus. As Cholem drank in the scene before him, he knew that clearing this area had been worth every drop of sweat. Now the sun shone down on an open path leading up to a liberated palace: the best of omens for the day to come. Tomorrow, the Freedom Council would join him here in the palace, eleven men who would rule alongside him in brotherhood and equality, in tolerance and fairness. No, they wouldn’t rule, he corrected himself, they would guide. They would guide this nation of abused and oppressed people into a new age of peace and prosperity, living in harmony with one another regardless of personal situation or circumstance.

            But today belonged to the army, to the men who took up arms and fought for this utopian vision. Furthermore, he could not afford to wait until tomorrow to assert the authority of the Freedom Council in this city - the people had to be made aware of the change immediately. So he would be the figurehead on the steps of the palace, the herald of new horizons, the voice of freedom. The dirty work was not yet done, but today, the rebuilding of a nation could begin.

            “Permission to speak, General?”

            Cholem looked down to a man kneeling at the foot of the stone stairway, slightly away from King Kaidezhe’s ruined body, “Stand up, soldier. I am not a king or a god for you to bow to.”

            The soldier stood, obeying his general’s every word, “Shall we bring the people here for your announcement now?”

            “Yes. Tell them that a representative of the new Freedom Council is ready to address them officially. It is mandatory that they attend. Anyone not here within the hour shall be assumed to be an enemy of the council. You know what that means.” General Cholem spoke hard words with a set face, the spark of victory still dancing in his dark eyes.

            “It shall be done, General.”

            “Good. It’s time to tell these people that they’re free.”

            An hour later, most of the city was assembled on the boulevard before the palace, a vibrant mass of people thronging to hear the voice of the new regime. General Cholem faced them triumphantly, a line of armoured soldiers standing to attention at his back. The afternoon sun remained strong, and cast his athletic frame in an angelic light, playing off his dark hair as if caressing a loved child. Nothing was out of place. He was strong and in control. The herald of triumph.

            “People of Horizon Mount and all of Jeshrual, I am General Cholem of the army of the Freedom Uprising,” he projected his voice effortlessly over the silent crowd, “Today is an historic day for our nation. King Kaidezhe has fallen, and the monarchy has died with him. No more shall you be oppressed by one family, subject only to them. Today, in victory, we shall begin the restoration of our nation to its former glory, free and strong in equality. Tomorrow, my allies from across Jeshrual shall ride into this city. Together, we shall stand united and address you once more. But today, rejoice! Revel in your newfound freedom! Until tomorrow, fellow humans, go in peace.”

            A great cheer erupted from several areas in the crowd, building into an ovation that spread across the mass. General Cholem knew that there were many royalists among these people, supporters of the dead monarch, but he would leave them for now. Tomorrow, more hearts and minds would be won to freedom’s cause as he and his co-councillors emerged before the city once more. Together, they would seal their victory over this choked land.

            Throw off the cloak of your inhibitions and run riot in the anarchy of your freedom.

א

            Lank hair shrouded a dark face in darker shadow and eyes smouldered in its veil. The afternoon sun was oppressive and relentless as it beat down on his exposed back. Every cut a line of red that burned. His breathing was heavy and it rattled out of his chest in throaty, strangled heaves.

            His voice wheezed out in a cracked whisper, “Where are you, Adonai? Why are you silent now?”

            The harsh grate of a laugh barked over him and a hot drop of saliva drummed onto his shoulder blade, searing like a brand on cold flesh. A boot kicked savagely into his ribs, bruising the bruises, forcing him onto his side with a groan. The hot dust on the ground around him was no comfort. Shadows fell over him and a hand yanked his head up by the matted clumps of his hair, grabbing a fistful of the grimy locks in meaty fingers. A snarling face thrust itself into his vision.

            “Adonai is dead. In fact, he was never alive.”

            The hand released his hair and his head fell back onto a welcoming carpet of sand and stone. What was one more bruise when his whole body already wept blood?

            “Up,” a new voice this time, commanding and completely devoid of emotion. He rolled to face the sun and saw the newcomer: another man, dressed in armour like any other, but marked as a higher ranking officer by the muddied swathe of the cape that was clipped onto his shoulder-guards, “I said, up!”

            The man on the floor closed his eyes against the pain and the glare. He didn’t move. Seconds passed, then a hot breath tickled its way into his ear, “If you don’t get up, I’ll break every bone in your right arm, starting with your fingers. You’re wanted alive, but I was never instructed to leave you intact...” a pause, a mocking laugh, “my lord.”

            Lord Jaish worked himself into a kneeling position, looking away from the soldiers and fixing his gaze on the ruins of his home. He was a defeated man. With great difficulty, he pushed himself to his feet.

            “I see that you know what’s good for you. Get into the cart. You’re coming with us to Horizon Mount on the orders of General Cholem.”

            The name of the capital brought a shot of panic straight through to Lord Jaish’s heart. It could only mean that Horizon Mount had already fallen to the Freedom Uprising and their loathsome general. He sealed his eyes once more against an upwelling of grief within himself as he realised that his uncle, King Kaidezhe, must surely be dead. His resistance gone, Jaish was limp in the guiding hands of his conquerors. Around him, his village smouldered in tandem with his house. Smoke formed a choking burial shroud for the fallen.

            “Jaish!” His wife’s voice came trembling to his ears as he was bundled onto the cart.

            “Daddy!” His young daughter, too!

            Jaish raised a tearful prayer of thanks to Adonai when he saw that his small family was essentially unharmed, huddled on the unforgiving wooden planks of the cart.

            “I thought you were killed in the fighting!” He exclaimed, clasping them close to him despite the fire of his wounds.

             His wife, Dana, glanced furtively over her shoulder, back towards their once-grand home, “Some of the soldiers shut us in the inner rooms, but they didn’t harm us in any way. They’re taking us to Horizon Mount.”

            Jaish nodded, “They want me there alive. I don’t know what they want to do with us or what we’ll find when we get there.” He winced as the wheel of the cart hit a stone and jolted the passengers harshly. Slowly, they began to move away from what remained of their village.

            “May Adonai’s will be done,” he murmured after a while.

            Dana looked him in the eye, a single tear shining in her own, though her voice was strong, “It always is.”

            The cart continued along the uneven road, the passengers feeling every bounce ad jounce of the wheels over the stones. In just a few hours, they would arrive in Horizon Mount. Beyond that, nothing was certain.

Crooked Pass from Stormsrock by Mark Harris

This is the first chapter of Stormsrock, the fantasy novel I'm working on. It focuses on Aerith, a member of a mountain clan called the Red Ravens. This is the character that I've written the most for and who's storyline has advanced the furthest (along with Sakun, a character you'll meet soon), so I thought it would be a good place to start. Aerith's story is one of the darker, more bloody stories compared to the other four main characters, with key themes of love, revenge, and power.

Crooked Pass

Black crows glided around the rocky peaks of Crooked Pass, high in the Aphralon Mountains. The falling rays of the sun struggled to pass through the thick blanket of dark clouds. A group of clansmen were gathered around a crackling fire, drinking and laughing, as a large bird was being twisted around a spit, fat dripping from its wings and into the flames. From out of their midst a flag rose, a crimson raven painted in blood on off-white cloth.

            A fair distance away from the camp, a young man sat on the side of the cliff. The rock he was sitting on was overlooking a thin, twisting road with rocky cliffs on either side.  His name was Aerith. He was sipping from a silver flask, but it was not alcoholic. He was on watch duty, and he needed full control over his senses. Aerith breathed in deeply, absorbing the cool night air. His eyes gazed down upon the road, trying to see if anyone or anything was nearby. A lone figure, a creature, anything. He brushed his long, ebony, hair away from his eyes. I need to get that cut; it’s getting in the way, he thought. His ears were carefully poised, ready to pick up any unwelcome noises. There were the regular distant calls of animals and beasts, and the din back at camp, but he needed to hear beyond that, if he was to hear anyone approaching before they were close enough to stick a knife in his gut. He ran a finger gently across the blade of his axe. The edge was sharp, sharp enough, at least. It was a short, one handed weapon made of steel, with strips of leather wrapped around the handle for grip. It was a crude, simple weapon, but that was all that was needed for a fight. Weapons strewn with decorations and encrusted with gemstones were nice to behold, but served no purpose. A weapons only purpose is to kill, he reflected.

Aerith would have liked to be with the others around the fire, but in a way he preferred to be here, in solitude, with what seemed to be the whole world beneath him. But he could not pretend to enjoy the gripping cold. It always seems to be getting colder nowadays. He was garbed in thick cloth and animal skins, but the hairs on his arms and legs still stood on end whenever the icy wind blew across the peaks. Although he generally disregarded all sound from the camp, there was one voice that he paid rapt attention to. She was a girl a couple of years younger than himself, with flowing auburn hair, and a voice that made his heart sing. Her name was Ysabelle. She smiled at him whenever he passed, or whenever she caught him looking in her direction, but she was not his. She belonged to another man, called Turek. Turek was muscular and fierce, with black braids of hair hanging heavily from the crown of his head. He was the leader of their camp, and his authority was indisputable. He was renowned for his ferocity and prowess in battle. In their last skirmish, against another of the mountain tribes, the Earth Men, he had killed five of them, decapitating two. After the Earth Men had retreated, he had brought the two severed heads to Ysabelle, who was clearly repulsed, but could not object to him. If she did, she would be left behind to fend for herself, or worse, killed. He had a feeling that Ysabelle did not even like Turek at all. At least, he hoped not. Suddenly, Aerith heard footsteps behind him, and he turned quickly to see who was there, axe in hand. When he saw it was a friendly face, he relaxed, and rested his weapon back on the ground, alongside his shield.

  “Here,” the incomer said, handing him a leg of the cooked bird. The man’s name was Pathre. Pathre had joined the tribe less than a month after he did, and he was closer to him than anyone else. They often hunted and took watch together. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  He took the leg gratefully, murmuring a word of thanks. Pathre slumped down beside him. “I can see why you like it here. You can see all the way to the sea.”

  “You can,” he paused, before shifting slightly in his seat and asking a question he had been contemplating all evening. “Do you ever wonder what would have become of us if we didn’t join the Ravens?”

  Pathre laughed, “And what, become a beggar in the cold streets of Kilnsguard? Or a common thief? No, I much prefer to be up here, with the rest of you lot. Freedom, companionship, and excitement. What more could you possibly want?”

  “Nothing, I guess.”

  “Exactly. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than where I am right now. Fancy a game of tactus? I need to beat you for once.”

  “I shouldn’t, I’m on watch.”

  Ignoring his friend’s refusal, Pathre dealt the cards out. “Who’s going to know? And you can keep watch at the same time.”

  Aerith smirked, picking up his hand. “Go on then, it doesn’t exactly take long to beat you.”

            Pathre played more proficiently than he usually did, but nonetheless he was no match for Aerith, and the match was over in less than fifteen minutes. “You cheated. There’s no way you could have known that I had a galamak on the table.”

  “Why else would you have played your avalanche the turn before?” Aerith grinned at Pathre’s disdain.

  “You’re too good,” Pathre concluded, shaking his head. They sat and talked for a short while, but soon a voice called Pathre’s name from the camp. Pathre stood up, and said a brief farewell. And with that, he was gone, and Aerith was once again alone. As the night went on, the voices grew quieter and quieter, until they were completely silent. The noise was replaced by faint groans and snores, and Aerith was the only one awake. You just need to stay awake until they wake up, then you can rest. But even as the thought ran through his head, his eyelids were getting heavier, and it was getting harder and harder to fight off sleep.

Aerith awoke to the creeping light of the morning sun, and the distinct sound of a carriage trundling along the pass below. He cursed himself for falling asleep, but with a glance at camp, he realized that nobody would have noticed, as they were as soundly asleep as he had been a few minutes ago. He rushed over to the camp to rouse them, and alert them of the carriage’s presence. He knelt beside Turek, whose arms were tightly wrapped around Ysabelle, who had a faint look of discomfort etched across her face. Aerith felt a pang of jealousy for a second, but placed it aside, and gently shook Turek into consciousness.

  “What is it?” he growled angrily, his eyes still closed.

  “There’s a carriage on the pass, we don’t have long if we’re going to intercept it.”

  With this news, Turek leapt to his feet, and roared, “Up with you all! Get your gear ready, we’re dropping in on a carriage on the pass!” The rest of them struggled to climb upright as quickly as possible, before grabbing their weapons, a haphazard collection of swords, axes, hammers, spears and bows of all shapes and sizes. A few of them strapped crumpled helmets and beaten chest plates to themselves before nodding at Turek, showing they were ready to follow his orders.

  “As soon as I give the signal, I want bowmen to take down those horses. Everyone else get down to the road as quickly as you can, before they realise what’s going on. Capture everyone you can, and kill anyone you can’t.” He paused a few seconds, waiting for the right moment. “Now!” he yelled. A handful of arrows rained down upon the two horses pulling the carriage, and they let out a cry of pain as the barbed arrowheads buried themselves inside their flesh. Crimson blood trickled down their hides, and they collapsed to the floor. There was the scrambling as the Ravens, twenty or so of them, clambered down the rocks, finding the perfect balance between haste and care. The cliffs were steep, and a small mistake would send them plummeting towards their deaths, but many of the clansmen had lived in the mountains their entire lives, and were proficient at keeping their balance and finding footholds where there seemed to be none. It took less than a minute for the last man to reach the ground, by which time three frightened looking young men had pulled out weapons, and stood outside the carriage, glancing from left to right, trying to keep all of their enemies in their field of vision. There was no point in running away. They would be cut or shot down as they ran. The Ravens were soon upon them. Pathre was at the front of the charge, and was soon battling with one of the men. Their swords clashed three or four times before Pathre found an opening and slashed a deep cut in the man’s hip. The man knelt to the ground, dropping his sword, as blood ran down his legs, and onto the dusty ground. Another Raven thrust his spear into another man’s throat, and blood gushed from the man’s neck, as he fell to the floor, never to rise again. The third man lasted a little longer than the first two, swinging his blade from side to side, parrying and dodging blows from left and right. But he was massively outnumbered, and it was not long before he was slain. Aerith was surprised he did not just surrender, seeing the fate of his comrades. When the defenders were either dead or incapacitated, Turek wrenched open the door of the carriage, to see a finely-dressed woman sat bolt upright inside, sweat pouring down her face.

  “Didn’t anybody tell you not to travel these roads? Tie her up. And him, too,” he commanded, indicating the man Pathre had cut. They did so, and soon Turek was interrogating the two of them. “So who might you be?” he said, with mock politeness, but with an unmistakable undertone of menace.

  The woman held her head high, and answered with as much dignity as possible, “I am Estelia Manescroft, daughter of Lord Manescroft, steward of Kilnsguard.” The man beside her gave her a horrified glance, shocked that she had given away her identity so freely.

  “Aha! It looks like we’ve found ourselves a keeper!” Turek laughed. He turned to the man beside her. “And what’s your name?”

  The man mumbled something incomprehensible. Turek glared at him, and the man repeated, more clearly, “Destrum.”

  “Well, Destrum, I would like you to go back to Kilnsguard, and inform the steward that we have taken his lovely daughter hostage. Tell him we want a thousand golden coins in exchange for her life, and we can do the exchange at this exact spot, in three days’ time, as the sun sets. If he brings anyone with him, we’ll kill his daughter without a moment’s hesitation. You got that?” Destrum nodded weakly. His wound had almost stopped bleeding, but his linen shirt was soaked through with blood.

 “They’ll never believe him,” Estelia said. Aerith was astonished at the woman’s stupidity.

 “Might be you’re right,” said Turek. “Chop off some off her hair, and give it to me.”

  One of the newer Ravens leapt forward, eager to earn Turek’s respect. He took a dagger from his belt, and taking a handful of Estelia’s hair, sawed through it. Estelia looked outraged, but remained silent. She had been lucky, however. Aerith had seen hostages have fingers or worse cut off for proof of their capture.

 “Untie him, and send him on his way.”

  Destrum was passed Estelia’s locks of hair, and untied. Dazed, he stood upright, and started walking hurriedly in the direction that they had come from, obviously pleased to have escaped with his life.