Write, Wrote, Written discussion

Chapter 1 - Again

The last flakes of falling snow settled smooth and white on the ground, as if a mortician’s shroud was draped over the skeleton of the land beneath. The thick winter evening’s air returned to a frozen stillness, competing only with the smothering silence for dominion over the approaching night.
In the dark of the distance, two bright lights could be seen snaking along the country lane long before the rattling chatter of the approaching bus could be heard.
Just then, in the shadows between the street lights, a swirl of darkness pulled at the night and a figure so dark it hurt the eyes to look at it stepped out. The figure looked around at the snow and gave a low growl of annoyance. The twin flash of blood-red eyes flicked to the approaching bus as the lights from its headlamps grew along the country lane. Stepping back from the swelling cones of brightness the figure allowed itself to be swallowed by the blackness between the street lights, where even the wash of silver from the new moon was unable to follow it.
The bus rattled to a stop and a door hissed open, casting a splash of light across the snow. A small dog on a lead jumped down to the kerb, followed by a pair of sturdy booted legs that crunched down into the fresh snow, the light from the bus revealing the bent frame of a large old woman. She was wrapped in a thick padded jacket, the hood pulled up over her head with only a narrow gap left for her eyes to see where she was going.
“Night, Mrs. Geryon,” the driver’s voice called out. “You watch your footing on that snow. Don’t want you falling over now.”
Without turning she gave a small wave to the driver as the only acknowledgement that she had heard him, moving away and stepping outside the fan of light from the bus’s open door and into the shadow-wrapped fresh snow. Behind her, the door hissed shut and the bus revved its aging diesel engine before it thrummed off into the night. Soon its sound was only a memory and the lane was once more smothered in a frozen quietness that was broken only by the steady, repetitive, crunch of her footsteps. She walked past the church and turned off from the main road, the lane narrowing, the pavement thinning.
Shrouded in the evening’s Cimmerian gloom, the figure watched the old woman as she turned down the lane, before moving between the shadows to silently follow her. It drank in all the light as it moved, deepening any pool of dark to a thick and inky cloak that it wrapped around itself to hide from even the sharpest observer. All that could be seen of it were the red of its eyes as they glowed in the depths of the darkness, like the last two coals left alive in the back of the fire. It moved between the pockets of black down the narrow lane and waited for her to walk past. Its eyes narrowed as she crunched along, becoming two slits at the sight of the dog.
The dog sensed that something wasn’t quite right and turned its head to peer into the darkness. The fur on the back of its neck prickled and a low growl started deep in its throat.
“Hush now, silly girl,” Mrs. Geryon said, her voice gruff beneath the hood. “You’ll only annoy the neighbours,” and she gave the lead a pull as the dog made to investigate.
Even though it knew it couldn’t be seen, the shrouded figure moved back to get away from the nose of the dog, pulling at the darkness around it and wrapping the shadows tighter and tighter around itself. Unable to withstand the pressure of the sucking night the street lights to either side exploded, sparks and glass showering down around the old woman and her dog, the rest of the street’s lights flickering in sympathy before finally collapsing to throw the lane back to the mercy of the moon’s weak and insipid light.
The dog yelped and jumped backwards, falling over in the snow and scrabbling to get back to its feet. It started to bark, a deep-pitched bark that was at odds with its size, baring its teeth and hunkering down.
“Oh, my,” the old woman exclaimed. She peered with blinking eyes at the broken lamp, but saw nothing. She turned away, pulling at the dog and continued the remaining short walk home to her cottage.
The cottage was made from blocks of hewn stone, grey and rugged and set in its own grounds, with a path that led from the gate in the garden to the carved oak front door, and then continued along the side of the cottage towards the back. The downstairs windows were low and small, as if it were made in a time when people were smaller, which could have been true as the cottage was many, many, hundreds of years old. A copse of tall trees stood sentry to the front of the cottage and, to the sides and back, were fields.
The old woman lifted the latch on the gate and pushed it open, pulling the collar off the dog and letting it run ahead. Soon she was stepping in to the warmth, the door clicking shut behind her and lights flaring from the small windows as she walked through the house.
Outside, the figure moved from its position under the shattered lamppost and glided down the last part of the lane and into the garden after the old woman, dragging the darkness with it. In its wake it left melted puddles in the snow that quickly froze into small flat sheets of ice.
It stopped by one of the windows and studied what was inside for a while. To anyone who might have been passing, the figure was only visible as a smudge of intense gloom against the grey stone of the cottage.
Inside the cottage something strange was happening and it quickly became apparent to the watching figure that this wasn’t the old, reclusive Mrs. Geryon that her neighbours knew. In the kitchen the old lady quickly removed her clothes, putting them on the scratched and scarred wooden table that shied against the wall like a frightened hound. Now that she was naked, the figure could make out deep swirls forming like cuts into all her exposed skin, growing and wrapping around her body until it looked as if she would slide apart, sliced by some invisible knife. Slowly, the cuts started to spread and part, exposing red flesh that glistened wetly as she continued to change. Her arms grew longer and thicker, armour-like scales pushing out from the bloodied and jellied flesh to cover her skin. Her legs grew squat and her body thickened, lengthening like a horse with another pair of legs sprouting from her chest where her sagging breasts once were. She fell forward onto them, no longer standing on two legs but four, the rest of her torso stretching and bending upwards. She spread her arms wide and howled in joy. Her face, darkened by the scales, flattened and a forked red tongue licked out moistly between needle sharp teeth. She let a smile split her face and stretched, enjoying the final transformation.
The creature standing in the kitchen was no longer human, and no longer even entitled to the term she. It threw its misshapen head back and let out a deep roar of sound that shook the kitchen.
The creature spoke, the misshapen mouth forming the words with difficulty. “It’s almost time. I can feel it,” it said, its voice a growl so deep and raw it rattled the shelves and crockery. It opened a hand, claws extending from the tips of gnarled fingers to form a set of razor-sharp blades. A tongue licked at lips moist in anticipation while it sucked in air through its flattened nose, like a food-critic entering a new restaurant. “I can almost smell it,’ it said, retracting the claws and reaching down to stroke the animal crouched by its feet.
The dog had also changed and wasn’t so little anymore, but was large and muscled beneath a shaggy coat, with a long snout and tiny black eyes that were full of malice. The hound yawned and exposed a maw of pointed, yellow teeth that looked like they could bite through steel. It lazily lowered its huge head to lick at a bone on the floor, all that remained of the cottage’s original occupant. The licks soon became tearing and the last few shreds of flesh were ripped off the grey bone. Before long those huge teeth were crunching down and making short work of the bone.
Outside the cottage, in the cold silver of the night, the figure nodded to itself as it stood away from the window and moved to the back of the house, pausing by the back door. It had seen what it needed and the time to act was now.
It examined the lock for a second before extending a finger that seemed to flow like liquid into the hole the key went in. There came a soft click and the door opened. Under the burning of its eyes a brief smile exposed sharp, white teeth. It entered the cottage, pouring like smoke through a hole, the door closing gently behind it.
All that was left in the garden now was only silence.

***

The air outside the cottage was gelid, almost frozen with expectation. The trees across the road, already still in the breathless cold, somehow seemed to become even more still, as if the sap had paused in its upward journey. It was as if the trees were holding their breath, too frightened to move.
In those trees a female figure stood, watching all that was happening. If she had wanted to be seen by anyone then they would have gazed upon the face of a woman with a skin as smooth and luminescent as porcelain, eyes that were as green as the grass in summer and delicate lips that seemed always on the edge of a smile. She had fair hair that reached to her shoulders and was dressed in layers of a thin and wispy cloth that was as white as the snow around her, and could surely offer no protection from the icy night’s cold, yet she seemed unconcerned with the temperature.
She tilted her head slightly as she listened and, from inside the cottage, the sounds of a huge struggle started. A load roaring like that of beasts attacking one another rent the night and the windows glowed with a blood-like light.
“Interesting,” she said in a voice that was as gentle as a child’s breath. They were ... fighting? Her eyes narrowed slightly. Of course, that would always be interesting, but the real question was: what were they doing here?
Had the truce been broken?
She let her mind toy with the idea. The agreement that formed the truce had lasted for thousands of years, but maybe now it was coming to an end?
This would need careful consideration, she decided, the implications concerning.
She held her arms out towards the cottage and, with a small circular gesture, wrapped it in the same shroud of quiet that enveloped and protected her. The sounds of the struggle muted, and the red glow from the windows darkened. To anyone looking the cottage would have appeared as normal, dark and quiet, and they would have been unaware of the battle being fought within its stone walls. Only she could see what was happening, hear what was happening, understand what was happening, and a frown sat uneasily on her face.
After a while the noise abated, the glow from the windows diminished and the struggle was over. A sound drew her eyes as the back door opened again, a billow of darkness pouring out like oil across water and, in its centre, the tall figure emerged. It stepped back into the garden, briefly turning to pull the door shut behind it before walking back up the garden’s path.
It stopped suddenly.
She could sense that something had caught its attention. It turned and, with unerring accuracy, looked into the trees at the front of the cottage, and stared straight at her.
She moved her arms and the cloak of quiet unwrapped from about her and the cottage. She stared at the figure for a few moments before extending her wings and, with a huge downward thrust that flurried the snow all around her, leapt into the air and was gone.
The Demon watched the angel fly away for a moment before it sighed and said, “Bollocks.”
It turned and melted into the night.

Sorry, I should have said that the book is nearly ready for publication, give or take. I'm doing the final edit before it goes off for proper proofing.

The story is set both in Saxon times and in the present, and tells of the battle to destroy the Earth by Hell. The only thing that stands in Hells way are four separate people, none of whom know each other, and one of them lived a thousand years ago.

But if they don't work together, Hell will win.

So, what do you think? This is my second novel, and is totally different to my my first - nothing wrong with a bit of diversity, eh?

Regards,

Dave.
The Oui Trip

Sounds interesting. I like your writing style. Are you planning to share more of this? And yes, definitely nothing wrong with a bit of diversity!

Hi Monz,

Thanks for the comments - glad you are finding my style readable. Yes, I plan on sharing more, with the 2nd chapter going up this weekend. I suppose, cliches aside, it is a case of watch this space. :)

Regards,

Dave.

Reader Note: Sorry, had to split this into two posts due to character limits.

Chapter 2 – Soumundon, Saxon Times, 1000 Years Ago (Part 1)

The chamber was the size of a small house and was buried beneath the ground.
Above, as the rising of the eastern sun threw a wash of red across the cloudless horizon, there was nothing to indicate that the chamber was there, no mound or rising of the earth to show where it was, no stone to mark its location, nor a ripple in the field of golden wheat that covered it. Even the entrance was hidden, being nearly a hundred feet away and surrounded by the trees that stood guard at the edge of the forest.
The large space of the chamber was smoky from the brazier that burnt on the wall by the solitary seated figure, the smoke drifting lazily up to the roof. Small vents, concealed by the thick and time blackened oak beams in the ceiling that supported the weight of the land above, took the smoke and spread it through the nearby village, leaving nothing to give its location away.
Alden sat on the small padded bench under the brazier, staring at the flat expanse of stone embedded into the earthen wall opposite, the light just strong enough to see that he had fair hair and blue eyes. By village standards he was considered tall, and the years of training he had endured left well honed muscles hidden beneath the simple woven tunic he wore.
Alden took a deep breath as continued to look at the flat stone. He had spent the night here and knew that soon it would be time for someone else to take over, but he still stared intently at the stone. As a Guardian he took his job seriously.
The stone was as wide as it was tall, rising for nearly forty eight hands in height. Engraved across the entire face was a huge circle that started at the smoke shrouded top, before curving out and round to the bottom, just above the pressed dirt of the floor. Small runes were etched at regular intervals around the circle and, in its centre, a carving was indented into the stone.
Occasionally one of the runes would glow faintly. When that happened Alden would mutter a brief incantation and motion it to the rune, the incantation a feint wisp that would waft from his fingers to the lit rune and sink into it. The illuminated rune would flutter for a second and then darken.
It had happened three times during his current watch, two to many compared with a normal watch.
Alden felt uneasy about this but couldn’t quite work out why, as if there were a disturbance that some part of him knew about but wasn’t able to tell the rest of him. He felt it more as a sense of unease than anything else but thought it only a product of his Guardianship, and so dismissed it from his thoughts.
A sound from the entrance tunnel to his left caught his attention and his mind formed the call of the sword instinctively, his right hand feeling the metal grip of his sword as it appeared within it. A tall figure stepped from the passage and he recognised his friend, Wulfric. He let the sudden tension drain from him and felt the sword melt away, his hand empty once more.
He was so on edge this night’s shift, and he couldn’t fathom why.
“Hey, Alden, how’s it going?” said Wulfric, settling down beside his friend. In the dim light he could be seen to be wider and more muscled, and possibly a thumb taller than Alden, which was probably due to the extra summer under his belt by way of years. Like Alden, he had a head of hay coloured hair.
“Shite,” Alden replied, shaking his head slowly.
“Yeah? Well, here’s something to cheer you up. You know Tola?”
Alden nodded slowly, looking at Wulfric. Tola was a dark haired girl with hazel eyes, solid thighs and tits the size of an ox’s head. She was a good looking girl and he blushed as he thought of her.
Wulfric laughed. “Even in this light I can see the glow from your cheeks. Well,” he leant in, winking, “it seems she’s of the same mind. Udela says she’d lift her skirt for you, if you asked.”
Alden sword loudly, punching his friend on the arm, then saying, “She would?”
“Oh, come on, don’t say you haven’t seen her always in the same place you are, eh? Yesterday, by the river? And the day before, after weapons training? How much more of a hint do you want?”
“I suppose I might have noticed,” he admitted, smiling.
“Ha, suppose my hairy arse. Anyway, now you know properly.” Wulfric pulled a pouch from his tunic and opened it to offer Alden some dried meat and nuts. “So, about tonight. Shite, you say? Why’s that?” He pulled at his belt again and unhooked a skin of weakened mead, offering it to Alden.
Alden finished chewing and took the skin, pulling a long draft from it and wiping at his lips. “Thanks.” He cocked his head briefly towards the stone. “Three times I had to quell the Gate tonight, three bloody times. Something isn’t right.” Another rune started to glow as he spoke. “See, there goes another,” he pointed, muttering the Closing incantation and throwing the ethereal substance that flowed from his fingers at the rune. The rune dimmed and became a lifeless carving on the rock once more.
“I could only just see that glowing,” said Wulfric, frowning. “Your Sight is stronger than mine.”
Something in his friend’s tone made Alden look away from the stone. “Is something wrong?”
“Well, you could say that,” nodded Wulfric, taking the mead skin as Alden passed it back and drawing a healthy swig himself before continuing. His voice was sombre, his face serious. “Norsemen sail down the coast towards the mouth of the Panta. They have many ships and the Lady is concerned they are seeking here. We think they are being led by Olaf Tryggvason, the Norse king, but we can’t be sure. He has amongst his fleet a single red ship and when the Lady heard of this she ordered the women and children pack up and make ready to flee.”
Alden couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Make ready to flee? What, all of them?”
“All, including your mother and sisters. Mine, too, have made ready. No one argues with the Lady, Alden, not even Dag the Elder. There is a lot of tension in the village this night, well, this morning now. The Lady has even sent out for Byrhtnoth himself to attend her council.”
Alden sat back against the wall and let out a long breath. Byrhtnoth was a noble man of Essex and a high ranking royal officer. Any summons would have to mean that something very, very serious was happening. “Do you think he will come?”
Wulfric shrugged, his words slow and measured. “There are those who say not, who say the Lady has lost her mind, sending out a summons to the Ealdorman of Essex and that no good will come of it. But there are those who believe in her, and they are the many. So, the rider went out at last light, just as you entered the tunnel for your turn at guarding.”
Alden didn’t need to ask how Wulfric knew all this, as his father was Dag, the chief Elder of the village. When he cast his mind back to last night he had noticed the gathering of the village’s men in the main hut, heard the voices being raised in argument, and heard them quieten when the softer voice of the Lady spoke. He remembered seeing the horse being readied as he walked to the trees to find the entrance to the chamber, but didn’t think anything of it then. At the time the sun was setting and long shadows chased across the field of ripening wheat, the forest surrounding the fields on three sides beginning to darken as it readied for the night. The last side was that of the village. The straw that was combed across the thatched roofs on the huts began to take on the stain of blood from the sunset, with small twirls of smoke twisting up from the holes in their centres as the many families in the village prepared for their evening meals. One of those twirls of smoke would be from his hut, he had mused at the time, but he knew he would get his stew the next morning as it was his turn to perform the Guard for the next five nights. His reward would be three days off from the Guard so he didn’t mind the night duty when his turn came.
“Do you think the Norsemen are heading for here?” he asked, blinking as he focused back on the words from Wulfric.
“Why else come this far south? There are no monasteries to loot, no large villages worth the plunder of that many ships. We have nothing but fields and wheat, and I’m sure they have enough of those in their homelands.” He leant forward to rest his elbows on his knees, steepling his two index fingers together and holding them in front of his face. “If they sail past the Panta’s mouth then all is good, well, for us that is, but not for whomever they sail towards. But, if they turn in to the Panta,” and he pointed his fingers to the stone, “there can be no mistake. They are coming here.”
Alden let out a low whistle, standing up from the bench and walking over to stand before the stone, his shadow dancing across its face as the light from the brazier’s flame licked back and forth as if in a draft.
On an impulse he touched the stone, and it felt hot. He had never felt it like this before, normally it was only slightly warmer than the earth it was embedded within. He reached over with his other hand to touch the earth to the side of the stone and it was as cool as he expected.
“Wulfric,” he called back at his friend, his fingers still touching the carved face of the surface. “Come here and try this,” he motioned to the stone. “How does it feel?”
Wulfric stood slowly, clearly not happy with the idea of touching it. He walked over and extended a hand gingerly.
“Warm,” he said, taking his hand away. “As always.” He looked at Alden. “What were you expecting?”
“Warm? It’s fire hot! Almost too hot to touch. Can you not feel that?”
“It feels as it always does,” and he touched it again, more firmly this time. “Yes, as it always does.”
Alden shook his head. “No, no this isn’t right,” he said quietly to himself. “Why is it only I that feels the heat?”
His eyes scanned the features on the carved face as he searched for a reason and, just off to the side, a movement caught his eye. He let his eyes be drawn down to the more intricate and shallow carvings each rune bled into and then he saw it. A small spiral under the main symbol of Hagalaz, the rune for disruption or interference, was starting to spin very, very slowly.
“Look, Wulfric,” he whispered, pointing. Wulfric leaned in to see what he was indicating.
“What? I see nothing. What should I be looking for?”
“The spiral, it is spinning.”
“What spiral? There is just flat rock under the Hagalaz.” He looked at his friend warily, as if he was going mad.
“Flat rock? Can you not see the pattern beneath the rune?”
Wulfric shook his head in answer.
Alden’ eyes narrowed. “What about here,” and he pointed to the Kauno, the rune for fire. Under it was a zigzag pattern faintly etched beneath the long tail of the symbol that extended down like a feather. “Can you see this carving?”
“No, there isn’t anything there. It is smooth rock. The rune ends there,” and his finger stabbed at the place where the tail of the rune became the slight feathering zigzag pattern.
“What about over here,” Alden pointed to the rune at the top of the circle. “Thurisaz. What do you see?”
Beneath the rune that marked the Devil was a carved face the size of his thumbnail. It seemed to be laughing, but that was just the light playing over it, making it move by twisting the shadows around it. For a moment he considered that maybe was what was happening with the spiral, but no, it was definitely moving. The line that drew into the centre had moved maybe half a turn since he had noticed it moving. [Continued below]

Chapter 2 – Soumundon, Saxon Times, 1000 Years Ago (Part 2)

[Continued from above]
Wulfric held up his arms in defeat. “Nothing, Alden, I see nothing at all. Are you sure you aren’t going mad being cooped up in here all night with nothing to eat or drink?”
Alden gave a small laugh that held no humour. “Under every rune there is a pattern, faint, yes, but it is there. I assumed you knew they were there, so never talked about them. They never did anything; it was always the rune that glowed, never the pattern beneath. But now one of them is moving.”
Wulfric looked at his friend with uncertain eyes but what he saw in Alden’s face seemed to make his mind up. “I think you need to tell the Lady,” he said, nodding to himself as he thought it through. Alden knew that ideas took a while to gather speed in his friend’s mind but once they did they were as unstoppable as the spring floods. “Yes, you need to tell the Lady. She must know about this. No one has ever talked about the patterns you can see so I don’t think anyone knows about them. I certainly didn’t know about them. But, before you go to the Lady, what do you think needs to be done? I’m taking the day shift and I can’t see those details in the stone, so I’m not sure I can help. Are they a danger?”
Alden stood back from the surface of the stone and thought for a moment, considering the question. Were they a danger? He didn’t know. What if they were? What should he do? And why could only he see the carvings? No, he would deal with that later. For now it was the moving spiral that he had to deal with. What should he do? He thought about it for a few seconds, settling on what he knew best. He summoned a Closing incantation but let the wisp of light sway at the end of his finger, being careful not to throw it. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Wulfric watching him intently. Slowly, he moved his finger to the spiral and touched the wraith of smoky magic against it. It danced over the spiral, tracing the curved lines back and forth, gathering speed as it forced its way into the rock. Behind him he heard Wulfric gasp, and he guessed the spiral was now visible to him as the magic made it briefly glow.
A flash blossomed out of the stone and the Closing was gone, the light that had danced across the surface no longer there. They blinked as they waited for the spots in front of their eyes to fade.
“I saw it,” breathed Wulfric, touching the stone where the spiral once was. “It was as you described but now,” his fingers played over the stone, feeling for some sort of clue that it was ever there in the first place, “it is gone. I can’t see it anymore.” He looked to his friend. “Can you still see it?” he asked and Alden nodded. “Has it stopped turning?” the tension tight in his voice.
Alden took a few moments to study it before turning to face him. “No, it is still turning, slower than before I grant you, but it still turns.”
It was then that the stone grumbled, sending a vibration that reached out through the ground to be felt through their feet. All at once every rune lit up, flooding the chamber with a light as bright as day. The two men shielded their eyes from the light, turning away from the stone and cursing loudly. For many seconds the runes stayed this way as they stood in shocked disbelief. Then the light faded and went out, no trace of the previous illumination remaining. They both blinked as they looked cautiously at the stone, wondering what had just happened.
Alden gasped. “Look,” he said, pointing to the rune at the top of the circle. It had moved a finger’s breadth to the right, as had they all. The circle the runes followed, set within the stone’s smooth face, had rotated. His mind reeled as the meaning become obvious to him. He could even feel the heat now without touching the rock.
It was Wulfric who broke the shocked silence, turning to face his friend. “Alden, run, run and get the Lady,” his voice was serious and grave. “Bring her here. Tell her,” and he took a deep breath as he marshalled what he was going to say next. “Tell her it is time. The Gate is opening.”
Alden started running.