vgunn
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This the opening to chapter one of THE LONG STAIRS.
The Long Stairs is a dungeon crawl fantasy which blends together themes from John Scalzi's Redshirts, Red Country by Joe Abercrombie, Dungeons & Dragons and modern global corporatism aka the novel Jennifer Government. It’s a story about the people behind the heroes—those who are important to expeditions but receive no recognition. These are the porters, lamplighters, guides, torchbearers, sherpas, and various other servitude types. They are so expendable that their employers don’t want to know their real names. The main protagonist is a woman named Penny, well not her real name. They go by pejorative nicknames assigned to their class of work. Since they are expendable and die so often—their employers don’t want to know their given names.
PENNY DREADFUL
[...]
Finding hell wasn’t hard, thought Penny. She looked at her ride. Just six days to get from Brood to the edge of the world. Where you’d end up anyways. Dead or alive. Take that wicked road, snaking one hundred and forty-four miles due west into nothing and it was there. Waiting.
Penny had a head for numbers. And for being f***ed.
A post coach, overloaded with provisions and sundries prepared to leave. Six horses, already yoked up, were all nickering and stamping with ears laid back in protest at the task facing them. A young lackey flung the last of the mail bags onto the roof and whistled to the driver.
Fine mist siphoned the dust from the air as pale sunlight crept through the gray morning. The coach driver eyed the dark clouds menacing in the west, eager to get underway before the weather broke.
“Best get your ass up inside, miss,” he yelled down from his seat mounted high in the box.
Penny put a boot on the step up, grabbed the side rails, and climbed inside the open door of the carriage as the grim-faced driver gathered up the reins and cracked the leather. The carriage lurched forward, wheels tractionless for a moment, then they caught and were spinning in the familiar tracks of the old road. The twin ruts of the Gallows, aptly named, cut a swath of brown though emerald hills like a diseased tongue.
Two others were making the trip with her.
Every so often, one or the other of her companions would rap his knuckles on the seat beneath him. A sideways glance revealed they were dry and raw. Both seemed unable to settle; fidgeting, shuffling in their seats. Teeth incessantly chewed on fingernails layered with dirt. The glint of gunmetal winked from their belts. As one of the men leaned forward, Penny saw the silver shine of a blade. No doubt the visible weapons weren’t the only ones the men carried, but it didn't matter to Penny. They'd be ditching the ride for horses waiting at the six-mile way-post.
Penny kept quiet and looked out the windows trying to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond the road. The sealed compartment deadened most of the outside noise. “Nothing but the best, put a Tucker to the test. Or something like that,” she whispered to herself. The gray haze of deepening mist made it impossible to see very far; still she watched expectantly for anything out of the ordinary.
The men spoke to each other as if she didn't exist.
"Looks bad. The hills be blazing red in no time and you know what. . .” The man seated to her left began, hesitated, and then muttered the rest, unrecognizable beneath the broken bill of his hat.
"Lucky if we get halfway before it goes to hell," his partner, crowded on her right responded.
Up the road, cresting the hill, the horses swept right into the teeth of a foul wind and all evidence of civilization was left behind them.
"You better hope the doctor is waiting at the Cut," Lefty said.
"bullsh**," Righty shot back. "Your sorry ass will be long dead before then. I just hope your horse is still alive, could use another one."
"Planning on making it, are you, sweetheart?" Righty directed the question at her as the coach swayed and slowed facing another steep hill.
"She don't seem like she's a fighter, ain't that right?" Lefty said. "No, I'd say she's hole full of seed and a crooked neck before nightfall."
A faint smile ran over Penny's impassive face. She'd been through this before. Let the dumb bastards drivel on, she could care less. As long as they didn't touch her. If that happened, two blackjacks resting in her hands were waiting to lash out and explode eyeballs.
"Once we top the hill, there'll be no going back. Too deep into it for sure," Lefty said.
"Not a doubt about it," Righty said, looking out the window. "Fog’s thick as smoke from a smolderin’ fire."
Penny raised her head as the coach reached the crest of another hill and started to descend again. The three swayed violently as the driver checked the horses. They were being smothered by the fog, entrails of heavy, dense air looking for any entry into the compartment. From either side window, the trees were gone. Pall lamps rocked and shone dim against the gray haze.
There were some twenty-four miles of windswept hills, tenebrous dales, and corrupted countryside to breach before reaching the first stop. Penny knew it would only get worse by the hour.
Every rich son-of-a-bitch wanted a piece of the action and were sending their teams out into the Gloom. This was her fifth tour and she was in elite company as of one of only two ‘pinchers’ who'd survived that long. Her and Royal, and that prick was already there.
She didn’t have any money, though plenty of it passed through her fingers. Rabble was collective name for all the lowlives stuck in perpetual servitude to the ‘ringers’ they worked for. The ones who had it all.
All she wanted to be was a ballerina. That didn’t happen. Images of her life passed by just as the trees left in the dust of the speeding coach she rode in.
Penny going to Cinder.
Penny learning Babel in a couple of months.
Penny practicing how to ride a horse for work.
Penny trekking to Rook.
Penny living like a gypsy.
Penny in Sullen, in Ember, in Brood.
Penny feeling alone in the dark.
Penny falling in love with a Scar squire.
Penny watching her Scar die from consumption out in the Gloom.
Fast forward eight years to now. All the rest was penned in the inconsequential footnotes of history. A hard rapping sound coming from the roof broke her stupor. It was the driver's warning: danger ahead.
"We're dead men!" Penny heard Righty's voice shrill with dread.
"Shut the fu--" Lefty shouted, but was cut off as the coach was pulled to a standstill and all three were thrown forward into the baggage.
Penny untangled herself from the other two and kicked the door open.
It was dark, much darker than it was when they left Brood but they’d only been on the road an hour or so, meaning it was still mid-morning. This was the work of fog, and the smoke that clung to it, choking and burning as Penny jumped down from the coach. The wind shrieked wildly but couldn't clear the stinging blackness from between the trees. Directly in the path of the coach was a scarlet glare. Trees and scrub were on fire, torched in a roadside trap.
Startled, she dodged sideways as the driver appeared out of nowhere. It was impossible for her to see anything more than a few feet away.
The coach driver pointed in the direction of the fire with a riding crop.
"Brigands set it burning, ahead in the hollows," he said. "Both sides of the road just as it narrows. There'll be at least ten of them."
Righty and Lefty moved up behind her, weapons drawn.
"If they're looking for a fight," the driver said as he pulled a pistol from his side, "then they've found one."
"Get back on the box now!" Penny yelled at the driver.
She could tell he wanted to argue and stand his ground, but her glare was too much and soon he was scurrying back up the coach.
Penny scanned both left and right, the country was piss poor with thick brambles and prickly bracken encroaching the road and beyond that the trees closed them in. Escape to either side was nearly as impossible as moving ahead into the fire. Their only way out was behind them, back up the hill. That is where the brigands, no doubt, would lay their ambush.
An arrow whizzed past her head and she heard the dull, wet thump as it struck the hindquarters of one of the horses. There was a pained whinny and the coach jolted forward a few feet toward the flames. Horses bucked, kicked, and snorted in terror in the face of the burning furnace and the sight of fresh blood. There was the sudden smell of horse hair singeing, and the coach rocked back and forth as the team pulled in two directions, the front away from the fire, the rear away from the blood. The driver struggled to get back in his seat, straining to grab the dangling reins and get the horses back in control.
“We're not five miles from Brood," Penny called up to the driver. "Back is where we go.”
She climbed inside.
“You'll get no complaints from me,” Righty said. Both men followed behind her and once inside Lefty thumped on the roof of the carriage and yelled: “Turn this goddamned thing around and get us the hell out of here!”
The Long Stairs is a dungeon crawl fantasy which blends together themes from John Scalzi's Redshirts, Red Country by Joe Abercrombie, Dungeons & Dragons and modern global corporatism aka the novel Jennifer Government. It’s a story about the people behind the heroes—those who are important to expeditions but receive no recognition. These are the porters, lamplighters, guides, torchbearers, sherpas, and various other servitude types. They are so expendable that their employers don’t want to know their real names. The main protagonist is a woman named Penny, well not her real name. They go by pejorative nicknames assigned to their class of work. Since they are expendable and die so often—their employers don’t want to know their given names.
PENNY DREADFUL
[...]
Finding hell wasn’t hard, thought Penny. She looked at her ride. Just six days to get from Brood to the edge of the world. Where you’d end up anyways. Dead or alive. Take that wicked road, snaking one hundred and forty-four miles due west into nothing and it was there. Waiting.
Penny had a head for numbers. And for being f***ed.
A post coach, overloaded with provisions and sundries prepared to leave. Six horses, already yoked up, were all nickering and stamping with ears laid back in protest at the task facing them. A young lackey flung the last of the mail bags onto the roof and whistled to the driver.
Fine mist siphoned the dust from the air as pale sunlight crept through the gray morning. The coach driver eyed the dark clouds menacing in the west, eager to get underway before the weather broke.
“Best get your ass up inside, miss,” he yelled down from his seat mounted high in the box.
Penny put a boot on the step up, grabbed the side rails, and climbed inside the open door of the carriage as the grim-faced driver gathered up the reins and cracked the leather. The carriage lurched forward, wheels tractionless for a moment, then they caught and were spinning in the familiar tracks of the old road. The twin ruts of the Gallows, aptly named, cut a swath of brown though emerald hills like a diseased tongue.
Two others were making the trip with her.
Every so often, one or the other of her companions would rap his knuckles on the seat beneath him. A sideways glance revealed they were dry and raw. Both seemed unable to settle; fidgeting, shuffling in their seats. Teeth incessantly chewed on fingernails layered with dirt. The glint of gunmetal winked from their belts. As one of the men leaned forward, Penny saw the silver shine of a blade. No doubt the visible weapons weren’t the only ones the men carried, but it didn't matter to Penny. They'd be ditching the ride for horses waiting at the six-mile way-post.
Penny kept quiet and looked out the windows trying to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond the road. The sealed compartment deadened most of the outside noise. “Nothing but the best, put a Tucker to the test. Or something like that,” she whispered to herself. The gray haze of deepening mist made it impossible to see very far; still she watched expectantly for anything out of the ordinary.
The men spoke to each other as if she didn't exist.
"Looks bad. The hills be blazing red in no time and you know what. . .” The man seated to her left began, hesitated, and then muttered the rest, unrecognizable beneath the broken bill of his hat.
"Lucky if we get halfway before it goes to hell," his partner, crowded on her right responded.
Up the road, cresting the hill, the horses swept right into the teeth of a foul wind and all evidence of civilization was left behind them.
"You better hope the doctor is waiting at the Cut," Lefty said.
"bullsh**," Righty shot back. "Your sorry ass will be long dead before then. I just hope your horse is still alive, could use another one."
"Planning on making it, are you, sweetheart?" Righty directed the question at her as the coach swayed and slowed facing another steep hill.
"She don't seem like she's a fighter, ain't that right?" Lefty said. "No, I'd say she's hole full of seed and a crooked neck before nightfall."
A faint smile ran over Penny's impassive face. She'd been through this before. Let the dumb bastards drivel on, she could care less. As long as they didn't touch her. If that happened, two blackjacks resting in her hands were waiting to lash out and explode eyeballs.
"Once we top the hill, there'll be no going back. Too deep into it for sure," Lefty said.
"Not a doubt about it," Righty said, looking out the window. "Fog’s thick as smoke from a smolderin’ fire."
Penny raised her head as the coach reached the crest of another hill and started to descend again. The three swayed violently as the driver checked the horses. They were being smothered by the fog, entrails of heavy, dense air looking for any entry into the compartment. From either side window, the trees were gone. Pall lamps rocked and shone dim against the gray haze.
There were some twenty-four miles of windswept hills, tenebrous dales, and corrupted countryside to breach before reaching the first stop. Penny knew it would only get worse by the hour.
Every rich son-of-a-bitch wanted a piece of the action and were sending their teams out into the Gloom. This was her fifth tour and she was in elite company as of one of only two ‘pinchers’ who'd survived that long. Her and Royal, and that prick was already there.
She didn’t have any money, though plenty of it passed through her fingers. Rabble was collective name for all the lowlives stuck in perpetual servitude to the ‘ringers’ they worked for. The ones who had it all.
All she wanted to be was a ballerina. That didn’t happen. Images of her life passed by just as the trees left in the dust of the speeding coach she rode in.
Penny going to Cinder.
Penny learning Babel in a couple of months.
Penny practicing how to ride a horse for work.
Penny trekking to Rook.
Penny living like a gypsy.
Penny in Sullen, in Ember, in Brood.
Penny feeling alone in the dark.
Penny falling in love with a Scar squire.
Penny watching her Scar die from consumption out in the Gloom.
Fast forward eight years to now. All the rest was penned in the inconsequential footnotes of history. A hard rapping sound coming from the roof broke her stupor. It was the driver's warning: danger ahead.
"We're dead men!" Penny heard Righty's voice shrill with dread.
"Shut the fu--" Lefty shouted, but was cut off as the coach was pulled to a standstill and all three were thrown forward into the baggage.
Penny untangled herself from the other two and kicked the door open.
It was dark, much darker than it was when they left Brood but they’d only been on the road an hour or so, meaning it was still mid-morning. This was the work of fog, and the smoke that clung to it, choking and burning as Penny jumped down from the coach. The wind shrieked wildly but couldn't clear the stinging blackness from between the trees. Directly in the path of the coach was a scarlet glare. Trees and scrub were on fire, torched in a roadside trap.
Startled, she dodged sideways as the driver appeared out of nowhere. It was impossible for her to see anything more than a few feet away.
The coach driver pointed in the direction of the fire with a riding crop.
"Brigands set it burning, ahead in the hollows," he said. "Both sides of the road just as it narrows. There'll be at least ten of them."
Righty and Lefty moved up behind her, weapons drawn.
"If they're looking for a fight," the driver said as he pulled a pistol from his side, "then they've found one."
"Get back on the box now!" Penny yelled at the driver.
She could tell he wanted to argue and stand his ground, but her glare was too much and soon he was scurrying back up the coach.
Penny scanned both left and right, the country was piss poor with thick brambles and prickly bracken encroaching the road and beyond that the trees closed them in. Escape to either side was nearly as impossible as moving ahead into the fire. Their only way out was behind them, back up the hill. That is where the brigands, no doubt, would lay their ambush.
An arrow whizzed past her head and she heard the dull, wet thump as it struck the hindquarters of one of the horses. There was a pained whinny and the coach jolted forward a few feet toward the flames. Horses bucked, kicked, and snorted in terror in the face of the burning furnace and the sight of fresh blood. There was the sudden smell of horse hair singeing, and the coach rocked back and forth as the team pulled in two directions, the front away from the fire, the rear away from the blood. The driver struggled to get back in his seat, straining to grab the dangling reins and get the horses back in control.
“We're not five miles from Brood," Penny called up to the driver. "Back is where we go.”
She climbed inside.
“You'll get no complaints from me,” Righty said. Both men followed behind her and once inside Lefty thumped on the roof of the carriage and yelled: “Turn this goddamned thing around and get us the hell out of here!”
