CONTENT
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Title
Copyright
Book Five – LOST Prologue – Sixteen Years Previously
1. The Sawneys
2. Lost
3. Ghost
4. Incoming
5. Battle of the New Moon
6. Vessel
7. The Betwixt
8. Dirt Worms
9. Atonement
10. Leaving Is Not An Option
Epilogue
Book Six – HOPE 11. The Distraction
12. Peace
13. The Great Trench
14. All Our Tomorrows
15. Mercy
16. The Wall
17. War
18. Besieged
19. All or Nothing
20. North
Epilogue
About the Book
With help from her mutant friend, Sorrel closes in on an emotional reunion with her brother Eli, but her boyfriend David's disappearance shatters her dream of them all being together. For now. In the riveting final instalment of the Dark Times trilogy, Sorrel must overcome her darkest fears and fight for everything she believes in if she is to salvage anything worth living for.
About the Author
Lorraine Thomson was born in Glasgow. She won a UK writing competition and was short-listed for the Dundee Book Prize. She now lives in Ullapool on the rugged north-west coast of Scotland.
LORRAINE THOMSON
»be« by BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT
Digital original edition
»be« by Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG
Copyright © 2018 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany
Written by Lorraine Thomson
Edited by Allan Guthrie
Project management: Kathrin Kummer
Cover design: Nele Schütz Design, München
Cover illustrations © shutterstock: vitalez | Rost 9 | art_of_sun | Inked Pixels | Dana_C
E-book production: 3w+p GmbH,Rimpar
ISBN 9-783-7325-5519-2
www.be-ebooks.com
Book Five
LOST
Prologue – Sixteen Years Previously
The tribe gathered at the mouth of the birthing cave. A successful birth was a rare event and it had been at least three summers since the last.
The mother lay on an altar of packed earth, two tribeswomen holding her down, a rag tied across her mouth. It would bring bad luck to the tribe if she screamed during labour.
The midwife stood between the mother’s legs, knife held ready to mark the face of the new one. The same knife would be used to cut the cord, the placenta roasted and eaten; an offering from the new one to all, symbolising the strength the birth brought to the tribe.
The midwife bared her sharpened teeth as the new one’s head crowned. It was the closest her kind came to a smile, but as the faceless child was delivered from its mother, the midwife’s mouth gaped open. She dropped her knife, its clatter lost beneath the screech that erupted from the depths of her throat.
The tribeswomen fell back from the mother as the sound splintered their ears. The tribe elders rushed into the cave, their bulging eyes filled with fear as they gazed upon the faceless one. They looked to the midwife. She picked up her knife and cut the caul from the new one’s face, but she did not mark it.
It would bring them bad fortune and empty bellies to harm one born without a face. They could not even mark her in the traditional way. Instead, the child, a girl, would live among them, but she would not be one of them. She would forever be a shadow within her own people.
When the placenta was delivered, the midwife carried it out of the cave and took it to an unmarked, barren place, and buried it in the dirt.
1.
The Sawneys
David paced the pit. It was four strides at its longest stretch, three at its widest. It would have been triangular were it not for the fact that the wall bulged into the third side, narrowing the space in the middle.
If it had been an option, he would have worn his fingers to the bone digging himself out, but the walls and floor were solid rock, without any cracks or crevices he could work at. There was one way in and out, and that was through the hatch above his head.
He stared around the ill-lit confines of the pit, wondering if they’d discovered it already excavated, or if they’d cleared it of earth and gravel themselves.
Them. They were a people the likes of which David had never come across before. He had been able to make out enough words to ascertain that they could talk, but mostly they communicated in crude grunts and gestures. When they danced by the fire at night, they acted out scenes of death, and their songs were shrill and held the promise of pain to come. Ugly ran deep in their veins.
David walked the longest length from corner to corner – four paces, turn, four paces, turn – until he felt dizzy. He didn’t go into the third corner when he was exercising. That was for his waste. The stench emanating from it when he’d first been dropped in the pit had been stale but potent. It told him that he was not the first person to be kept here. The thought did not bring him comfort.
As far as he could fathom, this was his third day. Though he suffered from bouts of exhaustion, his eyes scratchy with fatigue, sleep did not come easily. When he managed to doze off, he did so sitting up, waking with the chill from the stone wall eating into his back, his head lolling, and a screaming crick in his neck. He felt no less tired after sleeping than before, but at least it afforded him some respite from the fear gnawing at him from the inside out.
He looked up at the hatch. Very often, he’d glance up to see a row of bulging eyes staring at him, but there were none there now and so he jumped up and grabbed onto one of the wooden struts, pulling himself up so that he could peer through the gaps.
Two hags were sitting by the fire, the muscles flexing on their long, bony arms as they pounded pestles into mortars made of stone.
He’d been suspicious the first time they’d lowered the net containing a rudimentary bowl into the pit. There was a large dollop of paste in the bowl. They’d grunted and shouted at him, indicating that he should take it from the net, and when he did so, they mimed for him to eat the contents. When he refused, they poked at him with long spears. He ignored the torment until they drew blood and then he caved in and scooped up a little of the paste on his finger. They stopped jabbing him as he began to eat. The paste had a fibrous texture and tasted vaguely earthy and slightly sweet, but mostly of nothing at all. With a diet this bland, it was little wonder they salivated at the sight of him.
One of the women glanced over. Catching sight of him, she nudged her companion who also turned around to stare. The pair of them grinned, revealing incisors sharpened to points. When they licked their lips, a tremble ran through David’s arms, weakening his grip. He dropped back into the pit, but not before he caught sight of something that left him quaking when he landed.
The fire had been low, and with no flames to veil the way, David had been able to gaze through the heat haze of the glowing embers at what lay beyond. On the other side, neatly stacked on a stone ledge, sat a pyramid of human skulls.
The sight of the white, gleaming bones brought his own mortality home to him, and the thought of his own skull sitting atop the pile filled him with fear and outrage.
He paced the pit once more. The movement was more than a distraction, it was a way to keep his body working, his muscles strong. No matter what, he would fight to the end, and if he was going to his death, he’d be sure to take some of them with him.
If only there was a way out.
He stopped pacing and g
azed up at the hatch again. The bindings on it were strong for sure – too strong for him to undo with one hand while dangling from the other. But if he could somehow get up to it and use both hands, it wouldn’t be a problem. David stared at the stone walls of the pit. There were only two of them up there at the moment – if he was going to try anything, now was the time.
He braced his back against one wall, pressed one foot against the opposite, then brought up the other foot and began to slowly work his way up. He took tiny steps, wriggling his back up the rough surface, the small, intense movements causing sweat to bead on his brow.
It was only a short distance, but his legs ached with the effort of keeping his body tensed between the two walls of the pit, and the rock dug furrows in his back. Still, he persevered, edging up until the hatch was within reach of his fingertips. A little higher and he’d be able to undo the bindings. He’d have to be careful and make sure the bony hags weren’t watching. Once he was high enough, he would lock his legs in position then it wouldn’t take him long to undo the straps and he’d pull himself out of the pit and be gone.
In his mind, he was already free, his feet pounding the earth as he ran, cool breeze in his face, the taste of freedom on his lips.
“DOWN! DOWN! DOWN!”
The sudden yammering of voices from above was accompanied by the jabbing of spears through the slats of the hatch.
David cried out as sharp points drove into his shoulders and legs. He grabbed one of the spears and got into a tug-of-war with its owner, but the others stabbed at him, until he let go. When he fell, he fell hard, jarring his body as he landed on the base of his spine.
The savages opened the hatch and filled the space where it had been with their gruesome faces. They quarrelled with each other, fighting for the best viewing spot. The raucous sound of their voices clanged against rock, the terrible sound reverberating through the pit, filling David’s head until he thought it would split in two.
Words the colour of nightmares flew into the pit and buzzed around him like switch flies. Feast. Meat. Slaughter. Kill.
They lowered the rope ladder into the pit and three of them descended it, as quick and agile as the monkeys in the Wild Woods, but unlike the monkeys, the scar-faced savages were armed with spears and knives. They filled the space, giving him no room to lash out.
They pulled David to his feet and ran their fingers over him, pinching his muscles, tweaking his flesh. Their nails, sharpened to points to match their teeth, clawed at his skin. There was laughter from above as they mimed eating him and then he was pushed to the ladder and forced to climb.
It felt as though the muscles in his arms and legs had melted like spring snow and he could barely hold onto the rope. His feet refused to move until he was jabbed and pushed into doing so. Before, he’d been trying to escape the pit but now that he was being forced out of it to face his fate, fear weighted his body and the fight had gone out of him. He wanted to curl up in the corner and cry like a baby, but that was not an option.
Slowly, he climbed the ladder, and with each rung an eon passed. Their voices poured over him from above, making his stomach curdle and his hands slick. And then finally, inevitably, he reached the top.
The ones waiting for him there fell back into a wide circle as he emerged. By the time he was on his feet before them they had stopped yabbering and were staring at him in silence. The three who had forced him from the pit climbed out and stood behind him. David glanced at them and looked around the circle.
They all stared back at him. Though their scarred faces were as frightening as ever to look at, there was no hostility in their bulging eyes. In fact, they had about them a look of deep contentment.
The humming started low, so low that at first David wasn’t sure that he was hearing it at all, but gradually it built in intensity until the air in the middle of the circle vibrated with their ghastly droning. It was this more than anything that sent waves of fear roiling through David’s limbs. Hands caught him as his legs gave way.
They guided him or carried him – fear had taken over his senses and David couldn’t tell which – and sat him on a stone throne. The tribe was still humming, the sound pulsating, rising and falling so that sometimes it was barely there at all, and then it would build into a painful crescendo before falling away again.
He caught sight of the pyramid of gleaming white skulls and tried to break free but many hands held him in place. Bony fingers as strong as manacles circled his arms and legs. It was hopeless. They were so many and he was only one.
David knew in his heart that death was coming to him. All he could do was hope that when it came, it would be quick and merciful.
The two females he’d seen sitting by the fire earlier approached. One of them carried a stone bowl. It contained a paste, but unlike the grey, fibrous sludge they’d fed to him before, this paste was the colour of soil.
The second female scooped her finger into the mix and held it out to David. He sealed his lips tight and turned his head away. Hands circled his head, squeezing so tightly he feared his skull would implode with the pressure, and forced him to face forward. Insistent fingers pinched at his nose so that he had to open his mouth to breathe. As soon as he gasped for a breath, they prised his jaws open wide. The woman grinned, revealing the jagged edges of her sharpened incisors. She inserted her paste-coated finger into David’s mouth and rubbed it all around his gums and the inside of his cheeks and then she scooped up another finger-load and spread it on his tongue. When he began to gag and choke, they released his head. David spat out what he could, but most of the earth-paste stuck to his mouth and he could not help but swallow. When they saw that he had ingested it, the tribe swayed in time to a low hum.
The earth-paste broke into strands and dried his mouth. The filaments wrapped around his tongue and caught in his teeth. David tried to spit them out, but could not summon the saliva.
As if sensing his sudden, deep thirst, one of them pulled back his head and poured water into his mouth. It flowed out over his lips, sending rivulets down his cheeks and chin. He felt it trickle under his clothes and down his chest. By the time they let go of his head, the filaments had gone, either swallowed or washed away. Had he swallowed? He couldn’t remember. His thoughts were hazy.
Two women approached. At first, he thought they were the same two from before, but as they swam into focus he saw that they were younger, though no less bony, than the paste-grinding hags. They smiled with closed lips and nodded at him. David could feel something strange happening to his face. His muscles seemed to flow like thick liquid and he realised that he was smiling in return.
They set a bowl of water before him. There were flowers floating in it. Herbs he recognised but could not name. Sorrel would know what they were. Sorrel. Sweet Sorrel. Where was she? Where was his Sorrel?
One of the women knelt before the bowl and removed a cloth from it. She squeezed it out and looked up at him. It was Sorrel, there before him.
He felt bad for not recognising her. Wishing to make amends, to let her know how much he cared and how sorry he was, he reached out to touch her. Realising he could now move his arm, he looked down at his body. The hands that had gripped him so tightly no longer held him. He was free to move, to stand, to flee. But he didn’t want to flee, not now that Sorrel was with him.
He looked back at her. She’d changed. Her face was longer, thinner, and her eyes were much larger than before. There were scars on her cheeks – where had they come from? She smiled and this time her lips parted, revealing the pointed tips of her teeth. David raised his hand to caress her face. She took it and held it. Her nails were as pointed as her teeth. David stared at her nails. Sorrel didn’t have pointed nails, or pointed teeth. She had a sharp tongue though. He giggled at the thought. The woman wiped his face with the cloth. She wasn’t Sorrel after all. That was good because Sorrel didn’t have scars on her face. He could smell the herbs on the cloth, and with the scent came their names: rosemary, sage and thyme.
The herbs they used in Amat to sweeten badger meat.
As Not-Sorrel washed his face and his neck, the other woman cut at David’s clothes with a thin blade. The hum of the tribe increased as she peeled the material away to reveal his bare skin. He looked at them watching him. He could see the sounds they made rolling through the air towards him in circles of purple and orange.
The fire had been built up and sparks spiralled into the dark velvet of the night sky. Night already. When had that happened? The woman washed his chest with the cloth. Rosemary, sage and thyme.
He was the meat. He was the badger. He smiled at the thought of them eating him. Everything ate everything else. Badger, wood prawn, rat. What did it matter? The circles popped when they floated over the fire.
David did not resist when they made him stand. The humming increased in intensity, vibrating through his body. The end was coming soon but he felt strangely relaxed.
The circles of purple and orange shrivelled as a scream the colour of spilled blood slashed through the air. At first, David thought the scream had come from himself, that they had cut him and some part of him had felt the pain, but when he looked down his body was whole.
David stood still as the circle erupted into chaos. More bloody screams shot across the circle. The humming was replaced by harsh cries and terse commands. Dark clouds appeared and scattered the bony frames of the savages before them. The savages howled as the clouds whirled in their midst. As they drew near, David saw that they were not clouds, but cloaked figures armed with glinting blades and heavy truncheons.
He watched the scene from outside himself, wondering how it was possible to be in two places at one time. Two of the cloaked figures broke jaws and spilled blood as they swept towards him. So, this was to be his death, not bulging-eyed and sharp of tooth, but shrouded in dark clouds and armed with bludgeons. But the figures did not bludgeon him. Instead one grabbed him by the arm. The rough, physical contact pulled David back into himself.
The New Day Page 1