Where Gods Fear to Go

by Angus Watson

  “She didn’t exactly make it easy to bring him here.”

  “She did. She could have stopped us at any time. She could have opened up the earth below us then closed it again. Or sent some of those fire-breathing things to get us. Or—”

  “But the worms, the wasp men, the firenado–everything else.”

  “She set those off but she wasn’t controlling them. They weren’t personal attacks.”

  They seemed pretty personal, thought Finn, keeping up so he could hear what was being said.

  “So you used your brother to get close enough to kill her,” said Sofi.

  “Yes, but I failed. I thought the lightning would kill her. It was Finn the Deep who killed her, not me.”

  Yup, thought Finn, I saved the world.

  “It was the explosion in the sky that killed her,” said Sofi.

  “That wasn’t me either. I think it might have been her, killing herself because her son was gone so there was no point any more. But maybe it was another god. I don’t know.”

  “And Finn’s abilities with animals? Did you give him those?”

  “No, that’s nothing to do with me.”

  They reached the bottom of The Pyramid. The others started climbing onto the rabbit.

  Sofi paused and faced Freydis. “Did you bring Wulf back to life?”

  “No. I went to see if I could help, but I couldn’t.”

  “Did you make Yoki Choppa tell us not to kill the Wootah and to help you come west?”

  “I told him what I was doing and why. But he made the decision. I couldn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to do.”

  “So when he rescued Ottar?”

  “That was nothing to do with me.”

  “Okay.” Sofi nodded. “Finn, stop skulking around behind us and get up the rabbit. Paloma!”

  Paloma’s head appeared over the side of the rabbit.

  “I’m going to throw Freydis up to you.”

  “Ready, boss!” shouted Paloma.

  Sassa Lipchewer sat on the rabbit as it lolloped across the plain of rotting monsters, one hand on her stomach, one hand on Keef the Berserker. Sitsi sat on his other side.

  “What will you do now?” Sassa asked Sitsi.

  “I think we should all go back to the Valley of the Gods. We can discuss what we’re going to do next while we wait for Keef to get better. I think we should all stay together, though, don’t you?”

  “I do, but won’t you do what Sofi tells you to do?”

  “Look back at The Pyramid, Sassa,” Sitsi said sadly, without turning herself.

  Sassa turned.

  The Pyramid stood stark and flat-topped out of the sea of dead monsters. Standing at the top, legs wide, hands on hips, was the tiny but unmistakeable figure of Sofi Tornado.

  Sassa looked about on the rabbit. Sofi really wasn’t there. She’d stayed behind.

  “Why?” asked Sassa.

  “Because she failed,” said Sitsi.

  “We didn’t fail!”

  “She was ordered to kill all Mushroom Men. She decided not to.”

  “That’s a good thing…”

  “Yes. But I think maybe not killing you really made it strike home that she could have questioned previous orders. She’s killed hundreds of men, women and children. Perhaps she realised that she didn’t have to.”

  “But you were drugged. And you were taught from childhood that it was what you were meant to be doing.” Sassa looked from Sitsi to Paloma to Chogolisa.

  “Yes,” said Sitsi. “We three can blame the killing on the rattlesnake, and the conditioning, and forgive ourselves, or at least I hope we can.”

  “Why can’t Sofi?”

  “Because she knows she would have done it without the rattlesnake.”

  Chief Maya and four other warriors were waiting for them at the edge of The Meadows.

  Finn the Deep thought that Maya looked great.

  “Is the Warlock Queen dead?” she shouted up to them.

  “She is!” Wulf called back. “Is this all of you?”

  “No. We lost two. The rest are making camp.”

  They climbed down the rabbit. The furry beast hopped off back into The Meadows, presumably to die with its fellows. Finn tried to say farewell and thank you to it but its mind was already gone.

  “Are you all right to walk?” asked Maya. “The rest are at the top of—”

  There was a deep rumbling.

  A great geyser launched from the top of The Pyramid and shot impossibly high into the air. It kept coming, an incredible jet of water. It finally reached its high point and water started to fall, southwards. More and more water was jetting out from The Pyramid–or from the ground where The Pyramid used to be.

  Finn opened his mouth to ask Sitsi if Sofi had somehow got clear, but she’d turned away and her eyes were closed.

  They headed up the mountains on the edge of The Meadows as The Pyramid spouted billions of gallons of water.

  They found the rest of the surviving warriors and warlocks at the top. Wootah and Calnians sat, resting, eating and drinking and watching The Meadows fill with water. Soon, only the largest monsters in The Meadows were visible, then they too were covered by swirling, brown water.

  Finn wanted to question Freydis further, but he was too tired. And besides, she was asleep, sandwiched happily between Chogolisa and Paloma.

  Keef the Berserker was also asleep, snoring softly. Sitsi Kestrel sat next to him, stroking his strange short hair.

  Ottar was asleep, too, curled on Wulf’s lap. Sassa was leaning on his shoulder.

  Chief Maya was sitting alone, a little way off from the others.

  Finn walked over.

  “Do you mind if I sit here with you?” he asked.

  She looked up and smiled. Finn had never seen her smile before. She had a lovely smile. “Please do,” she said.

  Historical note and Acknowledgements

  My books would not exist without my wife Nicola who is, as our sons Charlie and Otty would attest, the finest person in the world. Otty, in case you’re wondering, is really called Ottar and he is named after Ottar the Moaner. He’ll be at least four years old by the time you read this, which shows you just about how long it takes to get a trilogy from head to bookshop.

  Thanks very much to all at Orbit on both sides of the Atlantic–a great copy-edit from Richard Collins, wonderful organisation from Joanna Kramer, fantastic publicity from Nazia Khatun and Ellen Wright and magnificent editing as ever from my editor Jenni Hill. Thanks very much also to all those other Orbiteers who’ve helped make this book a real thing.

  Thanks also to my agent Angharad Kowal for her tireless agenting.

  My beta readers Amy Dean and my brother Tim have been invaluable for all my books but this last one in particular, so huge thanks to them.

  Massive thanks to Sean Barrett for reading the audiobook so well. I’m only slightly annoyed that his reading rates slightly higher than the books themselves on audible.com (both the West of West and Age of Iron audiobooks rate astonishingly highly. It’s where I go to read reviews if I’m ever questioning my writing abilities at the start of a writing day).

  And big thanks to America. I’ll be back in the UK by the time this book comes out after two marvellous years living in, arguably I know, the finest country in the world. I certainly like it here.

  Native Americans

  A thousand years ago in the middle of North America near modern day St Louis there was a large, planned city. With a population of 25,000 people, it was bigger than both London and Paris at the time. These days we refer to it as Cahokia, or, in this book, Calnia. Seven hundred years ago it was abandoned and nobody knows why.

  A little over a thousand miles away across the Rockies (or Shining Mountains), while Cahokia was thriving, stone towns were built into great cracks in cliffs at what we now call Mesa Verde in south-west Colorado. The largest of these–the Cliff Palace (or Cloud Town)–housed about 250 people. It was abandoned about the same time
as Cahokia and–guess what–nobody knows why.

  Point is, Native Americans were a great deal more advanced and diverse than most people know. There was an awful lot going on that we have no idea about on the wonderful continent of America before the Europeans came across and killed around ninety-five per cent of the indigenous population (by unintentional introduction of new diseases as well as intentional murder). We know about Cahokia and Mesa Verde only because the former has left behind pyramids and the latter stone buildings. Were there other huge settlements made of skin and wood that let no trace? Pretty much definitely. And what great wars, crazy adventures, huge love affairs and amazing encounters with animals (both hilarious and fatal) must have taken place in America, both north and south, all the time?

  It’s been a real joy learning about this period of American history, visiting the locations and running a story through them. Perhaps there weren’t alchemically enhanced women and wasp men back then, but I’m certain that there were brave, sassy, fun, funny and groovy people who might well have had adventures not too dissimilar from the characters in this book.

  It is a huge mistake to think that pre Columbian Native Americans were all craggy faced, monosyllabic sensible types in feather headdresses sitting on horses. They didn’t have horses, for a start. Hopefully this book will encourage some to reassess their ideas about Native Americans and even do a little research themselves.

  I strongly recommend a visit to Mesa Verde. I haven’t actually been to Cahokia, but I’m sure it’s excellent. Having said that, perhaps a better thing to do is drive into a National Park, State Park, National Recreation Area, National Monument or any of the wonderful landscapes of North America and wander around, wondering what went on there before the Europeans poked their big, destructive noses in. Perhaps you’d like to picture Sofi and gang leading Wulf and his lot through the land, or–probably better–you’d like to make up your own stories.

  To recreate the journey in this final book, drive over the Rockies from Denver to Las Vegas. It’s one of the greatest drives in the world. The national parks are amazing and the bits that aren’t national parks are awesome too. If you’d like to know the exact route that Sofi and the gang took across America, including the Paloma, Freydis etc. diversion, give me a shout on Twitter or Instagram or it’s easy enough to find my email address. (The route for the whole trilogy is Chicago to Las Vegas. That’s a bit more of an undertaking, as the Ocean of Grass–now all very neat farmland–gets a little samey after the first few hundred miles, but I will be happy to tell you the whole route. I love talking about this stuff and the idea that a reader might visit the wonderful places I’ve been fills me with joy.)

  Vikings

  The Vikings reached North America about a thousand years ago. The two Vinland sagas–the Saga of Erik the Red and the Saga of the Greenlanders–describe the voyages. Plus there’s a place in Canada that is definitely a Viking settlement–L’Anse Aux Meadow in Newfoundland. So Vikings found America about 500 years before Columbus sailed the ocean blue.

  No evidence has yet been found that the Vikings got any further than that village, and the sagas don’t have them going very far. However–and it’s a big however–the vast, vast majority of what the Vikings got up to is not covered by the sagas, and did not leave any archaeological trace. Add the fact that the Vikings were about the bravest, most adventurous people who ever lived and you can be pretty certain that they went a lot further into North America.

  It is not outlandish to imagine that sailing, paddling and a little bit of boat carrying took the Vikings by river and lake to the shore of Lake Michigan just north of modern day Chicago, which is where I placed Hardwork (in what is now the Illinois Beach Nature Preserve).

  From there, they really could have crossed the continent to The Meadows (interesting fact (or a fact anyway) The Meadows in Spanish is Las Vegas).

  Perhaps they didn’t team up with super warriors or get chased by Tyrannosaurus Rexes, but it really is possible that people called Wulf, Erik, Freydis and Finnbogi walked on the red sand of the Great Basin Desert west of the Rocky Mountains a thousand years before I did.

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  extras

  meet the author

  Photo Credit: Nicola Watson

  Before becoming a novelist, ANGUS WATSON was a freelance ­features writer, chiefly for British national newspapers. Features included looking for Bigfoot in the USA for the Telegraph, diving on the scuppered World War I German fleet at Scapa Flow for the Financial Times, and swimming with sea lions in the Galapagos Islands for The Times.

  Angus’s first historical fantasy trilogy is Age of Iron, an epic romantic adventure set at the end of Britain’s Iron Age. He came up with the idea for West of West while driving and hiking though North America’s magnificent countryside and wondering what it was like before the Europeans got there.

  Angus is married to Nicola. They have two young sons, Charlie and Otty, and two cats, Jasmine and Napa.

  You can find him on Twitter at @GusWatson or find his website at www.guswatson.com.

  Find out more about Angus Watson and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.

  if you enjoyed

  WHERE GODS FEAR TO GO

  look out for

  THE BONE SHIPS

  The Tide Child Trilogy: Book One

  by

  RJ Barker

  A brilliantly imagined saga of honor, glory, and warfare, The Bone Ships is the epic launch of a new fantasy trilogy from David Gemmell Award–nominated RJ Barker.

  Two nations at war. One prize beyond compare.

  For generations, the Hundred Isles have built their ships from the bones of ancient dragons to fight an endless war.

  The dragons disappeared, but the battles for supremacy persisted.

  Now the first dragon in centuries has been spotted in far-off waters, and both sides see a chance to shift the balance of power in their favor. Because whoever catches it will win not only glory, but the war.

  1

  The Castaway

  “Give me your hat.”

  They are not the sort of words that you expect to start a legend, but they were the first words he ever heard her say.

  She said them to him, of course.

  It was early. The scent of fish filled his nose and worked its way into his stomach, awakening the burgeoning nausea. His head ached and his hands trembled in a way that would only be stilled by the first cup of shipwine. Then the pain in his mind would fade as the thick liquid slithered down his gullet, warming his throat and guts. After the first cup would come the second, and with that would come the numbness that told him he was on the way to deadening his mind the way his body was dead, or waiting to be. Then there would be a third cup and then a fourth and then a fifth, and the day would be over and he would slip into darkness.

  But the black ship in the quiet harbour would still sit at its rope. Its bones would creak as they pulled against the tide. The crew would moan and creak as they drank on its decks, and he would fall into unconsciousness in this old flenser’s hut. Here he was, shipwife in name only. Commander in word only. Failure.

  Voices from outside, because even here, in the long-­abandoned and ghost-haunted flensing yards there was no real escape from others. Not even the memory of Keyshan’s Rot, the disease of the boneyards, could keep people from cutting through.

  “The Shattered Stone came in this morran, said they saw an archeyex over Sleightholme. Said their windtalker fell mad and it nearly wrecked ’em. Had to kill the creature to stop it bringing a wind to throw ’em across a lee shore.”

  “Aren’t been an archeyex seen for nigh on my lifetime. It brings nothing good–paint that on a rock for the Sea Hag.” And the voices faded, lost in the hiss of the waves on the beach, eaten up by the sea as everything was
destined to be, while he thought on what they said–“brings nothing good”. May as well as say that Skearith’s Eye will rise on the morran, for this is the Hundred Isles–when did good things ever happen here?

  The next voice he heard was the challenge. Delivered while he kept his eyes closed against the tides of nausea ebbing and flowing in hot, acidic waves from his stomach.

  “Give me your hat.” A voice thick with the sea, a bird-shriek croak of command. The sort of voice you ran to obey, had you scurrying up the rigging to spread the wings of your ship. Maybe, just maybe, on any other day or after a single cup of shipwine, maybe he would have done what she said and handed over his two-tailed shipwife’s hat, which, along with the bright dye in his hair, marked him out as a commander–though an undeserving one.

  But in the restless night his sleep had been troubled by thoughts of his father and thoughts of another life, not a better one, not an easier one, but a sober one, one without shame. One in which he did not feel the pull of the Sea Hag’s slimy hands trying to drag him down to his end. One of long days at the wing of a flukeboat, singing of the sea and pulling on the ropes as his father glowed with pride at how well his little fisher boy worked the winds. Of long days before his father’s strong and powerful body was broken as easily as a thin varisk vine, ground to meat between the side of his boat and the pitiless hull of a boneship. His hand reaching up from black water, a bearded face, mouth open as if to call to his boy in his final agonising second. Such strength, and it had meant nothing.

  So maybe he had, for once, woken with the idea of how wonderful it would be to have a little pride. And if there had been a day for him to give up the two-tailed hat of shipwife, then it was not this day.

  “No,” he said. He had to scrape the words out of his mind, and that was exactly how it felt, like he drew the curve of a curnow blade down the inside of his skull; words falling from his mouth slack as midtide. “I am shipwife of the Tide Child and this is my symbol of command.” He touched the rim of the black two-tailed cap. “I am shipwife, and you will have to take this hat from me.”