Chapter 3. Expelled. (The Sword Summoner: History Repeats)

Trey slowly opened his eyes and looked around his room blearily. Daylight was flooding in even though his thick curtains were closed. That was not normal, he thought groggily. He bolted out of bed and threw them open, nearly blinding himself in the process as harsh light entered through the window.

The sun was high in a clear blue sky and all of the shops around the city seemed to have people already going about their daily business. Blacksmiths were hammering away, the market looked crowded and over at the church a burial appeared to be in progress. 

Trey opened his window and leaned slightly out to look at the school. There were no students but he could see movement through the distant windows. “I must be later than usual, Mum must have overslept or something,” he mumbled sleepily to himself. “I might still be able to get to school if I hurry.”

The bell tower suddenly started to chime. The sound was almost deafening this close. Trey jumped and almost fell head first through his window. There was only one chime.

“What! It’s one already!” Trey shouted with surprise.

He quickly threw his uniform on, skidded out of his room and jumped down the stairs, hurting his foot in the process. He limped into the kitchen and found his mother sitting on a wooden stool, her fists clenched around a crumpled letter. She raised her head as Trey came through the door. Her hair was frizzy and her eyes were slightly bloodshot. Water was built up just above her bottom eyelids. She had a look on her face that was a mix of anger and frustration.

“Mum, what’s the matter?” Trey asked, concern in his voice.

Sarah opened her mouth to talk, then shut it again, unable to find the right words. Instead she shakily passed him the letter and closed her eyes. She looked torn between whether to explode with anger or to sag into her chair. Trey took the paper and straightened it out on the table. It was an official looking letter with a bright red seal at the bottom. He sat down then started to read.

Dear Mrs Sted,

We regret to inform you that eyewitnesses have come forward and given us information ascertaining to yesterday’s school ground riot. Eight pupils and one teacher have stated that they saw your son, Trey Sted, throw the first punch. This then progressed into the senseless violence that has shamed all involved. We at the school and throughout the community are very disappointed by his barbaric behaviour. As punishment he is expelled from the school until further notice.

Regards, T. Aslon.

The room was silent as Trey read the letter. Only the old grandfather clock in the corner broke the quiet with its rhythmic ticking. He laid the letter slowly on the table and turned away from his mother.

“Well, at least I can stay in bed now,” he said with a weak laugh. He turned back to face his mother again. “I didn’t do it. You believe me, don’t you?”

Sarah stood up and embraced her son. “Of course I believe you. It’s just it made me so angry. You have a good behaviour record except in languages, and that’s the teacher’s fault because he doesn’t like you. Yet they believe him and that horrible little thug. I should go up there and give them a stern talking to.”

“It’s alright. I somehow doubt that I’ll miss school,” replied Trey passively. He knew that displaying emotion would only upset his mother further. That would certainly not be a good idea. Sarah had a fiery temper and Trey knew that she could easily snap and go on a vendetta against the school. Despite her low social status, Sarah Sted was not a woman to cross.

Sarah released Trey and started to pace around the small room. “Yes, but what about your education. You have to have one or you’ll be stuck with a job you hate, or worse, no job at all. Things aren’t as simple as they were back in my day.”

“No worries. I’ll just help you.” He started to pour himself a mug of tea from the pot that had begun to rattle and hiss from above the fireplace.

She stopped pacing. “No. You’re better than that,” Sarah answered, her voice shaking slightly.

“You’re better than that too, but you still do it,” replied Trey simply.

Sarah faltered. “I’m not going to win this am I?” she asked.

Trey lightly slammed his mug down like a judge’s gavel spilling hot tea onto the table. “Nope. Not a chance.”

Sarah threw her arms into the air in submission. “Fine. You win. You can help me, but I’ve decided I’m going to educate you myself.”

“Deal.” Trey raised his cup in a toast and then drank.

“Work starts at seven every morning,” she stated bluntly.

Trey choked on his tea. “You’re kidding?”

“Nope. You can start now by cleaning up that tea, not that you should be wasting it.”

Trey made a salute to his mother. “Yes ma’am.” He picked up the letter and wiped it across the tea spilled table then screwed the sodden paper and threw it into the nearby bin. “What do you want me to do first?”

“Well you can do the washing and the shopping, while I do the cooking and cleaning, then tomorrow we can start the lessons.”

“Can’t wait,” Trey replied sarcastically. “I’m going to regret choosing to help you aren’t I?”

“Yep. I’m going to get my Vim’s worth out of you. Now off you go. Chores wait for no man.”

* * *

After a hard day’s work, Trey settled down for an early night. As usual, sleep took him in mere seconds but he found little rest. His dreams were full of strange monsters and a warm, blinding blue light. Lizards and birds raced across his brain until fire consumed his entire vision. Then he was falling through endless nothing as a huge, semi-transparent creature flew straight through him, leaving him in a shivering fit.

Trey awoke suddenly. He was soaking wet with sweat, laid on his floor shaking violently with cold and fear. The room was cloaked in darkness. His vision was blurry. All he could see was a shadowy figure standing over him. He was under attack. The person was holding Trey by the shoulders and was shaking him more than he was shaking already.

Instinct kicked in as he urgently felt around him for something to defend himself with and found a large leather encased book. He grabbed the book and tried to lift it up but his arms felt as heavy as lead. He struggled for a moment then mustered all his strength to swing it towards his attacker.

There was a dull thud followed by a pained grunt. “Ouch my head!” The voice was that of a woman. It sounded familiar. Trey’s vision started to become clear again. Sarah was laid out in front of him holding her head, mumbling under her breath. He looked at the book in his hand. It was titled ‘Advanced Self-Defence’.

“I guess that book really works then,” Trey said groggily. Then he snapped back to his senses. “Mum, are you okay?” he shouted running over to her side.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she answered, motioning him away. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Trey replied, slightly confused.

Sarah sat up and looked at Trey worriedly. “You were thrashing around in your sleep and then started shouting at the top of your voice. I couldn’t wake you up. I tried shouting you, throwing water at you and shaking you. Then you woke up and hit me with a five hundred page, hardback book.” As she spoke, they made their way down into the small kitchen.

“Oh. I know I had a bad dream but I can’t remember what it was. I vaguely remember strange lands and lots of different people. I felt trapped and tried to escape but I just couldn’t break free. Everything else is just foggy.”

Sarah locked eyes with her son, her emotions untellable in her dark eyes. “Maybe it’s a sign from your subconscious. You could be telling yourself to go out and see the world, to make something of yourself. You can’t weigh yourself down with me forever.”

“I’d never leave you like that!” Trey exclaimed, fire in his voice.

Sarah smiled softly. “Wanting to go travelling is nothing to be ashamed of. When I was young, I travelled the land as a courier. My parents didn’t want me to, they said that it was too dangerous, but adventure was in my blood. It was that hot-bloodedness that made me join the army at the outbreak of the Ghibok war.”

Trey looked taken aback. “You fought in the war? Why have you never told me?”

“It was not a good war to remember,” Sarah sighed. “Our forces did some terrible things.” The dark glint left her eyes and the smile returned to her lips. “I didn’t fight in the battles anyway. I took letters to and from the soldiers and their families. That is when I wasn’t keeping your father out of trouble,” she laughed reminiscently.

Trey frowned. “He was involved too? I thought he stayed here as a city guard.”

“He was a guard but when the call to arms came he joined the other men in their march North. He fought for a while but hated what they were doing. He saved many men’s lives though and was given several honours after the war.”

For a moment Trey sat in silence, contemplating all he had learned. As he thought, Sarah left the room and returned several minutes later carrying an old backpack. She placed it on the table.

“This was my old travel pack,” she explained as she searched inside it. A moment later she pulled out a folded piece of grimy cloth. Carefully unfolding it revealed a detailed map of Farava. “Even if you don’t intend to travel, I’d like you to have this. You’ll learn more from it now than I will.”

Trey took the map gingerly, his eyes wide as he took in the woods, mountains, villages and sea. There was so much even nearby that he had never realised existed. Occasional notes in Sarah’s hand dotted the landmarks. 

“Thank you,” he said before refolding the map. He looked around. “What time is it?” 

Sarah glanced out of the open door to the clock above the stairs. “It’s just past five. I’ll prepare some drinks to clear our heads.” 

Sarah poured two cups of tea and passed one to Trey. They talked quietly as Sarah examined the other contents of the rucksack. Trey finished off his drink and stretched, feeling life inch its way back into his body. His mind still felt groggy though so he decided to go for a walk in the early morning air. Sarah watched him leave as she continued to sip at her tea thoughtfully.

He walked along his favourite path past the school and church. A wake was being held around the ancient structure that was guessed to be the oldest building in the city. A child had gone missing the previous week and gnawed bones had been discovered just outside the city the day before. Judging by their size, the worst was assumed. The girl’s family stood around the casket that contained the bones with lit candles in their hands to light the path to the Sprites and guide the spirit into their open embrace. Wolves had been presumed the culprits and hunters were likely preparing to hunt down the beasts. 

Trey didn’t know what had done it, but all the same he offered up a prayer to the Sprites for the girl. He was not particularly devout of faith like some fanatics but he knew to respect the guys that ran the world. The Sprites were not viewed as gods, more like spirits of nature that made the seemingly chaotic world function in an orderly manner.

Not wanting to interrupt the mourners, he left and walked to the edge of the city on the west side. The ever-present aqueduct blocked the view of the stars but Trey knew that the western edge of the city was revealed to the sky as the water was drawn from the east. The city seemed so peaceful without its inhabitants. The simple white facades of the houses and shops that he passed seemed to glow when hit by the sparse moonlight. All of the structures were practically designed, all being cramped square buildings made of the readily available white stone from the massive quarry just to the south of the city.

Through wide gaps in the old wall he could see beyond the city to the forest outside. Without any threats, repairing the wall had been seen as a waste of valuable resources. He stared off into the distance for a few minutes, watching the last few stars vanish and the moon slowly setting behind the distant horizon. 

Then something caught his eye. At first he thought it was just a wolf or some other animal of the night, but after a few seconds he realised it was man-shaped. It clung to the shadows of the woods, making it hard to see in detail, but it was clear that the figure was steadily moving towards the city.

The shadows parted suddenly as the sun rose above the church’s steeple. What Trey saw sent a cold shiver of fear down his spine and a strange sense of deja-vu rattling through his head. It was about seven foot tall and twice as broad as a blacksmith, had a jet black leathery hide covered by dark plates of iron armour, and what appeared to be human skulls hanging from its waist. Two large crimson horns jutted from where its temples should have been. To Trey’s horror it carried a huge axe, easily as big as Trey himself. Despite its humanoid appearance it looked more like a beast than a man, the snout and fangs easily marking it as some kind of fearsome creature.

With a start, Trey realised that this was the monster that had flown at him in his dream. How was that even possible? he screamed to himself mentally. The thing jumped back into the shadow of the woods once the sun had flooded the area with light but is fiery red eyes could still be seen, like small holes leading into the dreaded Abyss. They continued to advance forward.

Fear took hold of Trey for a moment but he managed to regain control. I can’t move or it will seem me and if it sees me I’m dead but it’s getting closer every second so if I stay I’m dead too…

Previous – Chapter 2. Things go Astray.

Next – Chapter 4. A Dangerous Encounter.

Chapter 2. Things go Astray. (The Sword Summoner: History Repeats)

As soon as Trey and Billy had been recorded, they were ushered quickly through the stone corridors to the Language room. A tall, dark skinned, broad shouldered figure stood at the door. His shiny bald head was almost blinding as it reflected the morning sun. It was their teacher, Mr Xion. He wore fine clothes of subtle hues that fit him perfectly, while his face was handsome and his body well-toned. Everything about him was well kept and luxurious.

“Everyone enter the room in silence and seat yourself at your designated desks,” the man ordered the class in a stern voice. This was his usual before class speech.

Trey took his place at the very centre of the classroom. He preferred a back corner near the window and Mr Xion knew it. He didn’t like Trey and was always trying to make his lessons unbearable. All because of an accident involving a stray arrow nearly hitting him through an open window the previous year. Trey hadn’t intended the arrow to ricochet. It just went to prove that practicing archery while suffering through a bout of hiccups was not a good idea.

The test dragged on and Trey’s attention found itself straying to the different shapes on the floor. It was like cloud watching, but more varied.

“Trey!” barked Mr Xion. “What have I just been saying?”

Trey looked up slowly. “Something in the language of the northern desert tribes,” he replied.

“Yes, but what?” sneered Mr Xion through gritted teeth.

“I don’t know.” Trey shrugged his shoulders dismissively.

Mr Xion had been expecting this and had his next words planned. “You don’t seem very interested in my lessons, any reasons?” There was a long silence, then Mr Xion spoke again. “Well?”

Trey thought for a moment. “Well sir, I can’t say that I don’t like this lesson or you, because it is rude and you’ll give me a caning, and I don’t really want one.”

“Then why don’t you say that you are interested in my lesson, that should work,” said Xion with a smug look of satisfaction.

“I was taught never to lie,” Trey replied simply.

Xion’s face turned from tan to red in a second. “Trey!” he growled, barely holding in his anger. There was a piercing ding sound. The break bell rang and everyone started to file out of the classroom, including Trey.

“Talk about saved by the bell, Trey,” laughed Billy as they walked down the corridor. “I’ve got to do some stuff now for the archery team so I’ll see you later.” He turned a corner and left Trey by himself. 

Trey weaved through the ambling crowds of pupils and found his usual breaktime spot, a small table on the edge of the school grounds looking out at the bell tower and his house. He sat down, made himself comfy, and started to lose himself in one of his trance like thoughts.

“Oi! Move, I’m sitting here now!” came a sneering voice. 

Trey turned his head to see who was ordering him to move. It was Derrick Rol, or ‘Sharkey’ as his friends called him. He was about Trey’s height, thin, with ape like arms. His short brown, spiky hair looked like a hedgehog that had been swimming in grease and his eyes were a dark brown that sat in sunken sockets.

“Shift now or I’ll shift ya myself,” threatened the boy in a deep voice that was clearly fake.

Sharkey was meant to be the ‘big dog’ around the town, even though he was only a year older than Trey. His father had been convicted of war crimes after the infamous Ghibok war, and had spent several years in the Lord’s dungeons. He had been released and Sharkey had been born but it had been only a few short years until the man was back in the dungeon for domestic violence. Sharkey had grown up sharing his father’s violent temperaments. 

“Come on, you better move before you get hurt, kid,” said one of the older students who had placed a hand on Trey’s shoulder. Sharkey’s reputation preceded him.

“No, I’m alright where I am thanks,” Trey said casually.

“What?” Sharkey shouted in disbelief. His voice was petulant, clearly unused to not getting his own way instantly.

“I said that I am okay, thank you,” Trey repeated calmly.

Sharkey grabbed Trey’s neck and shoved him off the bench. Trey stood up, walked back to the bench and sat back down. Sharkey’s face turned red with rage. He swung his fist towards Trey’s face but Trey merely swayed to one side and Sharkey missed him. Sharkey then lunged his full body at Trey. His arms flailed around him in blind anger. Trey’s leg shot out and kicked him in the stomach, sending him staggering backwards. Sharkey recovered then charged again, this time getting ready to hit Trey with all his strength. Trey anticipated this move so he stood up, hit Sharkey in the throat, kneed him in the gut then turned slightly and elbowed him in the cheek. Sharkey collapsed to the floor.

Unknown to Trey’s peers, he’d had a lot of training and was stronger than he looked. His father had been an officer in the city guard and had been a skilled warrior. Even though Trey had never met him, he still felt a longing to live up to the man’s legacy. His practice sessions with Billy were the highlights of his week.

Trey felt a hand on his shoulder that pulled him around, immediately followed by a fist to his nose. He fell backwards, but as he was falling he remembered a move he had seen once used by performers at a travelling circus. He lifted his right leg up, placed it on his attackers thigh, grabbed his jumper, and as Trey hit the floor, he kicked up and flipped the thug straight into Sharkey.

Trey struggled to his feet and looked around. Sharkey’s friends surrounded him. They started to close in. He knew that he didn’t stand a chance against all of them. Suddenly, someone broke the tight ring of thugs.

It was Billy. He must have seen the trouble and ran there. The gang charged at the two friends. They started well, winning every thug that came at them, their basic training serving them well, but they just kept coming. Billy’s strong arms ensured that those he hit stayed down while Trey, who was a swordsman at heart, dodged most of the clumsy attacks. The bullies only used strength, knowing nothing about how to fight with skill, but soon both Trey and Billy became tired.

“Looks like we’re beat,” grunted Billy through gasping breaths. A purple bruise was already forming on his cheek. Trey sighed. They were only going to be beaten up, but it was going to be a defeat that caused them both a lot of pain and humiliation.

“Woo hoo! This is gonna be fun!” came a crazed shout from behind the crowd that had gathered around the brawl. A figure dashed forward through the observers, cackling madly. It was a boy from Trey’s class called Zak Malma.

Trey had never really talked to him. To put it lightly, he was insane. He had once voiced his opinion that sheep had been the rulers of mankind and only awaited the chance to retake that position once again. But here he was coming into the fight for no reason. His messily spiked hair was a mixture of mostly darkest black with odd streaks of vivid blond that flew around his face wildly as he ran. His blue eyes looked ecstatic as he smacked the first thug in the face. His jumper was on backwards.

He had a long ruler in each hand that he used like swords. The thugs couldn’t fight back against his reckless attacks. The cracking sound of the wood mixed with the pained shouts of his victims. During his rampage he also managed to hit some of the crowd as well, causing chaos as the bystanders attempted to stop him. Like a chain of dominoes, more and more of the students began to lash out. Soon there was a riot spreading across the entire school grounds.

Social groups had joined together, creating factions among the chaos. What had started as simple reactive violence rapidly became a full-scale battle with Zak at its centre. Teachers attempted to control the situation, but could do little to stem the fighting. Within the hour it had spread, spilling out into the city itself. 

A dark figure smirked, watching it all unfold from his window. 

The city guards in their polished armour eventually stormed the school and put an abrupt stop to the fighting, but everyone in the city was appalled by the children’s behaviour, and they had to point the finger at someone.

Previous – Chapter 1. Another Day

Next – Chapter 3. Expelled.

Chapter 1. Another Day. (The Sword Summoner: History Repeats)

Birds scattered as the old morning bell began to toll. Its deep echoes rang throughout the city of Pastrino. The noise was met by stirrings as the city below began to awaken, and the people rose from slumber to begin their day’s work. All except one: Trey Sted. He was still fast asleep like most mornings.

People were amazed how he could sleep through the morning bell since his house stood in the shadow of the bell tower on the wide hill that marked the centre of the city. It left any who were that close to the tower with ringing ears when it chimed, but Trey never stirred from his sleep.

“Trey, wake up! Trey, get out of bed!” his mother called from the doorway. Trey didn’t move. His cover was wrapped tightly around him like a cocoon even though it was the middle of summer. His mother called again. “Trey, get up now or you’ll be sorry.” Still he lay motionless. “I warned you, Trey.”

She went down stairs and left the house. A large aqueduct snaked its way across the city overhead, from which a pipe led down into the Sted’s garden, like similar pipes did for every other house in the city. You were always under the shadow of the aqueduct in Pastrino.

Sarah Sted had a way of waking up her son. She grabbed a wooden bucket and turned on the tap. A steady flow of water poured into the container. Once it was full she staggered back upstairs. She reached Trey’s bed and managed to lift the bucket just above his head. In one big movement she tipped it upside down. Water cascaded over him, and much of the room around it.

Trey’s eyes opened but his body barely moved. The remnants of water weaved through his long, dark brown hair, then soaked into his thin mattress. His green eyes looked tired, but they always had a shine deep within them. 

“Morning, Mum,” he said, moving his dripping hair from his eyes. He’d gotten used to his unusual wake up but could never go back to sleep because his mattress was soaked. He yawned again and rubbed his eyes.

“It’s almost time for school so I want you dressed and downstairs in five minutes.” Sarah instructed him briskly.

“Yes, Mum,” muttered Trey as he eyed the soaked bed longingly. 

Sarah left his room to carry on with her jobs, leaving Trey alone to get dressed. Getting up, he glanced around the narrow room. Between his bed, a chest, and a small bookshelf, there was little space left to move. He walked over to the chest where his school uniform was and just stared at the dull grey trousers and jumper.

Trey didn’t like school; that was, he didn’t like getting up at first light, he didn’t like crowds, and he didn’t like the uniform. The actual subjects were enjoyable enough, other than languages with Mr Xion.

Motivation was a hard thing to find for someone like Trey. Day after day he was forced to learn things that he would never need, all under the premise of future success. This meant little to Trey though since he had no grand ambition for fame or fortune. All he wanted from life was to live a quiet existence with enough money in his pocket to allow his mum the peace that she deserved. Learning a language from a country he would never visit just seemed a waste.

He got dressed then had a quick glance through his window at the city around him. That was what he liked most about his room; since his house was on a hill at the centre of the city, he could see nearly all of Pastrino. Not that there was a great deal of beauty to be found in the gloom of the aqueduct.

He could see the squat school off to his right and the tall shape of the old Sprite church to his left. He could also see the farmers’ fields in the distance, just past the city’s crumbling, once white walls. The winding aqueduct disappeared beyond the horizon to join up with a distant river that provided the city’s water supply. A crowded mass of grime coated white stone buildings lay below him like sea foam washing up on a beach.

With a yawn, he hopped down the stairs into the kitchen to get his breakfast. Trey loved his food and the thought of breakfast was the only thing that encouraged him to stay awake. The only time he could really eat until he was full though was at big events when he didn’t need to pay for the food. His mother had to look after him and the house by herself. She did other people’s odd jobs to get by.

His father had disappeared just before Trey was born and no one knew where or why. Some thought he was dead while others believed that he had just run away from his responsibilities. Trey had even heard some people call him a murderer, pinning the death of a young girl on him. Trey didn’t know the answer, and he never asked too much about it as he knew how much it hurt his mother to talk about it. 

Trey grabbed some food and began to eat. Sarah had just finished wiping up the water that had fallen through the floorboards from Trey’s room and stopped to look at her son. His mother couldn’t work out why Trey was treated like he was. He just didn’t seem to fit in. He was distant, always in a dream, wandering through life without a direction or purpose. It was like Trey had his own little bubble and just couldn’t connect with the world beyond it. 

He did have one friend though, Billy Delb. They had been friends all of their lives, even though Billy was more popular than Trey. They spent most of their school time together but didn’t see each other much outside. Billy had lots of clubs to go to and Trey enjoyed staring out of the window for hours on end just relaxing. Billy’s parents had been in the same class as Sarah during their school days and the friendship had been passed down to the next generation.

There was a series of knocks upon the front door. Sarah opened it and Billy stood just beyond. His short, light brown hair shone in the light of the sun and his brown eyes looked bored. He had a well-built upper body because of the hours of archery practice he did every day. His father was the school’s archery instructor after all.

“Are you ready, Trey?” he asked. “I’m really looking forward to school today.” Sarcasm dripped from his every word. He rolled his shoulders absently. Unlike Trey, Billy was never happy unless he was moving.

“Why?” Trey asked, thinking over the day’s schedule. “Oh.” He sighed. He remembered he had a language test first lesson with Mr Xion and then no good subjects afterwards. 

If only he’d been born sooner, Trey thought. Back when his mum had been at school they had still taken practical subjects like swordsmanship. Then the former lord of Pastrino had passed away and was replaced with a man involved with the Neototes. They were a group that saw the past as nothing more than a hindrance to the evolution of society and tried to cut all ties to the more ‘barbaric’ ages. 

“Come on then,” Trey said wearily, dispelling his sour thoughts as he pulled his school bag onto his shoulder. “Bye Mum. See you later.”

“Bye Mrs Sted,” said Billy.

“Bye,” she replied with a smile. “Be careful.”

“I’ll try,” Trey answered as he closed the door behind him. Trey had a strange feeling about today. He got this feeling whenever something was going to happen. Was it something good or bad, he pondered to himself as they walked to school along the same path they had used since their first day there. Maybe he would pass Language, that would be a strange miracle, he mused cynically.

Previous – Prologue: Time of Troubles

Next – Chapter 2. Things go Astray.

Prologue: Time of Troubles. (The Sword Summoner: History Repeats)

At the dawn of the fourth era of man, three cities were built in the land of Farava. To the southeast was Onlasar, carved into the very rock of the Endii Mountains near to the vast southern sea of Verinadia. It was the oldest of the three cities and was known as the shield of the East. Established during the Klade wars, it had been converted to defend the eastern lands from the vicious barbarians who ravaged the rocky landscape and raided the windy coast.

In the northwest, only a few leagues east from the ruins of the Old Kingdom’s once sprawling capital, was Lanstiro. It was the most fortified of the cities, constructed to stop the monstrous creatures known as Forukks that roamed in the far west from escaping their shadowy realm of Miankkuth. It had been built in celebration of victory over the Klades. The Old Kingdom had been shattered, but humanity had survived. Lanstiro’s strong walls and stronger warriors were the mighty sword of Farava’s people.

The final city was Pastrino. It was built in the centre of Farava and was the most pleasant of the three cities. No threats were able to bypass Onlasar or Lanstiro, so its people were peaceful and naïve as to what occurred beyond their city’s vast white walls. Dense forests as ancient as the world itself boarded its northern boundaries while the sun parched Amion desert separated it from Onlasarian lands. Steep cliffs that led to the lower steps of the country partitioned Pastrino from the outer confines of Lanstiro. 

The foul creatures of the west were eventually beaten down, forced to stay in their own twisted domain by the powerful warriors of Lanstiro. Confident in their victory, the Lanstirians failed to be prepared when the Forukks amassed once more and laid siege to the battle hardened city. Lanstiro’s contact with the other cities ceased.

Onlasar sent its finest scouts to investigate, but they never returned. Then in the snowy winter, while harsh blizzards ravaged the land and visibility was poor, Pastrino was attacked by the demonic Forukks and warped human savages from the shadowlands. They fought bravely, but they were no warriors, and after two days of battle, few men remained. In what looked to be the last stand, the few surviving defenders fortified the city’s bell tower and made ready for the next wave of invaders. 

Before the enemies reached the tower, a lone man appeared to face the horde. He had no weapons or armour of any kind. A blinding sapphire light flooded the blood soaked streets. The stranger now held in his hands a blazing blue sword with a lance like hilt that was embossed with jewels. He charged forwards and slashed. Screams echoed through the ruined city. A cloud of dust rose around them as azure energy ripped through the Forukk’s ranks like a ravishing wave. When it cleared, the barbarians and Forukks were dead.

After a council between the remaining people of Pastrino and representatives from Onlasar, the decision was made that the two cities should send their combined armies to Lanstiro to discover her fate.

Men from the outlying villages joined the gathering army in droves. Even the isolated warriors of the desert rallied to the call. It was the largest gathering of soldiers since the Old Kingdom had fallen. The assembled armies marched with all haste to the lost city. 

The once lush ground had taken the first steps toward becoming a barren wasteland. Trees that had formed vast forests had been felled, and a creeping fog rolled across the newly formed plains. As the army moved onward it encountered no signs of life. Unable to hunt, food became scarce. Finally, they crested a high hill that revealed structures on the horizon. 

The fortress city was bigger than ever. Its walls were blackened and spikes lined every surface. Beaten metal covered the cold stone like armour. Newly constructed parapets and turrets formed a web of defences around the original structures.

The Faravian armies marched forward cautiously. The sky suddenly darkened, and for an instant, the allied soldiers thought it was rain. Many never thought again. Arrows punctured armour and flesh alike. The largest battle since the Klade War had begun.

Arrows rained down upon the allied armies as they desperately tried to force open the iron doors. They had expected to face the Forukks in revenge of their sister city, but instead had been betrayed. 

Siege crossbows fired and the bolts plunged into the stone of the city’s walls, leaving a rope line that could be climbed. The first of the allies reached the top of the fortress and were immersed into heavy combat. Bulky, leather skinned Forukks, and heavily armoured men in the red and black livery of Lanstiro, battled with the lighter armoured soldiers of the East. As more allies scaled the wall, Lanstirian bodies joined the litany of dead.

A bright light filled the area around the fortress like the dawning of a new day. In the middle of the battle stood the stranger, his glowing azure sword pulsing with life. He ran towards the wall and his sword became large near its hilt as it roared with a sudden violent energy that fired him up into the sky in a blaze of blue flame. As he came down he ripped into the enemies on the wall.

The stranger led the assault on the gate, killing all who stood in his way. The outer sections were quickly captured, but the city itself had also been fortified. Barricades had been erected in the streets while archers fired down at the attackers from boarded up windows. Pits, rockfalls and other such traps had been installed at every turn. 

The battle lasted hours and cost many lives, but with the stranger’s aid, the allies managed to push their way through the city’s gruesome defences, capturing the buildings in concentric rings as they forced themselves closer toward the centre. Finally, they managed to push through into the central castle, breaching the keep after a brutal assault.

In a bloody one on one battle between the stranger and the enemy leader, the traitorous monarch was killed and the turncoats were captured and executed. The remaining Forukks managed to retreat back into their own mysterious lands amidst the chaos. None dared to follow them into Miankkuth’s death filled shadow.

The victory felt hollow. The body count was high and the damage to Farava as a whole was unimaginable. The very air within Lanstiro seemed to corrupt the mind, turning friend against friend. To counter this, much of the city was destroyed, while the rest was abandoned to the merciless hands of time. 

Despite this victory, Forukk assaults continued against the humans’ defences as the years passed by. Many farms and villages were wiped from the maps. In an attempt to bring about true peace for the land, the stranger set off alone into Miankkuth to put a stop to the attacks once and for all. The corrosive fog that marked that land had now consumed the ruined fortress of Lanstiro, vastly expanding the monsters’ domain. Forukk sightings ended, but never again was the sword-summoning stranger seen by human eyes. All memories of him faded with the many generations that passed peacefully by, as did the memories of the Forukks, and of the battle itself.

But history has a way of repeating itself and old enemies never lie still forever. Peace makes men grow weak while hatred lets others grow strong…

Next – Chapter 1. Another Day.

1. (Something Like Life)

Something Like Life.

I watch as the world passes by without me. From my perch atop the old Record Ridgway factory, I can see for miles across the city. The void is calling me. It’s the only thing that ever does. 

I’m just high enough to trigger that strange human urge to jump, but low enough to fear the fall would only shatter my bones. Cold stone and corrugated sheeting surround me, rust, broken glass, and thick moss covering everything like a post-apocalyptic botanical garden of abandonment. 

I sit on the concrete lip and admire the frescoes of graffiti that punctuate the 1930s architecture. Ninety odd years doesn’t seem too long a time, all things considered, but the view from here has changed drastically in that time. So has the world. The men who worked their trade in the factory below were long gone. My granddad had been one of them. The company was sold to an American firm, and all production moved to China. Sheffield Steel couldn’t hold a candle to Chinese slave labour apparently.

Despite the brooding figure I like to imagine I strike, I’m no vigilante or prowler of the night. In fact, it’s eight in the morning on a cold Tuesday, and I’m hunched up in a little ball with a pounding headache after drinking a full bottle of Jack the night before. Why choose a derelict factory? Why not? I find it a good place to reflect. The factory, like me, is little more than a ghost. 

My manuscript had been rejected by every agent again, and my healthy coping mechanism had of course been to resort to excessive levels of alcohol. I’m pretty sure that I’d decided to kill myself as the weight of my failure pulled me down into the dark depths of depression, but I’d got distracted at some point by drunken thoughts and ended up building a Lego house when I found an old box of the stuff while searching for a rope. Feeling groggy and strangely reflective, I’d wandered up to the factory when I woke and couldn’t fall back to sleep again. I always end up here when I need to think. Maybe I’m here to contemplate life. Maybe I’m here to end it.

Time passes in erratic waves up here, as though the weathered stone is caught between two conflicting presents. Look down and the world is a hectic kaleidoscope of colours and movement as thousands of people go about their meaningless lives. Look up and all is a slow churn of blue, white, and grey as clouds creep across the skyline, stretching and shifting their shapes subtly, almost unnoticeably. 

As someone who spends far too much time staring at the clouds, and also as someone with what is often insultingly called a philosophical nature, you’d imagine that I’d wax lyrical about the sky. Many poets had. But then, at the end of the day, what even is the sky? A big old pile of nothing. I wandered lonely as a cloud… Ha! Sure. This is England. Every cloud and their mother are up there partying it up. A British cloud wouldn’t know loneliness if loneliness hijacked a plane and flew straight through it.

This mess of idle thoughts is pretty common. Welcome to my mind. Watch the low door frame as you enter and don’t bother wiping your feet as the place is a shithole already. To the right we have alcohol dependence, and down the corridor you’ll find self-deprecating humour and an empty room where I’m told the emotions should have been installed, but nobody ever got around to it. There are cracks in the walls big enough to slide your hand through, and the roof is held on by duct tape. It may not be much, but it’s where my thoughts call home.

“Now then, Quasimodo! Get down here before that ugly mug of yours puts some poor gargoyle out of the job.” 

I sigh, consider ignoring the voice for a moment, then glance down. Corgi wouldn’t go away because of something as simple as me ignoring his very existence. This is a shame, since the cold terror of the void is usually better company than the pudgy excuse for a man that has invaded my sanctuary. 

“That’s not what your mum was saying last night.”

“Really? Mum jokes? I expected more wit from you. Has the drinking finally killed off your last brain cells? Anyway, my mum’s dead, so joke’s on you.”

“Decomposition produces a surprising amount of warmth and the silence of the grave is a welcome change from the usual incessant chatter.”

“Cheery fucker, aren’t you?”

“You know you love me for it.”

“Someone’s got to. If I stop talking to you then nothing would stop you throwing yourself off there.”

“You’ve quite the ego. Who do you think drives me to come up here in the first place?”

I contemplate just how much of a bastard Corgi is as I edge myself from my perch and begin the short journey through the inner ruins of the once proud unit. The tools here had been world famous, the workers well respected, and now it is empty and half flooded, a haven for street artists and urban explorers. 

It doesn’t take long until I slip out of the factory and squeeze through a hole in the metal fence near where Corgi is waiting for me. We hate each other. It’s really the best foundation for a friendship you can have. It takes effort to hate, so it only makes sense to reserve it for people you can just about tolerate.

I take a final look at the shell of former industrial glory. You can almost see the shadows of the workers, ghosts of a dead age. I find them pleasant company. They don’t buy me drinks though, so I have to turn my attention to less favourable souls like Corgi and the lads.

We leave the factory and weave through the streets until we reach the city centre. A fine drizzle is in the air, but that’s nothing surprising. The cold bites at me. It’s nice to feel something. As we walk, we trade small talk, mostly about video games. It’s all we ever really talk about. Most other topics spiral towards depression with surprising speed. Politics, the environment, relationships, careers, or aspirations, all of them are sensitive subjects these days.

The Bible-bashers are out in force today, their signs and stands filled with booklets cluttering the already cluttered pavement. One is set up next to a homeless man. They each ignore the other’s existence. I don’t really get it. I’m no God botherer, but my general understanding is that kindness and charity were the foundations of faith. Yet these guys stand around all day with their signs, oblivious to the real world suffering around them. Give food to the poor, raise money for the homeless, lobby for better education. Hell, fuck off abroad for some charity or other helping out developing nations. Do anything. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t do anything either. But unlike them, I don’t pretend to care. 

Corgi grabs one of the booklets as we pass and leafs through it. He stops at every image of a woman and holds it up for me to see.

“Her?”

“Too old.”

“Her?” 

I consider the picture with the same scrutiny that a fine art dealer would examine a Da Vinci painting. “Passable. Good body. Weird eyes though.”

“Ooh, what about this one?”

“I’d nail that one like Christ on the cross.”

Corgi laughs then slings the booklet into a bin as we pass. With enough boredom, you turn everything into a game. The more bored you are, the shittier the game. Casual sexism roulette is an easy one. Devalue others because you don’t value yourself.

I cheer up a little as we reach our destination. Nothing quite warms the soul like a sign for a J.D. Wetherspoon. I pull open the door and bow theatrically to Corgi as I let him past. The pub is quiet this time of day. Huddled close to the bar are a handful of older men, mostly ex-labourers of one kind or another, who sit nursing pints of John Smiths. They show up every day at nine o’ clock on the dot when alcohol can be served, and stay there for most of the day. This place is the closest thing to a home they have, and it’s a sight mirrored in every pub across the country.

Slightly further back than the pissheads are the old biddies sipping their fifth refillable coffee and gnawing at a slice of toast that they had started eating an hour ago. This is another universal constant. 

A young girl is manning the bar. She looks slightly haggard. My expert eye knows a hangover when it sees one. Probably a student. The faces of the bar staff change every time I visit, though they all have a slightly worn quality to them. The key is to mix up which pubs you visit on a regular basis so none of them can get used to your destructive lifestyle and feel pity for you. Variety is the spice of life after all. That’s where the old pissheads went wrong. They became part of the furniture and the staff know exactly how sad their lives are. When your eventual funeral is made up of more Spoonies than actual family and friends, you know you fucked up somewhere.

“I’ll have a BBQ burger and a vodka tonic,” I tell her in a voice pitched low enough to ease her headache. Her eyes seem to thank me. It always pays to be nice, at least when it takes absolutely zero effort to do so. 

“Dude, it’s twenty past nine in the morning,” Corgi says accusingly. His voice makes the girl wince. He has that effect on people.

“Yeah, you’re right. Make it a double.”

“Burger or vodka?”

“Yes.”

“Double vodka tonic isn’t covered in the deal.”

“Better throw in a cider while you’re at it then, please.”

She shrugs and taps away slowly on the screen. Corgi orders a large mixed grill, then we take our drinks and settle into a corner table as far from anyone else as possible. I quickly down the vodka then nurse the cider as we wait for the food.

“So how’s the writing going?” Corgi asks me. 

“Well, I’m sat in a Wetherspoons drinking before ten. My spirits are clearly high.”

“Nobody liked your story then?”

“Fuck if I know. That knowledge requires communication. What I get is the cold silence of jack shit. But hey, it was only two years’ hard work. No real loss, right?”

“I don’t know why you keep trying. You clearly aren’t very good at it.”

I’m torn between dry sarcasm and trying to defend myself. I could explain that agents receive hundreds of submissions every week, but that sounds like an excuse even as I think of the words. I’m not sure I even believe it either. Maybe I am just not good enough. That would be more fitting with my usual MO. Sarcasm it is then.

“Tell me again how your apprenticeship went. You know, the one that would guarantee you a job for life? Oh, that’s right! You did unskilled grunt labour for pennies, then got let go the second they’d have to start paying you minimum wage.”

“Point taken.” Corgi looks deflated, and I almost feel sorry for him, but then the food arrives and his emotions instantly bounce skyward. He tucks in and I have to respect his ability to devour steak without wasting time on such menial things as chewing. I return to the bar a few times and start to reach that perfect state where time ceases to have meaning. It’s only when a shadow passes over me that I really look up from my latest drink. 

Three men of varying shades of ugliness are standing over us. In generous terms, they are what could loosely be described as the rest of ‘The Lads’. Tink is a tall fellow with that wide kind of build that isn’t fat or muscular, just kind of there. Larry is scrawny with a shaved head and a sense of fashion that screamed neo Nazi, even though he is soft as a brush and listens to shitty teen pop, while Toto is dark skinned with dreadlocks and an easy smile.

“Are you boys ready for tonight?” Larry asks, clapping his hands together.

“Yesh,” I answer. I may be drunk. Fuck if I know. A drunk guy should be the last person you trust to make a judgement call about anything.

Toto gathers up my empties and shakes his head, but a soft smile still plays across his lips. He’s always a glowing pillar of positivity. 

“It isn’t eleven yet and you’ve had three doubles,” he tells me, as if I didn’t know that already.

“And a cider,” I add proudly. “You said we’d do pre-drinks.”

“Yes. An hour or so before we go out. At ten. PM.”

“PM, AM, easy mistake to make. You’re still going to have a drink, right?”

Toto’s smile grows. “Of course. My round. Though, I think pints will do us for now.”

“Whatever you say, mate.”

I settle further into my seat as Tink and Larry join us around the table. Corgi chats with them about any old bollocks. I’m not really listening. A war is raging inside my skull, the alcohol fueling both sides like the Americans at the beginning of every war. On one hand I am drunk and surrounded by friends with a party on the horizon. On the other, I’m drunk and fucking miserable. Part of me wants to brood, the other part wants to laugh. My body compromises by hiccuping then slamming my head onto the table.

“You have bad coping methods, my friend,” Toto tells me as he returns with the drinks. This doesn’t stop him from handing me my cider though. Toto’s good like that.

“We can’t all have your cheerful disposition,” I say without raising my head. The words come out mumbled.

“We each hold the key to our own happiness.” 

Toto speaks with a calm assurance. The sentence holds warmth and confidence, enough to convince you that the world wasn’t really all that bad. 

This time I do laugh. 

“All I seem to be holding is cheap alcohol, so maybe you’re right.”

“You are a clever man. Don’t beat yourself up. The world is all too eager to do it for you. Keep trying. All you need is a little luck, and luck is nine tenths probability. Try enough and you have to get lucky eventually.”

I can’t help but to chuckle. Toto is that rare breed known as an optimist. To him, the glass is always half full, even if it’s being smashed over his head. Not that anyone would dare to try that. He has an intimidating presence that’s at odds to his nature, kind of like Larry, except Larry is as fearsome as a wet bit of bog roll, while I have no doubt that Toto really can fuck a man up. With him and Tink, we lesser mortals have a nice shield between us and any threats that our drunken antics might incur on any given night.

“I wish I had your optimism, mate. Maybe it’s easier to be happy when you’re a cheery bastard. I’m preconditioned to see the worst in everything. Frankly, I think you’re a naive idiot living in a dream world of rainbows and ignorance. But hey, you know what they say: Ignorance is bliss.”

“You are wrong,” Toto says, his eyes suddenly hardening in some undefinable way. “You take the easy path. To be negative is simple. It’s optimism that takes real strength. You call it naive, but to see pain and think you are powerless to make others’ lives better is what’s truly naive.”

We all stare at him wide-eyed. Even I find myself speechless, and that’s pretty damn uncommon. It’s Larry who finally speaks up after taking a large gulp of his hipster real ale.

“Bloody hell, you two. Without drawing the obvious race card, why’s it always have to be black and white? Middle of the road. That’s where most things live.”

“Why would anything live in the middle of the road?” I snap. “Bloody stupid place to live. You’d get hit by a fucking car, dickhead.”

Toto’s eyes soften again and he breaks into a booming laugh that instantly lifts the mood of the room. Well, our moods anyway. The crones scowl at him with that thinly veiled racism that English grannies have mastered. 

Tink drains the last of his lager and stands up. Watching him stand is like watching a deckchair unfold. 

“Right, lads! That’s me done. I have to pick up Tommy then run errands before getting ready. I’ll see you all tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah!” Corgi chips in, his metaphorical tail wagging excitedly. “A good party is just what we need. Some drinks and some pretty girls. It’ll help us all forget the shitshow that is our lives. It’s going to be great!”

I don’t even have the energy to stamp on his heart and tell him no women will spend a second in his company. The alcohol is hitting me hard now. I’ve passed the equilibrium and am on the rough side of the curve. I try to stand but can’t.

“Agreed!” I nod. “I just need to cool off for a bit first. Anyone fancy carrying me home? It seems my legs have forgotten how to be legs.”

Tink and Toto exchange glances. Finally Tink shrugs. “Fine. Just don’t throw up down my collar again.”

Next – 2.

Chapter 1. (Forge of Icarus)

“If everyone isn’t in a line by the time I cross the threshold then there’ll be no dinner for the lot of you.”

There was a bustle of feet as two dozen children ran through the drab corridor to line up before a simple stone fireplace. Their clothes were well worn and they all bore a uniform haircut regardless of their age or gender. At a glance they looked to vary in age from three to twelve, though all of them looked underfed and overworked. Their eyes weren’t the mature eyes of adults or the haunted eyes of soldiers, but neither were they the eyes of average children.

A nervous ripple ran through the line. Every head swiveled to the doorway where a tall man stood beside the rat-featured speaker who called himself the Orphan Master. The master’s given name of Ral Colcot was far less grand and suited him much better. The children examined the stranger with every inch of scrutiny that he gave to them.

“Listen well,” the orphan master announced. “This is Sir Theaspin Rothsgrave and he has graced us with his presence. None of you deserve to even share the same air as such an esteemed lord but he has gifted you all with just such an opportunity. Muster what dignity you have and obey his every word. Is this understood?”

“Yes, Master!” the children answered as one.

Rothsgrave sneered. This ‘orphan master’ seemed to derive great pleasure from his complete command of these children. He was lanky with thinning hair and sunken eyes. A failure of a man who took out his frustrations on the one group of people who couldn’t resist him. Pathetic. Rothsgrave took a step forward, his presence filling the room. Continue reading

Chapter 1. (Reflections of the Blood Moon)

A gust of wind blew down an old dirt road. Dust billowed and rose like a dark cloud, obscuring the town ahead for a few brief seconds. Konta Farshore shielded his eyes with a pale hand. Each fleck of grit that hit him stung his near translucent skin. He didn’t breath. Any irritation on his lungs would have caused hours of painful coughing.

The wind faded. Konta waited a few moments then lowered his hand and resumed his breathing. If he’d known the weather would pick up like this he would have stayed at home. He shifted position on his seat. Bruises were already forming where the jostling of the cart had knocked him against the wood. 

   He yawned then set his eyes on the sparkling blue horizon. The Eastern Ocean extended out into infinity, consuming the world beyond the cluster of brightly coloured buildings that formed the port town of Blencca. It was a large settlement that was fuelled on an economy of fish and little else. Despite this, it was the centrepoint of the area and drew in the residents from the hundreds of farms that dotted the plains around it.

Konta and his family were one such group. They had just had the first harvest of the year and were making the trip down to the merchant quarter to sell that which they didn’t need. Tannar Farshore, Konta’s father, sat beside him with reins in hand, urging the old horse onwards at a gentle pace. Two of Konta’s brothers, Jakks and Samil, walked either side of the cart. Jakks walked hand in hand with a young woman bearing the unmistakable bulge of heavy pregnancy.

Konta was the youngest of seven children. He had four brothers and two sisters, all of who might as well have been another race entirely. Looking down at his eldest brother he couldn’t see any similarity that was reflected in himself. Jakks, and all of the men in the family, were tall with broad shoulders and tanned skin. Coarse hands and muscular arms were the hallmarks of all the local farm workers. He was so strong and confident. Continue reading

Blood, Blades and Bacon is available now!

My new book, Blood, Blades and Bacon, (book 1 in the Thorns of the Shadow series), is now available to buy. Grab a paperback or kindle version from Amazon.

KT and Kai Redthorn are both failing at life in their own ways. Childhood has ended, dreams have fallen to the wayside, and mind-numbing jobs are all that awaits. KT is driven to succeed but has still fallen short, while Kai has found that his skills are better suited to drinking and flirting. Left to dwell on the future at their aunt’s Highland lodge over the New Year, it’s set to be an uneventful family gathering. That is, until their perception of reality is shattered when an encounter with a succubus throws the twins into a secret society of monsters and magic.

Standing between them and certain death are an eccentric monster hunter called Déaþscúa and their own determination to embrace this new world. Their family is held captive by a cannibalistic witch, so the twins must fight against the clock to save them. Déaþscúa has his own battles to fight, though, and his own secrets to keep. Can the twins stay afloat through the unearthly dangers that surround them, or will Déaþscúa’s private war pull them under completely?

Thorns of the Shadow: Blood, Blades and Bacon is a fast-paced action fantasy with a quirky mix of off-the-wall humour and bloody battles that will leave you thirsty for more.

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Announcement – Thorns of the Shadow: Blood, Blades and Bacon

I am proud to officially announce my new book, Thorns of the Shadow: Blood, Blades and Bacon.

Twins KT and Kai are thrown into a hidden society of monsters and magic when their family are abducted by a cannibalistic witch hellbent on world domination. Aided only by a sarcastic hunter, they must learn how to fight fast before they become merely two more corpses in an increasingly hostile world.

Thorns of the Shadow is an urban fantasy filled with face punching action and off the wall humour.

Keep your eyes open for a release date announcement soon.

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