Novel writing (whilst working for real money too)

Mon, 14 Jan 2008 10:38:30 GMT

Right, someone noticed I hadn't updated my Journal. Well, (a) I'm still not up to speed with how LiveJournal works, and (b) I never seem to have the time; or, more precisely, my time is spent better on other things right now, being:

Finishing off this huge shelf-breaker of a first novel, which was intended as a single release, but I'm now having to split into two books. Publishers don't like huge first novels (cost v risk) and my 235,000 count seems to have put a lot of people off reading past the introductory letter, although I've had very encouraging comments of those who did look beyond the covering letter.

Problem is, my story is unashamedly mainstream fantasy (albeit with a fist-full of fresh ideas sown in; kinda, Lord of the Rings with attitude sums it up. (Not that comparing yourself with Tolkien is ever a good idea, but using the prof's name is the only way of describing what you've done to 90% of the population.) For the other 10%, think David Gemmell meets Julian May.

Anyhow, back to furiously adding chapters (which strangely enhance the story), and re-editting. Fun, fun, fun. (No, seriously; it's massively rewarding work, but takes bloody ages. Watch this space ... erm ... journal.

Mike

Dreg: a Tolkien-inspired short story published in Amon Hen 203

Fri, 23 Feb 2007 10:59:25 GMT

Dreg

by Mike Johnson

As always, Dreg awoke to utter darkness.

Opening his eyes, he sensed rather than saw the damp rock walls of his chamber. Uncurling his body, he arched his back, stretched the muscles, heard his spine crack, then turned to face the cool draft of the entrance. He was never sure how he knew it was dusk. There was no sound, no fading of the light, no sudden chill, only a subtle shift in his mind. He just knew. Something in the smell of the stone about him told him to rise, as though the mountain itself responded, in some subtle way, to the setting of the sun.

Sometimes he did not even bother to open his eyes. He often found it easier to navigate this way. Sight could be deceptive, especially when waking, his head still groggy from yet another day of dark dreams. Although his bed was comfortable, a pallet of thatched twigs and grasses collected from woods just beyond downward stair, even this luxury did not allow him the rest he deserved.

In some ways he was lucky. Those that dwelt in the communal burrows, deeper down, just to be that fraction closer to the warmth of the Earth Fire, risked seasonal floods and rock falls, when the land chose to vent its rage. But they risked the fury of the Master too, who’s perpetual wrath was indiscriminate. It was said that his mind had been tormented since the battle with the dwarves; he had not expected them to be such a mighty opposition. But Dreg knew this was far from the truth. He had been amongst the first of the Roamers to answer the call, all those many years ago. Dreg had experienced the terror of the demon lord from the very outset, and knew that his true torment came from Mordor.

However, everything had changed since the Little Ghost had entered the Mines. The Master had suddenly become obsessed with finding the creature. He had issued instructions (with his mind of course – demons did not waste time with words) to bring the infiltrator to him, dead or alive. The successful hunter would be rewarded with a horde of true silver, and a dwelling place in the windowed halls, high in the mountain’s eastern flank. Yet, despite this lure, the task had proved frustratingly impossible.

Even Dreg, an expert scout, had failed even to find tracks, let alone trail the spectre to its hidden lair. Once, having searched an entire night for sign, he had spotted two spherical eyes, pale as winter moons, blinking from a ledge in the rock face just above him. The ghost was looking elsewhere and had not seen him. Carefully Dreg had notched a swift arrow – his very best, fletched from a raven’s tail – and sent the shaft harpooning toward the centre of the wall-creeper’s glowing gaze. At the very last moment, the eyes had disappeared, and there had been an echoing snap.

Dreg had scrambled quickly to the shelf, eager to find the carcass and later claim his treasure. He had long dreamed of living amongst the elite in the upper chambers. But all he found was his prize arrow, snapped – or rather bitten in two, as if the creature had mistaken the shaft for food on the wing, and snatched it from the air without a thought. Dreg had seen the eyes twice more since that day, but only at a distance; and both times that lantern stare was directed at him. There would be a distinct sniffing sound, a disgruntled hiss of recognition, a guttural swallow, and the ghost would be on its way, its feet slap-slapping into the distance.

Dreg no longer wasted his best arrows on the creature.

His thoughts were interrupted by torchlight flickering beyond the chamber’s egress, and the gritty voice of his terrifying captain, Nagrash.

“Get you up, you lazy slug! Is it just me that smells the stench in the air? This is a night of blood and ruin. I can feel it. Get you up!”

Slotting his leather helm into place, Dreg hefted his scimitar and crawled from his chamber, emerging into the tunnel beyond, dimly lit by torch-fire. It was a long way to the meeting halls, but the boredom of the march was preferable to a prolonged exposure to the Master’s infernal stare. He had been known to whip, burn and devour those that lingered in his gaze for too long. Dreg fell into step as the pack trudged along the glistening corridor. At this point, he would usually focus on Nagrash’s sputtering brand and switch off until they reached their destination, deep within the mountain’s belly.

But his captain’s words had puzzled him. “Lazy slug.” This was uncommonly mild language for a great goblin warrior. An indication of fear, perhaps? And he had said there was a stench in the air, but Dreg could smell nothing unsavory beyond the spitting oil of Nagrash’s flame. But wait! There was something else, there at the very fringe of his senses: A fresh, sickly scent, as sweet and wretched as an elven song. The smell of living meat – but not good meat. This meat was clean and flavourless.

Dreg could think of only one thing it could be: human flesh. But he could not be more precise than that. He had sensed elves before, dwarves, and men too. But there was something different about this scent: all those three, and more.

He felt the aggression growing inside him, the inexplicable onset of rage that always beset him with the knowledge that one of the three enemies were near. How he detested these creatures, their music, their pretty clothes, their elegant castles and chivalrous ways. They understood nothing of the true nature of the world, that power is a force to be revered not rejected, that the strong ultimately prevail; that it is better to serve a master one can actually feel in the mind, rather than gods who care nothing for the fate of their creation. What was life without conquest, without the thrill of battle and the supreme power of hatred?

As his journey endured, his anger swelled to a crescendo. If the pale skins had infiltrated the mines, they would pay dearly for their impudence. Dreg’s scimitar would glisten with their weak, watery blood, they would feel the force of his Master’s holy fire, and be sent screaming into the depths of the earth.

The group emerged at last into a larger tunnel. Here they joined hordes of others, fully armed and battle ready, some thrashing their maces and scimitars against their shields and yelling insanely. They rushed as a black torrent through an arched opening into a much larger vault, and their stood yelling at the perimeter. Dreg joined with them, one of the collective beast, his mind gone, given over to the fervor that had engulfed him.

There was a deep groan, deeper than the rumble of the mountain’s roots.

The orcs fell silent, All of them took an involuntary step back. At the centre of the hall, the Master stood upon a stone block, set amidst four pillars of black rock. His physical form was man-like, but immense, and darker than shadow. His eyes were lowered and closed. About him there seemed to linger an ash cloud, thicker than the depths of the night. The fog shimmered and swelled about him, like unraveling wings.

His eyes opened. The fire beyond was maddening, and his voice sounded in the minds of all present:

‘Find them. Kill all but the wizard. He is for me.’

mike johnson

Novel writing (whilst working for real money too)

Dreg: a Tolkien-inspired short story published in Amon Hen 203