Kingdom's Fall

Sneak Peek: The Ironwood

So it has been just over a month since I finished Kingdom's Fall. In that time I've moved house, country, and started a new job. And in that time, I've kind of neglected Wattpad. So as a peace offering, here's a sneak peek at something I'm working on: a novel based on my short story The Tall Men (which you can find via my profile). It's called The Ironwood, and here is the opening.

Then

The Ironwood was a place for dead things. Milo hated it: he hated the rotting trees and the boot-sucking marshes; he hated the haze that hung in the air, muting the sun's warmth and clinging foul on the palate. He hated that the forest was entirely too still for a man to walk through and maintain a single intact nerve. The only thing that had kept him going was the press and clash of the men around him, the sound of them hooting and crashing as they cut a path through the Ironwood a comfort against the haunting silence. Now, though, it was just him and the Captain. How they had lost the others was beyond him. When every single one of them - himself included - had unbuckled their armour to let the air in they made such a noise he was certain there wasn't a soul alive that wouldn't have heard it. On his own, he could feel how the forest swallowed sounds, that every click and scrape died so quickly he began to doubt they were anything but his imagination. His whole squad could be a hundred paces away and not hear him. He watched the Captain stamping a frustrated circle in the mud, his chest puffed out in silent indignation. Nobody left to string up, Milo thought, but did not say. For all that the Captain was bad at, he was exceptional when it came to bearing a grudge. Still, there was a limit to a man's patience.

"Captain," Milo said. "We should retrace our steps." While I can still see them. The light was beginning to fade, and even though he'd been careful not to let himself get turned round too often Milo was feeling less and less sure of his bearings. This forest is cursed.

The Captain stopped pacing and stared at Milo as though he'd just called him the bastard son of a donkey. "Speak out of turn again and it's your head on a block," he said, and slapped the scabbard that hung at his waist with the flat of his palm as though the threat had been unclear. Milo held the man's gaze, flat and unblinking, until he faltered and looked away. "We should retrace our steps," he said, finally. Milo turned his back on the man and started walking.

They had almost passed the Dweller house before Milo spotted it. It was a squat thing, wattle and daub walls held in the crook between two massive tree trunks that leaned together. The sides were green with moss so thick that in the dappled shade of the forest it was almost invisible. Almost was the word. The Captain spotted it himself an instant later, with a gasp of shock and the scrape of metal on metal he hurried to draw his sword. Milo glanced back to find him standing bow-legged, sword in hand, as though expecting Dwellers to swing down at them from the tree-tops. He would have laughed, if it wasn't so tragic. The Captain caught his eye.

"You," the Captain hissed. "Get in there."

Milo shrugged his axe off his shoulder and turned back to the Dweller house. It looked empty, as far as he could judge such things. The door was a low patch of darkness, and he would have to double over to get his head inside. This is how you get yourself killed, he thought, but stepped forward anyway. They'd come all this way to purge the world of Dwellers, it would be shame not to at least see one. Milo knew the stories, the same as anyone. Cradle-snatchers, night-creepers, a blight on the world; the Dwellers were every nightmare a mind could conjure, and more besides. Why else would they live in the Ironwood, the forest that ate the elves? Approaching the sad little shack, Milo couldn't bring himself to hate the Dwellers quite as vigorously as he once had. Desperation, he thought. They live here because nowhere else will have them. Milo ducked low, and went inside.

The Dweller house was not empty. There was a man standing in the middle of the room, apparently waiting for him. Beside him, on a low bed, a woman lay huddled under a blanket. There was no other furniture. The man was much shorter than Milo, and painfully thin. His skin was so pale it glowed, even under the thick roof of his house, and his eyes were wide with fear. He had a knife in his hand, but Milo could tell he wasn't going to attack. The blade was shaking so much, he was amazed the man hadn't dropped it. Milo lowered the head of his axe to the dirt floor and held up his free hand, empty, for peace. "Look," he said, "Stay quiet, and I'll leave. No-one will know you're here."

The man didn't move, or speak, and Milo took it as assent. He started to back out, keeping his movements slow and deliberate.

"What's happening in there?" The Captain's voice rang out. At the sound of it, the Dweller started and let out a wordless cry of anguish. Before Milo could do anything, he turned and buried the knife to the hilt in the woman's neck.

"Shit!" Too late, Milo swung the axe up from the dirt, catching the man in the armpit. The blow flung him against the back wall of the den, and Milo followed, finishing the job with a single blow.

"I said, what's happening?"

"Nothing good," Milo called back. "Man and wife. He offed her with a knife." He bent over the woman, but it was clear there was nothing to be done. He thought about taking the knife - a poor blade, but a Dweller one, and that would be worth something - but thought better of it. The blanket gathered at her chest shifted, and Milo started. It took him a moment, but when he realised his heart sank. He pulled back the blanket to reveal a baby still at the mother's breast. "Shit," he said. He pulled the end of his cloak round and gathered the baby up - a girl, he saw - wrapping her as best he could. A spray of blood had gone across her face and she groped blindly at him, catching the edge of his hand and pulling on it with surprising strength. "It's okay," he said. "You're all right." Wrapped in his cloak, he cradled the baby in the crook of his left arm and picked up his axe. The Captain was waiting for him outside.

"What's that you've got?"

"A baby," Milo said. "Reckon the dad was going to do them both in rather than let us have them."

The Captain grunted. "Would've saved us the job. Finish her off, then we can go."

Milo stared at the man. Under his cloak, the baby shifted against his arm, settling her weight. He felt her sighing, one big breath that made her seem, for a moment, to double in size. The Dweller threat, no longer than his forearm. "No," he said.

"What?"

There was no need to drag it out. Milo charged, bringing his axe up before the other man could realise what was happening and bring his sword up into line. If he'd been a heartbeat faster, or a touch less arrogant, then Milo would have run straight onto the point. As it stood, Milo cut the man down like he was chopping wood. Once he was done, he smacked the blade into the soft ground, to clean the worst off.

"Now, lass," Milo said as he straightened up and cast a look around. The haze that filled the Ironwood seemed lighter now, and for the first time in days he could feel the sun's warmth on his shoulders. "How about we get the fuck out of this forest?"