The Word Cloud

Looking through a few Forum threads I see some Cloudies have made 400 or more posts (500 or more, 600, 700, 800 or more). Ecky thump, says I to myself, how long have some people been around? I’ve been Clouding since March (this year, this millennium). How about everyone else?

 

There again, how did you find out about the Cloud? I found out via advertising for the York Festival. Clearly there were ways of finding out a lot earlier (800 or more posts ago, for instance) but I never came across them. Were people thinking to themselves, “Wouldn’t it be nice to find an online community of writers?” – cos the thought never crossed my mind.

 

There again, how often do you log on – once a day, a week, a month? Or do you disappear into your project, re-merge several months later, knock up a hundred posts, then disappear again?

 

Or – paradoxical one this – do you never post?

 

I’m just being nosy. Anyone else feeling that way?

Well, off to Siberia for two weeks in around 7 hours.

Huzzah.  Should be fun, I'm participating in a youth exchange program and will be helping to present a workshop on the theme of 'understanding poverty' or something.

I'm really looking forward to it, there will be 70 of us from 6 different countries all meeting up to exchange our experiences regarding poverty and to get bladdered.

Not really looking forward to the 27 hours it'll take for us to reach the camp.

Gah.


Anyway, See you all in two weeks!

Andrew. 

P.s, If they have internet there I'll be sure to update my blog @ so check that out if you're bored.

www.zomb00.wordpress.com 

My unpublished novel, “Heart of the City,” has been named one of two finalists in the last round of Dorchester Publishing’s “Fresh Blood” contest.  The grand prize is a publishing contract with Dorchester’s Leisure imprint.  To win this would be my dream come true…but I need to ask for your help.

A panel of judges (including editors and published authors) put my book through to the Top 5, but the winner is chosen by popular vote, so I’m asking for your vote.  It would only take a minute of your time and would help to make my dream come true.

To vote, simply send a blank email to freshblood@chizinepub.com and in the subject header put “Fresh Blood Vote - Heart of the City.”  Voting will run through July 14^th at midnight EST, and they will accept one vote per unique email address. 

 You can find more about the contest at: http://chizine.com/freshblood/.  There you can also read more about the books competing, including the first chapters, cover copy, brief author biographies, as well as the judges’ comments for each round of the finals.

If you’re interested in hearing more about my novel, and my journey through the contest, please visit my blog at: http://writingonthinice.blogspot.com/.

Thank you to those who’ve voted for me in prior rounds and who’ve helped me get this far in this contest.  Your support has meant the world to me.  I appreciate each and every one of your votes.  And if there’s ever anything I can do to reciprocate, please don’t hesitate to ask.

Lisa

I seem to be in a place where my mind can roam free at the moment. Perhaps I’m happy; that would be nice. Whatever, as I relax my head, stuff is replaying out of the dim recesses. This has happened before, my life is not one of unending gloom I am able to confirm.

Do we all have recurring dreams? I know I do and I remember them at times like this when I am not totally squashed by work. There are the fundamentally embarrassing ones, the least embarrassing being the one when I discover I have forgotten to put clothes on and only realise when I am in a public place. There are others I do not intend to mention. I have one where I keep going back to this really interesting house. It’s my house always, in the dream that is. It has these strange characteristics, long corridors winding underground with interesting rooms off to the side. In an upstairs room there is a strange door that I can just squeeze through into a really tiny old house on the side which seems to be enclosed. It’s very like our first house. I can fly sometimes too. That’s always fun.

All of these are dreams and I know that they are consistent and properly recurring because I wake up having been dreaming. But I also have a memory. I am absolutely sure this is not a memory of a dream because I never think I just dreamed it. It just appears in my head once in a while. It is also absolutely specific, unvarying and too ridiculous for words. Here it is and if anyone else can remember this please put me out of my misery. I sometimes ask people, usually after a small sherry, if they recall it. Various responses follow but no-one actually remembers this.

There was a popular comedian cum impressionist called Phil Cool. (There is still Phil Cool, but he was popular on TV in the eighties). And I have a totally real memory from one of his shows of Geoff Capes, the Olympic shot putter, miming with a Saxophone to the whole of “You can Call me Al” by Paul Simon before breathlessly settling down for a chat scene. It seems entirely improbable, but it is completely real in my mind.

 

Right - I've amended the beginning of this tale to take out most of the swearing. Some of it remains, simply because I'm not sure what I can replace 'shit-kickers' with (poo-nudgers, anyone? Or would Robert Rankin have a basis for some litigation??). I've also written a further 1500 words - the time it took me to get these 1500 words reflects just how bloody long I spent researching anaesthetics, analgesics and barbituates. Next time, I think I'll just ring my brother... (he's a doctor, by the way, not a huge drug fiend). Next field for research? Brain anatomy and different kinds of guns. If I'm not careful, I'm going to have Special Branch on my case...

Same notes as last time apply - these are early attempts, so don't expect miracles (and do expect errors!)

ONE

“Natural human reproduction is at best a fairly inefficient process” Dr John Yovich

 

Rain spattered against the grimy pane in intermittent bursts, coloured by the neon sign that advertised the strip club opposite. No such sign adorned Angel's surgery; you either knew it was there, or you didn't. She had no need to advertise.

Business was good. A steady stream of 'gangers, wireheads and streetcrawlers kept the wolf from the door, and so Angel had closed early, looking forward to a lost night in front of the box, her feet up, whisky in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

She leaned back into the plush cushions of her favourite easy chair and sighed, blowing smoke as she did so. Nothing of particular interest was on the plasma, just the usual selection of game shows, news propaganda and televised executions. She flicked through the channels until she found something she liked the look of – some kind of old sit-com from the days before the ice – and settled down to watch.

Her reverie was broken by someone pounding upon her back door.

“Go away,” she hissed under her breath, burying herself deeper into her nest of cushions. “I'm not in.”

The pounding continued.

An angry sigh erupted from her. She set down a half-empty glass of the finest black-market single malt 20 Eurodollars would buy and straightened herself up. “I said, I'm not in!”

The pounding took on a frantic edge.

Angel growled under her breath and pushed her feet into heavy boots (shit-kickers, her father always insisted on calling them. “If you're going to deal with thugs, then make sure you've got yer shit-kickers on,” he said, before showing her how a decent left hook should be thrown. Good old Papa...) before standing up. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, winding the whip-thin dreadlocks around themselves until they formed a ball at the base of her neck and stalked over to the videocom. She stabbed the keypad and the small screen awoke, its grainy lines coalescing to show a figure huddled outside the door.

“I'm not open,” she barked.

The figure unfolded himself and looked directly into the camera. “Ange... sweetheart – please. Open up.”

A face she once thought handsome peered up at the camera and smiled, the rain running in rivulets down it, dripping off his nose and chin.

“Piss off, Roman.” She turned away from the com.

“No – please!” There was no mistaking the pleading edge to his voice. “I... I really need your help. Just take a look. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking for.”

Angel closed her eyes and sought the happy place her yoga instructor kept banging on about, but still it eluded her. She sighed.

“Give me one good reason, Roman – just one.”

From outside the camera's influence, Roman hauled something into view.

“Because if you don't, he'll die?” He posed it as a question, but even in fuzzy monochrome, Angel could see the man her former gang-mate supported was bleeding heavily.

“Hell...” She sighed again. Her finger hovered over the button that would unlock the door an allow him in.

“Angel...”

“Yeah, okay; keep your hair on,” she snapped, and finally stabbed at the keypad. It gave a flatulent buzz, and the bolts that held the door closed slid back.

“You are a total peach, you know that?” Roman grinned and blew her a kiss through the com. He caught the door and pulled it open before the bolts could slide back again.

“Moron,” Angel replied, mainly to herself.

o0o

On the street, her name was Angel. This wasn't down to any divine pretensions - it could easily have been 'that Irish Bitch' or 'the Ghoul' - but everyone in certain circles knew that when shit hit the fan and half your insides were hanging out, you needed an Angel.

Roman wasn't his real name, either, but hey, it worked. He dragged the injured man in through the door, straightened up and treated Angel to his most winning smile.

She was not convinced.

“I don't know what you're playing at,” she began, “but if you think you can come around here, in the middle of the night-”

“It's eight o' clock,” he interrupted.

“Whatever!” Angel snarled and continued her rant. “In the middle of the night and bring some stupid blunt you've accidentally capped and expect me to fix him up before anyone notices, you're sorely mista-”

Roman caught Angel's cheeks between hands slick with blood and kissed her. “Spare me the lecture, Aoife – I don't need it.”

“Get the hell off me!” Angel pushed him backwards, slapping his hands away. She paused and reached up to touch her face. Even through her anger, Roman saw her sudden consternation.

The neon light outside flickered from red to green, bathing the hallway in an eerie light. The pool of blood seeping from the man on the floor grew, touching the soles of her boots.

“Damn,” she whispered, and ran a bloody across her forehead, leaving a crimson streak. “Damn. Okay. What happened?”

Roman shrugged. “I'm not sure. He was dumped on my doorstep about an hour ago. He had this attached to him.” He dug around in his pocket for a moment and produced a tatty, handwritten note.

“For payment.” Angel looked back to Roman. “Payment for what?”

“Haven't got a clue. But whoever dumped him, they've messed him up pretty bad.”

Angel crouched down by the bleeding man. He was out cold – probably for the best, Roman thought – and without touching him, assessed his condition. She blew a low whistle. “You're not wrong. Looks like half his head is missing.” She looked back up at Roman. “By rights, this blunt should be dead. Who is he?”

“Dunno.”

“So you've brought a complete stranger to me on the strength of some poxy note?” She stood up, and there was no mistaking the tight edge of fury to her voice now. “What are you, retarded?”

“No... I just didn't know where else to go.” Roman shifted uncomfortably. “There's something else, too.”

Angel rolled her eyes and planted her hands on her hips, but said nothing.

Wordlessly, Roman laid the blunt out and lifted up a filthy shirt to reveal a well muscled torso.

“So? He works out,” Angel said. “What of it? You've come to show me a good set of abs?”

“No, idiot. Look closer. What's missing?”

Her lips pursed, a sure indication of her rising irritation with him, and she hunkered down again to inspect the injured man's torso. The pout soon turned into a frown, quickly followed by a look of fear.

“No navel,” she whispered.

“No navel indeed,” Roman echoed. “Now do you see why I brought him here?”

Angel snapped her head up and flew at him. “You absolute bastard!” she spat. “You've brought a bloody 'bom here? To me? Do you realise just how dangerous that is? Mary, Mother of God - you're mental!”

That she blasphemed was all Roman needed to know about her terror. He knew, because he felt it, too.”

“I couldn't just let him die on the street, Aoife...”

“Stop calling me that!” she ran both her hands through her hair. “Anthony... I don't think you realise the gravity of the situation. You've brought an Abomination – a freak of nature that our dear government insists don't exist at all – to my surgery. At eight o' clock in the evening. With all of the bloody Southern Conurbation out on the streets.” Each point was punctuated by a stab of her finger against his chest. “You do realise that 'boms don't get out of whatever facility they are grown in without help, don't you?” She glared at him. “Whoever did this, did it to screw you up royally. And so, in bringing him in to me, you've screwed me up royally, too.”

Roman grinned a little sheepishly before recovering himself. “If it's any consolation, the shot to his head would have destroyed any regular tracking implant...”

He trailed off under her white-hot scrutiny.

“I didn't know what else to do, okay?” he admitted. “Like you, I thought he was just another blunt; another junkie. But then I saw the mess his head was in, and that he was a 'bom, and, well, I panicked a bit.”

“You panicked.”

“Yeah.”

“And so you thought you'd spread it around a bit?”

“What? No! I was going to tip him in the river, but then I saw the note.” He held up the blood stained piece of paper again. “'For payment'. So I figured he might have something, you know, worth taking..."

Angel grinned, but not out of kindness nor amusement.

“Oh, I see. You thought me might have some decent metal on him, huh?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Something worth flogging? But you know that without a living body playing as host, decent tech decays... and so you need me to extract this shit for you, whilst he's alive, and store it properly.” She gave him a disgusted look. “And they say I'm the ghoul. You'd put Scrooge to shame, you know that?”

“That's a bit rich, coming from you,” Roman shot back defensively. “Your whole operation revolves around tech extraction-”

“I fit and fix tech,” Angel near-shouted. “I do not scavenge half-dead 'boms in the hope of making a quick buck!”

“Oh, that's right – you've got your oath, haven't you?” Roman sneered. “Oh – but you don't, because you crashed out of med school the moment they discovered you were a devo. Or was it more to do with you discovering the undiluted ecstasy of the prescription drugs cabinet?”

“SHUT THE HELL UP!” Angel screamed back.

“Sweet little Angel, the streetcrawler's saviour...” Roman fluttered his eyelashes and cradled his chin in his hands, pantomiming innocence.

A groan from the floor stopped Angel's punch in mid flight.

“He's awake,” she whispered, her fury all but forgotten. “Crap, he's awake!” She scrabbled frantically at his neck, her fingers seeking a pulse. “Okay, calm down... lie still... try not to move... Roman! Get his legs – no time to get the gurney. We've got to get this guy to surgery now.”

Between them, they bundled up the 'bom an d half carried, half dragged him to what looked like a blank stretch of wall. Angel slapped her palm against its plastic surface and a section slid open with a slight hiss, revealing a small elevator. They pulled the injured man in and the elevator lurched. Roman's stomach flipped a little as he counted backwards from a hundred; small places really weren't his cup of tea. The trip was mercifully short and after a few seconds (91... 90... 89... ) the doors sighed open, revealing a pristine room beyond. White and chrome dominated, and as the spotlights overhead flared to life, Roman blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the glare. Gadgets adorned the walls, their arms pinned back with little chrome clips, their wires tamed by plastic tags. On the far side, a gun cabinet lurked: a rifle, two pistols and something that looked suspiciously like a modified SMG all nestled within its laser-protected embrace.

“Right; get him to the table,” Angel said, none of her previous animosity apparent, only icy efficiency. Roman steadied himself and hauled at the 'bom's legs, only for them to be snatched from his grasp.

“Hey!” he yelped as a booted foot caught his chin. “Watch i-” He stopped. The 'boms body convulsed again, over and over, until he looked like he was doing some weird kind of dance.

“Oh, hell!” Angel hissed. She grasped the sides of the 'bom's head and tried to steady it between her knees, careful not to widen the already gaping hole in his skull. “Get me 50mls DDM Methohex now.”

  Roman, his attention still fixed firmly on the convulsing body upon the floor, didn't hear her.

“Roman!”

  He shook his head and lifted a face that had taken on a distinct grey pallor.

“Go and get me 50mls DDM Methohex.”

 “50mls DDM Methohex?” he echoed, more than a little bewildered.

“Yes, the freaking DDM Methohex!” she snapped. “On the side!”

“I'm not a nurse!” Roman bit back. “I don't know what DDM Methowhatever is!”

“You can read, can't you? It's on the side, in a green sedpen!”

The 'bom on the floor began to foam at the mouth, a white cascade tinged pink with blood that spilled over his teeth and down his chin. Roman followed its progress, mesmerised.

“What are you waiting for?” Angel wrenched something from a concealed pocket and flung it at him. It hit him on the cheek and raised a lump, breaking his appalled fascination.

“DDM Metho... whatever. Green sedpen. Right.” He dithered and turned, heading for one of the gleaming white cabinets. Upon it lay a glass-covered tray, its insides slightly frosted. Injector pens of all types were laid out in regimented rows, each one a different colour, denoting their various contents. He slid the glass to one side. There were two types of green.

“Sedpens are pastel, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” Angel replied through gritted teeth. She tilted the 'boms head back and tried to clear his airways with one finger. “Now would be a good time!”

Roman grabbed the tube closer to mint rather than lime and sent a little prayer to whomever might be listening in at the time. He threw it towards Angel, trusting in her tech-honed reflexes. As predicted, her hand shot up almost of its own accord and caught it easily. She ripped the plastic tip off the pen with her teeth and stabbed the exposed needle into the side of the 'bom's neck. His eyes bulged open as the drug took hold and his tremors subsided. After a few seconds, his eyelids drooped and his body relaxed. Angel withdrew the spent sedpen from his jugular and capped it again. She stood up daintily and grimaced at her blood-stained trousers before giving Roman a dry look.

“I'm charging the dry cleaning to you,” she said.

o0o

“Well, whoever wanted him dead did a good job.” Angel looked up from inspecting the 'boms head and fished around in the breastpocket of her overshirt. She pulled forth a cigarette and sucked on it once, sparking the auto-igniter. “If this guy was a regular blunt, he'd be a corpse by now.”

Roman gave the cigarette a distasteful look. “That's not very hygienic, you know...”

“People don't pay for hygiene. Anyway, it never did you any harm,” Angel quipped back. She shuffled the cigarette to the corner of her mouth and held the 'bom's dark hair back with one hand. “Straight through the side of his temple. Point blank range. Judging by the amount of damage, we're looking at something high calibre.”

Roman leaned closer to the raw hole and suppressed a shudder.

“Is the bullet still in there?”

Angel shrugged. “I wouldn't think so. Probably used frag rounds – they disintegrate after doing the maximum amount of damage, leaving no evidence. No bullet means no way of tracing the weapon.” She shook her head and took another drag on her cigarette, allowing smoke to curl from her nostrils. “Seen it before, just not on someone still breathing.”

Laid out, the abomination was tall. Taller than Angel had been expecting, to be honest. He was also in excellent health, apart from the gaping rent in his head. If he was lucky, he'd come out of this without an eye and a short term memory. If he was unlucky... well, losing an eye and being unable to remember what he ate for breakfast were the least of his worries. On the upside, the sedatives were working; you never could tell with the Affected, least of all Clones. The Coalition were adamant they were nothing more than a paranoid fantasy, used to scare the masses by those sympathetic to the Affected cause. Well, not any more, buddy – not if this guy was anything to go by, any way – whether she had believed the lies or not, she had stone cold proof now that Clones were not only a reality, but they came with a good set of abs as well. She just had to hope that his system was at least somewhere along the 'normal' line and that she wasn't doing more harm than good. Not that anyone knew what normal was any more; that baseline had been eradicated years ago.

He wore simple clothes: black jeans, a black button shirt covering a plain grey T-shirt, steel toe-cap boots. Nothing special, but more to the point, nothing to identify him. She leaned over and stubbed what remained of the cigarette out into a kidney dish and cracked her knuckles. Well, better see what this was all about...

She lifted a lock of dark hair and reached for the clippers. Sorry, sonny; time for a haircut. Betcha haven't had one of them for a while, aye? Roman watched as she carefully circumnavigated the wound, removing a thick, blood-caked shank of hair, which ended up in the kidney dish-nee-ashtray before reaching for a cotton swab.

Tentatively, she dabbed at the hole. The blood was beginning to coagulate, and came away in thick clots – how much of that was brain matter as well, she didn't really want to contemplate. How the hell does this guy keep breathing? she wondered to herself as she discarded yet another gore-soaked swab into the kidney dish. Finally, red gave way to pink and the hole was as clean as she could possibly make it.

“Now let's see what you're all about...”

A cursory glance told her nothing. No tell-tale remains of a nano-processor, no frazzled-looking wire ends, no stray plastic tips denoting a displaced cortex-stim... nothing.

“Roman, I think you've been had,” she said.

Roman bent closer. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this guy's got nothing on him. He's clean.”

“Clean?”

“You deaf?”

“But... he can't be. Why would someone dump a shot-up 'bom on my doorstep?” To anyone else, Roman would have just looked perplexed, but Angel recognised the faint crease to his brow as fear.

“Could be a warning,” she replied. “'For payment' doesn't have to mean you gaining anything.”

“Someone could be paying me back.” He phrased it as a statement rather than a question, confirming that had been his suspicion all along. Angel felt a pulse of anger again at his recklessness. She didn't see him for nearly a year and then -poof- there he was, a bad omen made flesh. She waited for him to continue, but he wasn't that forthcoming.

“So,” Angel prompted. “Who've you been working for? Anyone in particular you've annoyed recently?”

“Apart from you?” His brow creased again. “No one I can think of...”

“Come on, Roman; it's your job to get on people's collective wicks.”

“Okay, fine,” Roman admitted. “Yeah, I've annoyed plenty of people over the last year, but not enough for them to send me half-dead warning signs. Usually its the flash of a gun muzzle and they run.” This wasn't a boast; Angel had counted the scars, and on one memorable occasion, removed the bullet.

“So no clue? None at all?”

“Well...” Roman paused.

“Well what?” Angel dug out another cigarette and drew on it.

“Well, I did start a job recently – for Takahomo-”

Angel choked. “Takahomo? And what do you mean by 'start a job'?”

“I didn't finish it. I pulled out before the end.”

At least he had the decency to look contrite. Angel turned a delicate shade of puce.

“You pulled out of a Takahomo job and are now wondering why you're getting half-dead calling cards? Why didn't you tell me before? I knew I should've told you to sling your hook the moment you turned up.” She stabbed a finger at him, forcing him to sway his head back to avoid getting burnt by the glowing tip of her cigarette. “Now the Taks are going to think I'm back with you and they're going to give me hell, too! I've only just picked myself up after last time!”

Roman shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry?”

Recently, I have come across a situation in my book, where, in a chapter, I have led my main characters at a place, which holds importance in the book. Suppose if there are five rooms in that place, all need a bit, or more, explanation. Yet the important part of the chapter hasn't started yet so is it possible for me to condense the explanations of those five rooms?
Will it look immature?

Pay Day I wait for it, like a long anticipated love I wait for it month, by month, by month The clock strikes midnight I free my concealed joy The money in the bank is waiting for my well instructed ploy My day starts with breakfast a hearty and filling treat Followed by a shopping spree And well-deserved blistered feet Disco lights and cocktails spin around me like fairground rides Work is only hours away In the morning my worlds collide Night time draws in I sparkle like shattered glass Night time draws in And my money is fading fast

First up; no news on The Infernal Comedy, but it would be a bit much to expect anything less than a week in.

So, if you remember, I am working on two other projects, both of which I have found the time to work on in between earning a living in the Next stockroom and watching the tennis.

It's interesting to look back on some of my summer blogs on The Infernal Comedy from last year, I remember it as a very pleasant and enjoyable process, but with the blogs to remind me I can now recall that actually it was like getting blood from a stone. There were problems which seemed insoluble which I puzzled over for days on end. And it's good to be reminded of that because The Infernal Comedy turned out just how I wanted and I am now going through similar hell with both my new projects.

The sitcom (formerly known as 'My Sister', now in nameless limbo) I spent an afternoon on and achieved a big fat nothing. The ten minute version works so well and is such a great idea for a pilot that I don't want to lose it, but expanding it is proving far trickier than I thought. I'm in danger of forcing it and I absolutely don't want to do that. i want to keep it out of traditional sitcom territory by making it fluid and almost entirely character based. Harder than it sounds.

I've had a bit more luck over a weekend of working on my musical but it's still troubling me. Partly the problem is that it is based on real events and they don't always pay attention to dramatic necessaity or the point I'm trying to make. I find myself writing lines of dialogue to make the point and that's never good, if the audience need to hear one specific line to get the meaning of the whole show then the rest of it has gone astray somewhere.

But that's what the planning stages are for. i guess I'm feeling a little impatient. At this stage of  The Infernal Comedy my time was my own to spend long days contemplating the problems. Now I have a job and my time is restricted, I have a writing partner for the musical who wants to know what i'm doing and the sitcom I meant to start ages ago. It all combines to make me rush and I don't write well that way, I force things. I have to be ready to accept that this will take a while to get right.

Congratulations to Ian Thornton whose one-of-a-kind MS that the WW helped with a while back has finally been picked up by Canada's top literary agency. About time too, I'd say - but congrats to Ian for his persistence and self-belief.

Also, I thought this was an interesting article: an Aussie crime writer has just run the Aussie Booker - something that essentially couldn't happen here. But it ought to be able to happen here. It's ridiculous, for example, that neither John le Carre nor Patrick O'Brien have ever picked up proper literary awards. The latter is arguably the best historical novelist in English. The former is, without argument, one of the most important post-war writers in the language.

As it happens, I can't immediately call to mind a crime novelist writing now who's good enough to win the Booker - though there's a lot I haven't read - but it should jolly well be possible, nevertheless. Good for the Aussies that they judge fiction by its quality, not its genre.

“Before Tearn was a year old, to put it more accurately, there was a global crisis which I myself wasn’t particularly involved in. It was my father’s crisis – he was King at the time. A powerful sorcerer had emerged from the dark North, bent on the destruction of this and every kingdom. Many kingdoms fell before him – an Eastern kingdom was the first to go, to surrender themselves and do his will. Not many in the East opposed him. His magik was so stunningly powerful that legend has it a single angry look could knock you to the ground. It is said that Merino” – “Capital of Yzet” Dinar murmured, naming an Eastern country he’d visited – “was built upon a section of desert that he’d melted into stone, to defy him, to show that he could not easily force the people of that country down. His name scared the life out of every person alive. Terror reigned. His creatures, things of darkness called the Trackers, swarmed into every city. They were not human and at night were stronger than anything Gera had. Hundreds of them like thin corpses walking the streets. They sniffed out the sorcerer’s enemies and destroyed them, falling upon them like hounds. They killed many people from Hren, from all over Gera. The sorcerer swept throughout the world, fighting the Dwarves and the Elves, gathering followers for his swelling armies. But still people opposed him, as they would. He gathered strength and overcame some of the most powerful witches, warlocks, wizards, sorcerers, mages, anything we could throw at him. Even witches like Rona, the forest witch whom you will know from the long-ago terrorising of Herblock village, stood in his way, refusing to give up their land, refusing to join forces. Rona was said to have been drained of her powers but, being a forest witch, survived and grew strong again. She lives in more solitude now, barely terrorising anything. Eventually, though, we asked for help. We’d been too proud. My father refused to acknowledge that such creatures like hags, vampires, harpies, centaurs, creatures we’d been hounding for years, could be our best chance to defeating this mysterious and powerful tyrant. It took him a number of years, breaking all sorts of banishments and over-ruling so many laws, to gather what the people called the Army of Myth. He himself rode out at the head of this army, to confront the sorcerer.

“The sorcerer met him as agreed, in no man’s land between the armies. He was shrouded in darkness and my father said he’d never seen a face so cold and unfeeling. My father, the King, demanded that he retreat from his lands and leave the neighbouring kingdoms that he had invaded. The sorcerer laughed at him.

“‘You mortal fool,’ He said to my father, with a surprising Geran accent, ‘Do you think that by telling me to that I shall do it? Do you consider yourself, as the current ruler of this land, more powerful and adept than I? Thoughtless King, you have no chance against me. Step down now and we shall not ravage your kingdom, kill your men, enslave your wives, steal your children and raze your realm to the ground!’ My father was not swayed by this and repeated that the sorcerer should leave. Again the sorcerer laughed.

“‘So be it, little King,’ He turned and rode back to his army on his horse as black as night. A ferocious battle ensued, that raged on for many moons. The sorcerer sat upon a cloud of darkness, sending down his magik to tear in my father’s armies and leave them trembling. Many died but the combined magik of the Army of Myth were able to sway him when none else could and he was forced into retreat for the first time. He came back afterwards, stronger than ever, with a bigger army. My father’s troops fought bravely and exceptionally. But the Trackers never tired, needing neither sleep nor sustenance. They hounded the Army continuously. Eventually, my father realised that they could not win. During the third moon of the battle, he called a meeting with the leaders of each kind, to discuss their options. It was then that the Dwarves’ greatest warrior made an entrance.

“‘If I may be permitted to speak,’ The Dwarf said, standing. He was given permission and stood at his full height, which was only a metre or so.

“‘For generations, we Dwarves have been creating powerful weapons carrying enchantments that brook no defeat,’ He said to the assembled, ‘Our most magikally able think they can create a weapon so strong that any being alive could not overcome it, given it is held in the right hands.’ The Elves obviously opposed this, but due to the history between their races, it was to be expected. In the end, the Dwarves were told to do it, to create this superb weapon. And they did, a sword that was so immensely strong that it was decided only the best warrior in the entire army should wield it. To everyone’s surprise, the best warrior who fulfilled the requirements of selflessness, loyalty and morality was a human. He was granted the sword and so the final battle began.

“The sorcerer had managed to get all the way to the noble city of Laar, and this is where the Army of Myth met him. The battle that followed only lasted a few days but had more bloody carnage than any other war ever recorded. There seemed to be no end of the Trackers and the other Dark creatures that the sorcerer had coerced into joining him. The warrior with the unbeatable sword finally managed to break into the tower in the centre of Laar, where the sorcerer had settled. They fought tirelessly for hours. The warrior, however, got in the final blow. There was an almighty explosion that flattened Laar, leaving it a pile of rubble. The Trackers fled, howling like Banshees. The magikal explosion had brought every person with even a mild magikal talent for miles around to their knees. And though the warrior survived, practically intact, the sorcerer’s body was never found. It was suggested by many Royal Mages that his power simply engulfed him, having nowhere else to go. The reign of terror was over.

“I assume, Tearn, Miss Falls, that you have been made aware of the unexpected guests at last night’s celebrations. They were two of Errant’s most trusted spies, one being their most experienced warrior. They brought with them dreadful news. There have been reports of skeletal figures, chalk white with glowing red eyes, swathed in black cloaks, stalking streets at night in villages in the northwest of Errant. Grisly murders have been cropping up and disappearances are getting commonplace. Only last month, an entire village was found deserted, with indications of some almighty struggle. Yen the Great believes the Trackers have returned. And the implications of that would be disastrous.”

 

There was a moment of absolute silence. Melanie could almost feel the horror creeping up on them. She had always known there had been some big battle, something huge, but this was out of her wildest nightmares. Her mind skimmed over the details – how were they meant to deal with this a second time if they barely survived the first? This should have been a time of safety and yet King Rolan was suggesting that everyone’s lives might be in danger. Melanie liked her life at the moment. This, however, didn’t come into it at all.

“What do you want me to do, Father?” Prince Tearn said, cutting into Melanie’s thoughts. Melanie turned her head slightly to stare at him. Do? He was taking this well.

“I want you and your protectors,” The King nodded at them, “To travel north. There seems to have been some disturbances with a few villages and a band of nomads. I do not believe the commotion had anything to do with Trackers but if these rumours have but a seed of truth, the world could become a much more dangerous place. Yen the Great has sent an army to investigate the villages and track down any of these supposed Trackers. We must do the same.” They nodded.

“Where are we headed, your Majesty?” Dinar asked, getting straight down to business. This was his kind of task. Looking for an enemy, finding an enemy and potentially beating the living daylights out of an enemy in the wild savannah land of northern Gera. King Rolan reached for a rolled up scroll on the side of his desk and spread it out before him. It was an extremely old map of Gera. To the north was the deep brown and grey of the Bleak Mountains. To the east, Lornen and Scalo, two very different countries. She tried to remember what the smudged-out country to the west was but her memory failed her. She’d never really bothered with political geography. Her mental map was more of a ‘mountains, up; sea, down; avoid that way’ kind of affair. The King pointed at a small group of villages just above a wide area of forest.

“This is your destination. The first village is Salds, a usually thriving market town. There should be much activity there, what with the nomadic traders coming in and people from the neighbouring villages arriving to celebrate the harvest.” Melanie noticed Vanessa had produced a notebook from somewhere and was writing as fast as Melanie could think. Melanie couldn’t think of anything worse than throwing herself into trouble when her life was just beginning to look up. The King paused and looked up at them all. His face was once again pained and it struck Melanie that he wasn’t as young as he used to be.

“I do not wish to push you into danger. I can just as easily send a band of warriors but for the publicity. However, it is perfectly natural that a Prince should want to travel – it is not natural to send warriors off if nothing is wrong. It is your decision.” Melanie squirmed under his gaze. It was like he could read her mind and now she felt eternally guilty. Vanessa and Dinar looked at her. She took a deep breath.

“It’s not our decision,” She said and looked at Prince Tearn. For once, she didn’t know what he would say. His face was pale and drawn. He’d never faced anything like this. He was only sixteen, a few months older than her. He wasn’t used to fighting dirty if it came down to it – he’d only ever fought noble knights who respected each other and Melanie had a feeling these Tracker things would not fight fair. However, he was Prince Tearn. It was his duty. He had his honour and Melanie knew better than most his thirst for adventure. He longed to get out of the safe little cities like Hren and hit the wild country they were surrounded by. They all looked at him. Melanie crossed her fingers as he turned to his father and gave his answer.