Wellllll after keeping everyone in the dark for so long and then pushing back the release date by two months, I felt kind of bad.
So, to ease my conscience and for no other reason at all (except, maybe, to get you MAD INSANE EXCITED FOR FEBRUARY), I have decided to make the first chapter of Vol I: The Fall available, here only, today!
Are you as excited as I am?!
(you aren't)
(you might be after you read it though)
So uhh, without any further fanfare, I guess...
This chapter contains a strong trigger warning. Ignore this to avoid spoilers:
TW suicide
EPILOGUE
Insects sang and chirruped, but all the birds were silent.
Boots
crunched on desert rock, the steps soft and even and purposeful. Ahead,
firelight burned; the hunching forms of tents hovered on the edge of
vision in the endless dark, casting looming shadows in the twitching
light, but their neat rows were deserted. There was life within some of
them, and sparse patrolling activity, but as the steps walked
intentionally between the rows they seemed to be utterly alone. Even the
fires guttered in this cold deep dark.
Suddenly, the boots stopped.
On their left was a larger square tent, a formal affair of canvas and
wood; on their right, a softly-crackling campfire. The boots turned
toward the fire, and waited.
A dog limped from the darkness behind
the tent. There were deep cuts in its flank and shoulders, and its pale
fur was crusted brown with half a life's worth of blood. Clearly it was
in immense pain, every movement stiff and slow, but its eyes were
bright, and when it alighted upon the man between the tent and the fire
its body slumped with relief and joy.
The dog's tail went up despite
its limp, its ears lifting as its golden eyes filled. Its whole body
wagged as it pushed his head against the man's leg, searching for harm,
searching for love. The man's fingers tightened as if to snap and warn
it back to a respectful distance - and then went loose. He dropped onto
his haunches, and let the dog nuzzle the palm of his hand as he dug his
fingers into the soft spot behind its left ear; the dog let out the
softest hfff, and closed its eyes for a moment. The man let the
dog lick his neck and chin, and then with the softest laugh pressed his
nose to the side of its muzzle, and closed his silver-steel eyes.
For
a moment they were stationary, faces together, with the dog's thick
tail beating a breeze close to the warmth of the fire, and orange-yellow
flames flickering in the stone-like face of the man.
Slowly, he put one hand behind the dog's ears, and the other at the base of its neck.
Leaving
the broken, bloodied dog half-curled and limp at the edge of the fire,
the man straightened and simply breathed for a moment. He took a step,
and when the boot landed it was on a narrow paved path surrounded by
trees, the desert and camp and dog gone.
The depth of night, dawn
still a few hours hence, was a ripe time in the forest. The land watched
and listened; the air was heavy with its collected breath. Ahead, a
villa loomed, dark and abandoned. It spoke of a place of life and
commerce, but now it was empty and cold. No torches were lit along the
path or walls, the only light the moon between the trees, and no
greeting came as the steps took the man slowly past the stables and
kennel. The man's head twitched as he passed them and wound around the
villa, to the slaves' entrance dug into the ground, but he made no
motion to change his path.
Inside, he reached into his cloak and
pulled out a handful of fine rich yellow powder. In one fluid motion,
the man tossed it toward the nearest empty furnace; his other hand
brought out a handful of something else, and where they caught in the
air and in the furnace white-yellow flames blossomed.
It was with an easy twist of his hand that he gave the fire strength, form.
For
quite some time he stood before the furnace, hands moving as if
manipulating the flames as they strengthened and grew. Sweat beaded
beneath his clothes on on his face, and the fire glowed on his skin and
armour as it became hot and close, but he seemed unaffected as he worked
with the flames.
When the heat was sweltering and the fire in the
furnace was huge, the man left the now-bright room, with its layered
flickering shadows and sweltering orange air, for the cold darkness of
the pre-dawn. And it was now, truly; there was no tint of light in the
sky, but the world knew when it was supposed to wake, and it was ready. Still it watched, though, as if there was something that had to happen first.
It
seemed as if something was missing, in this waiting watching
life-filled forest; all the sound in the world was insects and the
rustling of leaves, and even the crackling of the furnace was muted as
the door swung shut. And then along with the insects and the leaves was
footsteps again, expensive leather boots on neatly-laid paving slabs,
this time around the villa, past the stable and kennel, and then up the
main path, to the entranceway.
The floors were cold, and the walls
were dark; after a moment, the man removed his boots before he stepped
further inside. As he crossed the atrium to a darkened study, his pace
was slow and intentional.
The contents of the desk were scattered;
books and scrolls lay on the floor, ink spilled staining the wood, and
even in the chaos things seemed to be missing. For a moment, the man
surveyed the carnage. In the darkness, his brow twitched ever so
slightly downward.
He used crumpled parchments to wipe up the spilled
ink. He re-organised the books, including ones still hidden, and placed
them in chronological order in piles on the desk. Then he crossed -
strides faster, but still controlled and calm - to a bedroom, and
retrieved two books hidden there; one had already been found and taken.
Another was retrieved from the dining room, and another from the wall of
the garden, and then when he was done he stood and looked at the desk.
For
a moment, the man seemed to grapple with something internally. His face
was set and his eyes cold, but just as the forest seemed to lean in and
watch, so his own body was poised and fighting.
Sharply, he turned.
He took up an unlit torch from the wall, and when his fingers brushed
the handle flames burst forth, no powders mixing in a bright flash this
time. He crossed the villa, to the bathhouse above the furnace below.
Steam
rose from the water, greeting him warmly as he closed the door behind
him. He fit the torch into its sconce, and turned to the bath.
As the
man undid his cloak, his hands were still and sure. Pulling it from
around his shoulders, he folded it neatly and laid it on the tile beside
him. His belt was undone, sword and dagger aligned perfectly parallel,
and then went each of the straps of his armour, which joined the cloak.
His
breaths had started to accelerate. Hands on his tunic, the man stared
down at the flickering firelight reflection of his face in the water,
until the eyes were silver-steel and the hands were still.
Then he removed his tunic and his undergarment, and folded them both beside the cloak and the armour and the belt.
All
that was left was a leather harness on his shoulder, and the sheath it
held against his ribs, and the dagger inside. Staring directly ahead, at
the mosaic wall painted orange in the torchlight, the man stepped down
and slipped into the bath.
There were goosebumps along his skin, and as the heat enveloped him a shiver jerked at his body.
Breathing
slowly and steadily, he took the dagger from its sheath and carefully
made two clean cuts in the leather. With great care, he removed the
harness and placed it behind him, with the rest.
For a second, he paused.
He
raised one arm carefully above the water; it trailed on his skin, wet
and warm and dripping loudly in the hollow emptiness of the room, and
his breaths were shallower now and his eyes wavering in the reflection
of torchlight on water.
The man made one neat cut, precise and
unwavering, from halfway down his forearm to his wrist. Blood welled
immediately, and for a moment he stared at it as if transfixed.
Another few seconds passed as he stared at the pouring blood and the blossoms of darkness like ink in the water.
Then,
transferring the dagger to the other hand, the man made the other cut.
At the last second, his hand hitched, and before the blade left his
flesh it juddered and tore the skin.
He placed the dagger back on the tile, fingers trailing blood. It spilled into the water and turned it pink, and then dark.
His
breaths were coming faster. Silver-steel eyes blinked, and became
bright blue-grey with tears and terror. Suddenly fighting for breath,
chest heaving, the man leaned his head back against the tile, arms
resting on the warm surface of the water. His bright blue-grey eyes were
unfocused; though they stared at the wall, as blood pulsed headily from
his forearms his lips moved softly and his fists suddenly clenched as
his face crumpled. Just for a second, stone seemed to crack.
"I'm sorry," the man whispered, the words slurring, almost unintelligible.
All around the villa, and in the water and the stone and the flame, the world pressed in to watch and wait.
As
the bright blue-grey eyes became glassy and blank, and his body slipped
down so that water snatched at his skin and pulled his face beneath the
surface, the terror vanished in an upwelling of something else. His
lips turned upward, and formed the outline of whispered words that were
lost in a cascade of bubbles which broke thickly through the blood-dense
water.
And it was like this that the man died.
Got questions? Good! Save them for the release of Sylvestus Vol I: The Fall in February 2018, and get excited! Too excited to wait? Check out my previous novel, Each Separate Dying Ember, available as paperback and ebook today (and any other day, really), on Lulu, Amazon, and more.
