Tallander's Apprentice is my first published novel. More?

Brian Phillips Online

This is a story I’ve recently completed. It’s called Unborn. Unlike my earlier novel, it’s aimed squarely at adults. Specifically, it’s aimed at those adults who long for stories of heroism and danger. Those who think of Conan not as a cliché, but as an archetype.

But Unborn isn’t a simple tale of swords and sorcery. I’ve added more depth and characterisation than that genre definition implies. I’ve included part of first chapter in its raw, unedited form here. I hope you like it.

CHAPTER ONE: LITO.

Pain.

It was so intense that he would’ve done all he could to make it cease. But he could only endure.

He did so. For how long, he didn’t know. Both a sense of time and memory were amongst those things he lacked. And, gradually, the pain lessened to the point where he could think. Or perhaps the change wasn’t gradual. He knew only that he could think, where before he hadn’t been able to. Perhaps the pain had never been stronger. He couldn’t remember.

Where was he?

He didn’t have even the most basic senses with which to find out.

Who was he?

He didn’t know. He had no memories beyond the most recent experience of pain.

What was he?

Alive. Capable of thought. Of knowing pain. More than just a mind; he had the form of a man. Yet, without understanding how, he knew that having the form of a man and being a man were two separate things. He knew that a man could see, hear and feel, could move... all things he could not do. And even if he could do these things, he knew that he still would not qualify.

Puzzled, he tried to track down that thought. Tried to figure out what, exactly, he lacked. Tried to –

Something changed. The pain evaporated as a light mist beneath the sun. Now, he could feel heavy leather bindings covering his chest, wrists and ankles, could feel smooth wood beneath him. Could smell odors of dampness and sweat, and something cloying – something burning, stronger and more immediate than all the rest. Could hear the crackling of that burning and an irregular drip from somewhere above. Someone speaking: “Yes. Yes. Almost done, almost perfect. You will be the one, my little Lito. You had better be.” Only he didn’t understand the words. They had less meaning for him than where the sound had come from, for at least that told him someone stood over him, near enough to touch. Low pitch. Male, then. Sounding anxious.

He opened his eyes...

...and saw for the first time. The sensation of color almost overwhelmed him. He couldn’t make sense of it. There were too many shapes, too many things all clamoring for his attention. He would have shut his eyes once more had the voice not spoken again. “Keep your eyes open, Lito. The confusion will pass.”

Lito. It sounded familiar. He’d heard the word before, and somehow knew it applied to him. His name? Other than that, the sounds still held no meaning. But they were a focus. They enabled him to separate the man who spoke from the background jumble of visual stimuli.

The man’s hair and beard – both trimmed short – were gray. He wore a long robe of red that did little to hide the sparseness of his frame. The robe would have given him a grand appearance had it not been wrinkled and stained, the entire image off-set by a wide belt with many pouches that hung about his waist. His face was very square and deeply lined. Even now, those lines most used for worry were being well employed. He had small eyes, made of hardened amber, and his lips were pale to the point of vanishing. Yet something about him suggested kindness.

Something else about him suggested power.

He placed a hand on Lito’s forehead. Lito – the thought that this was indeed his name pleased him greatly – noted that the hand looked callused and strong, as if the man had spent many years at difficult labors. Again, the man spoke. This time his words were indistinct, mumbled as if Lito wasn’t supposed to hear, as if spoken in prayer. They sounded dark and heavy, yet held a musical quality that stirred his blood. He saw that, as the man uttered each syllable, he added powders from his various pouches to a brazier, from which the crackling sound and cloying odor came. The man’s eyes were tightly closed – his hands seemed to know their tasks without visual guidance – and those lines on his forehead were even deeper than before. Concentrating, thought Lito. Fiercely.

Pain flashed once more. Lito cried out, amazed that he could do so. Then both the pain and the old man’s hand were gone.

“Can you understand me now?” The old man gave a tired smile, one wrought from the edge of exhaustion.

Surprisingly, Lito could. He swallowed, took a breath. Answered. “Yes.” The old man’s smile grew broader. But Lito had more to say. “What – what am I?”

The man raised an eyebrow. He looked as if he hadn’t expected the questioned. Or as if the question differed from the one he anticipated. Nevertheless, he gave an answer. “You are what you are. You are a construct. A man, or more than a man. But most of all, you are unfinished. You will sleep now, and when you wake, you will be whole.” He moved to replace his hand on Lito’s forehead.

Lito jerked his head out of the way. “And you. What – who are you?” He found the formation of his words awkward, as if he needed more practice.

“I am named Garvin. I am Vassal Cirovan’s Counselor and Theurgist. I am the one who made you. Be assured, I will answer any questions you might have, but not just yet. You aren’t finished. You must sleep.” This time, he moved more quickly. Lito tried to struggle, tried to move far enough that the old man had to let him go. He wasn’t sure why he did this. He knew only that he wanted to be awake so he could see and experience more. But he didn’t move easily. He had to think of each movement independent of all others. And, although he felt surprisingly strong, the straps binding him were stronger. He craned his neck to look this way and that and realized that he could easily assimilate those things that had almost overwhelmed him before. He glimpsed roughstone walls, shelves lined with thick books and scrolls, threadbare furs on the floor, a massive desk littered with vials and stoppered bottles, a tiny window too high up for him to see anything through, and over near the door, a girl. A woman.

He stopped his struggling. Garvin commenced his rhythmical mumbling. Lito thought only of the girl. Tall, lean and shapely as all woman, he thought, should be. She wore a robe of emerald green sashed with gold at her waist and a necklace containing a single, pale jewel so large that a thumb and first finger might not be able to close around it. Her hair – as black as a starless, moonless night – hung to her hips, and an expression of petulant impatience twisted her otherwise perfect face. Before he lost consciousness completely, he thought he saw her stamping her foot....

Top

I live and work in New Zealand, which is on the opposite side of the world from just about everywhere else. More?