Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams

by Damian Huntley

  “My friends, Istanbul is too beautiful to bear witness to the coming conflict. Previous wars, occupations and advancements have woven a this magnificent tapestry of cultures that you enjoy, but make no mistake; to be part of this war is to touch a burning taper to that heritage. Your military has made a brazen statement against America today, burning bridges that have been long in the making. Look there,” he pointed towards the smoke clouds, “The residences of the U.S. Consulate General burn at the hands of your leaders. This was an act of defiance and solidarity with those countries opposed to the E.U.C, maybe, but the administration of President Tiernan has already declared this as an open act of war. In this, your country has pitted you, innocent and peaceable citizens, against the might of the U.S. military.”

  He paced back and forth, slowly making up ground between himself and the crowds, “I lead an army that does not yet know its own strength and I will not make a name for myself here. Do not allow this to be the birthplace of the new war. Do not let my army cut their teeth here.”

  He watched apprehensively, hoping for some sign that the crowds were weakening in their resolve, but no such sign came. Two men broke from the pack and moved towards an aging ford truck which had been abandoned by its owner. Julius was disturbed by their smiles. He wondered if he had missed something, some vital sign in the surroundings. As the two men stepped to opposite ends of the truck, Julius stepped back instinctively, the darkness consuming him, a hundred voices calling to him, castigating him for his stupidity. Arrogance. He understood it now that he was confronted with it. That was the skulking creature lingering at the edges of his conscience. He had allowed himself to imagine that the deck was stacked in his favor, but now, too easily, too gracefully, the men bent with their knees and lifted the truck as if it were a fiberglass set dressing. When the truck landed, roof to roof atop the lead humvee, the bullhorn dropped unceremoniously from Julius’s hands and he ran, head bowed slightly, torso leaning forward, heart thumping with the rush of chemicals released by the leeches.

  With the force of the first impact, Julius felt his body tumble through the air, his head landing hard against the guard railing at the side of the bridge and through the ringing numbness, he watched one of the two men fall towards the sea. Hanging on at the edge of consciousness, Julius wondered how many of the men and women amongst the crowd were Leechborn. Was there enough for an ambush, or were there only a few scattered here and there? He heaved the second man’s leg off his chest, which freed up his head enough so that he was able to get a better look at their situation. The silhouetted forms climbing the steel cables hand over hand provided all of the information he needed.

  There was a faint beeping, somewhere behind his head. He reached a hand back and picked up the sat-phone.

  “Not a good time.

  Tiernan’s voice, “You’re needed back home.”

  “Impossible.”

  Looking Eastward, he could see the soldiers starting to pour out of their vehicles or taking up positions at mounted gun turrets. Little use the turrets would be, although he hoped it wouldn’t take the troops long to realize that clean head-shots could still be effective.

  “Julius, there’s a situation here. How soon can you extract?”

  “Extraction is not an option. If we could, it would be disastrous, but I’m telling you point blank, there is no way we can extract.”

  A wave of nausea hit him as the man next to him started to move again. He tried to pull himself up. The man swept his legs from under him before he had time to react, and just as suddenly, the man was on top of him. He tucked his chin towards his chest, trying to protect his neck, but hands moved to his shoulders, lifting his body forward and slamming his head back against the railings.

  There was no sense of control, the man was moving too quickly for Julius to make any conscious effort to command the leeches. Julius knew that in dire circumstances, it was best that way. They knew what to do.

  Sergeant Bickersley’s legs writhed back and forth, feeling the metal give a little more with each thrust. He was desperate now. The air was thick with acrid fumes. He knew it was only a matter of time until the humvee’s engine blew. That, or more worryingly, the Truck’s engine, which he figured must be more or less directly on top of him. He couldn’t tell if the others had managed to free themselves, but from the nightmare of gunfire and yelling, he understood that being free of the wreck would not be the end of his troubles. There was very little room for him to move his head and although his left arm was unobstructed, his right arm was trapped between the door and a buckled section of the humvee’s roof. Through the torn fabric of his jacket, he could see that the skin of his arm was rippling with movement, as if his muscles were convulsing, but he could also make out that there was an odd sheen to his skin, more pearlescent than sweat.

  He closed his eyes, focusing his efforts on his legs, pushing once more, then pulling his knees upwards, his feet wedging tight against the seat. One more kick, then … The explosion tore through his senses, the flash of light burning bright in his retina, even through closed eyelids. His body folded awkwardly as he was blown through the passenger door, metal and burning debris covering him where he fell at the roadside. He tried to roll, but he was unable to achieve any leverage with his right leg so he pushed with his right arm, heaving his upper body out from under the flaming detritus. The fire was everywhere about him, no matter how he turned, he was unable to escape it. His vision recovering from the blast, he caught sight of his clothes, fire rippling across the surface of the fabric. He started to tear at them, fingers ripping and clawing at the cloth in frenzied terror.

  When the woman’s foot made contact with his stomach, he thought at first that she was trying to help him, he even attempted to shout his thanks, although what escaped his lips was a tortured gasp. The second kick was absolutely clear in its message, connecting with his chest with enough force to crack several of his ribs. He wasn’t ready for the third kick, and he could feel that he was losing his battle with the fire. He rolled blindly, hoping that he was moving away from his assailant, but instead he felt his arm wrapping awkwardly around a leg. He heard her scream as she fell and he clambered desperately over her body, unsure of what he could possibly do now that he was on top of her. Her fingers were grasping at his arms, her teeth clamping down on his shoulder, the crushing pain in his chest prevented him from responding with any vigor. Then she was screaming and he couldn’t understand why, but he wrapped his arms around her as tightly as he could manage.

  Her strength was tremendous. He felt her struggle to her feet, even with him clawing at her, his hands in her hair and digging into the flesh of her back. Opening his eyes, he could see the plume of flames rising from their bodies and he understood now why she continued to scream. Then he was falling, wind buffeting him as she tried to prise him off her body. As the water swallowed him and blackness engulfed his senses, he felt her fingers loosen finally.

  Unable to listen to any more, Tiernan threw his phone at the wall. There were a great number of Second Realmers and Blood-Bastards on home soil, but Julian’s army would have been something altogether different. His best option now would be Arctum, but they presented their own problem. They needed leadership.

  He watched the drone reconnaissance of the Stupins Institute. There were no building plans on file. The best guess was that there were only a handful of people in the complex, but without building plans there was no real way of knowing what they would be facing.

  With a small militia from Arctum, he felt confident that he could drive home the right message. It felt right though, that he should lead the charge.

  Stephanie felt the weight over her eyelids and the bridge of her nose, felt the touch of soft fingertips on the skin of her face. She opened her eyes slowly, bracing herself for what the world would bring.

  Stanwick spoke gently, “Your dad’s downstairs with the others. They’ve been up all night, fretting.”

  “They shouldn’t fret.” The room
filled so quickly with thoughts.

  Stanwick continued to stroke the child’s forehead, “You saw it didn’t you?”

  Stephanie nodded.

  “Follow me,” Stanwick whispered, “All of you.”

  Down the grand staircase, Stephanie’s finger’s slalomed lazily down the length of the banister, her stick finger skier hotdogging it off the banister’s end as she jumped off the final step to the ground floor. She paused for a moment where the banister arose from the floor to carry on its winding ways deeper into the house. Her fingers rocked back and forth, the skier preparing to launch. It was a good run, zigzagging, knuckles juddering as the skier contended with imagined moguls, then feet spread wide, one knee bent, down to the first basement level.

  Lost in her game, Stephanie wasn’t aware how many levels they had descended by the time the banister’s graceful curve finally offered an unforeseen obstacle for the skier, the thick wood alighting briefly on the palm of a hand which had been carved from Frosterley Marble, the polished limestone fingers reaching up from the floor to stroke the banister’s underside, the oak seemingly melting into the floor as it followed the form the wrist. Stanwick stopped, allowing Stephanie to stroke the cool marble.

  “It’s lovely.” She looked up at Stanwick, knowing, “You made it.”

  Stanwick smiled, and it dawned on Stephanie that it was just Stanwick, and that here, there was just her.

  “I can see!” She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, shaking Stanwick’s hands.

  Stanwick laughed with her, feeling the child’s joy so fully, understanding that her elation was complex and multi-faceted. Because Stephanie was well aware that her eyes had not suddenly healed; rather she could see clearly because through everything, through all of the opportunities, the trillions of evolutionary successes and ancestral happy accidents that had to happen for her to get there; through it all, being there, right there, right then, holding Stanwick’s hand was an inevitability.

  The distant walls shone with the light of the universe, distant galaxies spiraling, exploding, colliding, all wending their way through the infinite. Stephanie let loose Stanwick’s hand, running to the immense walls of glardium.

  “Wait,” Stanwick called after her, “Don’t touch the walls just yet.”

  Stephanie ran back to her side and held her hand, trusting.

  “It’s dazzling, but it’s not stars Stephanie. It’s not the universe.”

  Stephanie didn’t speak her reply. She didn’t have to. The heaviness, the sheer weight of emotion Stanwick felt massing in her eyes, her chest tightening as it hadn’t in more than a century, because she knew that she was wrong.

  And now, so many feelings that Stanwick had lived without. Suddenly afraid, because she had been so wrong about something that she’d known throughout all of her long years. Scared to allow Stephanie to use the hopper, because she realized that she had never understood it. Not really.

  Then Stephanie’s small fingers squeezed hers, and everything was still.

  Stanwick was ready. She walked on until they reached the middle of the wall, where the chest sat waiting. Stanwick traced her finger along the chest’s lid and it opened silently. She took out the glardium weave and the neck brace, placing them on the floor, then she stroked a small glistening strip on the floor and the recording bank rose with a soft whispered sibilant.

  She led Stephanie to the wall, turning her around with a gentle push of the hand.

  “Lean back… that’s it.”

  Stephanie closed her eyes and smiled.

  “In a moment, I want you to think about what you dreamed last night. Remember it. Let it pour out of you.”

  Stephanie spread out her fingers and eased her hands backwards slowly, dipping her fingers into the farthest reaches of time, and as Stanwick laid the glardium weave over her face, Stephanie’s heart stopped.

  A minute passed between each beat, and Stanwick held her own hand to the wall, feeling the future pouring out of the child. A heart beating in cosmological time, a hundred lifetimes lived between each contraction of those small muscles.

  In the darkness, when she dreamed no more, Stephanie felt his breath, and the screaming began.

  Panicked, Stanwick pulled the glardium from Stephanie’s face, her hand steadying the neck brace, then dropping it to the floor with the cloth. She sat cross legged, cradling Stephanie, her index finger mopping the little trail of blood which had dripped from her nose. She knew Stephanie’s dread. She’d felt it herself. She’d felt that dread for so long, but it was necessary. She had always known it was necessary.

  As Stephanie stirred, Stanwick hugged her close, stroking the back of her head, fingers pulling carefully and lovingly through her hair.

  “You felt it.” Stanwick asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

  Stephanie squeezed tight, and her perfect blue eyes met with Stanwick’s.

  “Don’t lie to yourself.”

  Stanwick let go of the child, shattered, and ashamed, because she had seen her first glimpse of the woman that Stephanie would one day become.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In the Beginning

  Hannah Beach hadn’t moved away from the TV for sixteen hours. It had been by chance that she’d caught the news report about the chase. When she’d seen that brief glimpse of Stephanie’s face, a couple of frames caught by one of the patrol car’s dashboard cams, Hannah had sat down, her whole body shaking, and she hadn’t been able to get up since then.

  Every time it looked as if there was nothing more to report, no more news on the subject, she’d pick up the thread on another station. More salacious headlines.

  Girl killed in police chase related to gas station murder.

  Gas station survivor reveals all: Feral wolf child on gas stop rampage.

  Mechanicsburg PA Police Patrols report no bodies found at scene of crash.

  Then of course, later in the evening, she had read the footer feed. Sam Cushing announces plans to write and direct self penned epic “The Kings Mosaic”. When the full significance of Cushing’s interview dawned on her, she threw up in her mouth. To say that she was feeling emotionally scarred would have been such a feat of understatement. She was the fucking English Patient of emotional scarring.

  As the morning dawned, she was beginning to appreciate the way David’s mind worked, because jumping from one station to the next, she could see that all of the stories were connected, although none of the reporters joined the dots, because they couldn’t, because the man told them that joining the dots wasn’t allowed. She had been up way too long. Oh, she had looked up the Stupins Institute, because of course there was more to that. No one had bought the book. Who did that bitch think she was? So when the news feed had pinged up it’s cheery little message that the national guard were assaulting the cult leader of a heretofore unheard of cult in West Virginia, Hannah was on it.

  The shelling had started at nine in the morning, and Hannah had cried, horrified at the possibility that she was correct, that her Spiff was there, that her brother was there, but the alternative was worse. The thought that they had died in a police chase was impossible. She couldn’t process it. So she watched the shaky footage of the shelling, the walls of the building crumbling, the drone strike systematically dismantling the regal building.

  The military vehicles had rolled in at nine thirty, their slow procession lead by a group of probably four or five hundred foot soldiers. The drone followed the troops, never showing their faces, pulling in tighter on the building.

  Nine thirty-six and seventeen seconds. Hannah paused the DVR, because there, in the boiling rubble, stood a little girl, perfectly unharmed, and all about her billowed a dress of glardium weave. Frame by frame, Hannah watched as the child was lifted up on the back of a great beast of the void, Dannum, Pretchis … everything in between. Her Stephanie, her Spiff, the star cloa
ked Princess of the Infinite.

  ###

  Now read on for a preview of the second book in the series.

  A preview of the first chapter of:

  Histories of the Void Garden, Book 2:

  Princess of the Infinite

  A novel by Damian Huntley

  Copyright 2016 Damian Huntley, all rights reserved

  PROLOGUE

  CHILE 1894

  She had felt such despair at first. So much time lost looking for West, because the world had come to feel truly empty without him. She had traveled to their home, convinced that if she could reach out far enough, she would hear him. She pulled down the glardium wall and lay naked on the rills, pleading to the delvers to make her a channel for only his voice.

  She existed without time, losing track of the days, the months she spent, her body wasting away. When the darkness finally awakened in her mind, it came as a manifestation of her worst dread. Not West’s voice. A voice she had heard in all of her bleakest hours. Dannum, Pretchis, and everything in between. His wordless utterances inside her in the night, his tongue scraping at the walls of her will, drawing her into herself, closing her off from reality.

  She journeyed North, joining a small whaling vessel in the waters off the coast of Concepcion, disembarking at Arica. From Arica, she forged into the Andes on foot, every fiber of her being thrumming with his call. She was wretched, because she was beyond her own command, a husk bent around his desire. She climbed with bleeding fingers, the delvers screaming for sustenance. When she eventually stopped, it was because there was nowhere to go. No energy to go back, and only a sheer fall into the blackness ahead.