The Worthy: Teaser Excerpt

The Finder

Ehmed wiped the dust from his forehead and peered into the gloom. He rolled his shoulders, taking care not to knock his lamp in the cramped space. It must be close to the end of his shift; the urchin oil burned low, its blue light glistening over the ink-black rock before him. He’d mined more than his fair share of sapphire that day, but he’d still get a scalding if he surfaced too soon. A great boulder had fallen earlier, uncovering another seam which the captain was keen to plunder. Seemed daft to Ehmed. It’s not like the damned stuff would disappear overnight. He sighed and raised his pick, ready to heft it with all his might, when a movement caught his eye. Brow furrowed, he lifted his lamp, anticipating a rat or pit spider, but instead a tiny pale paw reached toward him. He gasped and leapt back. The paw disappeared. 

Ehmed, being middle-aged and from sensible stock, didn’t believe in ghosts or magic. He believed a miner could mistake the curve of a rock or the glint of a gem for something else, especially after many hours in the dark… but the paw had seemed so real. He crept forward and ran his hand over the surface of the wall, finding a previously unseen crevice. He adjusted his light to a focussed beam, pressed it against the crack and leaned in. 

For years after, Ehmed would wonder what he’d expected to see at that moment. He’d imagine countless alternatives, some frightening, some wondrous, but all of them better than the reality. All of them better than the small, ape-like creature that stared back at him with two round, milky eyes. It blinked and he saw galaxies swirl and spin and stretch into infinite desolation. In that moment, Ehmed knew death. Terror dove into the heart of the miner and he screamed like a lost soul. It echoed in the depths of the earth and was joined by the creature’s own. He felt wave after wave of horror emanate from its tiny body and flood his senses. Pain surged through him. A pain that would bring his nation to its knees. 

The Proof of a Prince

Prince Barsten swallowed. He mustn’t doubt himself. It was only a matter of time before they recognised his natural leadership. 

‘Found a route yet?’ scoffed Lord Sewet. 

Barsten gritted his teeth. ‘How can I with you bleating on at me?’ As future king of Crell he should maintain composure, tempting as it was to hurl his eyeglass into the cobalt sea, but it was damned hard with the lords breathing down his neck. They shuffled behind him on the creaking forecastle of the Fensk Bane, ready to snicker at any failure. 

He took a deep breath and turned his attention to the view before him. They were half a mile out from the scorching Jintin Republic, separated by rings of jagged white rocks that resembled the toothy gullet of some long dead beast. A series of enormous chain links blocked the only safe route to the docks. There was no way the Crellian fleet would get through, even with cannon. Barsten hoped to spy a back channel to weave through, but so far, nothing. A warm wind ruffled his dark hair, carrying the heady scent of milled spices and something floral. A harvest of rose wheat? Barsten’s mouth watered at the thought of fresh, fragrant bread, but there was no time for supper. He needed an ingenious solution. 

Ah, was that a course to the west? A gap between the rocks? He scratched at his short beard and turned. The upper deck was a quiet island on the busy ship, occupied by six of the most feared men in the Old Lands. Barsten lifted his irisless gaze. As a child, his unusual eyes had frightened folk and he’d learnt to turn their fear to his advantage. Now he was approaching his twenty-fifth birthday, and Crell was used to the strange prince with white eyes, fear of him had waned, and his ability to get his way had waned with it. Standing on the forecastle of his ship, the possibility of a glorious battle with Jintin slipping away, Barsten wished it hadn’t.  

He cleared his throat to deliver his assessment. ‘I -’ 

‘I told you, didn’t I?’ said Sewet, smoothing his embroidered cuffs. ‘You’ll not pass through without intimate knowledge of the passages.’ 

‘Actually,’ said Barsten, gabbling to prevent further interruption, ‘there’s a route to the west that -’

‘That’ll take us perilously close to the cliffs,’ his attacker sneered, a gloating smile splitting his face as the other lords muttered their agreement. ‘Face it Barsten, there’s no need for a fleet. Look at the place, it’s a ghost city.’ He raised a digit and gestured west. ‘The garrison is empty, the cannon mounts are missing the damn cannon, and where are the warships? It’s like a jewelled whore; sparkling and wet, with no flesh-peddler to protect her. It’s deserted.’

‘It. Is. Not. Deserted. Look closer,’ he thrust his eyeglass at Sewet who pouted, hitched up his long robe and heaved himself towards the ship’s edge. ‘Look by the warehouses,’ said Barsten, indicating the sun-bleached structures near the raised cliff garrison. ‘See the people scurrying. They’re trying to get their stores to safety. Stores of wheat and dried fruit. The very things we need. And see there,’ he continued, growing in confidence with his initial judgement. ‘That wide road leads from the docks to City Hall. Can’t you see people dashing up it? It’s bloody obvious isn’t it? It’s not deserted, they’re preparing for battle.’

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