by Aderyn Wood
The Borderlands: Journey
Book One
Aderyn Wood
Contents
Copyright
About the book
Dedication
Prologue
Glasgow
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
The Journey
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
The Borderlands
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Also by Aderyn Wood
About the Author
Copyright © 2014 Aderyn Wood
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Edited by Pam Collings
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About the book
Dale has never felt a sense of belonging. She despises the bullies and snobs at school, and her family are difficult to like, let alone love. Rhys, a new boy at school seems to take an interest in her. But can she trust him? When the only friend she has ever had, Old Man Gareth, is murdered before her eyes, she is set on a frantic journey and a lonely adventure; the Borderlands beckon. But what are the Borderlands? Will she make it to them? And if she gets there, will she belong?
The Borderlands: Journey is a magical fantasy adventure that fantasy fiction fans, particularly older teens and the young at heart, will enjoy. It is the first book in the Contemporary Fantasy trilogy 'The Borderlands'.
To dreamers
Prologue
The traitor waited at the meeting place atop the mountain. Snow glimmered in the moonlight like dull diamonds. He blew warmth into his hands, rubbing them together as he paced. Time was scant.
“You’ve come, then.”
The voice came from behind, and the traitor jumped and spun. A man, cloaked and cowled, approached.
“What choice did I have?” The traitor’s voice wavered in the thin air.
The cloaked man laughed; his golden eyes just visible beneath the dark hood. “You had a choice. We all have choices.”
The traitor shut his eyes and clenched his teeth. “It’s freezing.”
“Perhaps you harbor doubt. This place is harsh.” The man gestured to the deep valleys and rapids. To the south an avalanche fell; its rumble came to them like lazy thunder.
The traitor eyed it all, and nodded. “I want to come back.”
“Then tell me where she is.” The man’s hiss echoed off the rock.
A shadow fell across the traitor’s brow. When he spoke, vapour billowed from his mouth. “You promise I will return? With all that I need?”
The hooded man inclined his head. “All shall be done.”
“And you won’t hurt her? I mean, she doesn’t even know …”
The wind blew and lifted snow with it, cold and sharp as steel. The traitor fell to the ground; a great force pinned him down, embedding his face in the snow and thrusting it in. He tried to scream, but could only choke. Icy pain sunk into his teeth, his oesophagus, his stomach, every cell burnt with freeze.
“I am not a patient man.” He could just hear the words, muffled, through the snow about his ears. “You need not be concerned with the girl.”
Finally, the pressure stopped and the traitor found he could lift his face to vomit out the snow. Tears streamed along his cheeks and froze in thin lines of ice that snapped when he grimaced. In the moonlight his hands were blue. A dark ribbon of blood now lay before him on the snow. He managed to stand, teeth chattering. The hooded man stood as still as the mountain before him, eyes glowing.
“Now, tell me – where is she?” His voice, a whisper in the wind.
The traitor closed his eyes and his forehead furrowed all the more, but the words formed and spilled out with the mist from his breath – treacherous words. “Scotland,” he croaked. “Glasgow. That’s all I know.”
He opened his eyes, but the hooded man had gone. He squinted into the night sky. A creature flew over the mountain, its silhouette just visible in the moonlight.
Part I
Glasgow
1
“Of course all revolutions are doomed to fail …” The history teacher’s voice droned on like the hum of the fluorescent lights.
Summer had arrived early in Glasgow. A warm breeze rustled the oak trees below the classroom; the term break was close. Dale decided to go down to the river after school to see Old Man Gareth. Would he be back? They had a lot to plan.
“Dale? What do you think?” It was Mr Nugent. “Dale!”
She jumped, dropping her pen. It bounced off the desk, and she tried to grasp it again but it spun out of reach and descended to the concrete of the schoolyard below. “Damn,” she muttered.
The students in the back row laughed. Typical.
“Off with the fairies again?” Nick Travis asked.
More sniggering.
“Seen any little elves lately, Dale?” Prudence Feathertop, sarcastic as usual.
Prudence and Nick, both blond and blue-eyed, shared a high-five. Dale resisted an urge to tell them how a cat she knew had an IQ higher than theirs combined. She knew it would only backfire and give Prudence more material to attack her with. She turned instead to face the tired and frustrated figure of Mr Nugent.
The teacher rubbed his forehead as he stared at the carpet. He repeated his question.
“Dale. Could-you-please-tell-me-the-key-events-that-ins-ti-gated-the-revolution?”
Dale knew his precise and slow articulation was meant to make her feel even more foolish. But she listened, suddenly feeling sorry for him; he was only trying to do his job.
“Yes, Mr Nugent.” She’d make an effort, despite the plastics in the back row. She took a breath.
“Well, during the eighteenth century most people were honest, hardworking peasants.” She recalled every event she could think of that led to the French Revolution. The corruption of the elites, “the sycophantic toadies”, she glanced at the back. Nick sat with his mouth agape, like a puppy, no doubt trying to decipher ‘sycophantic’.
“The people of Paris rose up to storm the Bastille and destroy the Ancien Régime.” Dale thought she had delivered a good answer and awaited her teacher’s adulation. He should like it.
But Mr Nugent hadn’t budged. He remained standing, his shoulders hunched, studying the carpet, his hand now covering his ey
es.
The clock above the whiteboard ticked and echoed around the classroom.
“A fine answer, Dale.” Came his quiet reply. “A fine answer – if we were studying the French Revolution!”
Nick and Prudence lead the class in renewed laughter. Dale’s cheeks warmed.
“Does anyone even know what we’re studying here?” Mr Nugent was no longer quiet. The class stopped laughing. He eyed each student with visible frustration, even hostility.
They were a sea of blank faces.
Sighing again Mr Nugent muttered, “Why do I bother?” He asked the students to turn to page twenty-four of their textbooks and begin reading the introduction on the Russian Revolution.
Poor Mr Nugent. It was difficult for teachers at this time of year. Exams were finished and new classes were starting for the following school term. But, they were really only introductory classes; the students would forget everything over the summer break. Of course no one was paying any attention.
Dale opened her textbook to the required page and began reading, but the window, and daydreams about the coming summer proved more interesting.
The clunk of the door opening interrupted the silence. Dale looked up. The chaplain, Dr Brown, entered with a new boy.
Dr Brown spoke quietly with Mr Nugent while the entire class looked over the new kid. He was tall and well built, and stood with confidence. He didn’t seem concerned that a whole class of sixteen year olds evaluated him.
“He’s hot!” Prudence whispered. Even her whispers were loud.
Dale rolled her eyes but silently agreed. He was good looking: dark hair, dark eyes. He was a cliché. No doubt Prudence and the plastics would sink their claws into him by the end of the day.
He reminded Dale of someone. Studying his features, she tried to place whether she might have met him before. He had perfect olive skin and the type of eyes girls melted in. His hair framed his face in waves, making him look as if he belonged in one of those magazine ads for aftershave or jeans.
When his gaze returned hers she almost jumped. She looked away, scratching her nose as she did so. Had he seen her staring? When she glanced back, his eyes were still focused – on her. Was that a smile? The warm sensation of a blush crept up her neck. Dale hated it when she blushed. Her face would match her dark red hair and everyone would call her ‘beet head’. Thankfully, the rest of the class were too busy looking at him to notice.
Dr Brown finished his quiet conversation with Mr Nugent and faced the class.
“I apologise for the interruption, students.” His eyes flicked to the textbooks. “St Nino’s has a new student. This is Rhys.” He put one fat hand on the new boy’s back and nudged him forward. Some students leaned forward a little.
“Now, I’d like someone to show Rhys around.” The chaplain squinted and looked to the ceiling. “We need someone who will welcome Rhys as a friend and show him the responsibility that we all share here at St Nino’s College.”
Dale rolled her eyes again and looked out the window as the chaplain went on and on about the so-called ‘privilege’ of attending St Nino’s.
She had a different perspective. The old institution had a great capacity to believe its own bullshit. It claimed to provide the latest in educational expertise, to ‘unlock your child’s potential’, but it was a little factory in an old stone building, manufacturing students to conform to the world of greed and vanity that her generation was to inherit.
Most of the students enrolled at St Nino’s were snobs: the sons and daughters of the wealthy businessmen and women who had invaded Glasgow from all over the world. The high school was a favourite with all the internationals. Few of the student population were actual Glaswegians. Her own family was from London. Her parents had made the move over four years ago when her stepfather got an accounting job with Aon. Where was Rhys from?
“I’ll do it.” Prudence’s hand shot up. “It’d be my pleasure, Dr Brown.”
Dale winced at Prudence’s blatant interest in the new boy. He was already one of them.
When the bell rang Dale packed her things slowly. Being the last to leave provided some advantages. It bought time with the teachers; she enjoyed the intellectual conversations that some of the teachers were happy to engage in. But mostly, it meant the bullies could be avoided. There was a clear pecking order amongst the student population. It was a slippery hierarchy and Dale had no illusions about her place on the ladder – the very bottom.
She put the last of her pens in her pencil case. The new boy also stayed back to talk to Mr Nugent. Prudence had loudly declared she’d meet him at the cafeteria. He was asking the history teacher to explain what he needed to do to catch up. Dale walked to the door, avoiding them both. But just as her hand reached for the door handle Mr Nugent called her name.
“Dale would be the best one to help you out. Dale? Come here a minute, would you?”
She slumped. “I’d love to but I have to go, Mr Nugent.”
The teacher raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but I’d like you to help out Rhys here. Perhaps give him your class notes and a couple of your assignments? The one on the Renaissance would be useful.”
“I’d like that,” Rhys said. He had an accent. Nothing unusual; there were many accents at an international school. But he hadn’t spoken enough for her to place it. She glimpsed at him and saw the same intense stare from before. The burning sensation was rising again, and so did panic. No! Don’t blush now!
“Sure, but I have to go now.” She turned and ran into the closed door. She swore quietly, “Shit!” opened the door, and sped out into the corridor to her locker. She wanted to plunge into a dark abyss and never see Rhys again, let alone talk him through the term’s work. His type didn’t befriend the likes of her. No, they called her ‘beet head’, ‘nerd’ and worse. It was best to avoid them.
She dropped her books into her bag, and then ran out through the school’s gardens, avoiding further contact with anyone. Once past the iron gates, she slowed and took a deep breath. An invisible weight lifted. A warm southern breeze ruffled her hair, and she walked on, leaving the school day, and Rhys, behind her.
A bus took her through the city centre before changing direction towards Parkhead. Rush hour was beginning. Pedestrians raced to bus stops and subways, ignoring a charity worker asking for donations, and a homeless man with a sign that read ‘please’.
The bus drove past the Sentinel building and Dale thought of her stepfather, Antonio. An image of him came to mind as she glanced at the glass walls. He studied a computer screen of numerical figures and spreadsheets. A cold take away coffee sat close to his keyboard. She shook her head and focused on other things, wondering why she had such a vivid imagination.
The bus stopped just past the stadium. She got off and headed for the old hospital. The dilapidated building that was once Belmont Hospital stood abandoned and crumbling. She slipped through the wire fencing and walked along the overgrown path that led to the central courtyard. Old Joan was there tending her garden.
“Hello, Joan. Have you seen Gareth today?”
The old woman was tying a tomato plant to a stake using a well-worn sock. She looked up and gave Dale a toothless grin, shaking her head.
Dale bit her lip. Where was he? She rummaged in her school bag, found an apple and a cheese sandwich and gave them to Joan. The old woman smiled again and nodded before disappearing into the east wing of the hospital.
The rundown building had been home for Gareth ever since Dale had met him. It was also home to Joan, who rarely spoke but grew a prodigious vegetable garden. She lived in the east wing and Gareth lived in the west wing.
Dale opened the door to Gareth’s place. It was tidy as usual. Well, half of it was. He claimed the southern half of the wing and enjoyed a stream of sunshine on clear days. He had a mattress in the corner, made with clean sheets and blankets. Beside the bed sat his treasures: a pile of books, sailing journals. A little table and two chairs stood in the centre of the room. A shelf
in the opposite corner held Gareth’s cooking equipment: a little gas cooker and a few implements, neatly positioned.
Dale decided that perhaps he needed a chopping board and made a mental note to steal one from her mother’s kitchen.
There were other oddments too: A very old but comfortable lounge chair; an ornate, but rusted, candelabrum with stalactites of candle wax hanging from its arms. A little bowl and a few dried morsels of cat food sat along a wall next to a worn pillow covered with grey fur – Cat’s bed. A jungle of vines occupied the other half of the wing; the tendrils sought the sunshine on Gareth’s side.
Perhaps Gareth was at the river. She closed the door, waved goodbye to old Joan, and headed down the path. It was a short walk to the river’s edge. The trees, heavy with green leaves, rustled in the warm breeze. She breathed deeply, enjoying the scent of summer. Hopefully he’d be back; they had to start planning!
A public walking trail lined the river. Today there were no walkers or joggers, but there was no Gareth either. She dumped her school bag and her shoulders slumped. Gareth had promised they would sail the length of the Clyde and beyond. It would be so good to get away from everyone. The bullies, the plastics, her family, everyone! Gareth, a homeless old eccentric had become her only friend in the world.
She walked to the riverbank and threw a stone into the dark water. Upstream there was nothing but the ripples on the river’s surface from the breeze. He wasn’t returning tonight. He was probably camping somewhere. Hopefully he was making plans for their trip. Sighing, she picked up her bag and headed for home.
Dale walked quickly. She had an urge to paint and didn’t want to waste time. Her family lived in a large house in Springfield Gardens, Parkhead, a small suburb, just east of the inner city. Her mother had wanted to buy a place in the trendy West End, but her stepfather pushed for a bigger house in a less exclusive suburb, one they could afford. So, they had bought this two-storey house. It hugged the necropolis but her mother tried to forget the moribund neighbours.
