Hûw Steer's Blog, page 25

The Boiling Seas: Non-Canon Adventures, Part 3

Part 3 of the non-canon Boiling Seas story. If you haven’t read part 2, it’s here. But now it’s time to get spooky.

The chapel was as bare and dull within as without. The walls were whitewashed, the seats rough wooden benches that didn’t even look properly sanded down. Even the most simple places of worship would display the symbols of the various gods – but in here they were small, dull things, looking almost an afterthought above the plain stone block that was the altar. The pulpit was of the same rough-hewn wood. There were no banners, was no metalwork, no ornamentation of any kind. Max’s lip curled in disgust. She’d spent a lot of her academic career examining accounts of the temples of old, things of gold and soaring spires dedicated to deities long since forgotten. Tal, who had actually seen many of those forgotten temples, looked just as unimpressed. This was a paltry imitation even if one were feeling generous.

“So,” Tal said, dragging Max from her reverie, “this ossuary.”

“Um, somewhere behind the altar. That’s where they usually are. In places like this.” Tal nodded, and strode down the aisle between the benches without hesitating. The chemical lanterns that ran in a line along the ceiling were extinguished, the only light within the pale moon, filtering through the slit windows. Even if someone were watching the windows no passing shadow would be visible. She followed him. There was a door, but Tal ignored it. Probably just a back room. Instead he knelt behind the altar, where there was flat double door set into the flagstones, heavy and ironbound. It too was locked, but Tal’s picks flashed, and though it took him a moment he had it open swiftly. He pried up one of the doors, grunting with the effort.

“Give me a hand.”

Together they lifted the heavy doors free. The hinges were thankfully well-oiled. A steep stair led down, into a darkness like pure pitch, utterly impenetrable. Max shivered at the sight despite herself. You broke into an asylum. And out of it. This isn’t even the most frightening thing you’ve done today, let alone lately. All the same, the dark, and her knowledge of what lurked within it, made her shudder.

“Guards!” Tal’s hiss was urgent. His eyes were closed as he felt the air. “Two coming. With a hound.” He was already halfway into the hole in the floor. “Come on!”

Half-reluctantly Max dropped into the steep stairwell, and she pulled her door up and over, straining at the huge weight of the iron and old oak. She almost let it drop – almost – but she held it, and she and Tal lowered the doors as gently as they could, setting them in place with barely a sound and plunging them into total darkness. They were just in time. As the doors slotted into place Max heard the chapel’s main door open, and cursed quietly. It shouldn’t have opened at all, should have stayed resolutely locked without the key. The guards would see the shattered lock – and as she thought it she heard one of them exclaim, muffled by the heavy doors but clearly startled. She grimaced.

“Sorry,” she murmured, almost directly in Tal’s ear.

“Don’t worry,” the thief murmured back. He was doing something in the dark, working by touch alone. “They won’t find us.”

“Surely they’ll look in here?”

“Not – ” there was a soft click from above them “ – if it’s still locked.” There was another, softer snap, and a soft golden light filled the air, gently spreading out from Tal’s clenched fist. It was dim, but in the darkness it was more than enough to see the satisfaction on his face as he pocketed his lockpicks again.

“Very nice,” Max admitted. Tal grinned.

“Thanks. Now let’s get below before they bring over the damn dog.”

Down the steep stair they climbed, into the dark, the golden glow of Tal’s witchlight dripping from his fingers. Max had to fight not to be fascinated by the light, forcing herself to concentrate on the rough, plain stone of the tunnel, looking for clues. Tal’s light was a strange piece of magic, neither pure fire nor pure light, nothing that any piece of book-learning had prepared her to see. But then he’d had no formal training like she had, knew none of the structures and theories of magic that had been laid down by centuries of scholars. The light running over Tal’s hand like liquid was something instinctual, something new.

Thankfully there was neither sight nor sound of pursuit – the guards above must have been fooled by Tal’s relocking of the doors. The surface was, presumably, still in uproar from the broken lock, clear evidence of trespassers – but at least, for now, they were out of sight and mind. Max didn’t relish the thought of what might wait for them above, though. She pushed it out of her mind. The tunnel levelled out quickly, and the witchlight illuminated more plain flagstones, more rough walls. Tal’s frown deepened.

“Long way down.”

“They wish to keep its contents safe,” Max replied as they walked. “I cannot blame them. This is a traditional design, in any case.”

“Arcadian?”

“Later, but inspired. The dead must be kept at a minimum distance from the living worshippers. To avoid unintentional idolatry.” Max remembered the hefty treatise she’d laboured through a few years before when studying funeral rites for a series of essays. “Space and layout were very important to the Arcadians. Alter placement, proximity of relics – ”

“I do know a little,” Tal interrupted – but gently, with a small smile. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“Sorry.” Max flushed. Not talking to anyone for four days had clearly affected her more than she’d realised.

“Anyway,” Tal continued, “you can point it out to me in person. Here we are.”

Before them, the rough tunnel ended in an archway of smooth black marble, polished to a mirror-bright gleam. Tal took another step, stretching out his hand, and the liquid glow of his witchlight licked at the walls beyond the archway, and caressed the bones that sat upon the rows of endless shelves.

“Hellfire,” Tal breathed. Max was already ahead of him, leaning close to one of the shelves. The bones were human, and they were legion. They were not laid out in the shape of skeletons, but packed neatly into the shelves, separated by wooden dividers. Long, thin bones were stacked at the back of the deep shelves, tibiae jostling for space with ribs; in front of them sat vertebrae stacked three or four high in tight columns. The small bones of fingers and toes had been placed in slots in the bottom of the shelves, running the width of each alcove, and atop those slots, at the front of each space, was a grinning, eyeless skull.

“Fascinating,” Max breathed, examining the nearest skull. The alcove was barely wider than the skull itself, every bone of the owner’s body packed tightly into the space behind it. It was a very efficient use of space. A small brass plaque gleamed below the skull. The owner’s name had been Alexios. The dates were several hundred years old. Amazing. That was old Arcadian. Had this bone-House really been here for that long?

“Just how many,” Tal began, but he faltered as he raised his hand, clenching it, his witchlight glowing more brightly, and he saw the full extent of the ossuary. Max gasped too. There were hundreds of alcoves, the shelves stretching floor to ceiling, eight feet high, and from every one there leered a pale skull, dark-eyed and grinning.

“Hundreds,” Max breathed, her thumping, fearful heart fighting a bloody war with her fascinated scholar’s brain. Thousands, even. All named, all dated. This could not have always been an asylum. What other buildings stood on this isle before? Temples? Palaces? Given time she could have compiled whole books’ worth of new knowledge of the old Empire from these bones and this place, she was sure of it.

But they didn’t have that time. The guards would, eventually, realise she was gone from her cell, and when they did so no stone would be left unturned in their search for her. The asylum prided itself on its security. According to them, no patient – or prisoner – had ever left without being discharged. If they dallied, they would be hunted – and eventually they would be found.

Tal saw the look on her face and grimaced. He, too, had the glint of fascination in his eye. A thief only he was not.

“We don’t have time.”

“I know.”

“Maybe some day.”

“Maybe.” But Max knew it would almost certainly not be a day in her lifetime. She breathed in deeply, and then let out her regret in a great sigh.

“Alright,” she said. “There ought to be an alcove further along. With records.” She felt a pang of loss, knowing what those records might be able to tell her, but quashed it.

“An index?”

“I hope so.”

Tal let out a sigh of his own, and straightened, brightening his witchlight.

“Come on, then. Let’s get this done.”

Tune in next week for part 4.

The Boiling Seas – Non-Canon Adventures, Part 2

Here’s the next instalment of the little non-canon Boiling Seas side-story I wrote a while ago. If you haven’t read part 1 yet, you can find if here. Once/if you have, enjoy the next bit.

Tal stepped over to the door and bent to the lock. Max caught the flash of picks in his hand, and shook her head. Enough magic at his fingertips to melt metal, and he still relies on this. But it was his way, and she wasn’t about to interrupt – and besides, she thought as the lock clicked open, he was very good at it.

“Anyone there?” she whispered, wary of the guards. She didn’t want to start a fight if they could help it, and knew that Tal didn’t either. They were neither of them warriors. She saw him close his eyes, concentrate. Another trick I need to learn. Max watched him taste the wind, feeling its currents – draughts, breezes, and breathing.

“Nobody in the corridor,” he muttered. “Clear.” He opened his eyes and opened the door, and Max followed him into the corridor. The light hurt her eyes; the cells were dim but the corridors were warmly lit by chemical lanterns at regular intervals. Automatically she leached a little of their heat, replenishing her reserves. She had a feeling she’d need it.

“This way,” she said confidently. Tal shut the door – there was no sense advertising her absence – and followed her. Max hadn’t had much chance to look around but she’d seen enough to know where they were going. She trod carefully, mindful of her bare feet. Wish you’d brought some boots, Tal. The asylum was a warren of outbuildings, and its main keep a maze of corridors, but she walked with confidence towards the nearest stairwell. A madman would have been hopelessly confused on their way in, as the orderlies marched them to their cell. But Max had been paying attention, and if there was one thing her time at the Lantern had given her it was an excellent memory. They slipped down the stairs silently, padding along the next corridor past cell after cell, each one locked securely, each with its own occupant. The doors were heavy, oak bound in iron, but they were not completely soundproof. Max’s lip curled in discomfort as she heard whimpers, moans in many voices, many accents. There was nobody around to listen, except for them, and they could do nothing. They were here to steal something, not on a rescue mission. And even if we did, what would we do with them? The Lantern might be able to look after them better than this place – but the Lantern was far away, and its wardens would not be best pleased if one of their wayward daughters turned up without warning and with a hundred invalids in tow. One day, she promised herself. But it could not be today. They had another job to do.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Tal raised his hand sharply, his fist clenched. Max froze in place, watching him as he closed his eyes again and felt the air. They’d realised a while back that they’d need to communicate in silence sometimes. Max had spent some days developing a simple sign language and teaching it to the thief. He might have always worked alone before, but he was a quick learner, and she was, it turned out, a decent teacher. From his fist, Tal extended two fingers without looking around, then tipped them to the left. Two guards on the left. Max thought for a moment, recalling the layout of the corridor, then nodded. That would work.

For a moment she thought herself a fool as she patted her very empty pockets, but in the tunic Tal had brought she found what she needed; a few small coins, each one in its own pocket so they did not clink together. He does think of just about everything. She took one, closed her own eyes, visualising the angles… and then as she tossed the coin she breathed out, sharply, and grabbed at her own breath with her mind, and the wind came with it, and the coin shot off into the darkness like an arrow from a bow. She kept up the push for a long moment, then let go, and an instant later she heard the coin strike a distant wall with a sharp, metallic noise. Perfect. Max listened, and could hear a faint murmur of confusion. Then she heard footsteps, faint again but there, moving away.

“Nice,” Tal whispered. Max smiled to herself, then followed him as they moved again. Down the corridor they crept, and down another flight of stairs, and then another, seeming to double back on themselves at least twice. Max began to doubt herself as the corridors stretched on and on… but then she felt fresh, cold air on her face, and she and Tal slipped through a heavy door and out, at last, into the asylum grounds.

The huge keep loomed behind them, six floors tall and broad with it, all dark stone and dozens of tiny slit windows. She had been in there only a few days, and had known escape was coming for all of them, but Max still sighed with relief when she stepped outside. Freedom. It was as simple as breathing cool night air, tasting a hint of salt on the breeze.

“Which way now?” Tal asked, pulling her gently into the shadow of the main building. Max saw the distant lanterns of patrolling guards, atop the thick walls, their battlements eroded by sea air but still strong, that encircled the complex of buildings. The asylum had a small island to itself, just off the larger isles that housed the nearest city. The barrier of the sea kept its poor residents safely out of sight, sound and mind. She shrunk into the shadow as best she could.

“Fifty yards south,” she muttered, remembering the layout. “The chapel’s right there in the open.”

“And the body?”

“Bones,” Max replied. “In the ossuary. It should be empty.” I hope. She was going off very little observation – from the inside, true, but still not much – and the footnote in the old and boring book that had given them the location they needed – or at least had claimed to. They had that on their side, and the information they’d teased out of a drunk former guard two weeks before in a tavern at the docks. It was amazing what you could learn with the right questions. She’d thought it would be difficult, but it was just like any other bit of research she’d done. And I’ve done a lot.

“Open ground,” Tal murmured. “Men and dogs all over the place. What d’you reckon?”

“How did you get over here?” Max asked, frowning. Why does he want my advice? She was a scholar, not a thief – of all the people to ask about stealth she was not the one.

“With difficulty,” Tal replied sarcastically. “Hence my asking. Any tricks up your sleeve?”

“You packed this shirt,” Max shot back. “You ought to know.”

“Very funny. Stretch that brain of yours. We need an edge.” He looked out into the grounds, not saying what they were both thinking: he, the practiced sneak and thief, could probably make it… but not with a gangly scholar in tow. Max knew it for a fact too, hated it. But she was glad Tal hadn’t actually felt the need to say it.

Max thought for a moment, shivering a little in the night air. There were indeed guards everywhere, lanterns in one hand and leashed hounds in the other. The chapel, squat and dark like everything else, was visible from where they lurked, but it was across almost completely open ground. The only trees within the asylum’s wide walls were tall and spindly things, offering little cover to any erstwhile thieves or burglars – and there were none between them and the chapel anyway. Whoever had designed the place had thought that much through. So, we need something else. Another edge.

“I have one thing,” she said slowly, reluctantly. “Nothing guaranteed. Bit of a work in progress.”

“Anything will do,” Tal said with a smile. “What is it?”

Max told him. His smile faded.

“Oh.”

“And you wonder why I didn’t tell you.”

“No, it’s fine.” He was backtracking hastily and unconvincingly, but Max could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

“If it helps, it’s not the same thing. The same discipline, but not exactly what he did.”

“Fine. It’s fine.” Tal drew a deep breath, let it out, opened and closed his hands. They did not shake at all. Max made sure to notice. “Just do it. Let’s get this over with.”

Max nodded, and concentrated, closing her eyes. This would be difficult, but she had never shied from challenges when it came to her magic. You’re one in hundreds, she had been told repeatedly as a child, with a gift that most would kill for. You must learn how to use it properly. And she had, and learned how to use it in more ways than her teachers had ever anticipated, even at the vaunted Lantern. This trick, for instance, was something she’d only ever read about, and then only in books older than her grandfather – at least, until she’d seen someone pull it off as easily as breathing. What she had managed to achieve was a poor imitation, but for today, it would do.

She thought of her skin, and Tal’s, glowing pale in the wan moonlight. She considered that moonlight, shining down from above and casting shadows dark and deep. She took the shadows, and tugged, and wrapped them around them like a cloak. Almost immediately she started to shiver, feeling the energy leached from her veins – but it was working.

“Go,” she whispered, ashamed at how badly her voice trembled. “Go, now.” To his credit, Tal didn’t hesitate, but darted out into the night. Max did her best to follow, keeping her friend within the sphere of darkness. The theory was straightforward enough: sight worked through reflected light, so if they weren’t reflecting light, they weren’t visible. Unfortunately that translated practically as just turning them into a big dark sphere – which wasn’t exactly inconspicuous itself. In time, Max ought to be able to reflect the light not just from them but around them, that they might become completely invisible – but for now her magic worked in the dark, and that was about it. And it drained her like nothing she’d ever had to do before. Even lightning is easier than this.

But while they might not be invisible within their cloak of shadows they were at least much harder to see. Tal’s instincts were unerring, and Max followed his lead as they crept across the grounds. She could see, just, through the shadows that surrounded them, see the bright spots of guard lanterns approaching – but then Tal would steer them clear, keeping them firmly in the darkness. He held them briefly in the shadow of a single, spindly tree, as a dog handler walked past, his hound broad-shouldered and drooling. Max gritted her teeth as she bent the light away, feeling her hands shaking. But the guard did not notice that the shadow was larger than it should be, and then Tal was moving again, and she stumbled after him, trying to be as quiet as possible. The thief’s soft steps made no sound whatsoever.

“Here,” Tal whispered, pulling her gently forwards, and she realised that they were at the chapel, its dull stone walls filling her view. It was a small building, blocky and ugly, its windows narrow, with none of the stained glass or ornamentation that other such places had. It was utilitarian to the extreme.

Tal led them round the building and into the narrow porch that sheltered its door. There were no guards there. Why would there be? Max thought as she shuffled herself into the corner, as out of sight as she could manage. Why would a patient sneak into a holy house?

She released her magic, and the light flooded back onto their skin. A wave of fatigue washed over her, and she leaned against the wall heavily, hoping it would pass. Damnit. I need food. And sleep. But she could feel the warmth leaching back into her limbs, slowly but surely. She would have pulled what she could from the air if it hadn’t been so cold already.

“Good job,” Tal muttered. He was examining the door’s lock, picks held loosely in his offhand. Max peered over his shoulder, but there were no guards in sight. There was but a single lantern above the chapel door, but it was shuttered, dim. They were safely shadowed in the porch.

“Just get us inside,” she murmured back. She wanted to sit down and never get up.

“Trying,” Tal said. She heard the almost inaudible sound of his picks scraping metal. “Damnit.” The curse was muted but heartfelt.

“What?”

“Too stiff,” the thief muttered. “One of those heavy-duty old things. Can’t push the pins – damnit.” He pulled his hand back. In it was a cleanly broken pick. He produced a flat-bladed knife and worried at the edge of the frame, trying to catch the lock-bar itself and push it sideways. Max waited for a moment, until Tal gave up with a scowl.

“Allow me,” she said quietly, pushing Tal gently aside. The thief raised an eyebrow.

“Have you been practicing?”

“Not with picks,” Max said, laying one hand flat on the lock plate. She felt the metal, the mechanism – stiff, not oiled in far too long, its tumblers coated in a thin layer of rust. They would move, but only with something much heavier than a lockpick to turn them. They needed the key: that, or Max would have to get creative. She considered the mechanism. She might be able to manipulate a lighter lock by pushing at the air, but this one was too stiff. Were she a more skilled mage she could warp the structure of the metal itself – but that wasn’t something she was yet capable of. If she hadn’t already exhausted herself reflecting the light she could have melted it, but she didn’t have the energy. But I don’t need it.

“Do you have water?”

Frowning, Tal produced a slender metal bottle from his satchel. Max took it, and, carefully, poured the contents into the keyhole. She held it in place with a skin of air, letting the water fill as much of the mechanism as it could, covering all the springs and tumblers and ratchets. She set the bottle down. Then she took a deep breath, and pulled, not pushing her body heat into the lock but pulling the lock’s warmth out,and the metal plate grew cold beneath her palm, so cold that her skin stuck to it, and inside the lock the water she had packed there cooled too, then thickened, then froze. And as it did so, it expanded. There were a series of dull cracks, thankfully muffled by the water, as old metal gave way. Looking around, Max saw more than one distant, bobbing lantern pause, their bearers turning at the sound – but Tal was already pulling her hand free of the lock and turning the handle. The door protested, but the ruined mechanism ground, then gave way. The door swung open.

“Go,” Tal whispered, and Max slipped through the chapel door, wincing at the rawness of her palm, a little skin left behind on the icy metal. Tal followed, pulling the door gently closed behind him. Max saw the lock from within, frosted with ice, and she smiled as the warmth she’d drained from the metal and water stopped her hands from shaking.

“We need to be fast,” Tal muttered, looking around the inside of the chapel with a practiced eye. “Someone will want to have a look.” He whistled softly. “Though at what, in here, I can’t imagine.”

Part 3 next week. Stay tuned.

The Boiling Seas – Non-Canon Adventures, Part 1

Quite a long time ago – more than a whole SPFBO, in fact – I wrote a little Tal and Max story for Rockstarlit Book Asylum‘s Tales from the Asylum series. The version that went up on their site was a nice short one – basically just a test of writing from Max’s perspective, rather than Tal’s, which came in handy for the still-in-progress Boiling Seas 2.

But the version that went up on Tales from the Asylum wasn’t the full version. I actually wrote a much, much longer cut initially, and only the very beginning ever went public.

And I just remembered that I said I’d publish that full version some day… and then promptly forgot about it entirely.

So, now seems as good a time as any. It’s a long old piece, so I’m going to do it over the course of a few weeks – but it was fun to write, and it’s a nice little mini-adventure.

But as the title of this post suggests, it’s NOT part of the proper Boiling Seas continuity. At least, not at the moment. Bits of this story ended up inspiring completely different bits of the second Boiling Seas book – but given I introduced several other characters since writing this, it doesn’t really fit anymore. So when I eventually publish the second book, don’t worry about reading this – it won’t get referenced. But it’s still a nice story. So without any more ado, here’s the first chunk. More next week.

Maximillian had discovered that she was not very good at waiting.

That, she corrected herself, wasn’t entirely true. With a book in her hand or a pleasant view to mull over, or even some interesting rock strata to observe, she was perfectly content to wait and while away the hours. She was happy to wait for an experiment to mature, relishing the anticipation of success or failure, her mind filled with possibilities. She was a scholar. In many ways, waiting was at the heart of her profession.

What Max wasn’t good at was waiting with nothing to do. And here, wrapped in a straitjacket in the padded asylum cell, she really had nothing to do.

She’d left her books behind, which was just as well given all the personal effects she had carried had been taken away when she’d been committed. It had been absurdly easy to have her taken inside – no paperwork, no doctor’s note, no proof at all that she was disturbed or ill in any way. They had simply walked her to the front desk in the little gatehouse and asked to have her taken away. A little gold to grease the orderly’s palm, and Max had been inside. She’d been marched inside the imposing building, all dark stone and dark tiles, brooding on its own little island just off the main group, without the chance to even ask the warden’s name, and placed in front of a doctor for the exact amount of time it took the balding man to look up from his paperwork, look her up and down, and then order her confined. Max hadn’t even left the room before he’d started writing again, as though she’d never been there. That had stung. But she’d kept her mouth shut as the guards had frog-marched her up the winding stairs, through a truly bewildering array of corridors, and into her cell. Her new home, for the last two days.

Three, now. It had just passed midnight by her reckoning. If she really had been mad, it would have been an utter travesty to treat her so. The fact that she was completely sane didn’t make it much better.

It was dark outside – not that the time of day made much difference to the inside of her cell, which was dim and dull even at high noon. The wan starlight came through a narrow grate at the top of the room, set into the wall. It would be big enough to fit through – but it was barred with iron. The walls were high, and padded with thick canvas. Even if her hands had been free she wouldn’t have been able to climb. The floor was much the same, and the room had no furnishings at all – no bed, no chair, nothing. She could stand, and walk around a little – with not inconsiderable effort, given that her hands were bound in front of her within the straitjacket she’d been forced into. It was immensely uncomfortable.

And there was nothing for Max to do.

At the absolute least she wanted to write down her observations. It wasn’t exactly glamourous, but this was a rare opportunity to see inside a mental institution like this, and her hands itched for paper and ink to record her every thought. It was a shambles, true, a parody of effective healthcare (Max ought to know, given that she studied at the finest hospital, physical or mental, in all the Seas), but that only made her want to write about it more. Her mind was filled with facts and figures, churning with all her myriad observations: the poor quality of the food she’d received; the already debilitating isolation – the only human she’d seen was the man who brought the awful gruel round – the pain in her arms from the tight straitjacket, the total lack of any physical or mental stimulation. There had been no more visits from the doctor, at least not to her, which made her question further the reputation of this place as a haven for the mad and mentally ill.

She’d heard some of the other patients, though. The cell walls were padded but they were far from soundproof, and the muffled voice of the doctor and his assistants seemed to carry through the whole building. She’d heard too much by far already. There were a lot of people in this place, and none of them wanted to be there.

The memory of the sounds had haunted Max when she had finally managed to sleep. She suspected that they would never stop doing so.

This, she thought to herself for the umpteenth time, had better be worth it.

She tried to get comfortable against the padded wall, and failed. The only way to be remotely so was to lie down on the floor – also padded – and stare up at the bare stone of the ceiling. Clearly the asylum’s budget hadn’t stretched to full coverage with the canvas. Her arms ached, pinned in front of her. She should have been allowed out of the jacket by now for a few minutes at least, lest she suffer some long-term muscle damage, but she hadn’t even been freed to eat. The man with the gruel had fed her like a baby; a broad-shouldered man with a closed face and small eyes. Max had tried to get some conversation out of him each time he had come into the cell, but his eyes hadn’t even flickered when she’d spoken, asked his name, whether the doctor was coming. He hadn’t responded at all, had just continued to spoon gruel into her mouth mechanically, forcing her to shut up and eat. Four times the man had come, and four times he had stayed silent, simply gathering his tools and leaving as soon as she was done, locking the heavy door behind him. He hadn’t even looked her in the eye, not once. To him, it was as though Max hadn’t been a person at all.

Max had hoped the man might leave some tool behind, a spoon or pen or something – but he had been careful. The only thing she had managed to do was tease a loose thread in the canvas free with her teeth in a fit of boredom, which was incredibly useful when she had no hands with which to hold it.

It was doubly frustrating knowing that, if she really wanted to, she could probably get out in minutes. But that hadn’t been the point of her coming here. That hadn’t been the plan.

So Max leaned against the padded wall and waited.

She couldn’t even look out of the high window, tall as she was, out into the asylum’s dark grounds. Even they were dark and foreboding, ringed with tall trees whose leaves cast heavy shadows all around. The walls around the grounds were thick and tall – clearly this place had once been a fortress, a bastion of one of the forgotten empires. The main building, in which she sat and waited, would have been the keep, blocky and strong. She’d glimpsed guards walking atop the walls as she was marched in from the gatehouse – itself a seriously sturdy construction, a rusted portcullis hanging ominously from the ceiling – five or six at least, heavy cudgels swinging from their belts. Attempts to escape, it seemed, would not be met with gentle reparations. Presumably there were more guards walking the grounds themselves – she had heard, earlier in the day, the sound of other people outside in the sunlight, whether patients or staff she couldn’t tell. It’s alright for some, then. Maybe in a few years she’d be let out too. Maybe in a few years she’d have actually been treated.

Max didn’t intend to stay quite so long, but it was one of the nicest thoughts she’d had all day.

She went through her mnemonics again, for want of anything better to do. She’d gone through the exercises taught to her as a child so many times now that the taxonomic and astronomical lists were absolutely embedded in her memory. It would have helped to write them down, of course. She hoped she had them right. If he’s left me to spend three days memorising the wrong things then I’ll kill him, she thought to herself. She looked up at the window. It had to be midnight by now, surely. It was time already. So where is he?

But all was still. Max sighed, and began going through the full names of the various species of ironclad shellfish that lurked around the northern coast of her home isles. She wasn’t even a biologist, not properly, but it was knowledge for the sake of it. She closed her eyes as she did so, listening to the sounds of the asylum all around her, to the gently moaning wind through the trees outside, and to the sound of quiet sobbing from the floor above.

She had reached Craven’s Oyster when she heard the faint scraping from outside her cell window.

Max froze, abandoning the memory exercise, turning all her attention to the noise. It came again – a soft sound, something scraping at the rough stone of the asylum wall. Leather, she thought, concentrating. A boot. Well, presumably two. Then she heard a soft grunt, and looked up just in time to see a hand appear from nowhere and take hold of her window’s bar, and a familiar face, sporting a familiar smile, rose into view through the narrow slit.

“Took you long enough,” Max whispered with a grin.

“They have got dogs,” replied Tal Wenlock, looking slightly offended in the moonlight. “I had to take few detours.”

“Around the whole island?”

“Have you seen the size of those walls?” Tal shook his head. “Good thing we found that side-gate. You’d have been here a lot longer otherwise.”

“I’m not staying here a minute longer than I have to,” Max said, the words heartfelt. “It’s been too long already.”

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry I’m late,” hissed the thief. “Now can you let me in? Much as I’d love to hang here forever, my shoulder’s killing me.”

Max shrugged her straitjacketed shoulders pointedly. Tal scowled.

“Oh for the love of the gods, just break out already.”

Max smirked. Then she concentrated, and let the heat build in her arms, all the energy she had saved over the last few days of confinement boiling out from her blood, and the straitjacket smouldered, then caught, white-hot flames devouring the fabric like a starving man. The buckles came free and so did Max’s arms, and she pulled the jacket over her head as quickly as she could, throwing it to the floor and beating it out awkwardly. She kept the heat bubbling beneath her skin – her undershirt was sleeveless and the night was cold – as she darted over to the window.

“Drama queen,” Tal muttered. Max scowled.

“Do you want to hang there forever?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then I’m left,” she said. Tal nodded.

“Right,” he confirmed. They both closed their eyes and concentrated, and Max took the heat in her veins and pushed it down, channelling it all into her hand, her fingers. She reached up, more thankful than ever that she was tall, and took hold of the leftmost of the window’s three bars. It was iron; she could feel its structure, familiar as a pair of gloves. Perfect. Steel would have taken much longer, and she didn’t trust Tal’s shoulder to hold out that long with its old injury.

Max forced the heat out from her fingers and into the metal. Slowly, it began to glow a dull red, and she had to be careful to keep pushing the heat away from her fragile hands. Carefully, she grasped the bar, still filling it with heat, and pulled. The bar resisted at first, but it was cherry-red, and after a long moment it gave, bending in Max’s hand, the top end scraping free of its socket in the stone frame. She twisted, pulled harder, and the bottom of the bar came away completely. She tossed it aside quickly, the metal thumping softly on the padded floor, sending wisps of smoke where the hot metal met the cloth, and banked her inner fire, wincing at her crimson palm, a minor burn waiting to happen. Careless. But she had been trapped for long enough already, and burns that would heal completely were a small price to pay.

Tal grunted and pushed his own bar into the room. Max saw that it was straight, unbent, and noticed that the stone around its socket had crumbled like sand.

“Very nice,” she said approvingly. “You’re getting better.”

“Seemed a good time to practice,” Tal grunted. “Now do the other one before I fall off the damn building!” He shifted his grip to grasp the windowsill instead of the bar, and Max summoned her magic again. The last bar didn’t take as long – she was already warmed up. She threw the bent metal into the corner of the room, then grabbed Tal’s wrists.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Max pulled, and the skinny thief slipped through the narrow window as easily as breathing, landing catlike on the padded floor with barely a sound. He straightened, dusting off the worst of the stone-dust that covered his dark clothes with more dust from his hands, then pulled his satchel around from the small of his back, rummaging inside.

“Here. Cold out.” Max took the offered tunic gratefully. With her magic banked, she felt the midnight chill keenly in her thin undershirt. Tal didn’t seem concerned himself, standing without shivering in a simple shirt and trousers. His satchel of tricks hung from his shoulder, as always, and his face was dark with lampblack. Sneaking in couldn’t have been easy, and she felt a wave of affection for the man who’d broken in to get her out – before remembering that it had been his idea to put her in here in the first place. On balance, she would give him some credit. Some.

“Thanks,” she said, pulling on the tunic.

“No problem. You’ve got to learn the temperature trick.”

“I’m making progress,” Max said, annoyed. Tal smiled warmly, and her ire faded.

“I know.” He looked around the padded cell, raised an eyebrow. “Nice place you’ve got here. Love the décor.”

“I’m thinking of moving,” Max replied with a smile. “Right now, in fact.”

“Well, let’s get you packed,” Tal said. He paused for a heartbeat. “All done.” He indicated the door. “Now, shall we?”

“Let’s.”

“You know where it is?”

“Roughly.”

“Then let’s be off.”

Stay tuned for more next week.

Lockdown: Tokyo Drift #15 – Catching Up/Gaunt’s Ghosts

I’ve read a lot of books. I’ve read a lot of series of books. But one of my absolute favourites, by one of my absolute favourite authors, is the Gaunt’s Ghosts series by Dan Abnett. I am now going to ramble about how good said series is for some time. You have been warned.

There are 15 books in the series now. I have, in paperback, the first 11, in the form of 3 massive omnibus books with 3/4 each. But until a few days ago, I’d only read those first 11, because the Black Library for some reason refuses to publish the last couple of books in omnibus. The Victory Part 1 exists… but not The Victory Part 2. So until a few days ago I’d deliberately left myself behind. I’d deliberately stayed 4 books behind the current end, because I want those massive bricks, damnit.

But then The Victory Part 1 was £1.99 on Kindle a few days ago. So I caved. And I am so glad that I did.

The first three omnibuses, sitting happily on my bookshelves and waiting for ‘The Victory’.

For context, especially for those not interested in the grim darkness of the 41st millennium: Gaunts’ Ghosts is essentially Sharpe/Band of Brothers in space. The charismatic, tall blonde outsider, Richard Sharpe Ibram Gaunt, leads a regiment of Welsh/Scottish/Irish/generally Celtic soldiers who are supernaturally good at sneaking around and generally being badass, in a universe where most ordinary humans get ground into paste within a few seconds of joining a battle. Some of the Ghosts revere Gaunt as a fantastic leader and fighter… but others, especially the malcontent Sergeant Harper Major Rawne, hate him for dragging them away from the death of their homeworld, Tanith. Did I mention Tanith was destroyed? Well, it was. The Tanith are the last survivors of their home. They are very literally the First and Only. There will never be another regiment like them.

The books usually follow Gaunt and his senior/elite soldiers through various warzones, from WW1-style trench warfare to aerial assaults on Bespin-like gas refineries. But there are dozens of POV characters. Some of them last approximately 2 paragraphs from introduction to being shot in the head – others start as minor soldiers and then end up as pivotal characters 3 books later. Abnett is a master of keeping track of dozens of distinct and unique characters, and also at killing them off in heart-rending fashion. If you get emotionally invested easily… well, don’t get too attached, is all I’ll say. Nobody is safe, even if they survive 4 books in a row without so much as a scratch. Warfare is bloody, and it demands a toll, and Abnett pays it in blood and words.

Every character is a joy to read. From the charismatic bear of a man that is Colm Corbec to the vicious snakes Lijah fething Cuu and Elim Rawne… and Flyn Meryn… to the gentle giant Bragg, the neurotic sniper Larkin… they’re all living, breathing men and women, beautifully realised. It’s particularly impressive given the setting of 40k. In a universe filled with super-soldiers, monstrous xenomorphs, space-elves and sadists and Orks and death-machines, the most compelling characters I’ve ever read are ordinary humans, whose only talents are essentially being Celtic and having rifles.

Apart from anything else, Abnett is an excellent writer. His descriptions are fantastic, his worlds rich and vibrant, and his characters unique and entertaining. This is no mean feat – especially in the world of Warhammer 40,000. There are dozens of authors in the Black Library stable, and while some of them (looking at you, Graham McNeil and Aaron Dembski-Bowden) are very talented, some are… well, not. Writing in a shared universe like 40k is difficult, especially when books are often written specifically to showcase particular models or characters, which often leads to ridiculous levels of plot armour and exaggeration. For the most part Abnett doesn’t do this. He does a bit, but it seldom feels obtrusive. And if anyone mentions Gereon as an example of the Ghosts being OP, I have words for you.

Abnett is just… well, good, on a level that most BL authors can’t match. Just read the first three Horus Heresy books for easy comparison. Horus Rising is without a shadow of a doubt the best-written of the trilogy. All three authors handle the same characters in almost the same scenarios – but Abnett just does it better.

But I digress. If you like military SF or fantasy, you should read Gaunts’ Ghosts. If you like big casts of characters, most of whom could die at any minute, you should read Gaunt’s Ghosts. If you like 40k, you must read Gaunts’ Ghosts.

The other week, Games Workshop announced – finally – that they’d soon be releasing models of some of the main Ghosts. It is not an exaggeration to say that I will pay any amount of money, and sign away the souls of any number of firstborn children, to obtain them.

Look at them. They are majestic and I love them, and the fact that it’s taken this long to have proper models (excepting those crap old metal ones) for such important characters is an absolute crime.

Seeing these characters rendered in paint and plastic was a joy. Reading them again, finally getting caught up on their story, was even more of one. When a universe is well-crafted it’s the best feeling in the world to get immersed again, to throw yourself back into a world and get to know old characters, old friends, again. Reading the last few Gaunt’s Ghosts books scratched that itch.

I’m only sad because I’m up to date now. But Abnett has said there are most stories to come – both to continue the story of the Tanith, and to fill in some gaps in their pasts… and I can’t wait.

Lockdown: Tokyo Drift #14 – General Update

Tired as hell today so I’ll keep this brief before I just end up vomiting words onto the page.

Alas, though it’s been a long week, little has changed in the world of my writing. Boiling Seas 2 still has no title, but I’m chipping away at the editing, bit by bit. Probably halfway through the plot… and definitely not halfway through what I’ve actually written. It’ll get done. Eventually.

I got into SPFBO 7 – Ad Luna is waiting to be read by FanFiAddict once the competition begins on the 1st. Reassuringly, there are a few other books in this year which look to be of a slightly sci-fi bent. There’s also a dedicated sci-fi spinoff competition in the works, apparently…

Really not much else to tell I’m afraid. I’m in the countryside this week for work, after a brief visit home. Good to be among fields again – it’s certainly helpful to my current short/long story project, which will emerge in the fullness of time…

Lockdown: Tokyo Drift #13 – Payoffs

I suppose I’ll have to abandon this post subtitle soon enough (hooray) – I’ve even been to the pub this week for the first time in ages. But I think it’ll still be Tokyo Drift posts for another few weeks, until things are more properly opened up again.

Anyway: today I’m going to ramble about video games again, in order to talk about setups and payoffs in narratives.

One of the most satisfying things you can do as a writer – or discover as a reader – is a good setup and callback. It applies in any genre, really – from sci-fi to sketch comedy, a well-executed callback is a beautiful thing. It’s particularly important in longer books or series. Those moments when a character you thought had been abandoned half a series ago turns up to save the day are always immensely satisfying when done right. Moments in Brandon Sanderson’s second Mistborn trilogy, for instance, when I recognise a veiled reference to something from the first era, always make me smile. It feels like a reward for being so invested for so long.

And lately I’ve found so, so many of those moments in Mass Effect 3.

For context: the Mass Effect games are a sci-fi RPG series, where you play the gallant Commander Shephard in a quest to stop all life in the galaxy from being eaten by giant death robots called Reapers. There are dozens of alien races, tons of backstory on intergalactic politics – it’s basically Star Trek: TNG with a little less diplomacy (but still plenty) and a lot more shooting. There are 3 games in the original series (soon to be released as a remaster, but I’m playing on the old PS3 versions) – and the really clever thing is you can link them all together. Because while there are 3 games, there’s one continuous story – and if you want, you can link your save files so that every decision you make is carried forward into the next game.

And I really do mean everything.

Again, I’m playing the original games not the new Legendary Edition – but this custom cover-creator that EA put up was really cool.

The most obvious carry-through is who’s alive and who’s dead. There are tons of squadmates and supporting characters throughout the three games, and your gameplay decisions often decide who lives and who dies. This goes beyond just playing the missions, though. Obviously, you can’t have Garrus Vakarian as your squad sniper in Mass Effect 3 if he dies in Mass Effect 2 (or if you never bother to meet him in the first place). But when you’re faced with the prospect of undoing an alien eugenics program to save a species from extinction in Mass Effect 3, you might find yourself wishing that you didn’t send those lizard-man scientists off to die in that one side mission in the first game. You might regret punching that news reporter in the face when the galactic media turns against you right when you need to gather popular support. Everything in Mass Effect matters – who lives, who dies, and how much time you spend with them. You might keep Garrus alive, but if he hates your guts because you treated him like crap in the previous two games, don’t expect him to bail you out of trouble later on.

Everything comes to a head in Mass Effect 3. Obviously it’s the last game in the trilogy, so all the loose ends are going to be tied up here, but I’ve been phenomenally impressed so far about just how many loose ends there are, and how the writers seem to have remembered every single one. I’ve been bimbling around the galaxy doing side missions, in order to gather the strongest army I can to fight off the all-destroying Reapers. And it seems that around every corner is something I’d completely forgotten about, coming back to help me. That colony I saved in the middle of the first game by choosing to spare a possessed alien’s life? Because of what I did, they’re still there – and able to send me a couple of ships of mercenaries to help in the big fight. It’s not much, but it’s something. It’s a tangible reward for my obsessive tendency to go through every side mission I can possibly find. And it’s a constant reminder that my actions have consequences, even in a video game.

There was absolutely no need for Mass Effect to keep track of every decision I made. There are dozens of side-quests I forgot about years ago, which had no real right to be referenced again. But every time a scientist I lend twenty space-pounds to sends me an email, I smile a little. The game feels alive and cohesive because even the smallest bits of its writing are being called back. And it’s a reminder for me to do it in my own writing as well.

So yeah. Play Mass Effect, I guess. I’m having a good time, and I genuinely might go back to the beginning and go around again when I’m done.

SPFBO #7

It’s that time of year again. SPFBO #6 has just finished, crowning Justin Lee Anderson‘s The Lost War its winner. It’s on my reading list for sure, as are several of the very worthy finalists (looking at you, The Combat Codes and Black Stone Heart).

But the fact that #6 is done means that SPFBO #7 is about to begin. And this year, I’ve got something that qualifies again. The Blackbird and the Ghost made it to the semi-finals in #5… so it’s time to see if Ad Luna will meet with approval in #7.

Courtesy of Petros Triantafyllou on the SPFBO Facebook page

“But Huw,” I hear you cry, “you’ve spent the last year going on about how Ad Luna is a sci-fi book!” And that is true – but in the immortal words of Detective Jake Peralta, stuff can be two things. Ad Luna is sci-fi, in that it’s an exploratory voyage across the cosmos… but it’s also full of space-elves and giant vultures, and swords and techno-sorcery, fantastic vistas and feats of heroism. It just depends how you read it.

Ethan Haines said so, anyway, so it’s not just me thinking this.

Ad Luna ought to fit the SPFBO brief nicely. And on June 1st (or the 14th of May when I actually have to submit it), we’ll see how true that statement is.

Short Story: The Door

Long weekend ahead, which means I should probably do some more editing on Boiling Seas 2. Which I will do. Honest. I have enlisted a hapless proofreader for the end of May, so that’s a deadline to at least get most of the first pass done.

In the meantime, here’s a short story that I’ve had rattling around my head for years at this point, and finally got around to writing down a few weeks ago. Essentially it’s an introduction to the basic magic system I use in The Boiling Seas series, as well as some of my other stories. I say ‘system’ – it’s basically just elemental magic with a few tweaks – but it’s nice to write down some of the principles.

It’s a magic lesson, basically. Read it here. Enjoy.

Lockdown: Tokyo Drift #12 – What to Write?

I didn’t know what to write this morning.

Now I’ve got plenty of projects on the go – Boiling Seas 2 for one – but they don’t actually need much writing. They need editing, and they need words taken out, not added in. Progress is slow but I am getting to it, bit by bit – and I’ve managed to enlist someone to proofread it, so that should help too.

But I’m over 6 years into my streak of writing every single day, and so I always need something to work on. And for the last few months I’ve always had something – first finishing BS2, then writing and editing short stories for several different deadlines. That kept me nice and busy.

But then I finished them all, and got BS2 to the edit stage… and realised I didn’t really have much else in the tank.

I’ve got plenty of half-started ideas, and notes for plenty more, but for whatever reason I just wasn’t feeling them this morning. I’ve fallen back on an old story that will probably never see the light of day (unless the Black Library suddenly start taking unsolicited submissions) for now, which is a nice way to do sort of relaxed writing. It’s comfortable. It’s probably never going anywhere, except maybe on here, and there’s no pressure. But I think I need a new big project to get stuck into.

Or maybe an old one. I have been reading some Second World War stories lately – about war crimes investigators in the late 40s, and the Maquis in France, and commando raids, and all that sort of thing. And it’s made me remember a war story I put down a while ago, and that I promised I’d get back into at some point this year…

Lockdown: Tokyo Drift #11 – Productivity Success?

Last week I set myself a few targets for things I wanted to get done over the course of this week:

Think of a title for Boiling Seas 2Start cutting words from Boiling Seas 2Start filling the plot holes left behind by all my editing/my initial writingAnd write a short story for Artemix‘s Chain Project

So how many of those things did I get done?

Well, I wrote the short story – finished it this morning and sent it in for the next artist in my chain to be inspired by. I’m fairly happy with it. The piece I was given to work from was unsettling in a very cool way, and I definitely think I’ve gotten something decent out of it. I can’t tell you what it is, of course, but as and when things start getting revealed I will let you know!

As for Boiling Seas 2… well, I still don’t have a title. And there are still a lot of plot holes. But I have, at long last, started editing.

I’m not even close to finishing, of course, but I have started. I split the V1 manuscript into its three parts, and started cutting. My first pass at Part 1 is finished, and I was quite proud of the fact that I cut about 10,000 words (around 30 pages) from it, reducing its length by about a third!

Then, of course, I realised that Parts 2 and 3 were both over twice as long as Part 1 was. As in, each of them is almost as long as The Blackbird and the Ghost.

Hoo boy. There’s a lot more work to do.

But I’ve started. That’s always the hardest part about editing for me. I’ll keep chipping away, bit by bit, and with a bit of luck I should be able to cut this thing down to size. Thankfully I can already think of several upcoming scenes that can be cut wholesale… though I’ll be sad to lose the shopping montage.

And hopefully along the way I’ll think of something pithy to call it.