OK.
Thought I might post something that's currently undergoing a major
rewrite. I started this a good five years ago and got bogged down
halfway through. Managed to finish the first draft last NaNoWriMo
but, having done some scriptwriting in the intervening time,
the style is so dissimilar, it's like two different books and I'm
going to have to redo the whole thing. But in the meantime, here are
the first couple of chapters of 'The Lost Ones'.
Prologue
Flames
raged redly in the distance, out of control and consuming everything
in their path. On the horizon, once proud towers shimmered in the
incredible heat, beginning to twist and fall and the rising wind
carried with it the faint sound of the screaming of horses. Long
lines of broken and beaten humanity snaked slowly away from the
remains of the city. The final battle had left almost all of the men
dead or dying and the old, the injured and the infirm were burning
along with their homes.
A
young man with a shock of red hair sat on a rock staring moodily at
the scene unfolding in front of him. His armour lay discarded by his
side, the inscribed bronze designs now dented and obscured by dust
and blood. His tall, slender frame had fooled many into thinking him
a priest or a poet but there was a certain readiness of posture and
regard which, to the perceptive, counselled a more cautious approach.
Wiry muscles slid under olive skin as he picked up a stone and hefted
it at one of the many helmets lying discarded on the battlefield.
He'd ordered the bodies burned long since - more to avoid pestilence
than from any deep-seated religious beliefs.
A
stone whipped past his ear to strike the target he’d missed and in
one smooth motion he was off the rock and spinning round, sword held
ready to meet this new threat. Recognition came and he relaxed enough
to lower his weapon. “My sins are heavy enough without adding
fratricide to them,” he gave a wry smile then continued “and you
of all people should know that a friend can kill you as easily as an
enemy.”
The
newcomer grimaced his agreement at this truism and moved towards his
brother. Taller by a head and broader again by half no one could
mistake him for anything other than he was, a warrior-king, proven in
battle and confident in the depth of his power. He sat down on the
makeshift seat, indicating that the other should do the same and
untied a wineskin from his belt. Taking a long pull at the neck he
tossed it over to his companion. “You’ve spoken to the witch,
then?”
The
younger man nodded. “Do you trust her?”
“I
think we have to. If it hadn’t been for her we could have been here
another nine years, no matter how much the Old Fox insists that he
saved our necks.”
The
red-haired man’s expression darkened. “I still haven’t
forgotten that you two got me into this in the first place.”
His
sibling frowned. “And what would you have had me do, little
brother? Allow her to be bound to another and have him go
all-unknowing to her marriage bed? Or do as Alexandros and spirit her
away?” He extended an arm towards the fires burning in front of
them, his voice tight with anger and rising with every word. “Can
you love your homeland so little that you would have it razed to the
ground?”
His
companion’s shoulders slumped. “I know... I know. I went into
this with my eyes open.” He too looked at the approaching column,
close enough now that the hopeless expressions of the captives could
be seen. “But it gets harder each time we do something like this.
They don’t know they’re making a sacrifice, or why we burned
their homes to the ground. In another fifty years they”ll be trying
to do the same to us in revenge.”
He
picked up his wineskin and rose. “I don’t think I can stomach any
more today.” With a final glance at the burning horizon he turned
and strode back to the camp. The older man made to follow his
brother, then let him go with a shake of his head. In time he would
accept the necessity of their actions. They had to sear out the evil,
root and branch or the revenge inflicted would be terrible indeed and
probably more than they could withstand. And then she would be free
to do as she pleased. He set his jaw and turned to watch the slaves
being herded towards him, as if by doing so he could share in their
pain.
The
head of the column drew level with his vantage point and began to
pass by. One of the women stumbled and the nearest guard, impatient
to join the victory celebrations, shoved her forwards with the butt
of his spear. Weak and emaciated from years of siege where most of
the food had been shared amongst those still able to fight, she
stumbled again, fell to the floor and did not move.
“Mama!’
came a piercing scream from further down the line and a young girl of
about eight or nine years old broke ranks and dashed forward, her
long black hair streaming behind her. She ducked under the guard’s
spear and knelt by the inert frame in the dust, crying quietly “Oh
mama, please get up.” She managed to raise her mother’s shoulders
off the ground with one malnourished arm while the other caressed the
pallid face, a futile attempt to coax back a semblance of vitality.
The lifeless head lolled backwards, lank curls scraping the dirt,
sightless eyes accusing the man on the rock.
The
contact was broken when the guard, tired of waiting, flipped the
woman over with a sandalled foot and prodded the child with his spear
to indicate that she should rejoin the column. When she continued to
kneel by the corpse he seized a handful of her long hair, wound it
around his fist and began to drag her back himself, pulling
insistently. A jolting blow to the small of his back halted his
progress and for an instant he thought the girl was fighting back.
Then he looked down and saw the point of a sword poking out from
underneath the bottom of his breastplate, shining wetly with his own
blood. As his fingers plucked feebly at the blade its support was
withdrawn and he crumpled, first to his knees and then over and onto
his back to stare up at a sun turned blood-red by the dust and the
heat from the fires. A shadow moved across his fading vision and he
faced his king, lips struggling to form a question his voice no
longer had the strength to ask.
The
older man plunged his sword into the sand to clean the blade before
sheathing it. Bending down, he gently scooped the almost catatonic
child into his arms and as he straightened he cast a final, bleak
look at the dying soldier. “We are put on this earth to make
choices, my boy. We make the best ones we can and then live with the
consequences. You made the wrong choice for the wrong reasons and
this is the consequence. Live with it…if you can.” Then he turned
to walk back towards his own lines and the sound of drunken
celebration, to face the consequences of the choice he himself had
made.
Chapter
One
It
was all too bright. Even through closed lids Kiernan could feel the
glare of the electric lights, re-igniting the fire inside his skull
and touching off pinpoint explosions of pain. He raised his arm to
protect his eyes only to find them already swathed in bandages. A
grunt escaped his lips as unease turned to panic and he scrabbled
with both hands at the ties that held the material fast. He could
hear running footsteps and voices coming closer but couldn’t
understand what they were saying, then a pair of delicate hands
closed over his and a softly accented voice murmured “don’t
struggle, you’re safe.” Blind and adrift, Kiernan didn’t know
why these words should calm him but they did. He felt the sharp prick
of a needle in the back of his hand and drifted back down into
darkness…
…and
into the strangest dream. He was back on the hillside, baking in the
Greek sunshine and enjoying what he’d been assured was the best
view on the island. Even in his somnolent state he could feel the
heat prickling on his skin and knew that he was going to burn. He
cast about for shelter and time slowed as he caught sight of a tiny,
one-room building with a scarred and pitted dome for a roof. An
entire wall of the ancient structure had been reduced to rubble and
the whole thing looked as if it was just waiting for a good enough
reason to fall down. At some point a great tree had rooted high up in
the structure, burrowing deep into the walls in search of life-giving
moisture. Moving closer, he could see that the choking roots this
gnarled and desiccated leviathan had sent forth had slowly wrung
almost all the life from the walls only to hold them together just on
the point of death. Curiosity building, the dream-Kiernan strolled on
for a closer look. He walked once around the remaining walls trying
to gauge their strength until he came full circle and hesitated
before the obsolete doorway. Weighing up the possibility of being
buried alive against the certainty of being burnt he gave a shrug and
ducked forwards under the chest high lintel. It wasn’t as if anyone
would miss him if he didn’t come back. Emma had made that perfectly
clear.
It
turned out to be pleasingly cool underneath the dome. The stone floor
shimmered with rays of sunlight drifting lazily down through the
holes in the roof and thanks to the missing wall, the building
trapped none of the oppressive heat. Kiernan stripped off his shirt
and let the cooling breeze play over his lean frame. Blond hair and
blue eyes had their advantages but resistance to sunlight was
definitely not one of them. He’d already burnt and peeled twice in
the last four weeks and wasn’t about to try for a third.
Reluctantly he replaced his shirt, leaving it open down the front and
began to examine the flaking remains of the once brightly-coloured
frescos on the walls. He paused in front of an almost intact
rendition of a garden scene, a theme entirely unlike the stylised
epic themes and sword-and-battle motifs that typified most of the
ancient Greek art he’d seen so far. But this, this was entirely
new. Painted by what could only charitably be called an indifferent
artist it drew the eye nonetheless with its longing for a simpler
life than could be allowed. Kiernan didn’t know why but he was
convinced that this was once a real place, somewhere the unknown
artist could be at peace with himself and with each deliberate brush
stroke he could feel the painter’s lost soul committing to memory a
place that might never be seen again. He reached across the centuries
with the fingertips of one hand and slowly traced the outline of an
empty swing “I hope you found your peace, my friend,” he said
softly, “I wish that I could find mine.”
Kiernan
remained lost in contemplation of the fresco for some time. Abruptly
he became aware of a presence at his shoulder and realised that
someone else had braved the hike to the summit. He inclined his head
to point at the designs on the plastered walls and ventured polite
conversation.
“Amazing
how they last so long isn’t it?” Getting no reply he looked to
see who the newcomer was and found himself still completely alone.
Shrugging, he turned his attention back to the wall and felt the same
presence flow back, stronger than ever and bringing with it a chill
that minutes ago he would have welcomed. As the hairs at the back of
his neck began to rise, Kiernan took a couple of shallow breaths, the
most his bubbling, building panic would allow and turned resolutely
on leaden feet to meet whatever waited head on…
In
the middle of writing her report the duty nurse paused and put down
her pen as bed seven started to moan in his sleep. She waited to see
if he would quieten but when he began to twist uneasily she pushed
back her chair. He’d already had his drip out once tonight and
looked as if he was working up to another attempt. Before she could
do anything more, though, an agency nurse she didn’t recognise came
into the ward and waved her back down.
“I’ll
deal with him, Sister. You look as if you’re swamped over there.”
Returning to her notes, Sister Eidica let the patient’s mutterings
fade from her hearing and submerged herself once more in her report.
…again
there was nothing there. For a second Kiernan thought he’d caught a
glimpse of a shadow, a faint outline of a shape in the dust and
then…nothing. He exhaled heavily and forced himself to laugh,
muttering, “You’re going nuts, man! First you start hearing
things, then seeing things – next thing you’ll be talking to
yourself and then there’s no hope left.” Still uneasy, he headed
outside, noting with satisfaction that the sun was finally going
down. As he crossed the floor he heard a scraping sound, then felt a
jolt under his feet as a dull thud rumbled around the chamber -
someone was moving about underneath the stone floor. Irritated with
himself now he’d found a practical reason for his unease, Kiernan
knelt and beat with the palm of his hand against the clay packed
stone floor. “Hello!’ he shouted, “who’s down there?” and
then waited, ear pressed to the floor for a reply.
His
only answer was a shuffling sound, of feet creeping slowly away, then
silence. Angry now and convinced that he was the butt of some hugely
unfunny practical joke Kiernan jerked himself upright, raised his
foot knee high and then slammed the heel down as hard as he could
against the stone. He had a split second to reflect that this was
perhaps not the wisest possible course of action to take whilst
standing on a three thousand year old floor before the flagstones
split and dropped him down into darkness.
The
nurse bent over the side of the bed to wipe the multiplying beads of
sweat from her patient’s brow, trying to keep up as his head
twisted painfully from side to side. He raised his hands as if to
push something away and she made a grab for the hand with the cannula
in it. If it came out again, her carelessness would draw the
attention of the night sister and then she’d be in big trouble. The
patient seemed to calm at her touch though and when she looked down
at his face she could see the tension and pain begin to recede,
leaving behind a fresh and open countenance. Long-standing creases at
the side of his mouth suggested an easy disposition and one quick to
smile, but she could also see the faint beginnings of pale frown
lines outlined against his sunburnt brow. At first she thought they'd
been caused by the trauma of the last few days but then realised her
mistake.
“What
brought you here, I wonder?” she murmured as she ran her forefinger
down the side of his face, lightly tracing the outline of one
prominent cheekbone and moving down across a stubborn jawline.
“Is
there a problem, nurse?” Sister Eidica’s voice, dripping with
disapproval carried clearly across the ward.
“No,
sister,” the nurse started guiltily. “I was just trying to keep
him calm.”
“Very
well. I know you’re new to us, but please remember there are
proprieties to be observed here. Come to my office tomorrow before
you start your shift and I’ll discuss them with you”
“Yes,
sister. Sorry, sister”. The woman at the bedside nodded in what she
hoped was a suitably subservient manner and busied herself in
routine, first checking the flow of the drip then updating the
patient’s temperature chart, all the while feeling her gaze pulled
back to his face where his eyes moved rapidly under closed and
abraded lids. Something was definitely going on in there.
Kiernan
relived the moment in slow motion, unable to change a thing. Looking
down as his foot descended he could swear the mortar between the huge
slabs dissolved before he made contact with them and then his
nightmare plunge began. In the fading light of dusk, he saw the lower
floor just too late to brace against it and heard all to clearly the
sickening snap of his ankle as it gave way and pitched him forward,
slamming his head against a stone block in the middle of the cellar.
He lay still for some time, fighting for consciousness and then,
unable to control the waves of nausea washing over him, he turned his
head and vomited. Cursing the world at large and his rebellious
stomach in particular, he inched himself over and onto his back,
trying to move his ankle as little as possible. The pain was
excruciating but he needed to get an idea of his surroundings and any
possible way out before even this faint light was lost. He tried to
raise himself to a sitting position but warm blood poured down from a
deep cut over his right eye, obscuring his vision and setting his
head to spinning once more.
To
his left, Kiernan’s groping hand gained purchase on the top of the
stone block he’d crashed into. It appeared to be hollow and at some
time in the past its lid had been displaced and was propped drunkenly
against the side of the container. Inch by dizzying inch Kiernan
eased his back up against this welcome support and then, target
achieved, he closed his eyes in relief and leant his head back
against the cool, carved stone. For some time, the pain in his head
had been trying to persuade him that passing out would be a good idea
and he decided that perhaps now would be a good time to listen. As he
allowed himself to sink into welcome oblivion he heard a rustling
sound behind him and dust-dry, paper-skinned hands followed him down
into the depths where he fell to reach around his neck. As he let
slip all ties to consciousness, Kiernan heard a wind-faint voice
whisper in his ear. “Warn Manny she is restless. Hold close the
marriage ties.”
And
then he was gone.
