Take a peek at the opening chapter of John's new Fantasy series: The Chronicles of Innisfail
Part I
Wilem
“But, instead of what our imagination makes us
suppose and which we worthless try to discover, life gives us something that we
could hardly imagine.”
—Marcel Proust
Chapter 1
Young William Doran was a long way
from home, but he didn’t yet know how far. His name, Doran, from the Gaelic,
had long heralded that he would be a wanderer. He was a fair-haired lad, with
eyes as blue as a morning sky, yet he never thought he would find himself in
this strange wild land of North Africa, though he was thrilled and embraced a
sense of adventure when he received the news that his unit would join the great
General Montgomery for the final push into Tunisia against Rommel. He was with
the celebrated King’s Dragoon Guards attached to 2nd New Zealand Corps, and
with the mission to go out on a wide envelopment of Rommel’s Mareth Line
position in southern Tunisia. They had been chasing the wily German fox all the
way across North Africa, from El Alamein in Egypt to Mareth in Tunisia, where
Rommel had thought to make a stand to delay the British advance. But he
couldn’t delay long, because the Americans were already behind him, coming all
the way from Casablanca in the west. Now Monty was launching his “Left Hook,”
hoping to break the stalemate.
On the night of 19/20 March
1943, The 1st Battalion, King’s Dragoons was to lead the New Zealand
Corps on a wide envelopment eventually reaching Tebaga Gap before turning off
the road and heading east into the desert towards the coastal port of Gabes. They
would spend some days assembling the force, which consisted of 2nd New Zealand
Division, 8th Armored Brigade, Leclerc Force, and his own 1st King’s
Dragoon Guards, a recon battalion.
The operation would not be
easy, fighting the difficult terrain as much as the veteran Germans
Panzertroops of 21st and 15th Panzer Divisions, which had
sent Kampfgruppes to oppose the flanking maneuver.
William, or Wilem as he was
called by his mates, marveled at the arid terrain all around them, more rugged
and wild than anything he had seen thus far. The land rose to form flinty ridges
and serrated terraces, crowned with the remains of ancient fortifications, with
flagstone walkways behind low stone walls braced by stolid square towers. Many
had been there for over a thousand years, silent sentinels over empty land, and
Wilem knew that his was only one of many armies that had made this march over
the centuries.
They eventually pushed out,
his Bren carrier bouncing along the rough ground, up towards Ksar Rhilane and
heading for Bir Soltane. Once they got beyond that, they would find another
road and fight their way towards El Hamma, which was well behind the German
Front line defenses on the coast to the southeast. It was March of 1943, the
endgame in North Africa finally underway. Wilem was thrilled to be a part of it
until the artillery fire began falling—sizable rounds forcing their way through
the intense blue sky and then crashing down around them, kicking up the sandy soil.
He never knew whether it was better to keep moving under such an attack, or to
stop and hold his position along with his breath, hoping that no round would
chance to find the spot where he stood.
The fire intensified ahead of
him. For infantry, it was shrapnel that did most of the killing and maiming,
not direct hits from the shells. His Sergeant raised an arm to call the halt. The
Bren carriers were open topped vehicles and the danger of getting clipped by
shrapnel was too great. Time to halt, take cover beneath the carrier, and hug
the barren ground for dear life. Wilem leapt out, rifle in hand, and as he did
so a round fell close—and exploded. Both Wilem, and the Bren carrier reeled. Blown
off his feet onto the ground, he fell into darkness. Before it enclosed him he
saw a green light that surrounded him with a scintillating aura. Then all was
black as the desert night.
* * *
The next thing he remembered
was waking up, his cheek resting on the hot sand and broken stone of the
desert. He felt a hand on his shoulder pulling him over. He opened his unfocussed
eyes and perceived the brown sun-drenched face of an older man, his head
wrapped in a white turban cloth, his eyes in shadow under heavy brows. The man was
speaking in another language, but Wilem understood everything that was being
said to him.
“Ho there lad, are you
alright? What in the world are you doing out here?” The older man hastily
examined him, noting that there was no bleeding, and that limbs, neck, and head
were uninjured. The round had lifted and overturned the Bren carrier,
interposing it between his body and the blast. The vehicle had taken the brunt
of the force, shielding him from serious injury, yet there was no sign of it
now. He was bruised from the violent fall onto the rock-strewn ground, but he
would not notice that until later that night. The man gestured to several men who
then lifted Wilem from the field and gently placed him in the back of a wagon.
It took some time before his
senses came to him, but eventually he came to full consciousness and gathered
his wits. He eased himself up on one elbow, getting a brief glimpse of the
column he was in, but there was no sign of the battalion or his mates—not a
Bren carrier or truck anywhere to be seen. Instead he saw a line of well-laden
wagons, men on horseback, and a long string of camels loaded with bales of
cloth and bundles. Those must be local tribesmen, he thought. They often followed
the army, nibbling at its flanks in the hopes of trading for something
desirable or selling some of their goods to the soldiers. Other times they were
scavengers, preying on the fallen like jackals, and some were thought to be
spies for the Germans. The battalion officers had nothing to do with them,
shooing them off at gunpoint if necessary.
Wilem was glad they had found
him. But what had become of his battalion? Surely that artillery barrage, as
intense as it was, could not have done in the entire unit. Where were they? Why
would they allow these local tribesmen to just carry him off? These were likely
Tittawin locals, indigenous to southern Tunisia, itinerate traders and nomads,
just one of the many branches on the Berber tribal tree.
The sun was low, and now he
saw that the point of this laboring column had turned, describing a slow circle
in the lee of a high grey escarpment. The rock there was broken and burned from
some great trauma. The column was using its own wagons as a laager and it all
soon came to a halt. Men leapt from the wagons as the heavy-set man in the
white turban issued commands. The men, some porters, others train guards, heeded
his commands as if he were a Colonel in the Dragoons, and the whole column
established itself with military efficiency.
The leader, which Wilem now
took to be the Chieftain or Train Master of this caravan, looked his way and approached
the wagon. Wilem was laying on burlap bags that smelled like sorghum, taking in
its earthy sweet aroma, and it began to make him hungry. He noticed a leather
flask of water beside him, and he took it up and quenched his thirst. He was
sore in a few places, but no bones were broken. He had taken no shrapnel, and felt
lucky to have survived.
“There you are,” said the
Train Master. “Feeling better I hope?” Once again the speech Wilem heard was
unfamiliar, but the meaning of the words was completely clear and
understandable in his mind.
“Where is my unit?” he said
and was taken aback. He heard himself speaking foreign words, but he knew exactly
what they meant. How was he able to speak this man’s tribal dialect? The King’s
English was all he had ever known, yet he could communicate with no difficulty
in a language he had never learned.
“Unit? What is that? We found
you alone, just lying there, face down in the desert. This is no place for a
man alone—dangerous and cruel, this land. Are you saying you were with others?”
“Yes—the British Army. Kings
Dragoon Guards!”
The man cocked his head to one
side. “An Army? What? Dragon guards?” He could see this man had the look of a
soldier about him. With plain khaki colored clothing, an odd-looking helm and
some kind of strangely fashioned spear.
“No dragons here, lad, and for
that you can count yourself lucky. But this is Starfall, the heart of the old
desert in Mindemoya, and these are bad times, so how do you come to be here?
Ah, excuse me sir, I have forgotten my manners. I am Kaspar Jakhad, Train
Master here, a trader out of Salonketh. We should be on the road up to Elcanar
City, but not now, no, not with the Khazars on the move. Bloody Khazars would
have a grand feast if they came on my train, and we’d be lucky to live out the
rest of our days as slaves. So I took to the open desert, and seeing as though
I have only come here once before, I wanted to see the center of it all again,
and look for Starseed.
“The center?”
“This is Starfall, the place
where it came down—the rock that felled Old Mindemoya, kings, princes and high
lords all, save one or two that were not in country. See that dark ridge
yonder?” The man pointed, his arm moving in a wide circle around them.
“See how it commands the horizon on every
quarter? That’s the edge of the big hole in the ground the cursed thing made
when it fell, and when it did, this place was so hot we’d be burned to hell if we
were here then. Look around you. See how the ground glitters with the sunlight?
It melted sand and stone when it fell, and then, over the long decades, the wind
had its way with what was left, and polished it as fine as the best gems you’ll
ever set eyes on. Starseed they call it, and you’ll be lucky if you ever set
eyes on the like again. To be frank, the only way I could convince my men to
come this way was the lure of Starseed.”
Kaspar stooped and grasped a
fist full of sand, letting it sift through his fingers to leave a few larger
stones. “Most of this surface stone is
small—just pebbles, but dig in the right place and you can find it the size of
an egg—not made like the smaller stones, but from the heart of the thing that
fell here—very rare. Tonight the men will have free rein here to go and find
all they can carry, and by the Gods, they’ll be rich men for it, well paid for
their long labors, as I promised them. Even the pebbles are worth as much as
gold. If you’re feeling up to it, you might wander about yourself—but not too
far. Stay close to the laager. There’s still plenty on the ground, even after
men have had more than two centuries to pilfer it all. It’s still here, as you
can plainly see. Dig a bit and you’ll find the larger seeds.”
“Starseed,” said Wilem, not fully
understanding the bizarre description Kaspar had voiced.
“Aye, comes in every color of
the rainbow, one of the rarest gems in the all the Alderenh, except here, right
in the center of Starfall crater, the one place it can be found—the only place it
can ever be found, unless you buy it, or steal it, from someone who first found
it here. Is that why you were out here? Doing a little prospecting, were you?”
“Prospecting? Not at all. I
tell you I’m with the King’s Dragoon Guards, British Army, and we were out
after Rommel. Don’t tell me you never heard of him.”
“Rommel? Dragon Guards?
British? No lad, I’ve never heard of any of that. None of that in Salonketh
either, just bloody barbaric Khazars and we were lucky to slip away before
their war bands cam e off the ships for the march. They’ve come again—another
great migration they say, all in their black-sailed ships. That’s the only army
in these parts, and it’s on the move, heading north and east, which is why
we’re not on the roads—too dangerous. Just the same, I couldn’t come this way
without stopping here. Dangerous as it may be, this is the one place the
Khazars won’t come tonight. For them it’s haunted ground, the land of the Jinn,
and those savages won’t come near it. We should be safe here tonight. Tomorrow
I’ll head east to the city of Golocha, and then we’ll take the road from the
Elcanar crossing up the Eldarhorn and on into Glynwood or perhaps east into
Lyndra. Green lands there, well-watered, and lovely people too, unless the
Khazars get to them. Once we get there, I can sell off at Lyngecel. Marvelous
city there. Have you ever seen it?”
“Glynwood? Lyndra? No, can’t
say as I’ve ever seen them. Are they back in Algeria?”
“Where’s that?”
“Why, it’s the only thing east
of here that I know—Algeria, then Libya, then Egypt. Those I’ve seen. Came all
the way from El Alamein with Monty.” Wilem smiled with pride, grateful to be a
member of Montgomery’s army.
“Libeeah? Eee-jipped? Never
heard of them. This is Old Mindemoya, the ancient empire homeland of the
Mindemoyan Kings—until Starfall. That put an end to them with one big bang.
Knocked down cities, walls, temples, shrines, and fortresses alike, and buried
the rest under hundreds of feet of red-hot sand and ash. It’s taken centuries
for the winds to expose the ruins again, the old stone forts along the king’s
road to the Elcanar River. No Algeereerah in these parts, and no Libeeah or anything
else you mentioned. North lies more desert, until it finds Salonketh, the grand
city-port where I formed this caravan. South is Elminad, and Radnor on the river.
East across the Elcanar you come to North Ashedon, the better part of Ashedon I
might add. The rest is as bad as all this. Then comes the inland Sea. Don’t you
even know where you are lad? Where did you start from to come here?”
“I told you, I was at El
Alamein in Egypt with Monty for the big fight there. Then we damn well chased
Rommel a thousand miles here to Tunisia.”
“Tune-eze-ia? Never heard of
that. This is Mindemoya, how many times must I say it? Are you sure you haven’t
taken a knock on the head? And who is Rommel? Who’s Monty?”
Wilem gave the man a
frustrated look. In spite of the fact that all the words passing between them
were unlike anything he had ever heard, Wilem knew they were speaking a common
language, though how he knew it he could not fathom. But common tongue or not,
they were speaking past one another. Wilem had never heard of Old Mindemoya, or
any of those other locations. He knew nothing of Khazars, unless it was just
another Berber tribe out raiding. And this man said he had never heard of
Rommel or Montgomery!
“Look here,” he said, exasperated.
“I don’t know what’s going on now, or anything at all about this Starfall, or
any of the places you mention. I’m Corporal William Doran, King’s Dragoon
Guards, and how many times must I say that? Have you seen any more of my battalion? I was with several hundred men
out here!”
“No kings here now, lad.
They’re all long gone, and no dragons here for guarding either. So you look up
at the stars tonight and just be thankful for that. We’ll have dinner up in an
hour, and I’ll get you some of my best teas to clear your head. Then get your
rest and a good night’s sleep. We’ll have a long march tomorrow to Golocha. Now
if you’ll excuse me. I must set the camp. I’ll send my train boy, young Ari, to
check in on you. If you need anything, he can fetch it for you.” The man
proffered a slight bow, and was on his way, soon shouting at the cameleers as
they unloaded their beasts and set the cargos down on the glittering ground.
Starfall, thought Wilem. Starseed. Where in bloody hell was he?
As disoriented as he was, Wilem was at least thankful he had
not been injured, with no cuts, broken bones or bad bruises. It was the
impossibility of his present situation that upset his rational mind. To ground
himself, he studied the landscape around him, seeing the dark rise of the high
rim of the crater in all directions. To the southeast, there was a cleft in the
rim, as if a giant had cut through the rock with a mighty axe. He reasoned the
crevice was the exit from the crater, and he would see that borne out the
following day when the caravan mounted to continue its journey in that
direction.
Excerpt from The Chronicles of Innisfail, by John Schettler
COMING SOON ON AMAZON
