In Search of Hell, Harvester Chronicles I

[Gavrushka]

Prologue


Likra sank her feet into the mossy soil. She sighed contentedly as the cool water formed a band around her ankles, caressing and tickling at the same time. Nearby Syul, her dog, sat impatiently. He snapped at a butterfly that came too close, before announcing it was time for another game with a high-pitched and most un-Syul like bark. He followed it with a series of whines, which may have been embarrassment, but far more likely, they were just further irritation.

Likra was fourteen, rapidly approaching fifteen. The date her childhood would ‘end’. Her parents had always made it clear that her responsibilities in the family business began that day. The very word ‘responsibility’ filled her with a sense of dread.

Her family travelled the lands, but mainly Glenmer, a relatively safe place ruled by King James. Likra’s parents sought out the most inaccessible of places where they would collect flowers, plants and other flora of every variety. Then, three times a year, they would travel to the Port of Harac in Eastern Glenmer, to sell all they had collected to the traders there.

“Okay, Syul, lets head back, I am sure you must be hungry again. It must be a good hour since you had breakfast. How does such a poor dog cope?” Likra said smiling in mock sympathy.

As she stood up, Syul raced off through the forest towards her parents’ camp. Likra gave chase, her long red hair, streaming like a banner behind her.

She had not ventured far, she never did, and so within minutes she burst into the camp pulling at one of the many pouches attached to her belt and shouted.“Father I found some Maaf weed it’s....” her voice trailed off as she looked up to see a man, carrying a sword dripping with blood. He stood over the still feebly twitching body of Syul. Likra stood motionless, speechless surrounded by the signs of violence.

Behind Syul lay the body of her father with his hunting knife still gripped ferociously in his hand. A knife that has saved him countless times before, a knife that had failed him just this once.

Slumped against the wagon, sightless eyes staring out from a face caked with dried blood was her mother, her head twisted at an unnatural angle and her mouth contorted into a scream she would never make.

Her parents were dead.

Likra moaned. She focussed her attention back on the man who had just murdered her parents, murdered Syul. Now he was watching her and smiling, malignant anticipation deforming his face to something less than human.

He was going to murder her.

“Nothing personal you understand?” he said advancing towards her.

With a shriek she turned to flee, limbs aching from the run back to camp replenished by fear-driven adrenalin. Mercifully, her mind was numbed to the enormity of what she had just witnessed. She glanced behind her to see the man was pursuing her, but she was rapidly outdistancing him, as he seemed to be moving at little more than a trot. A small glimmer of hope formed inside as she redoubled her efforts. A further glance showed he was now far behind.

Some minutes later, her lungs threatening to crack her ribs open and teetering on the edge of collapse she glanced back and saw nothing – She had escaped – Her parents were dead, Syul was dead...

She was too numb to cry. Exhausted she dropped to the forest floor unblinking eyes staring at nothing. She crawled to a nearby tree and pulled her knees up under her rocked gently back and forth whispering “no, no, no, no”, repeatedly.

Movement in the corner of her eye turned her head reflexively. It was the man. He was still running at the same leisurely pace, not even breathing hard and now less than a hundred feet away. Desperately she clambered to her feet and tried running on legs that were no longer her own.

She had taken no more than a dozen stumbling steps before being thrown forward and then suddenly stopping, suspended in midair, her arms dangling uselessly at her sides. There was a something pointy and metallic sticking out of the front of her coat, and blood, so much blood; her blood.

Then there was a voice in her ear.

“Sorry, my love, I couldn’t have you running around telling tales about what a bad man I am now could I?” he said, lips pressed to her ear.

He pulled his sword out of her and she tumbled backwards onto the ground, her eyes staring upwards, the man stood just off to her side. Casually, he knelt beside her and wiped his sword clean on her coat.

“Well if I’d noticed what a pretty thing you were, I’d not of killed you quite so quick,” he said conversationally.

Likra’s breath came in shorter and shorter breaths as her lungs filled with blood. There was no pain, just the feeling of the mossy soil on which she lay. Eyes that could no longer blink stared up at the face of the man that had murdered her family.

And as she exhaled her final breath, her eyes stared up at the man who had murdered her.

“Let me have a look at what you’ve got in these pouches here eh? I hear that Maaf weed fetches a good price these days,” he said.

Why could she still hear him? She struggled to move but could not, not so much as a finger. Her eyes could still see him... no not her eyes, but she could see. Was this what it was like to be dead? To be trapped in a decaying body and watch, as the man who had murdered you and your parents whistled happily and rummaged through your possessions.

Her fear was gone. Her fear had died with her body, replaced by anger at the injustice of it. It was an anger that grew, a seething mass of wrath, on which she was impotent to act. She thrashed violently within her own immobile body, within her prison.

The man spoke again. “Well, time to leave you to the worms, and go have a rummage through to see where your father hid his coin. Oh and then I might just roast that dog of yours. I’m partial to a bit of dog flesh, you see. You gotta cook it just right mind you,” he said as he clambered back to his feet patting her on the cheek before walking off in the direction of their camp.

All the while Likra had been raging silently at him, her words unheard, her thrashing unobserved. Likra, however, felt a difference. Her numbness was now replaced by a searing agony as if her bones were being pulled out of her flesh. She welcomed it. She embraced it as real and thrashed all the harder, digging through the layers of her own flesh that formed her coffin. This man had murdered her, her family and even Syul; he knew that with her death the crime would never be known. It was wrong. He must be punished.

With a tearing noise, she felt herself pull free of her flesh and stood there, or hovered - she was unsure which - over her own lifeless body. Night had descended. She had spent many hours escaping her corpse, and now the murderer was long gone, except she knew exactly in which direction he was.

Like a Bloodhound following a scent she could smell the evil stain splattered across his soul. She, and her family, had not been his only victims. A lust for justice enveloped her and she set off in the direction she knew him to be.

===

Gustac was elated. It was hard to credit just how much money could be made from selling plants. Under the floor of the wagon, he had found a hidden compartment within which lay a small chest containing over three hundred gold pieces. He had transferred it to a sack and sped off through the forest. He could live like a king for years on that much gold.

The years of robbery and murder had taught Gustac caution. He had made his way through the afternoon and well into the evening, to a place many, many miles from his latest victim’s camp.

It was a caution he still maintained now. He had chosen a deep hollow in the ground, and settled there for the night. Now, he leant back against the trunk of a long dead tree as he let the gold coins flow through his fingers, luxuriating in their cold caress and the wholesome clunk they made as they rejoined their companions in the waiting sack.

“I’m rich, I’m bloody rich!” he said to the bag of gold, lifting it and hugging it to his chest.

“You are a bad man,” a voice called from the darkness, “and I am going to take you where the bad men go.”

Gustac leapt to his feet, scattering the coins as he did so. The voice had been that of a young girl.

“I have four feet of steel here says otherwise,” he replied through lips drawn into a bestial snarl.

Likra walked into the dull light of his concealed campfire. The light reflected off her eyes, eyes that were like polished obsidian. The light otherwise shone right through her shimmering insubstantial form.

“You are dead,” he whispered from lungs that had forgotten how to hold air.

She stood, anticipation staying her hand, as he swung his sword back and forth through her harmlessly. Likra looked at him, into him, and at the festering mass of darkness within him that passed for a soul. It sickened her, as she could see each and every crime he had committed etched on it. All those people he had killed, it was wrong, so very wrong.

The man collapsed back to the ground, his useless sword dropping from his grasp. Around him lay the gold he had stolen, the gold for which he had been prepared to murder three people. Likra simply could not understand it. She looked back to the man and into him, once more.

She advanced forward, her spectral hand reaching towards him and grasped his soul. She flinched at the repugnant touch of it, but the desire to see justice done dismissed her loathing. She pulled on it.

“No, I beg you please, it’s all a mistake...” his words stopped abruptly as she tugged his soul free.

===

The hours that followed were as a distant object peered at through the mist, insubstantial and barely remembered. She moved with purpose, but more than that, she could not say. A deep instinct drove her onwards and every time she stopped, the writhing soul of her murderer drew her attention and she resumed her journey.

It was dawn. The sun had, once more fulfilled its promise of a new day as it threw a blanket of warmth on any that caught its attention. Likra stood in confusion as she gazed towards the sun. Today it offered her no warmth.

Once more, she looked down at the soul in her hands and once again, the memories flooded back. She was dead, and she carried the soul of her murderer. With some surprise, she looked up to see she was stood before a green shimmering disk, hanging in the air.

The murderer’s soul recoiled at the proximity to the shimmering disk. This in itself was enough for her. She walked through it.

Likra looked down at her body to find she was solid again. She was staring down at real hands. She was more surprised still to see the evil man now getting to his feet was also flesh again.

Stumbling and shrieking, he ran at the green portal before bouncing off it to land on the floor. He turned and seemed to notice her for the first time and reached down for his sword, a sword that was no longer there.

“Let me out you little Bitch,” he cried, “or I’ll kill you.”

“You already have,” a deep voice from behind her called. “Now it is time to answer for those crimes.”

Likra looked round. A huge man with silver eyes approached. He smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder and she suddenly felt very safe. He then reached out his other hand towards her murderer and she watched as his body dissolved into the big man’s open palm, which he then snapped closed.

He crouched down in front of her. “Your parents are at peace little one, they slumber together, safe in each other’s company for all eternity,” he said gently.

“What about Syul, my dog?” she asked

“He is no more. I am sorry little one,” he replied.

With that, Likra began to cry and the big man with the silver eyes held her, shedding tears of his own. He held her for a long time, until her crying stopped.

“My name is Satalyin,” he said. “This is my home, Hell. This is where bad men come to be punished.”

She pushed back from him to look at him. He had such a kind face, and he’d been crying too. She wiped a tear from his face.

“There are other bad men too?” she asked.

“Yes there are, little one. Far too many bad men,” he replied.

“My name is Likra,” she said as she walked the few paces towards the shimmering portal.

She stood there silently, thoughtfully for a long time before turning to where he still waited, crouched down. “Then I want to get them all. I want to collect all the bad men and bring them back here.”

“So you shall Ja’Likra, so you shall,” he replied, smiling gently.

© Copyright 2011 G.J.Rutherford All rights reserved

[Gavrushka]

This is the third draft, and there is far more work to be done.

The book has slimmed down to around 165,000 words and will be forwarded, sometime next year, for publication ON THE OFF CHANCE it is commercially viable.

There are several points I have dropped into the passive voice, although I felt comfortable with it... There is also a map with the story, which will help with place names...

This section is purely the prologue, and takes place 100 years before events of the main story.

Is it punchy or tedious?

Is it clunky or concise?

Would you want to read more or gouge your eyes out?

[Olterin]

I'll just offer my opinion, namely that I'd love to read more of the story.

[Nathancros]

very interesting mate.

i honestly dunno wat else to say

cant give advice/critism cause i cant think of anything..

this seems honestly like books i read. dunno wat to say except 1 thing.

all i can say is enjoy your writing!

[Zaitsev]

[Morkonan]

[Gavrushka]

Morkonan, I'd give you the other 160,000 words, but I think then you'd try to charge me.

I'm putting up another story, and I am sure you can analyse that.

You know, it was not so long ago that negativity from a reader would cause me dismay, but now I read and absorb and hopefully learn something.


The next story is, as far as I am concerned, finished.

I know it is far easier to criticise than it is to create, but criticism is still important.

I'll read through your comments again first, and take any notes I think may be helpful.

*EDIT*

Yes, I can see it is ambiguous in places - The prologue is an isolated section of the story designed with one purpose; to kill the protagonist.... Doesn't bode well for the rest of the book... ... You are suggesting I should give the reader more and fill in the gaps... - It was my intention not to, and let them decide why they took flowers to Harac - It is a fantasy setting and I saw it as ingredients needed to make potions - others may see it to create perfume and others may see it for medicinal usage. My argument had been that it adds nothing to flesh it out further. - I could be making a fundamental mistake in not answering every question, but the purpose is to entertain and hope that the prologue would drag people into wanting to read the book. - I think you are saying it has failed in this regard yes?

[Morkonan]

I am sorry that my criticism does not seem to have been as welcomed as your requests implied it would be. **

[Gavrushka]

Morkonan, the first line of your reply is very wide of the mark. - IF I have in any way given the impression I am less than grateful about your comments, then I apologise.

I will not, by default, accept everything you say, but I will learn from every perspective. - And I can argue/disagree with you without feeling your comments are unwelcome. - I do not, overall, disagree with you.

I feel it is my job to write, and in such a fashion to encourage others to want to read... Forcing someone to read is beyond my ability... Teasing and cajoling yes, that I will try to do.

The prologue I put here for a very specific reason... - It was knocked hard by someone else, and in not an entirely dissimilar way to the way you have. - I'd debated as to whether or not in should be rewritten, and on occasion I decided yes, and then on others I took a step away from it...

...You see, these were the first words I ever wrote, and were from a time when grammar and style had no meaning and all I possessed was the raw urge to write, without any of the tools you'd need to make it palatable. - Oh yes, I've refined and edited, but I left it untouched otherwise... I can see that is an emotive reaction from me.

I don't think I can relate how hard it is to slaughter this particular baby...

You're the harbinger of doom, the bringer of the foulest tidings... - You cannot expect the recipient to meekly listen to your words without a grimace - BUT he is listening, and he is listening hard...

NOW, the reason I've put Styanar here, is because I feel VERY differently about that... - I've spotted one grammar ambiguity - BUT these words, along with their friends, are to be sent to a commercial agent soon. -AND that is why I am asking your opinion...

AND just to make it clear, I am more grateful than you could possibly imagine about your comments on the prologue. Thank you.

[Morkonan]

[Morkonan]

[Gavrushka]

Please, feel free to put it all up for public consumption.

There were 25 pages on double-line spacing (arial 11, A4).

This is going to be, very helpful as this section, written initially in January, was revised recently and proof-read.

You know, I feel like the fat bloke dragged out from the crowd and prodded at as an example of unhealthy eating habits...

Morkonan, I do appreciate the time you are putting into this.

[Morkonan]

[Gavrushka]

My analogy was part of my character, which I tend to imprint on my writing - flippant. - I said it purely for a chuckle; in truth, I feel privileged.

The initial reaction is impossible to escape- the angry fight/flight response as something deeply personal is dissected... But that emotive reaction is irrational and is eventually conquered.

I started writing September 30th last year, and that was after a 25 year absence from the world of grammar... - The beginnings were dreadfully frustrating - I had a story to tell, but lacked the technical skills to tell it... - Somewhere I have the original version of Harvester... The first full stop was on page three I think. (and I think, even then, I pressed it by accident)

I've learnt a lot over the last year... - Well more over the last few months... - I spent most of the time as 'I don't get it' until I started to glean a few of the basics and then built on those.

I know I can tell a story, I know I can entertain, but I desperately want help raising the bar in such a way as not to compromise my 'style' - I've received several warnings about sterilising it.

I do look forward to reading your words; I can't offer a critical appraisal, but I can tell you how the words made me feel. I can see you've written for a long time, perhaps you are a published author. Whether you are or not, it will be very interesting to see what you do that I currently am not doing.

[Gavrushka]

You know, I've just found the courage to fully read your first post on the thread... The simple fact is it hurt too much.


It has helped me understand something, and in part that is down to the way I write; I lack confidence.

When I start on a story, I have zero concept of where it is heading, and merely put two 'unusual' characters together and see what they do... This generates a problem for me though... As I have little clue as what they are up to, I tend to rush them to 'somewhere' with too little build-up... - This, as I said, is my lack of confidence. - I don't want the reader to 'yeh whatever' and leave before the main event.

A while ago I asked my muse to read the Belgariad, a series of five books by David Eddings. - She stumbled, unable to get into them, as essentially much of the opening was about a young boy's life on a farm with his Aunt Pol. - What was beyond that opening was a rich fantasy world, and an epic adventure that really captured my imagination, but I wonder if many people failed to get that point due to the mundane beginning?

SO I overcompensate, I do understand that... Perversely, as I grow into the story, it reverses... - There is a large section in Styanar, which is a 'day in the office' - It stretches to many, many thousands of words, yet I feel it is entertaining.

I've thought about many things this weekend, and I am really starting to 'get it'. - It may sound arrogant when I suggest that I know I 'tell a good story', but I can see that is, in isolation, nowhere near enough... Although I think it is the best start a wannabe can have.

There are two people on here who have helped me write, and kept me right, and there are a dozen other people who read and comment too, but I've never been able to develop my technical ability beyond improving my grammar until now, and the help is warmly appreciated.

I am going to rewrite the front end of the prologue - Just up to her return to camp initially, and I will try to flesh it out better... - It is going to occupy me for a few days, and then I will post it back up on here.

I just hope I've absorbed the lessons you've taught me.