Category: Excerpts

Something new..

On By Carl NorthwoodIn Excerpts, Musings1 Comment

A slight change in direction and genre, just introducing myself to some new characters and a new world.

1877, Thursday 4th October, 11.15pm

DSI Smythe crouched down by the body, its shroud stained by the blood seeping from beneath. He reached out to take the corner of the sheet between his thumb and forefinger and gently lifted it up, revealing the face down corpse. The back was mutilated beyond belief, reminding Smythe of a wild animal attack. The red tunic had offered little protection against what was obviously a frenzied attack, in places, Smythe could see the unfortunate man’s ribs and spine.

“What do we have here then?” he enquired of no-one in particular. Mulholland answered anyway. 

“A Tommy, though there is not a lot left of him. I can’t tell what regiment he is from, but Constable Perkins here,” he jabbed a finger at one of the constables holding a lantern, “reckons that he’s a Flyer. On account of his sit-upons.” 

“That’s good knowledge, Constable Perkins.” Harris offered, then explaining further for DSI Smythe who had turned to look enquiringly. “Light blue trousers, Sir. Only members of the Royal Flying Corps wear them. Dark blue piping, so I would hazard a guess at one of the Dirigible Squadrons based at Hounslow. Have you identified our man yet, Inspector?” He addressed Mulholland

“Constable Higgins had a rummage through his pockets, but he couldn’t find his card.”

“Any witnesses?”

“None, whatsoever. A young moll found him, she went to raise the alarm down at the King’s Head and run into Constable Howard here. Lucky for you, he managed to keep the locals from looking in.”

DSI Smythe stood up, tapping his cane against the side of his shoe, and holding the stained sheet to one side completely. With a look of disgust at how the man had died, he passed the sheet to one of the constables.

“Very well, Inspector. We’ll take it from here. Sargeant, if you could prepare my equipment.”

“Bloody Necros!” muttered Constable Perkins as he turned away. Harris rolled his eyes as he knew far to well what was coming next. Smyth turned to address him.

“Constable! You and I both know that that is not the case. The 1865 Sorcery and Occult Practices Act and the later 1871 Use of Magic in Judicial Enquiries Act, specifically excludes the use of necromancy in any form, for any purpose. It is both illegal and unethical. Once a person has passed away, it is only right that their soul rests in peace, and we, as members of Her Majesty’s Police Force, must toil to uncover the reasons for, methods and perpetrators of their demise. 

“Every member of the Division upon elevation to our ranks, swears an oath not to partake in such diabolical practices. So, please refrain from such petty and insolent remarks.” Perkins looked a little taken aback, his cheeks reddening as Smythe spoke to him. He didn’t shout, that was not his style. He just spoke calmly and with a heavy dose of authority. Harris had been on the receiving end of it a few times, and had felt that he had regressed to childhood, akin to an elderly aunt admonishing him for not washing behind his ears.

“Now, the world as we know it is changing. Just as we are exploring the skies with the use of airships and the like, as our carriages and modes of transport become more mechanized, Magic has become a part of detective work. As with all these changes, you may not like it, but you should accept it.

“Inspector! Thinking about it now, DS Harris and myself may need another pair of hands. I do believe Constable Perkins is volunteering to assist. Would that be acceptable to yourself?”

Mulholland looked crossly at his constable. There was enough petty rivalry in the force as it was, without the need to antagonize those bloody ‘necros’ anymore.

“Aye, but his shift finishes at 2am. We haven’t been able to collect overtime for several months due to the cuts, so be decent enough to bear that in mind.” He turned to go, but added with a look over his shoulder, “Yes, the world is changing, DSI Smythe, but I still don’t like it. Witchcraft and flying? It’s abhorrent.” With that, Mulholland withdrew, along with the remaining uniforms. 

“We’ll open with Elvish Sight.” Smythe offered, it seemed more to himself than his companions. He dug around in his bag and took out a small vial and a spectacle case. Flicking the case open, he took out a pair of half-moon spectacles, which he placed reverently upon the bridge of his nose, and hooked the temple pieces over his ears. He placed his hand through the strap on his cane, so it hung loose about his wrist.

“You suspect an occult perpetrator?” Harris enquired, more for Perkins benefit than his own. He had, afterall worked with Smythe for over a year now.

“Of course. Nothing on this earth could deal those wounds – and then have the temerity to leave him here discarded like mullock. A wild beast would have partly devoured him, not slashed and gashed like this.” Harris kept his eye on the constable as Smythe explained. The young man whitened at the words.

Smythe uncorked the small vial, and tipped some of the powdery contents into the palm of his free hand. Adeptly, he corked the vial and dropped it into his jacket pocket. Drawing in a deep breath, he blew the dust over and around the corpse. Intently, he watched as the myriads of specks floated in the air and settled slowly.

“Faerie dust,” Harris explained to the onlooking constable. “This particular powder will be attracted to anything not of this world, or dimension. The spectacles are made of elvish glass and will help DSI Smythe focus on the evidence.”

“Anything not of this world? What could be not of this world?” Perkins asked.

“You should be praying right now that you do not find out.”

Smythe seemed to pick a few pieces of evidence up with a pair of slim tweezers and deposited them into individual petri dishes. These he placed gently back into the bag and then slowly circled the body, the ivory handle of his cane held to his lips as he drifted in pensive thought.

 “Now for the Candles of Akatos, Robbie, if you please.” Taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, he quickly inscribed four small inscribed pentagrams about the body, one each at the head and feet, with one either side. He muttered under his breath as he did so, just loud enough for Perkins to hear, though the constable heard only unintelligible gibberish. When he had completed the final one, he turned to Harris, who had Smythe’s doctors bag open in front of him. From it, he had retrieved a silver tray and had placed four, short stubby candles upon it. Each candle was dark red, a deep carmine, in colour and was mounted upon a roughly hewn chunk of quartz-like rock the size of a man’s fist.

Harris carried the tray solemnly to Smythe, who took each candle and placed it in the centre of each pentagram. When they were all placed, he crouched down at the head of the body, placing finger and thumb on either side of the candle’s wick and muttered a single word incantation.The wick lit with a lambent white flame, but the light from the flame seemed to shine downwards through the candle into the rock below. He moved to the candle at the feet, and lit that, followed by the final two. The rocks woke with the impurities fused into them millennia ago reflecting light or casting shadows as appropriate to their material make-up. 

With the candles lit, DSI Smythe moved to stand next to Harris. He tapped his cane against his shoe before addressing Perkins.

“Constable Perkins, hold the lantern up, if you please, and keep it steady. I am ready to begin.” He raised the handle to his lips once more, then exclaimed one word, throwing his arms out wide.

“SOTH!” His voice rent the air and the flames of the candles danced high before extinguishing themselves. The rocks under each still glowed with the ambient light, and from each wick a thin tendril of smoke rose into the night air, all four drifting to form a figure that stood between the corpse and the entrance to the alleyway.

Elated and exhausted!

On By Carl NorthwoodIn Excerpts, MusingsLeave a comment

So, a few days ago, I dotted the final ‘i’s, crossed the last ‘t’s and added a concluding full stop. After six years of writing and re-writing (and several years before that of procrastinating and planning), the first draft of my first novel is completed. Untitled, but complete. Done, Fini, Finito, well – until a rewrite. The file is saved and is with my writing mentor.

He left the temple and moved back onto the Street of Souls. The night had started to become foggy and gave the darkness and appropriate eeriness. Tomorrow was Sanda Sweven, the Feast day of the Dead, reputedly when the ghosts of those who were passed away revisited the mortal plane to commune with families and descendants. He looked up and down the wide street and concluded that he was the only soul out in the city that night. As the tall spires and domes of the temples loomed out of the mist, his mind conjured up a disturbing thought – maybe he was the only living soul out that night but maybe there were other souls abroad. Now when he looked down the wide boulevard ahead, the Street of Souls seemed less deserted. The candles and beacons that would normally illuminate the way for the pious and nervous to prayers and absolution now lit the way for the souls of the dead to dance again. Figures seemed to swirl in the mist and shadows, merging together then breaking apart in a macabre dance of death.

It may have been his mind, almost delirious with the cold and hunger, or just years of solitude and despair on the dangerous and dirty streets of Jacarna, but to Gudnar the spirits really were there – and they wanted him. He squealed with fear, his old legs shaking more now, but not just from the icy wind and he ran – ran as fast as he could down the long temple highway.

I say planning but that might be a slight exaggeration. The story started in my head long before I put pen to paper. I did no formal planning – which did not help at all. It came to a point where the story needed to be written down, and so I started. As each page progressed, the story evolved and changed. Some characters cast aside only to be given another chance.

I decided to write in a forgotten tongue, and didn’t bother with the PC

She watched in amazement as the flame on the brand crackled with renewed energy, and the whole thing burst into flame, engulfing first the arm of the creature and then its body. Bex struggled to free herself from the grip of the creature as the flames raced down the other arm towards where the creature held her fast. She looked on, face aghast, as her wrist and forearm blistered and ignited. She screamed, unable to escape the blaze.

The two guards stopped dead in their tracks as they saw her now completely engulfed in flames. She could hear Yab screaming and laughing and calling for more guards. The pain that the arrow had brought her was nothing to the searing agony of the fire. For a few seconds she was conflagrant with the creature and they locked eyes together. The creature smiled, her eyes were balls of fire and flames danced upon her head in a mockery of human hair. She now looked like a human chiselled from living fire, her skin patterned with movement like molten lava flowing from the earth, as she sat phoenix like surround by the licking flames.

And then, abruptly, the pain stopped, and she felt cold. The creature had disappeared, the floor of the cage scorched black from the heat and now she seemed odd. Her whole body ached, as if she was being crushed. Her skin was now red, and flames still writhed over her skin, yet she felt nothing from them.

I learnt the writer’s curse well. Some days, the words came easy, others not at all. Work took its toll and words dried up, for a week at first, then a month and then longer. Salvation came in the guise of a writing group. My long-suffering partner, anxious to read the finished story – and not just endless rewrites of chapters 1 to 5 – enrolled me into a ‘Novel in a Year’ group. This was a godsend, giving me the impetus, the big kick up the proverbial, and some advice, tips and training to get to the end.

At the crest of a nearby hill, Bex was met with a wondrous sight. They stood above a canyon carved from the land below, formed by a steep cliff on the side they stood. To one side the valley ran away into the distance. To the other, the cliffs from either side met to form a basin. Cascading from that were numerous cataracts of molten magma, pouring down into a lake of liquid fire below. The lake fed a river flowing away through the canyon. A river of molten rock.

As if the sight was not impressive enough, the opposite face of the canyon was terraced. Carved into the walls of the terraces were ornate buildings that seemed glazed and polished. As the rays of the huge sun hit them, they flashed and radiated in a brilliant multitude of colours.

Ishtara said one word and Bex noticed a feeling of elation and happiness in her voice, though tinged with a hint of regret.

“Home.”

But, what do I feel now; Excited and exhausted – this has been an extremely busy period at work and I have still managed to add a good 50,000 words, tidy up the rest and add bits in so it makes sense. I’m also relieved to get it finished. It has been a long time coming! Obviously, there is a long, long way to go before it is properly completed, but getting that first draft completed really helps.

Exhilarated, yet anxious, to find out how the characters and story are accepted, not just by family and my peers, but by the reading public. Anyone who knows me would be well aware that my superhero alter ego would be Introvert Man, with that great superpower of social awkwardness, so even contemplating these next steps is a great leap forward for me.

And finally, trepidation. Trepidation, in that this is only part 1 and the story needs to continue. I worry about that, and hope that I can do Bex and the other protagonists justice in telling the next part.

But first, a bit of a break. Although, without reading it, I am still thinking of tweaks or words and phrases I need to check. The list is growing, but I am still happy!

Excerpt: untitled novel

On By Carl NorthwoodIn Excerpts, UncategorizedLeave a comment

The gap between indifference and treason bridged.

Dutte reached the roof and made his way towards the next warehouse. The moon illuminated his way to the edge and the narrow gap between the two buildings. As Fferyll had said, a short board made of planks bridged the gap and he gingerly tested it by tapping it with one foot. Despite it looking older than the city itself, it seemed to be strong enough and he gulped heavily before stepping forward.

He swore as a small gust of wind caught his cloak, causing him to hurry the few steps across. Dutte reached under his cloak and touched the bulging purse double tied to his belt, to reassure him that it was still there. He crouched on the far side as he jumped down from the low parapet and surveyed the rooftop. There was a small shed that possibly allowed access to the roof from the warehouse below, and this cast a shadow across the wooden boards. There weren’t a lot of overlooking roofs nearby, making it a perfect site for clandestine meetings. No doubt, there were several escape points at either edge.

However, Dutte was alone. He rose and stepped forward towards the centre of the roof. He slowly made his way circling the shed took centre stage, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Still no-one, just a few tattered tarps and a pile of old boards, tied down against any wind. He sat down and waited, cursing Brant, Fferyll and the lineage of House Barstt under his breath. Twenty minutes passed, twenty long minutes that might have been hours as he waited for his meet. Finally, he stood and turned to make his way back down.

As he did so, a shadow seemed to rise from the pile of tattered tarpaulins. The dark shape shifted into the figure of a man, taller but more slender than Dutte. He took a step forward and Dutte saw that he was garbed in black leather armour, segmented in bands about the torso and shoulders to allow more flexibility. A stiffened cowl that came forward in a short point covered his head, whilst a half mask obscured the lower part of his face.

“There is no need for your sword, Client.” The figure whispered, standing his ground and holding his hands to out to his sides to show he wasn’t bearing a threat to Dutte.

“I am not your client yet. We haven’t a contract.” Dutte took umbrage at the figure almost immediately, especially at the length of time he had waited and that he had been there all along.

“Then we do not need to be here, Client.” The figure turned to walk away. Dutte cursed and started forward after him

“Wait! I have the fee.” The leather clad man turned back to face Dutte, now face to face.

“Good, then we talk. But a warning. Do not approach a member of the Brotherhood of Karnast like that again. Should you wish to disrespect the guild then our retribution will be swift and ruthless. We address you as Client out of respect of your anonymity, but we do know who you are.”

Dutte stepped back, annoyed at himself for being so reckless. What was he thinking? He had no doubt that this man, a member of the guild of assassins, would be able to best him even without a blade. He didn’t think words would carry much sway with the figure that faced him, so acknowledged his comments with a nod.

“Show me your coins, Client. I have other work to do tonight before the sunrise.”

Dutte slowly moved his hands to push his cloak back and then unlaced the purse from his belt. Relieved to be shed of its weight, he held it out and the assassin reached out and took it. He slipped it into a bag strung across his back by a cord over his shoulder and looped back under his belt.

“Aren’t you going to count it?”

“As I said, Client. We know who you are, not many people double cross the guild.” He held out his hand, having palmed a small vial from the bag when placing the bag of coins there.

Dutte took it and held it up, the vial was the size of his first two joints of his little finger. As he peered at the contents in the light of the moon, he noticed it was a little under a quarter full.

“It isn’t a lot for a thousand gold coins, is it?”

The assassin harrumphed, knowing that the purchaser knew the value of the vial and its contents but was just acknowledging the power encapsulated within.

“A thousand coins gets you whatever you get following your enemy’s death, Client. That is the most potent toxin known to man. Cultivated from a flower in Thesh, that small vial represents a thousand hours of work and has cost several lives so far.

It is a contact irritant that kills within seconds of touching bare skin. I would recommend gloves whilst administering it. It will stay potent in the air for an hour before becoming ineffective in its primary use.”

Dutte tucked it inside his belt pouch and nodded his acknowledgement.

“Thank you.”

He turned and crossed over the plank bridge, looking back when he had jumped down the other side. But the figure had already gone, melting back into the shadow world.