Excerpt: The Tales of Guildenhall: The Watchmaker's Apprentice (Working Title)

Corin shot straight into his consciousness and sat up in the clearing. He jerked his head around and peered into the blackness, “Hannah!” he screamed. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, but that was far from his mind as he searched frantically for the small brunette. The situation had lost all humour. Had she drowned? He clamoured toward the pool, but the ground was hard and dry. He pushed his hands into the dirt, searching for the last place he had seen her. There was nothing. He grabbed at his hair and wiped his eyes as the sting of panic threatened to overflow him. There was water here; he had almost drowned in it! As he scrambled in the dust, the ground was unrelenting and gave no hint of moisture. He stopped, sat back and tried to think. Nothing made sense. “Hannah?” he whispered.

The trees around him shivered in the breeze and the silence of the forest made his breath an intruder on the night air. Nothing moved in the shadow of the far reaches of the clearing and the devastating emptiness of the place collapsed in on him. Whatever had happened, Hannah was nowhere to be found. He was alone. Perhaps she had already hurried to get help. He had to return to the town, if she had not returned, a search party would need to be arranged. With all that had been happening, he could not be sure that she would survive long on her own. He turned to run, but the space had no clear exit. He could no even tell which way he had come. He turned to face each direction in sequence, but it yielded no result. Just then, the hairs on the back of his neck rose as he became acutely aware that the emptiness behind him had been filled. He turned his head, but nothing stirred in the gap between him and the forest edge. He stared into the darkness of the underbrush, but nothing moved. Nonetheless, his senses were piqued and he could not ignore the urge to run. His feet made an instinctive dash towards the forest when an unmentionable weight plummeted from above and struck him squarely across the back. He immediately fought with all he had, kicking out in the hopes of hitting anything. He screamed as he felt the clawing of many hands pin him to the forest floor.

“This one’s a fighter!” screamed a jovial voice into the darkness and the sound made Corin lash out even more viciously, “Makes me feel like we should give him a running chance!” It laughed as a rope valiantly overcame Corin’s flailing legs and subdued his resistance. He was turned over and through the fear of his struggle a set of fiercely yellowed teeth pooled together into a leer that graced the front of a gaunt and bedraggled face. Corin dared not move. The only reason such a face would be out in the forest at night was if it belonged to a criminal. His thoughts dashed to Hannah and he was horrified that she might have been seized upon because of him.

“Aw,” said another voice in the blackness, “cat got your tongue?” This brought on an uproarious response from others that were apparently encircling him and, one by one, Corin focussed on several ill-fated faces that surrounded him.

“Very funny Hennessey,” sneered the first. Corin could not understand what was going on.

“Get off it Kat, that was a gem,” the second returned with a grin.

“What is it?” a resonant voice drowned out all playful banter, its weight pressing all humour from the hunt.

“Spy, sir,” reported the yellow-toothed spectre that seemed to go by the name Kat. Corin frowned.

“No, I’m just…” a boot ripped into his sentence as it collided with his exposed ribs.

“Speak when you’re spoken to boy!”

“Pull him to his feet.”
The world tipped as Corin recovered from the blow and found himself resting on his feet, supported underarm by his captors. He winced as his ribs continued to burn. As he raised his head, he took in the impressive form of the leader. The man’s skin was almost pitch black, but his bulk was not concealed in the shadow. He was bare-breasted to the waist, a scabbard slung loosely over his shoulder and baring a hilt large enough for two men to wield. He wore loose-fitting, purple trousers and worn, skin moccasins on his feet. Corin squinted at him as he approached. Was this a joke?

“Who sent you spy?” the voice thundered even in its spoken state. There was a confused pause.

“I have no money…” Corin strained. The clean-shaven head slanted at this response, jaw set.

“Who sent you?” the slowly repeated question made Corin look him in the eyes. They blazed at him in the darkness, unmoved by his claim of poverty.

“I don’t know what…” a fist pummelled into his stomach. The leader raised a ringed hand to signal them to stop. He drew even closer and Corin could smell the heavy stench of his breath.

“Your queen may blow like the insidious night wind, but she will not have the Hinterlands. Every Black-Foot she sends will hang from the trees of Galodair. Her armies are nothing in the dense forests of the Herubi,” the disgust radiated from his face, the whites of his eyes dimming as hatred poured out into the clearing. Corin could not speak. What?

“Please,” he could not think what to say, “I only wondered into the forest by accident, I...” the leader turned away unconvinced and Corin felt himself losing ground. The gang of men began to shuffle in movement and his hands were bound behind his back. The man called Hennessy lifted a rope from his shoulder and flipped it over a nearby bough. Corin panicked; he knew the hanging was no idle threat, “Please! I’m from Torrendale, just up river… I’m nothing but a watchmaker’s apprentice!”

Everything stopped. The rope dangled slowly from the tree as Hennessy held the other end, preparing to tie the noose. Corin gritted his teeth in fear. He glanced at the men holding him, his eyes wide. They stared at him before looking to their leader in shock. The huge figure had stopped mid-stride. He did not turn, but directed his head to speak.

“What did you say?” disbelief lined his every word. Corin glanced around, unsure what he had said to incite such a response.

“I’m from up river, I…”

“After that.” Silence hung thick in the air.

“I’m just a watchmaker’s apprentice…” The man spun round and drew his sword in one magnificent movement and within two strides, Corin felt the icy tip of the blade running neatly along his jugular vein.

“Do not speak false to me boy!” raised, his voice was deafening. Corin was too terrified to speak. The blade played along his throat and he shook with the anticipation of death at any moment. The violent eyes of his attacker pierced his gaze and shattered his resolve. Finally, he let out a whisper,

“I would not lie to you sir… Everything I have said has been the truth.” Again, everything seemed to halt and even the night air was suddenly stale.

“Bring him,” the man’s glare never faltered, “We shall see what Malachai makes of his ‘truth’.” He sheathed his weapon, “You may think that such a joke is clever, boy, but I warn you; my sword has a poor sense of humour.”