The Praegressus Project: Part One

by Aaron Hodges

  EPILOGUE

  Susan sucked in a breath as she looked down at the lights of the town. For what seemed like endless days and nights, the Chead had raced across the open countryside. She had run with them, revelling in her newfound strength. Light bled into dark, but it made no difference whether she travelled by the moon or the sun. At times, the red haze would sweep over her, but she embraced it now, thrilling in the power it gave her.

  When they stopped for rest, she would find herself in Hecate’s arms, his lips beneath hers, and all memory of her past life would fall away. The voice in the back of her mind grew weaker with each day, until it seemed only a distant memory. She had become a creature of instinct, driven by need, by desire.

  Now, darkness stretched out in all directions, except where the humans had built their homes. The ring of lights stood in defiance of the night, a cocoon protecting its occupants from the perils of the dark.

  That was how the humans were, she knew. Scurrying away in the dirt, always hiding from the power of mother nature, from the wrath she might bring. But it was not mother nature they needed to fear, not tonight.

  Tonight, it was their own folly that came for them.

  She saw the truth now, saw the cruelty of their species, the lives they destroyed in their endless quest for power. How she longed to undo her past, to take back the evils she had wrought. Thinking of those strange memories, she found herself confused, no longer able to understand what had driven her before the red haze came.

  There was only hunger now, the thirst for slaughter, the lust for her mate.

  Hecate stood beside her, his scent lingering in her nostrils. It was intoxicating, like a drug she could not live without. Together they stared down at the little town, contemplating its distant glow. Movement came from around them. The full moon lit the hillside, revealing the gathered Chead. They moved across the grassy slopes, preparing themselves.

  Returning her gaze to the town, Susan thought of what was to come. From deep in her mind, she felt a tug, a strange pang that seemed to come from another life. She shook her head, and it faded, the red haze rising to replace it.

  A call went out across the hilltop, followed by slow, silent movement. As one the Chead slid down the hill towards the town and its unsuspecting inhabitants. Their faces took on a new light in the glow of the moon, so they seemed almost ghosts, the spirits of the things they had once been.

  Humans.

  The word rang in her mind, and for a moment Susan paused. The red haze flickered, and her breath caught in her throat. As she looked out at the lights, an image flickered into her mind. She saw a dimly lit room, a fire crackling in its hearth, a man and a woman in each other’s arms, and a child nestled up against their legs.

  Pain seeped through her chest as she stilled. The image flickered, growing and then shrinking, as though struggling to exist in the darkness of her mind. She wondered where it had come from, what it meant, who they were.

  “Are you… ready?” Hecate’s lips brushed against her ear.

  Susan sucked in a breath, and the sweet scent of her mate filled her nostrils. She shivered as the red haze rose again, consuming the image in flames of rage.

  I am yours.

  Smiling, Susan looked up at Hecate. Today marked the beginning of a new age. Once lions had roamed the earth from Europe to Africa to America. Then had come Homo erectus, and the time of the lion had ended. Humanity had followed, creeping across the planet, extinguishing all that threatened it.

  But now their time was ending. Another had come to take its place.

  The age of the Chead had begun.

  “I’m ready.”

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  Phase Three: Complete.

  The Project Continues in: REBELLION

  There is no evolution without sacrifice. The weak must be eliminated, for the strong to rise.

  Devastated by Chris’s death, Liz has taken to the streets of San Francisco in a one-woman war against the government. With nothing left to lose, she’ll do whatever it takes to have her revenge. But even a genetically-engineered girl with wings has her limits, and Liz is up against an army. It’s only a matter of time before her recklessness demands a reckoning. The question is – who will pay the price?

  AFTERWORD

  Thanks for reading part one of the Praegressus Project! I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride so far, and don’t worry, the remaining two books in the series will be out by Christmas (and probably the second part of the boxset too!). If you’ve enjoyed the series so far, don’t forget to stop back by Amazon and leave a review. They really do help me keep going!

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  ALSO BY AARON HODGES

  If you’ve enjoyed this book, you might also like a free copy of my original novel:

  Stormwielder

  When Eric was young a terrible power woke within him. Horrified by the devastation he had unleashed, Eric fled his village, and has spent the last two years wandering the wilderness alone. Now, desperate to end his isolation, he seeks a new life in the town of Oaksville. But the power of the Gods is fading, and in their absence, dark things have come creeping back to the Three Nations. Civilisation is no longer the safe haven he once knew, and Eric will soon learn he is not the only one with power…

  Read on below for a free preview…

  STORMWIELDER: CHAPTER ONE

  A pillar of smoke rose from the burning house. The roar of the flames was deafening. Heat scorched his eyes but he could not look away. The blaze lit the night, chasing the stars from the sky. Amidst the fire the silhouette of a boy appeared. He stumbled from the wreckage, clothes falling to ashes around him. Sparks of lightning leapt from his fingertips, leaving scorch marks on the tiled street. Soot covered his slim face, marred only by the trail of tears running down his cheeks. The wind caught his mop of dark brown hair and revealed the deep blue glow of his eyes. He wore an expression of absolute terror.

  “Help me!”

  Eric sat bolt upright, the nightmare tearing him from his sleep. He gasped for breath, eyes darting around in search of escape. A wall of vegetation loomed above him. The dark fingers of branches clawed at his clothing. He scrambled for his dagger but it tumbled through his hands. He dove for the falling blade.

  His knees hit the dirt and with a sudden rush he remembered where he was. Eric took a deep breath; slowing his racing heart as he rose to his feet. The clearing had not changed while he slept. The trees still stood in a silent ring, their leaves speckled with the red and gold of early autumn. Where the canopy thinned above he could make out the blue sky, but below the dark of night still clung.

  Eric shivered and wished he had more than a holey blanket and worn leather jacket to ward off the cold. Reaching down he stuffed the blanket into his bag with the rest of his measly possessions – dried meat, a water skin, and the steel bracelet his parents had given to him as a child. The familiar dream clung to him, the boy’s face lurking in the shadows of his memory. He knew that face. It was his own.

  A tremor ran through his body. He flung the bag over his shoulder with a little too much energy, determined to forget the bad omen. Just through the trees was the Gods Road and about a mile west was the town of Oaksville. There he planned to make a fresh start for himself.

  Eric paused long enough to pull on his travel worn boots and brush the leaves from his hair, then he was away through the trees. Excitement quickened his pace – this was it. Today he would end his exile. In the two years since his fifteenth birthday he had wandered alone through the forests and plains of Plorsea. In that time he had kept his own company.
It had very nearly driven him insane.

  The trees either side of the Gods Road soon began to thin, giving way to the grassy steeps of a valley. Eric squinted into the rising sun, straining for his first glimpse of Oaksville. A layer of fog clung to the slopes, but it was quickly fading in the rising sun. Buildings began to take shape – wooden houses with tall smoking chimneys, the three-pronged spire of the temple, an old castle set in the centre that towered above the town walls.

  Eric’s spirit leapt at the sight. Then the first gust of wind reached him on the hilltop, carrying with it the clang of hammers and clip clop of hooves. His nose twitched at the tang of smoke and humanity hanging in the air. The image of a burning house flickered into his mind.

  He paused mid-stride. A voice whispered in his mind. Go back – it’s too dangerous!

  Fear gripped him. What if I’m not ready? His knees shook. His heart pounded like a runaway wagon on a cobbled street. His vision swam and he felt the warmth of tears on his cheeks.

  Eric turned his head and looked back up the hill. The long grass rippled in the wind, the trees beyond shadowing the movement. The forest could offer him nothing more. He drew a breath of air and faced the town. He took a step forward. The terror returned. His chest constricted until he could hardly breathe, but this time his nerve held. Eric walked down the valley towards the gates.

  Soon the outer wall loomed over him, its great stone blocks casting the path in shadow. Ahead a gaping hole in the stonework swallowed the road whole. A guard stood to either side of the gates, dressed in the chainmail and crimson tunic marking the Plorsean reserve army. Each held a steel tipped spear loosely at their side and a sword on their belt. The one to the right spared Eric a glance as he passed by, then returned his eyes to the road. Until recently Plorsea had enjoyed decades of peace. But now bandits had moved down from the mountains and were plaguing the countryside. At first they had only targeted travellers, but lately raids had been launched against some of the smaller settlements.

  Eric passed between the open gates and into the darkness of the tunnel. Moss covered the giant slabs of rock on either side of him. Iron grates peeked from the ceiling, once used to pour burning oil on invaders who breached the outer gates. These walls dated back to darker times, before peace had come to the Three Nations.

  With a deep breath Eric stepped from the tunnel and back into sunlight. A bustling marketplace spread out around him. The air was heavy with dust and the stink of human bodies. The buzz of a hundred voices assaulted Eric’s ears. To his left bakers stood at their booths waving loaves of bread in the faces of passers-by. Elsewhere he could see others plying their wares; butchers and jewellers, fishermen and carpenters, all chaotically crammed into the small square before the city gates. Each was doing their best to draw the early morning crowds to their stalls.

  A jeweller caught Eric’s eye and began motioning for him to look at his array of golden necklaces laid out on the table. Eric smiled and shook his head, but suddenly the jeweller was out of his stall and moving through the crowd towards him shouting, “Sir! Sir!”

  Eric shrank back towards the cool comfort of the tunnel. His feet stumbled on the uneven surface and sent him tumbling to the ground. His head struck the cobbled pavement. His ears rung. Groaning he looked up, straining to see while his vision spun.

  A face appeared overhead. “Careful there, mate,” the man offered a hand. Eric immediately recognised the western twang of a Trolan accent.

  Eric took the hand and the man hauled him to his feet. He stumbled for a second, trying to regain his balance.

  “That looked like a nasty fall,” the Trolan offered. “You okay?”

  The man wore a dark brown cloak and towered over Eric’s own five feet and seven. A poorly trimmed beard and moustache matted his face, while a broad smile detracted somewhat from the twisted lump serving him for a nose. His hazel eyes looked down from beneath bushy eyebrows. Silver streaked his black hair.

  Eric nodded. “It was my fault,” he stuttered. “Everything is so… overwhelming.”

  “A country boy then?” the man gave a booming laugh. “I remember my first time in a town like this. They stole every penny I had, not the pickpockets, those crooked merchants! Bought a dagger that snapped the first time I dropped it. These townsmen prey on the weak. Well don’t you worry mate, us country folk look after our own. The name’s Pyrros Gray, what can I do for ya?”

  Eric grinned. The man reminded him of the warm manner of people in his old village. “I’m Eric. Is there some place quiet I could sit for a while? My head is spinning.”

  “My pleasure, Eric. There’s a tavern not far from here, it’s usually quiet at this hour. I know the owner; he won’t mind you sitting down for a bit. Just follow me and we’ll have you there in no time. Only try not to catch the eye of any of these vultures, or they’ll soon convince you to trade everything you own for one of ‘em statues that grants luck with woman.”

  Pyrros set off through the crowd. Eric followed close behind, afraid to lose him in the press of bodies. His legs felt unsteady and his head throbbed with each step.

  A big woman stepped between them and thrust a wet trout in his face. “Cheapest fish in town! You buy!” she demanded.

  Eric shook his head and side stepped the merchant, trying to avoid any further contact. She shouted after him but he ignored her words. He scanned the crowd, searching for Pyrros.

  “Didn’t think I’d leave you behind, did you?” Pyrros’ voice came from behind him.

  Eric spun around, relieved to see the bulky man right beside him.

  Pyrros laughed. “So what brought you to Oaksville, mate?”

  Eric shrugged. “I wanted a fresh start.”

  “Well we’ll have to see what we can do about that. Now come on, we’re almost there.”

  They slipped into a narrow alleyway which twisted away from the marketplace. Tall brick walls hemmed them in on either side, casting the alley in shadow. The drone of the markets died off as they rounded the first corner. Dead wood and discarded garbage lay in piles along the alley, but someone had maintained a trail through the mess, leading deeper into the town.

  Eric wrinkled his nose as they passed a pile of decomposing fish heads. He stepped around it and hesitated. “Are you sure this is the way?”

  Pyrros turned and grinned. “It’s a short cut. The streets surrounding the marketplace tend to get so crowded you can hardly move. This way goes around.”

  A chill breeze blew through the alley. The hairs on Eric’s neck stood up. He did not like the way Pyrros was grinning. The man no longer seemed so friendly; suddenly the way he towered over Eric was threatening and a strange glint had appeared in his eyes. Eric’s gut churned in warning.

  “I think I’d prefer the crowd to this mess, thanks,” Eric turned to leave.

  Two men blocked his path. One spun a wooden baton in his hand and the other held a heavy club. Each stood a head above Eric. They were dressed in plain clothes, but the smiles they wore lacked any trace of warmth. A coil of rope was slung over the baton wielder’s shoulder. They spread out to block Eric’s escape.

  “Don’t bother running, mate,” Pyrros’ voice was menacing now. “You’ll make this easier on everyone if you come willingly.”

  Eric half turned, keeping the other men in sight. “What do you want?”

  Pyrros shrugged. “Fair trade’s not the only business that’s booming. Slaves have grown popular in southern Trola. So long as we’re discrete, take the ones no one misses, people turn a blind eye. You’re one of those, aren’t you mate?”

  He shook his head. “No, my parents are waiting–” he was interrupted by a harsh cackle.

  Pyrros scratched at his beard. “So you were lying earlier? About starting a new life?”

  Eric clenched his fists, tense as coiled wire. He glanced at the men behind him, gauging the distance between them. Fear made his breath come in short, ragged gasps.

  “No, I think you’re lying now, mate. I don’t
think anyone is out there waiting for you. I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who will miss you.”

  This cannot be happening!

  Pain pounded at Eric’s head, but he fought it down. He glanced at Pyrros, and then leapt at the man with the club. Grinning, the thug lifted his weapon. A moment before he swung Eric dived sideways, twisting for the gap between the men. He almost made it.

  A club to his chest stopped him cold. For the second time that day he found himself flat on his back. Winded, he choked for air, the faces of the two men spinning above him. He could feel his anger taking hold. Overhead, thunder clapped. Drops of rain began to fall.

  Footsteps came from nearby. Pyrros appeared above him, a frown on his face. “The first thing a slave must learn is obedience. You disappoint me, Eric. I took you for a quick learner.”

  The man’s boot came up and crashed down on Eric’s stomach. The breath exploded from his lungs. Pain constricted his chest and he gasped, eyes watering, desperate for air. Inside, Eric felt the embers of his fury take light.

  “Stupid boy,” by now the rain was bucketing down, soaking through the clothes of his attackers. Pyrros’ foot lashed out again, smashing into his ribs and head.

  Eric curled into a ball as the assault rained down. He choked back his tears, fear and rage battling for control. There was a sudden roar as something within snapped, giving way to the chaos of his emotions. A terrible power exploded through his mind, slipping from the darkest recesses of his conscious. He no longer felt the blows, or the rain, or the dirt beneath him. All that remained was an all-consuming hate; a need to lash out. A scream of torment echoed through the alleyway. The last barrier in his mind shattered.

  Eric opened his eyes. Blue light lit the stone walls of the passageway, freezing the men in a sudden blue glare. He saw the hate in Pyrros’ eyes turn to terror, saw the men beside him glance up, heard the crackling and smelt the burning as it came. Then the lightning struck.