Dustfall, Book Two - The Parting of Ways
Page 24
The cold had numbed one side of his face, and he could no longer feel his feet, but each step he took jarred the bones in his legs and reminded him that he was still standing—still alive—and still moving forward toward the inevitable. Would they kill him? The Coven would, if they had their way. There were few places that he was not exiled from, and the Coven had seen to it that the Cygoa lands were one of those places. But this was not his choice, now.
Gaston turned his head to the Cygoa scout who had pushed him, and, beating the urge to frown at him, merely smiled coldly. “There is no need for this,” he said. “We are coming willingly.”
The scout grunted and pushed him a second time, but noticeably less roughly, before stepping past him and heading toward the front of the group. The man glanced back once before speeding up, and Gaston saw disdain in that look. Some of these know me from when I was expelled, he thought.
Ahead of Gaston, the other survivors staggered through the snow, and he tried to ignore the moans that came as they struggled. There was what—twenty more miles?—to go before they would reach the outskirts of the city, and another two before they reached the fortified center. How many more would fall?
And did he care? He already had his answer to the danger of White Citadel. His goal had been accomplished, even if he secretly held great disappointment for it. Some of the Elk were people he would have liked to have known, even if most of them were a waste of space. No faith in any of them, though. Except for Roke. The boy had faith. Such a shame. They’d all had faith in him when they broke away from the Elk, but at the end only Roke. And what good had that done the boy, who now lay cold in a shallow grave, his frozen corpse waiting for the sun to thaw the snow before wild animals caught scent of it and dug it up.
He knew he should speak to the survivors, the ones who had followed him, and offer them some form of hope, but he couldn’t be bothered. They would probably be killed, anyway.
A few hours later, still stumbling, Gaston stepped onto the hard blacktop that lay almost intact underneath the overpass. He’d seen the concrete monstrosity from a great distance, gradually growing in size as they approached, and he had wondered if the darkness that he remembered would provide enough cover for him to rouse the survivors in revolt against their captors. But as they gradually approached, his willingness ebbed away until he sighed as he stepped out of the snow onto the flat ground.
It was dark for maybe fifty yards, and the weeds had not cracked the flat surface of the road. Even the snow and frost had kept their distance. It was rare to see such things in the world, things like an unbroken stretch of blacktop. The old diner up on the edge of Lake Eerie came to mind, where he had stayed for a while after the remainder of his clan had fled north to escape the slaughter that the T’yun brought to them. That place had been almost miraculous. Hundreds of years after it had been built, and on the edge of a vast body of water whose winds should have torn the place down, the diner had still stood almost intact, the sign still hanging out the front, the boards of the pier and the dock still withstanding the lapping of the water from the lake even though that water had changed color over the centuries.
His mind snapped out of its freeze-induced daze, and his attention swept the hidden, shadowed areas under the bridge. Something moved back there, he thought.
To his left the ground was bare all the way up to the cracked concrete buttress that still, somehow, managed to hold up the bridge above. Nothing there. There are no places to hide, he thought.
But was that movement?
No, it wasn’t. Nothing moved in the shadows, but there was definitely someone watching them. Gaston glanced at the others around him, Cygoa scouts and Elk survivors both, but no one else had noticed the presence. He glanced to his right, into the murky shadow that lay beyond a ramshackle half-collapsed shanty house. The shack had been built a long time ago, he thought, and had been occupied many times, but it wasn’t inhabited now. They had passed it on the journey out to White Citadel and had already scoured it for anything useful, finding nothing. A few rusty and cracked cooking pots, the skeletal remains of someone long-dead, rags, and dirt. Nothing of value.
His gaze went beyond that, but he found the darkness toward the slope at the other end of the underpass too impenetrable to see through. Sun blindness, from the reflection of the sun on the snow, had made his vision blurry.
There , he thought, looking away. In that darkness, something or someone watched them.
Whoever you are, Gaston thought. You had better stay silent and hidden, or you will be joining us.
Chapter 65
Gaston had been right, and he had even looked directly at her at one point, sending a sharp pang of fear down Seren’s back. Sorcha, thankfully, had remained silent, and Seren now believed that the wolf was becoming attuned to her thoughts. She knows we must hide, Seren thought, and then wondered how much of Sorcha’s short life had been spent hiding. The wolf had obviously been a runt, and was small in stature, even if her fangs were somehow too large. She remembered how the wolf had hidden when she had killed the large male wolf—hidden in fear, maybe.
They both sat, huddled together and hidden underneath the barely-standing wooden construction wedged in at the very back of the ruined shanty town under the bridge, crouched in the darkest spot she could find. Seren had wanted to see more, and wanted to check that her eyes had not been deceiving her as the Cygoa scout warband had travelled back past her with the bedraggled captives it now accompanied. She had spotted who she thought was Gaston, and several others that she recognized, but the one she thought was Roke was not her brother.
And the one they left one the side of the road, bleeding out into the snow, was not Roke either. She knew the man. He had been a young warrior that Jonah thought had much promise, but the corpse lying in the ditch had barely resembled the healthy, strong young warrior that she had even spoken to a few times. He had been thin, almost emaciated, and his skin was no longer ruddy brown but almost grey, and pale. Paler than death even before the blood left his body.
The night had been her ally, and Sorcha her guide, as they caught up and passed the Cygoa and their captives during the night. She had wanted a better look, to see who had been captured and was now being led back to Wytheville, but they had all been bedded down with no campfire, and the Cygoa posted four guards at a time. She hadn’t dared to get too close.
Then, as she had watched them sleep, from her distant but high point atop the hill that overlooked the valley the road led through, she had thought of the overpass.
Less than ten miles along the road would lead them further into the valley, and into regions that had once been populated. More road, more buildings. And the overpass she had searched when they had come this way on their journey out to White Citadel. The shanty huts at the back. If she hid there, and let her eyes adjust, she could watch as they came by.
Less than a quarter of the number that had left, Seren thought as she watched the Cygoa lead the remainder of the White Citadel expedition under the bridge barely twenty yards from where she hid. There were less than a quarter of those that had been alive when she had turned back and left them a few months before.
So where were they? Where were the others? Where was Roke? That some of the Elk had returned was no surprise to her—but Gaston being with them was. And who were these people that had captured them? No folk that she knew of. The garb and weapons were alien to her.
Sorcha sniffed and dabbed her nose on Seren’s cheek.
“I know,” Seren said. “I know, they are dangerous. But I have to follow them.”
Sorcha whined quietly.
“When I see where they are going, we will leave for the east, I promise,” said Seren. “And meet my people again.”
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Dustfall, Book Three ---- COMING SOON!
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Acknowledgements - J. Thorn
I would like to thank my wife and kids who vetted the concept over salad and breadsticks at a crowded Italian restaurant - anything sounds great on a carb high. As always, The Keepers continue to provide me with constant support and motivation. The ADH gang (you know who you are) have become my “secret” round table of advisors and I continue to learn from their collective wisdom and humor, even Zach. Speak of the devil, Zach Bohannon has become a great friend and partner in many ways. I'm grateful for his friendship and look forward to many more years of it. Finally, I'd like to thank Mr. Glynn James. He is a true professional and a writer I've admired for years. To collaborate with him has been an amazing experience and I'm sincerely appreciative of the opportunity - I'd go to a Dustfall with you, brother.
Acknowledgements - Glynn James
Thanks to all of the Jameses – Julia, for your patience and constant encouragement, and my kids, for just being you.
To my parents and my brother for not being too surprised that I write crazy fiction, and for telling me it’s cool.
To Bill, Sara, Billy, Jim & Jean for taking me seriously and never doubting that I could actually do this, and for demanding signed copies when I thought that whole idea was daft.
Many thanks to Andrea of Express Editing Solutions - http://www.expresseditingsolutions.co.uk
Any typos or errors in this book after this fantastic editor went through it - are entirely my fault.
Lastly, thanks to James Thorn for going along on this crazy journey with me. It took us a while to get this project going, but we got there in the end and I’m certainly glad we did!
James is a blast to work with and a kindred soul, quite often first guessing me on ideas before I even mentioned them, and coming up with ideas far better than mine. Here’s to us continuing to work together to bring life to stories that not only we, but other people will want to read.
About J. Thorn
Click here: http://jthorn.net/optin/df01.htm
Healed by the written word
Want a story that's rooted in a fundamental aspect of being human?
I believe reading dark fiction can be healing. My overriding mission is to connect with you through my art, and I hope to inspire you to do the same. I’m a word architect and driven visionary. I’m obsessed with heavy metal, horror films and technology. And I admire strong people who are not afraid to speak their mind.
I grew up in an Irish Catholic, working class family and was the first to go to college. I didn't have expensive toys, so I used my own imagination for entertainment. And then I abused alcohol for entertainment. I spent the first thirty years of my life convincing myself I wasn’t an addict and the last ten worrying about all the potential threats the substances hid from me.
Anxiety and depression are always hiding in the corner, waiting to jump me when I start to feel happiness.
I had to break through family programming and accept the role of the black sheep. In my 30s I started writing horror and formed a heavy metal band while my family rolled their eyes, sighed and waited for the “phase” to end.
I spent years paralyzing myself with self-loathing and criticism, keeping my creativity smothered and hidden from the rest of the world. I worked a job I hated because that’s what Irish Catholic fathers do. They don’t express themselves, they pay the damn mortgage. I may have left my guilt and faith behind long ago, but the scars remain.
My creativity is my release, my therapy and my place to work through it all. I haven't had a drink in a long time, but the anxiety and depression are always lurking. Writing novels and songs keeps it at bay. I scream over anxiety with my microphone and I turn my guitar up loud enough to drown out the whispers of self-doubt.
I hope to leave a legacy of art that will continue to entertain and enrich lives long after I'm gone. I want others to see that you don’t have to conform to the mainstream to be fulfilled.
Don’t be afraid of the dark. Embrace it.
About Glynn James
GLYNN JAMES, born in Wellingborough, England in 1972, is a bestselling author of dark sci-fi novels. He has an obsession with anything to do with zombies, Cthulhu mythos, and post-apocalyptic and dystopian fiction and films, all of which began when he started reading HP Lovecraft and Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend back when he was eight years old. In addition to co-authoring the bestselling ARISEN books (over 250,000 copies sold), he is the author of the bestselling DIARY OF THE DISPLACED series and the THROWN AWAY series. More info on his writing and projects can be found at www.glynnjames.co.uk.
Table of Contents
Beginning
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright