I hereby submit my x000th-post payment in the traditional manner.
I decided ages ago to ditch the prologue of my main WIP and start with ch1, but someone recently suggested that a different, much shorter prologue might improve things. I’d like to know whether it makes a better start than just launching into ch1, and how the two parts feel together. Any other comments of course gratefully received.
(Apologies to those who are already familiar with any or all of this, but because it's the all-important opening, I wanted as wide a reaction as possible.)
***
She gripped the sides of the open window and stared down on streets seething with men and horses, mothers, children, the old, the young — the surging waters pushed them along, ploughed them under. Beyond the failed sea-walls the dark ocean mounted further, its growling rumble shaking the city, almost drowning the vast shrill chorus of terror and panic.
But death was better to look upon than the chamber at her back. As though magnified beyond the noise of the chaos outside, she heard the crumple of sheets, the soft pad of his feet as he got from the bed they had shared. Her neck prickled with his approach; the stonework beneath her hands felt slimy, malleable, its very substance corrupted. Liquid flowed around her feet, slow and drooling: it came from her, or from him, or from what they had made, the change in the world.
Her body itched at the nearness of his. She squeezed her thighs together and bit her lip at the craving. Better to jump, to throw herself into the doom she had brought so many others. She tried to step up onto the window ledge, but the sticky liquid on the floor held her feet, held her for him, trapped.
His finger stroked the curve of her neck, down to her naked shoulder. She suppressed the shudder.
‘It was worth it, beloved.’ His voice trembled, vulnerable with youth; it might almost have been a plea, except that beneath it she heard his iron certainty.
He believed it, just as he’d believed the Shining Ones’ promises. He believed she’d been worth all this death.
But not even the furious ocean would wash away their sin, she knew, when it claimed them. They had stained the world forever.
1 THE COIL
They were half an hour out to sea, the sailboat smacking over a light swell, when Orc caught the first glimmer of submerged stone beneath the marker buoy ahead. He gripped the gunwale and peered harder, trying to judge the ziggurat’s size through the fragmenting effect of the surface.
‘Big one,’ said Cass, leaning across from the other side of the bow.
Orc nodded. The ziggurat’s flat top had to be twenty feet across, from what he could see, which meant sixty or seventy to the doorway. As much as he could handle. ‘Better wake Ranga.’
‘Not yet.’ Cass put her hand on his knee, but she didn’t look at him. Orc watched the wind tease her bleached, salt-ruined hair as she stared intently forwards. He knew what she was thinking: a ziggurat this size was more likely to be the one they’d been searching for.
Also more likely to drown him.
‘No pressure.’ Her fingertips squeezed through the spongy rubber of his wetsuit. ‘Focus on the small stuff. There’s bound to be something to sell in one this big, and we need the money.’
‘So if fail, we starve — and that’s “no pressure”?’
She huffed a laugh; then Ibben’s thin voice called from back at the tiller. ‘Hoi, outlander!’
Orc turned to meet the gazes of the old man and his grandson. Eyes like dark stones, especially Esteban’s.
‘You see it?’ said Ibben.
‘Hard to miss,’ Orc said.
‘Yes, the water is clear,’ said Ibben, ‘the sea is light. We’ll sail around it. You can see enough from the boat.’
‘No, we need to get in.’
Ibben’s eyes narrowed harder. ‘In the Dwelling?’
‘The water.’
Next to Orc, Ranga groaned and sat up from his slumped position, clearly not asleep after all. ‘Look, we’ve been through this,’ he told Ibben. ‘We can’t survey it properly from the boat — they need to estimate its size and count its steps and so on.’
‘Why does your museum want to know such things?’
‘It’s called “science”,’ said Ranga. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of it — it’s why we have dreadnoughts and steamships in Torrento while you’re piddling about in this tub.’
‘Lady’s Blessing is no “tub”, outlander,’ said Esteban. ‘And your city is a long way from here.’
‘No sh*t,’ muttered Ranga, turning to face forwards. ‘Ooh.’ He got to his feet, swayed with the boat’s movement, clutched Orc’s shoulder for support. ‘It is big,’ he said, his voice lower. ‘Yeah, I’ve got a good feeling about this one.’
‘There’s a surprise,’ said Cass.
‘Scoff all you like, this one’s different,’ said Ranga, his voice softened so it could barely be heard over the luffing of the sail. ‘You noticed all this “outlander” crap we’ve been getting, and that other guy calling me “slant-eyes” this morning? Why d’you the fishermen here are even less friendly than the other places?’
Cass gasped. ‘You think this really is the one? And they know?’
‘Makes sense, doesn’t it?’ said Ranga. ‘Ibben being the only one who’d agree to bring us out, and only for twice what we should’ve paid. The locals know about the gold all right, and they want to keep us away from it.’
Orc forced air past the tightness in his chest. And if the gold, then the focus-stone. He glanced at Cass, caught the desperate hope and dread in her eyes before she turned away.
It was real. It was going to be real.
Or it was going to be hell.
The ziggurat’s sunlit plateau slid closer off to port, bright against the blue deep, the topmost of the great steps now visible. Ibben swung the boat into the breeze, and the craft slowed to a wallow. Esteban jumped up to furl the flapping sail, and when the boat’s momentum had carried it to the white-painted barrel, he clambered forward with a gaff and a whiff of armpit, hooked a ring on the barrel and pulled. His mind didn’t seem wholly on the task, though — Orc noticed he kept ducking furtive glances round at Cass, who’d left the back of her wetsuit open.
The sooner they were in the water, he thought, the better. While Esteban tied the painter, he got the bag from the catch-hold and pulled out masks, fins and weight-belts, and he and Cass began to gear up. Ibben crabbed closer; Orc sensed the old fisherman’s attention on their strange equipment. Unique, perhaps. Maybe irreplaceable. He scrutinised his mask for signs of wear.
‘You will disturb nothing?’ said Ibben.
‘I keep telling you,’ said Ranga. ‘It’s a visual survey.’
‘They won’t enter the Dwelling?’
Ranga scoffed. ‘It’d be pitch dark in there. If you can see some kind of impossible underwater lamp in our kit, let me know, and I’ll patent it.’
Orc tried to look guileless as he jammed a foot into a fin.
‘That is just as well,’ said Ibben. ‘If she is angered, even God is powerless.’
‘Who?’ Cass looked up from fastening her belt.
‘The Sea Mother,’ said Ibben. ‘She wears a calm face today, but that can change in a moment.’
‘Hn — hear that, you two?’ said Ranga. ‘If you see an old lady down there, make sure you show her some respect.’
Esteban exhaled. ‘You would do well to show respect up here, outlander. Do you know nothing of boats, in your country?’
‘My country? I come from your capital!’
Ibben spat over the side. ‘We’ll stay an hour.’
‘Hang on, we agreed the afternoon.’
‘In an hour the winds will change,’ said Ibben. ‘You truly know nothing of boats, in your country, if you would argue with those born to the waters you sail on.’
‘It’s plenty, Ranga.’ Cass pulled up the fastener at her back, and nudged Orc’s leg with her fin. ‘Come on, or we’ll cook.’
I decided ages ago to ditch the prologue of my main WIP and start with ch1, but someone recently suggested that a different, much shorter prologue might improve things. I’d like to know whether it makes a better start than just launching into ch1, and how the two parts feel together. Any other comments of course gratefully received.
(Apologies to those who are already familiar with any or all of this, but because it's the all-important opening, I wanted as wide a reaction as possible.)
***
She gripped the sides of the open window and stared down on streets seething with men and horses, mothers, children, the old, the young — the surging waters pushed them along, ploughed them under. Beyond the failed sea-walls the dark ocean mounted further, its growling rumble shaking the city, almost drowning the vast shrill chorus of terror and panic.
But death was better to look upon than the chamber at her back. As though magnified beyond the noise of the chaos outside, she heard the crumple of sheets, the soft pad of his feet as he got from the bed they had shared. Her neck prickled with his approach; the stonework beneath her hands felt slimy, malleable, its very substance corrupted. Liquid flowed around her feet, slow and drooling: it came from her, or from him, or from what they had made, the change in the world.
Her body itched at the nearness of his. She squeezed her thighs together and bit her lip at the craving. Better to jump, to throw herself into the doom she had brought so many others. She tried to step up onto the window ledge, but the sticky liquid on the floor held her feet, held her for him, trapped.
His finger stroked the curve of her neck, down to her naked shoulder. She suppressed the shudder.
‘It was worth it, beloved.’ His voice trembled, vulnerable with youth; it might almost have been a plea, except that beneath it she heard his iron certainty.
He believed it, just as he’d believed the Shining Ones’ promises. He believed she’d been worth all this death.
But not even the furious ocean would wash away their sin, she knew, when it claimed them. They had stained the world forever.
1 THE COIL
They were half an hour out to sea, the sailboat smacking over a light swell, when Orc caught the first glimmer of submerged stone beneath the marker buoy ahead. He gripped the gunwale and peered harder, trying to judge the ziggurat’s size through the fragmenting effect of the surface.
‘Big one,’ said Cass, leaning across from the other side of the bow.
Orc nodded. The ziggurat’s flat top had to be twenty feet across, from what he could see, which meant sixty or seventy to the doorway. As much as he could handle. ‘Better wake Ranga.’
‘Not yet.’ Cass put her hand on his knee, but she didn’t look at him. Orc watched the wind tease her bleached, salt-ruined hair as she stared intently forwards. He knew what she was thinking: a ziggurat this size was more likely to be the one they’d been searching for.
Also more likely to drown him.
‘No pressure.’ Her fingertips squeezed through the spongy rubber of his wetsuit. ‘Focus on the small stuff. There’s bound to be something to sell in one this big, and we need the money.’
‘So if fail, we starve — and that’s “no pressure”?’
She huffed a laugh; then Ibben’s thin voice called from back at the tiller. ‘Hoi, outlander!’
Orc turned to meet the gazes of the old man and his grandson. Eyes like dark stones, especially Esteban’s.
‘You see it?’ said Ibben.
‘Hard to miss,’ Orc said.
‘Yes, the water is clear,’ said Ibben, ‘the sea is light. We’ll sail around it. You can see enough from the boat.’
‘No, we need to get in.’
Ibben’s eyes narrowed harder. ‘In the Dwelling?’
‘The water.’
Next to Orc, Ranga groaned and sat up from his slumped position, clearly not asleep after all. ‘Look, we’ve been through this,’ he told Ibben. ‘We can’t survey it properly from the boat — they need to estimate its size and count its steps and so on.’
‘Why does your museum want to know such things?’
‘It’s called “science”,’ said Ranga. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of it — it’s why we have dreadnoughts and steamships in Torrento while you’re piddling about in this tub.’
‘Lady’s Blessing is no “tub”, outlander,’ said Esteban. ‘And your city is a long way from here.’
‘No sh*t,’ muttered Ranga, turning to face forwards. ‘Ooh.’ He got to his feet, swayed with the boat’s movement, clutched Orc’s shoulder for support. ‘It is big,’ he said, his voice lower. ‘Yeah, I’ve got a good feeling about this one.’
‘There’s a surprise,’ said Cass.
‘Scoff all you like, this one’s different,’ said Ranga, his voice softened so it could barely be heard over the luffing of the sail. ‘You noticed all this “outlander” crap we’ve been getting, and that other guy calling me “slant-eyes” this morning? Why d’you the fishermen here are even less friendly than the other places?’
Cass gasped. ‘You think this really is the one? And they know?’
‘Makes sense, doesn’t it?’ said Ranga. ‘Ibben being the only one who’d agree to bring us out, and only for twice what we should’ve paid. The locals know about the gold all right, and they want to keep us away from it.’
Orc forced air past the tightness in his chest. And if the gold, then the focus-stone. He glanced at Cass, caught the desperate hope and dread in her eyes before she turned away.
It was real. It was going to be real.
Or it was going to be hell.
The ziggurat’s sunlit plateau slid closer off to port, bright against the blue deep, the topmost of the great steps now visible. Ibben swung the boat into the breeze, and the craft slowed to a wallow. Esteban jumped up to furl the flapping sail, and when the boat’s momentum had carried it to the white-painted barrel, he clambered forward with a gaff and a whiff of armpit, hooked a ring on the barrel and pulled. His mind didn’t seem wholly on the task, though — Orc noticed he kept ducking furtive glances round at Cass, who’d left the back of her wetsuit open.
The sooner they were in the water, he thought, the better. While Esteban tied the painter, he got the bag from the catch-hold and pulled out masks, fins and weight-belts, and he and Cass began to gear up. Ibben crabbed closer; Orc sensed the old fisherman’s attention on their strange equipment. Unique, perhaps. Maybe irreplaceable. He scrutinised his mask for signs of wear.
‘You will disturb nothing?’ said Ibben.
‘I keep telling you,’ said Ranga. ‘It’s a visual survey.’
‘They won’t enter the Dwelling?’
Ranga scoffed. ‘It’d be pitch dark in there. If you can see some kind of impossible underwater lamp in our kit, let me know, and I’ll patent it.’
Orc tried to look guileless as he jammed a foot into a fin.
‘That is just as well,’ said Ibben. ‘If she is angered, even God is powerless.’
‘Who?’ Cass looked up from fastening her belt.
‘The Sea Mother,’ said Ibben. ‘She wears a calm face today, but that can change in a moment.’
‘Hn — hear that, you two?’ said Ranga. ‘If you see an old lady down there, make sure you show her some respect.’
Esteban exhaled. ‘You would do well to show respect up here, outlander. Do you know nothing of boats, in your country?’
‘My country? I come from your capital!’
Ibben spat over the side. ‘We’ll stay an hour.’
‘Hang on, we agreed the afternoon.’
‘In an hour the winds will change,’ said Ibben. ‘You truly know nothing of boats, in your country, if you would argue with those born to the waters you sail on.’
‘It’s plenty, Ranga.’ Cass pulled up the fastener at her back, and nudged Orc’s leg with her fin. ‘Come on, or we’ll cook.’
Boy, you sure talk a lot.
