World of Aona

Jaana willed the babbling in her head to cease, but when it did, an altogether different sound came drifting across the night air, a simultaneous choking and chanting that filled her with dread.

Yet still she drew closer, down the gentle slope towards the lake shore, her feet squelching in the muddy ground under the thin layer of snow. The wind chased itself across the lake, rippling the surface. She had walked to within fifty yards of the thin, almost skeletal figures- and still these creatures seemed to know nothing of her presence, for they had not turned or even moved- when she felt a sudden mad pulsing and movement, as if her blood itself was swirling in strange directions. Jaana felt her heart thump painfully. What are they? she thought desperately.

The taller of the two figures looked down at its companion- though in truth Jaana could see no eyes, only the hood under which they must be hidden- and pointed across the water to the distant far shore. Then it spoke, and the voice, carried across the wind, was one of bestial cunning, the crunch of rotting bones.

“From the beginning, to the end, from the first blood to the last, hear us, our masters.” The words were uttered almost as a chant, in symphony with the lapping of the wavelets against the shore. And I hear you too, Jaana thought, almost delirious with the sudden heat behind her eyes and in her limbs. She felt certain that she would melt through the snow, even through the muddy earth beneath. I hear you, and I feel every beat of your rotten hearts.

The smaller figure turned as if to peer up at its companion. Although Jaana could see little detail, she became aware with a feeling of sudden horror that something misshapen existed under the cloak of the smaller figure, something that was changing the very form of the body, rending bone and tissue slowly apart. And as she closed her eyes, she could even hear it.

The tall figure laughed again, and with terrifying ease, reached under the hood of its companion’s robe and tugged a handful of hair from the head of its companion, scattering it in the breeze with a laconic gesture. “Time below and time above…”

Then the other being spoke up. “I sleep. I wake. I sleep…” It was not any kind of voice Jaana could recognise. Entrenched with filth, mud or slime, it was a hoarse, choking gurgle, spoken through a broken throat, a vile sound hiding in a broken body. Worse still, it changed in pitch the whole while, as if the sound was nothing more than a reflection of something chaotic happening to this wretched form.

I will send you back under the earth, came that mad, hot voice from within her again, and both of them turned in the same instant, as if they had heard those unspoken words. Jaana could feel the taller figure smile as if in welcome, although it had no face, let alone a mouth. She raised a hand as if to defend herself, and the wave of rage inside overwhelmed her completely. In utter agony, she clapped her hands over her ears and fell to the ground, but even through what blood-rimmed sight remained she saw the smaller figure burst into flames and also fall to the ground. The other one howled as if in anguish. Then it turned, the cloak billowing, to face the waters of the lake again. The creature raised both thin, bony arms to the sky as it exalting some unseen god.

The cloak simply fell to the floor in a heap; of its wearer, there was now no sign, though ripples of darkness, like a scattering of deep shadows cast over the lake, mingled with the water for a moment. All that remained was the body lying motionless, flames licking at the still form, at the shore of the lake. Within only a few of Jaana’s short, frightened breaths, the body became ash. As she sat up in the mud and snow, the breeze carried it out across the waters of the lake in an angry swirl.

This is really the first proper introduction to the man known as Ilumor, who readers of Oblivion’s Forge had a the dubious pleasure of meeting briefly.

Ilumor, who dimly remembered being a mere human man once, rode near the head of the vast army. His horse, uneasy of his presence, often shivered and tossed her head, but Ilumor did not notice such things. His thoughts, oddly disturbed fragments for the most part, formed two distinct threads along which he idly wandered. The lesser of these concerned Serina; he was confident that the fresh diafagh would find her and tear her apart, but he would have preferred to see some part of her brought back; a bone for him to look at, a dead-eyed head for him to toss aside, anything tangible. I should have commanded that too, he thought, but it was difficult to give more than one instruction at a time to diafagh. The smearing of her blood across their dead lips was almost a command to find and ruin in itself, but anything more than that was asking too much. Theirs is a simple spark, he reminded himself, dim in radiance and dimmer still in intellect. Not all tools need to be sharp.

The other strand of thought, which occupied him more and more as they drew nearer to Nisstar, was of the Great Enemy, the marandaal to those who remembered the name at all. They would, he knew, emerge in Nisstar as the Earth-Lords had foretold, and they would burst forth like white light. Ilumor’s lips tightened in a grim smile. The test, he thought. This is the greatest test any of us can face.

As before, so again. The smile that adorned his lips now, wider and blissful, had the appearance of a dark crack. His eyes, like hard black jewels, gleamed in Ildar’s light. For a moment he recalled an occasion that mirrored this one, another long march over open ground under the same moon, over three thousand years ago. It seemed to him more recent than that, but Ilumor had spent much of the time since then dead to the world, in curious limbo, wandering the places that witches and their like sought to explore. His name had been Charn, a word that roughly meant That which seeps from the depths. And so he had, eventually, coaxed forth from the bitter darkness of the earth and from the sterile eternity of the Silver Road, by Serina of all people.

I knelt by her that night, he recalled, and I kissed her even as she recoiled at what she had done. The sense of sudden freedom addled my very being. How else could I have felt something almost akin to love?

Ilumor shook his head. She should have known that he answered only to his own lords, to the world itself, and not her shallow attempts to capture and contain powers for herself. Like all your kind, you think yourself a shaper, he had told her. But you are simply a shape. By now Serina had surely been snapped apart and was missing even the marrow from her bones, so that was another chapter to close away.

Ilumor had lived for a very long time, one way or another, but he was not in the habit of reminiscing.

Secret Roads has now reached that stage where several storylines are near to completion and are coming together- not quite seamlessly, but that will happen soon enough.

I was also mulling over suitable titles for Book III (and possibly Book IV) – The Endless Shore is looking like the favourite for the third book at the moment, although The Destroying Light may be chosen instead. It’s hard to say. The “endless shore” is another way for those who know about the “inner world” or “inner life” of Aona to describe those places that are part of the world, but also not part of the world in a strictly physical sense- you could say they’re the same place but a different dimension, which I realise isn’t the easiest concept to deal with. The “Endless Shore” is (to my mind, and at this point) a little bit like the Silver Road, or (you won’t have about this yet) the Green Road. You could think of these environments as ways in which those with the required power or talent can tap into the deepest secrets of the world.

Anyway, it’s Sunday and that means there are lots of words to write. I expect to be posting a new sample chapter shortly.

I don’t think about my written works from fifteen or twenty years ago that often, but on the occasions that I do, it isn’t in glowing terms.

I’ve spoken with other writers on the matter and by and large they seem to feel the same way- admittedly even those who were published that long ago didn’t exactly become superstars from their works, so their feelings on the matter are to be expected. Whilst it’s encouraging to note from experience (and the experience of others) that talent can be honed and sharpened simply by application, dedication and hard work, I also can’t help but wonder why so many of us (writers, I mean) feel that we were so “bad” when we started out.

When I read through old manuscripts of mine from those distant times, trying to be objective, I generally feel that they either consisted of decent enough ideas poorly executed, or that the whole work was let down by being mired in genre stereotypes (and the fasnty genre has many of those… too many). Perhaps the short stories (and one short experimental novel) I wrote in the mid and late nineties, none of which were fantasy in any traditional sense, were the result of an effort to break out of that literary cul-de-sac. Some of the time, I feel that the approach even worked, which was encouraging.

Some people believe that writers generally get better, or feel more comfortable with their creations, in middle and late age because they can draw on greater experience. I think there’s a good deal of truth in that as far as writers within contemporary settings are concerned, although I don’t necessarily feel it’s true for fantasy writers, who by definition must imagine and craft into being a fasntical yet plausible setting / world / universe / all of these.

But then, I suppose this is really an idle question. If you’re that much better now than when you were ytoung, then great. Personally, I would have liked to have been better than I was, when I had the boundless energy of youth, but history is non-negotiable.

I wonder though, how some of us will feel in twenty years’ time about the works we’re creating today….

Enjoyed writing up one of the chapters for Secret Roads today. The chapter is provisionally called Winter’s Blood- it feels kind of appropriate, but I may change it if I think of anything better.

Here’s just a little taster… (may be edited later as it’s not 100%)

A blizzard had started up by the time he arrived at the outer gates of the fortress, his legs aching all over and his face utterly numb with the cold. The gates themselves had been shut, but neither were they locked nor barred; a long, partly rusted chain hung loosely on one of them, trailing down as far as the snow. Rocan pushed one of the gates open with some effort, mentally adding their unlocked and unguarded state to his list of points to discuss.

Smooth snow many feet thick covered the courtyard, and no boot prints or even impressions made by birds or other creatures could be seen; the fall was utterly smooth, undisturbed. No light issued from any of the windows that dotted each floor and tower. Rocan stared in wonderment at the scene of desolation. The drab grey walls rose out of the snowdrifts as if in bewilderment at the season, like half-erased sketches against the thick, swirling snow that had now become relentless. This does not even feel real, he thought suddenly, recalling a long-ago dream in which he had taken this exact journey to this spot, and gazed upon the abandoned fortress. Now I’m staring into my dream, and my dream is staring back at me…

No, I won’t be directing and producing a film of Oblivion’s Forge. For a start, I wouldn’t have a clue how to, and even if I did it would cost silly, silly money. Of course, if that nice Mr Jackson or someone else appropriate decided to express an interest…

But I did find (and do find) thinking visually about the storyline and characters very helpful- as in “How should this work if it was a film? What would they say? How would they say it?” I even started thinking in terms of the right actors to portray the various characters, which is really going down the planning route a little too far.

Vornen was originally going to be played by Johnny Depp… although maybe Mr Depp’s a bit old now? Don’t know.

Amethyst – Kate Beckinsale… but I mean “Underworld” Kate (with the gothness toned down a bit), rather than posh period drama Kate

Suli – *has* to be Fairuza Balk, but Eliza Dushku at a push

Rocan was going to be Clive Owen, but it turns out there’s a perfect character for him to play who we’re introduced to in Secret Roads.

And I thought Phyqor could be played by Robert Carlyle… if no other reason than R.C is supreme. See Trainspotting, and 51st State. (28 Weeks Later? never heard of it )

Right, so add up actors’ fees *alone*, then a budget for convincing CGI…

I’m not quite sure how the idea started, but it still seems so ridiculous it actually feels quite cool. I thought it would be interesting to write a “soundtrack” to go with the Aona series… by soundtrack I mean something like a classical symphony.

I should probably point out that although I’ve written contemporary songs before I’ve never written any classical music. I listen to it occasionally (Mozart and Tchaikovsky mainly) but not that often. So it’ll be an interesting challenge. I suppose I feel that it’s the style of music best suited to the story.

Of course, none of this going to be in any kind of synchrony. Play the entire work and it’ll probably finish when you’re about a third of the way through the first book. So it’s more a side distraction than anything else really. I wouldn’t play it whilst reading one of the books… the track may well not match the chapter.

I just wanted to do it for its own sake really- I don’t expect to be releasing it as an album at all. Fear not!

With Oblivion’s Forge now completed, I’ve turned my attention to writing up the “patchy” bits of Secret Roads (otherwise knowna s Book II) – and a few parts which haven’t been written up properly at all yet. Tying up loose ends is particularly satisfying.

I already had a few comments / questions asking if Nia would make a reappearance in Secret Roads. I don’t want to give away too much, but yes, she most definitely is involved. In fact, when I started writing it and brought her back into the frame, I found that she was quite rewarding to explore and write about- and somehow she’s developed into quite a complex character.

I’m aiming for Secret Roads to be completed and ready for publication by the end of this year. I say aiming; I mean determined. Up until last year I was really too lazy and kept getting distracted. That still happens, but not for such long periods.

Ooh look, a bee! Chase chase…

Finally got around to setting up a site for bringing together info about all my stuff in general. It’s pretty basic at the moment- I hope to add more features as and when.

www.simonwilliamsauthor.com

Just to quickly add that a Twitter account and a Facebook page have been set up…

Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Simon-Williams/167649143291810

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/SWilliamsAuthor

Follow me! I’ll take you somewhere you didn’t know existed… er, yeah…