This is the prologue of a fantasy novel written many years ago. You can purchase the complete work from http://www.lulu.com/content/146477 for $US5 (eBook) or $US16.60 (paper).
PROLOGUE
The tower was a grey cylinder of stone, humped like a coiled snake over its flat surroundings. Many years ago it had guarded the coastal trade, but the sea had chipped away its little limestone harbour, leaving only steep and ragged cliffs. Now it threatened the tower itself, hurling waves against the honeycombed scree below its western wall. The roads that once led there had worn away too; only a few narrow tracks broke the surface of the soft turf. This was Rockmoor Tower, clutching around its bony shoulders a mouldering pelt of vegetation. Grey clouds, grey sea, grey stone. The only sign of life was a thin curl of smoke drifting sluggishly up from the tower’s top.
North of the tower a broken wall enclosed a cobbled courtyard. Weeds had loosened the tightly-packed stones. In one corner boulders had been piled up to make a rough shelter. At the base of the tower was an iron door, bound with rivets as ancient and massive as the stones around it. Now it swung open with a screech and a man emerged, tall and gaunt. He wore a leather tunic and leggings, and carried a sword at his belt that an ordinary man would have found hard to lift. Now he strode across the courtyard and entered the shelter by the broken wall, emerging a few minutes later leading a huge grey mare, saddled and bridled, her breath rising as steam in the damp air. The man left her standing quietly in the courtyard and returned to the tower. When he returned he was carrying a parcel that looked like a bundle of rags. He held it awkwardly, as if afraid it might burn him, and after some hesitation fastened it to his saddle-horn, looping bindings around to keep it upright. Then he mounted and set the horse in motion, trotting northward along an overgrown track.
As they left the coast the sea-mist around them changed to drizzle and the drizzle to rain. A sudden clap of thunder from seaward made the mare start and show the whites of her eyes. The man leant forward, patting her neck and speaking soothing nonsense. There was a second peal and this time it was the man who glanced up, gazing at the tower with his eyes narrowed against the rain, as if to make sure it was still standing. He laid his hand on the bundle then drew it away.
The sky turned black above them, and the wind, swinging to the east, drove cold splinters of sleet into their faces. The man lowered his head, and urged the mare on. Soon the track came out upon a rise, a low hill that stood out against the flatness of the landscape. Here the moor’s thin skin of grass and earth had been worn away and hard grey rock lay naked at the surface, glistening with rain and covered in places with a film of slimy moss. The man drew his reins in closer and watched the ground carefully for cracks and fissures. Too many riders had broken their necks on this treacherous ground.
Now and again he pulled the horse up and stopped for a while, as if listening for something. Catching his mood the mare, too, pricked up her ears. With a sudden shudder she turned her head to the east. The man heard it too, a faint high yowl stabbing like a needle through the mist.
“Wolves, this far south!” said the man aloud. “Chorl is about.” He made an automatic gesture, touching one hand to his belly and the fingertips of the other to his forehead. Then he checked himself confusedly. “No, Chorl is dead. All of them are dead.” He shook his head as if to clear it and glanced behind him towards the tower, almost invisible now against the inky sky.
At his command the mare trotted forward into the tearing wind. The downpour grew fiercer, and the long low howl of the wind across the ground mingled with the distant wolf-calls. They climbed the rise slowly, the mare’s hooves ringing on the bare stone. At the top the man halted and glanced around, looking for something. He seemed puzzled. A sudden squall made him blink and wipe his eyes with his sleeve. In the centre of the rise a large grey stone had appeared. He urged the mare closer, but she hung her head doggedly, and would not advance. He dismounted, untying the saturated bundle, and approached the stone with it in his arms.
It was a flat rock about an arm’s-length high, squared off on four sides, with its flat top worn into a shallow dish. Endless rain had smoothed its edges and blurred the runes and figures carved into its sides, but its purpose was unmistakeable. The man untied the damp bundle with trembling fingers. In spite of the cold it gave off warmth, and wriggled in response to the new motion. The man paused, blinking, then carefully peeled back the damp layers of cloth.
From the heart of the bundle a puckered pink face gazed back at him, its eyes fixed upon his own. Something seemed to pass between them, leaving the man pale and shaken. Wearily he walked to the stone. Holding the child in one arm he wiped away with his other the rain that had collected in the central dish. Then he lowered the child on to the centre, turning his head away to avoid its bright blue eyes. “Cry, curse you!” he told the smiling baby. “Cry! I mean to kill you!” The child was silent. Distant flashes of lightning reflected on the clouds. The storm was racing towards them faster than a horse could gallop. The man drew his sword, and spoke in a choked whisper.
“Jessamin my daughter, forgive me. Forgive what I do.” Behind him the mare whinnied, nervous of the approaching storm. The man glanced back. A wall of water had engulfed the grey tower. “Grandson I should hate, I love thee. But there must be no more fighting.” Standing with his feet apart, the man raised his massive sword over the stone. Again it blurred, shapeless in the rain, shapeless from his tears. “Forgive me, child.” A bolt of lightning split the sky like a spear, and a clap of thunder tore the world apart.
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
