by Mike Shevdon
I closed my eyes again and tried again to look inwards, only to find the glaring brightness coiling inside me. Every time I tried to remember who I was, where I was, why I was here, all I could see was searing light. It twisted and turned, trapped writhing within me. If I could let it out – eject it from inside of me, then I could be free, but every time I turned inwards I was forced away by the brightness there.
There was something – a memory or a dream. There had been a fire. I could smell the smoke on my clothes and feel the rawness where the heat had caught my skin. That didn’t explain the light inside me, though. How did the fire get inside me?
“Cousin. I wondered if I would find you here.”
I opened my eyes. Standing above me was a man I felt I ought to recognise. He wore a long coat and his features reminded me of someone I knew. I could see him illuminated against the sky until I looked away. I looked back and the light found him again. I was seeing him in the glare from my eyes. Somehow the light was escaping from inside me.
“Who?” I asked.
He sighed and then looked out towards the horizon. “Ah,” he said. “So that’s what you did with it.”
“Do I know you?” I asked. His voice was familiar.
“I’m not sure that you ever did,” he said, “and now you probably never will.”
“Where are we?”
“These are the shores of night. This is the last place you will ever be.” He looked around, as if enjoying the view.
“Why am I here?”
“A fine question, though the answer is probably not to your liking.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked him.
“I’m here because I let my judgement get the better of me. I let sentiment come before purpose, and I got lost in the play and got careless. You learn fast, do you know that?”
“I’m having difficulty even remembering my name,” I said. “Do you know my name?”
“Yes, Niall. I know your name,” he said.
His use of my name brought other things back. “You’re… Raffmir,” I said. “And we are not friends.”
“Not friends, no.” He agreed. “But we have a deal in common. Come,” he said offering his hand.
I took it and got to my feet. Somewhere I had lost my shoes, but the sharp wet sand under my feet was not unpleasant. “What now?” I asked him.
“Now? In due course we will discover that together, perhaps, but for now let us walk along the shores of night, and you can tell me how much you remember.”
“Should I walk with my enemy? You tried to kill me, I remember that now.”
“There are no friends or enemies here, Niall. Only companions. Did you know you’ve been here before?” He set off along the shore and I walked beside him.
“No,” I said.
“At least twice,” he said, “though the memory of it will be lost to you.”
“Then, how do you know?” I asked him.
“Ah, well,” he said. “Therein lies a tale.” We walked along the shore, the waves lapping almost to our feet. “And for once, we have time on our side…”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mike Shevdon was born in Yorkshire, grew up in Oxfordshire and now lives in Bedfordshire, so no-one can say he hasn’t travelled. An avid reader of fantasy since his early teens, he has a bulging bookshelf going back more than forty years. His love of fantasy started with Edgar Rice Burroughs and C S Lewis and expanded rapidly, spilling over into SF, crime fiction (usually called mystery in the US), thrillers, the back of cereal packets, instruction manuals and anything else with words on it.
Mike is a technologist by profession, which is the nearest thing he could find to Sorcerer in the careers manual. He has also studied martial arts for many years, including Archery and Aikido, and is a keen cook (his wife would use the word “messy” but that’s another story). He is the proud inventor of Squeaky Cheese Curry, particularly loves food from South East Asia, and is on a life-long quest to create the perfect satay sauce.
His favourite books include Barabara Hambly’s, Darwath Trilogy, The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov and any of John Le Carre’s, George Smiley books. He is a big fan of Robert Crais and the Elvis Cole series and loves all the Janet Evanovich, Stephanie Plum novels. He believes Sir Terry Pratchet’s knighthood is richly deserved.
Mike draws his inspiration from the richness of English folklore and from the history and rituals of the UK.
You can follow him on Twitter with @shevdon.
shevdon.com
ANGRY ROBOT
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Eight into one won’t go
Copyright © Shevdon Ltd 2013
Cover art by John Coulthart
All rights reserved.
Angry Robot is a registered trademark, and the Angry Robot icon a trademark of Angry Robot Ltd.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Ebook ISBN: 978 0 85766 228 6
UK Paperback: ISBN: 978 0 85766 226 2
US Mass Market Paperback: ISBN: 978 0 85766 227 9
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR