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Jul 22

Jul 22 Unknown

Book excerpt

Year 10974 (1674 A.D.)

The two prone figures lay in the centre of the scorched field. Any grass or trees were either ashes or twisted souls looking on at the slaughter. Bodies lay all around as tendrils of smoke caressed their cold limbs, moving slowly across the horseshoe-shaped crater. The southern edge of the landscape gave way to a dense forest, whose trees were melded together in a brown and green weave that looked impenetrable.

The walls on the east and west of the crater rose high over the death and destruction, slowly falling at the northern edge where a raging river cut through the land on its way to the sea. The sunset obscured by a thick blanket of cloud gave the crater a claustrophobic effect. The birds that circled overhead or that sat in the branches of the trees, looked on with interest, their caw-cawing the only noise to be heard apart from the crackle of tinder.

A giant rook landed on a blackened, twisted limb of a tree near the centre of the field, its beady red eyes searching out the best option for a quick meal. It knew what lay around him - meat was meat whether dead or undead. The bird hopped down from his perch onto a headless corpse, poking his beak into the cold yellow flesh where the head once rested. Slithers of meat were pulled away from the ragged stump as the rook feasted as fast as he could - before something saw him as a meal option too.

The rook ignored the two corpses further on that lay almost touching. Their capes and tunics distinguishing them from the rest of the carnage. Both bodies were missing limbs. One had lost an arm and both legs below the knee, along with several gaping wounds across the body. The head almost severed - only the spinal cord barely held it in place as it lolled unnaturally to one side.

The white tunic was now no more than a bloodied rag. The eagle emblem across the chest covered in chunks of flesh and smears of charred earth. The other corpse had lost a hand and half its left leg. Its body was almost free of punctures, except for one in its chest that still had the sword that inflicted the wound lodged there. The black tunic was also covered in blood, the large blade had skewered the red spider in the centre of its chest.

The battle was over for now. The next stage of the war was about to begin.

Hibernation.

On opposite ends of the tree line, two groups walked through the smoke towards the prone figures. Their heads bowed as they trooped towards their masters. Two figures split from the packs, coming together in front of the bodies, one dressed in red, one in black.

“Looks like a dead tie. Pardon the pun, Elias,” the figure in black whispered.

“So, it would seem, Torg,” the red-clad figure said. They removed their hoods to address each other face to face.

White skin meeting grey skin. Fangs facing tusks.

The larger black figure looked at the pitiful remains on the floor.

“This will take some time. Let's hope next time they meet it's finished once and for all. Then our Master will rule both lands, and maybe one day the other places too. When that day comes my, dear Elias, you'll bow down to him.”

“In your dreams, Torg,” the red figure spat. “Next time we'll be ready. He'll be stronger. Things are already in place. The race is on to see who wakes first, my friend.”

They beckoned their respective groups forward, hurrying to their masters, a stretcher being laid next to each of them. Carefully, they hoisted the bodies into the gurneys before setting to work binding the lost limbs back into place. The severed head was bound with strips of damp cloth and two wooden splints to hold it in place for the journey home, the limbs likewise until both groups gave a series of satisfied grunts and nods. The sword that protruded from the black figure's chest was left in place for fear of doing more damage by removing it.

“Deliver that back when the time is upon us, for Korgan will not miss the mark next time. Once he's slain his brother, he will close the doors to your land for eternity. Then you can feed only on the mutant beasts that roam that place. Let's see if that satisfies your hunger.”

Both groups parted to sneers and hisses as they made their way in opposite directions across the crater. They would not return here until the brothers were ready to finish the feud that had festered for millennia.

Prologue

The child was born on the New Year's Day of 1880, early in the morning. His parents had decided on a few names but were waiting to see what name would suit the baby boy, or girl. No sooner had he arrived than his parents had decided on George.

George was the only son of Rankin and Geenie Drysdale, born in the small village of Aviemore, Scotland. His father had worked hard all his life to build a well-respected distillery where his finest 'Grampian Gold' whisky was distilled. His mother, Geenie, was a former school teacher whose task it was to educate their only son in their family home. They had both agreed that this would be the best solution, as the closest schools of any standard were at Kingussie. This was too far for the boy to travel and they wouldn't send him to boarding school and deprive themselves of their only child.

George quickly became an excellent student, whether it was with his tables, or reading such classics as Robinson Crusoe or recent novels like Treasure Island. George loved his new-found hobby and never seemed to have a book out of his hand. This delighted his mother, who could see real potential in their young son. His father set about seeing how his boy would cope with the physical side of schooling and regularly took him hiking in the Cairngorm Mountains to get his son accustomed to outdoor life.

Rankin marvelled at how his son could remember and recognise the local flora and fauna, and at barely seven years old had a mature way about him. What really amazed his parents was his ability to not feel the cold. On many hikes with his father, George would be running along in short trousers with nothing more than a knitted jersey covering his top half. His father often joked as his son reached adolescence, that George must have been descended from Eskimos. At hearing these rebukes, Geenie would scold her husband, telling him not to fill their son's head with such preposterous nonsense.

At this point in the boy's life, his father had built a secondary school next to the family distillery for the children of the workers to attend, where George was flourishing with his studies. It was at the school library where George found his true love. Travel. He demolished book after book on anything regarding far-flung lands. From Rider Haggard to Jules Verne, George immersed himself into these adventure stories. His parents would often have to drag him to dinner with a copy of the latest book in tow.

It was while reading at the library that he came across an early edition of National Geographic Magazine. In the magazine, he saw black and white grainy images of places he'd never heard of, and it was while looking at those images that he knew what he wanted to do with his life. His parents, although slightly sceptical, supported George, his father giving him his first camera on his eighteenth birthday. It was a strut-folding camera by German maker C.P. Goerz, and the young and excited George quickly got the hang of early photography.

George seemed a natural at capturing the right moment to photograph his subject, whether it was his adoring mother or a Highland stag vaulting a fallen tree. George's portfolio became more and more impressive. Unbeknown to George, his father, who had been on a trip to London to attempt to branch out into the European markets, secured George a place on a Royal Geographical Society's expedition to the Himalayas. George was to be a junior photographer on the expedition's secondary trail. Although not in the limelight as such, it would give him a good grounding on how trips such as this played out.

George was the talk of the village and even had a mention in the Edinburgh Evening Dispatch. He was too wrapped up in planning for the trip to notice the local gossip, as packing and preparation took over the months that followed. By the autumn of the year 1900, he was ready for what the world could throw at him. He'd become a very handsome young man, outgrowing his father's five foot eleven by a good few inches. As a keen rugby player, he had an imposing physique that was hard not to notice.

Many of the girls around the village would burst into nervous giggles, becoming very tongue-tied and red-faced at the sight of the strapping young man as he strode past them. George never seemed to notice. His mind was elsewhere.

By November he'd said goodbye to his beloved parents, amidst floods of tears and long embraces. Ten days later he was sailing from Portsmouth to the Indian subcontinent.

Chapter 1

Mustang Valley, Nepal 1901

Ten days after his twenty-first birthday, George was running for his life. Moments before, he'd been lining up his first shot of the day, trying to steady his beloved camera on the loose snow as he attempted to capture the majesty of the Lo-Manthang plateau when he’d heard a far-off noise that sounded to him like snapping timber. He turned slowly and looked up at the side of the mountain to see what had made the noise. As he scanned the peaks above him, his hearing picked up a far-off rumble as he saw what looked like swirling fog on the upper slopes.

His brain was trying to digest what his eyes were telling him, but nonetheless, he was rooted to the spot, watching nature unfold around him. George watched in silent horror as the slopes above started to advance towards him, gradually picking up speed and noise until an avalanche of sound was blasting his ears. It seemed he was stuck there for minutes, although it was only seconds before a distant voice spurred him into action. His eyes dropped back down the slope to the small fur-covered figure jumping up and down, waving his hands frantically in the air.

George could see his guide Barati shouting something at him, but his words were lost in the barrage of the avalanche. He knew what he was shouting and what he had to do as he snatched his camera out of the snow, throwing it over his shoulder as he bound for safety. Where Barati stood was a natural ledge that ran for several hundred metres across the upper slopes of the mountain. At the centre of the path lay a small opening that they had discovered minutes before, and now George was running as fast as his fur-lined boots would allow before he was swept away to his death.

The behemoth was now at full speed, covering the ground at sixty miles-per-hour, burying everything before it. George realised it was going to be too close to call as to whether he'd make it or not. Time seemed to slow as all he could see was a wall of white smoke flying towards him. He reached the ledge with seconds to spare as the other man grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, propelling them both backwards into the cave just as the entrance was engulfed.

“Keep moving, Mr George,” Barati yelled, as they both scrambled further into the cave. The noise was phenomenal as the whole cave shook violently under the weight of the avalanche. Twenty feet inside the cave the two men lay immobile, looking back at the entrance as it vanished under the deluge, plunging the confines into inky-darkness.

George lay there, listening as the rumbles gradually died away. He tried to take in the last few minutes, unable to comprehend that he had been a split-second from being killed. Before he became too engrossed in thought, he heard Barati feverishly scurrying beside him. George heard him muttering words in his own language and then he heard a match strike. It was struck a few times before it caught, an oil lantern barely lighting the low-slung cave against the darkness.

“Quite the morning we're having, laddy,” said Barati in his best - or worst - Scottish accent. George stared at his little friend in stunned silence for a few seconds before he started to chuckle to himself. Both men started laughing although it sounded hollow and forced.

“So, what’s the plan now?” George enquired.

The little guide began rooting through their packs until he came out with a small stubby shovel. “Well, Mr George, we can't go anywhere until the ground has settled, but we can dig a small pilot-hole for ventilation. That's if the snow isn't too thick. I am hoping that it won't be thicker than ten feet.”

George felt he had to ask the next question. “What happens if it is, laddy?”

The little Indian’s face split into a huge grin. “Then you'll be digging all night, my friend.”

Two hours later the small pilot-hole had been finished. The snow was thicker than was first hoped for, but not by much. Now at least they had ventilation. They lit a campfire after foraging around the cave entrance for wood, settling down by the side of it to keep warm. Barati looked at the young Scotsman, who was drying his thick socks over the fire. He smiled.

“You were born to live in the Himalayas, Mr George. Here we are in a freezing cave and you have your boots and socks off like it was a summer's day.”

George laughed.

“I told you. I've never felt the cold. I don't know why.” He looked down at his feet before continuing. “As a boy, I used to run around the countryside in the middle o' winter in barely more than short trousers and a pullover. My parents said I had Eskimo blood in my veins.” He chuckled at the memory.

“I've never felt the cold, even now, I feel fine. Maybe I could do this job full-time. Except for the running from avalanches part of course.” Both men laughed, with more feeling this time.

Over the course of the evening, Barati told George more about his childhood - about how his mother had died during childbirth, leaving his father to bring up his only child alone. He recounted how his father had taken him to the shipyards of Bombay where he’d worked as a master dhow builder, and it was from there that Barati had learned how to speak English.

“My Father told me that it was the new language of the world, and if I wanted to get on in life I must speak it as my mother tongue. I also learned Arabic, but it was English that I spoke every day. I even woke up every morning and thought in English.”

Barati told him how he loved the life of the shipyards and would regularly sail with his father to the Arabian Peninsula to deliver new dhows. “My Father wanted me to continue in his footsteps and become a great shipbuilder like him. But after he died suddenly aged only forty-five, my life took a different path.” He stretched himself and yawned, amazed at how tired he suddenly felt.

“We need to get some rest, Mr George. Tomorrow will be upon us soon, and we need to be awake early in case of a search party. Hopefully, we can venture outside and see if it's safe to try to descend the mountain.”

“That sounds like a great idea my friend,” George said as he tested his socks to see if they were dry. Happy that they were, he slipped them on before settling down on his groundsheet. “I'd like an alarm call at 07:00 hours please, my man. Followed by strong coffee and hot kippers. Can you manage that?”

Barati smiled, “For you, my friend, I'll try my best. Poached or steamed?”