Guardian

Dan Gleed

Description

Paul Moncton and his close friend Matt are out hunting in Kenya. Attacked by a marauding lion, Matt is killed and eaten. Too afraid to face the animal, Paul attempts to flee, breaking his leg. Temporarily confined, but unable to live with his cowardice, he begins to contemplate suicide. At this point Paul meets Roz, a beautiful young girl who has recently arrived from Malindi, an ancient settlement on the East African coast. She falls in love with Paul, but he rebuffs her after resolving to shoot himself. However, his efforts are thwarted by an angel who, having been ordered to intervene, is then appointed as Paul's guardian. This sets off a dramatic confrontation between the forces of Heaven and Hell - an age-old conflict that has now become personal. A number of horrific human deaths result. In the meantime, Paul, frustrated by his unsuccessful suicide attempt, goes on the run but, inadvertently falls into the clutches of a slave gang who incriminate him in a double killing. The gang then sells him into the slave trade and Paul is shipped off to Arabia. Although the police are searching for him, Roz refuses to believe that Paul is a murderer, so attempts to find and forewarn him. She succeeds, but Paul is eventually forced by rapidly changing circumstances to begin a reckless mission of revenge, only to be confronted by his guardian... Guardian is a no-holds-barred story of human courage, passion and vengeance that will appeal to fans of fantasy and supernatural fiction alike. The book uses biblical models to paint the background, organisation and warfare prevailing between Heaven and Hell, angels and evil spirits, blending them together with human passion and the author's personal knowledge of Kenya to create a captivating read.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 juin 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781784625955
• Langue: English

Extrait

Guardian
Dan Gleed

Copyright © 2015 Dan Gleed
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador ®
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Kibworth Beauchamp
Leicestershire LE8 0RX, UK
Tel: [phone]
Email: [e-mail]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
ISBN 978 1784625 955
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador ® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB

Dedicated to my wife, Vicki, our son, Antony,
and our daughter, Marie.
I would also like to thank those who gave me invaluable
advice and guidance in refining the text, particularly our
good friends Neil and Daphne Carlier.
Contents

Cover


Chapter 1


Chapter 2


Chapter 3


Chapter 4


Chapter 5


Chapter 6


Chapter 7


Chapter 8


Chapter 9


Chapter 10


Chapter 11


Chapter 12


Chapter 13


Chapter 14


Chapter 15


Chapter 16


Chapter 17


Chapter 18


Chapter 19


Chapter 20


Chapter 21


Chapter 22


Chapter 23


Chapter 24


Chapter 25


Chapter 26


Chapter 27


Chapter 28


Chapter 29


Chapter 30


Chapter 31


Chapter 32


Chapter 33


Chapter 34


Chapter 35


Chapter 36


Chapter 37


Chapter 38


Chapter 39


Chapter 40


Chapter 41


Chapter 42


Chapter 43


Chapter 44


Chapter 45


Chapter 46


Chapter 47


Chapter 48


Chapter 49


Chapter 50


Chapter 51


Chapter 52


Chapter 53


Chapter 54


Chapter 55


Chapter 56


Chapter 57


Chapter 58


Chapter 59


Chapter 60


Chapter 61


Chapter 62


Chapter 63


Chapter 64


Chapter 65


Chapter 66


Chapter 67


Chapter 68


Chapter 69


Chapter 70


Chapter 71


Chapter 72


Chapter 73


Chapter 74


Chapter 75


Chapter 76


Chapter 77


Chapter 78


Chapter 79


Notes
Chapter 1
The hot sun beat down on my naked back, browned from years of living on the high Kenyan veldt. Below me and as far out as the eye could see, dust devils stirred the dry plain. Their erratic wanderings only emphasised the oppressive heat that mirrored the air and sucked the moisture from what was then a lean, adolescent body. Around me, the parched, rock-strewn world seemed to hold its breath, glaring back in sullen silence at the brassy sky. Even the irritating buzz of fat, indolent blowflies no longer intruded as I tensed in single-minded concentration, all thought and emotion focused down into my squinting eyes and finger curled around the trigger. A moment of almost sexual intensity, of life and death being played out, as it had so often over the end of this particular rifle during my admittedly brief life of fewer than twenty years.
Mutuku, the universally respected and dignified old Kamba tracker, had taught me his art well and it remained a source of quiet pride that when this apprentice was stalking prey, they almost never knew I was there. The first most of them sensed of danger was the very last thing they knew, because I seldom missed. Slowly and quietly that day I had settled the oiled and carefully tended Lee Enfield .303 into my left shoulder, extended the rear sight to its full height and drawn a bead on the slow-moving stag still grazing nervously on the short dry grass of the Eldoret plain, about a hundred yards ahead and some fifty feet below. Beside me, my close friend Matt Cryer shifted uncomfortably on the hot granite as he waited for the hunt to be played out. Both our families would eat well in the coming days. You could count on it.
It would take only an imperceptible tightening of my forefinger on the carefully balanced hair trigger, That, and the act of bringing my breathing to a standstill, to make what I knew was going to be a difficult, falling shot. But I was good. And confident. So, breathing slowly and steadying the foresight, I zeroed in a little above and ahead of the point I wanted the bullet to strike. For me in such moments time always stood still, but I can clearly remember the unexpected shiver of remorse that day. Perhaps it was pity. At any rate, emotion stopped me for a full second, just long enough for my restless thoughts to fly back down the trail we had negotiated as we shadowed the wary animals.
Riding quietly, heads up and looking for the nervous creatures, which blended so easily into the background of thorny scrub, we had first spotted a small group of eland well ahead of our track, drifting between the scattered fever trees. Following at a distance, we had watched the elegant does, herded by a magnificent stag in the prime of life, as the group moved with unhurried grace, some feeding, some with heads up, always alert as they wandered towards one of the many rocky outcrops that disfigured the rolling grasslands. Eventually, just as we had hoped, a jagged tor introduced itself between us and them. Un-spooked, the herd had moved out of sight and, just as importantly, out of earshot. We had dismounted and left the horses tethered in a secluded donga (1) , its steep dry sides carved clean by the flash floods that occasionally plagued the land during the rainy seasons. Moving cautiously forward, we had begun the short scramble towards an ascent known universally as ‘Cat Hill’, an abrupt, sixty-foot pile of jumbled rock and grass, beloved by hyraxes and snakes alike. Cat Hill had been named for the local lion pride, which, since anyone could remember, had staked out the summit as a favoured platform for lazily surveying the passing banquet, often completely unnoticed by their intended prey. Lying within the protective screen of rocks, sheltered for much of the day from the worst of the oppressive sun, the pride could often be seen dropping down the steep sides to set out on a hunt shortly before dusk.
Now, however, lions were scarce and not just around Eldoret, the only town of note within a hundred miles. Their numbers had been decimated by the prolonged drought and a scarcity of suitable prey. Even in the nearby hills bordering the Great Rift Valley, the mass migration of animals towards more certain water sources had slowed to a trickle. So scarce had game become that lions hadn’t been seen in the area for over a year. But, wary as ever, we automatically checked for signs as we approached the hill. Seeing nothing, we had made swift but careful progress up the rocky outcrop, screened from the eland.
Matt and I worked well together. Years of riding, shooting, comparing girlfriends, lampooning authority and generally creating mayhem meant we had grown as close as it was possible for any two hot-headed young men to get. He was the taller, already a shade over six feet and, given his father’s towering and rangy physique, set to grow a few inches yet. Being by far the better-looking (“ yes, I admit it ”), he was also viewed with lustful eyes by the local virgins, but at nineteen and constrained under the social mores of post-war Kenyan society, anything more than a quick kiss and a clumsy grope behind a convenient bush had so far proved ‘mission impossible’. Except, I must confess, I was beginning to wonder. For once in his life Matt had been less than forthcoming and whereas the two of us had previously sniggered over any and every juvenile venture with girls, all seemed to have changed over the last few weeks. Ever since the stunningly beautiful Rosalind had stepped suddenly into our lives. Just five short weeks earlier – I had found myself counting the days – she had swung down onto the station platform and from that moment on, as far as any and every boy in town was concerned, she quite simply dominated Eldoret’s skyline.
Once a day, as regular as clockwork, the old passenger train that had brought her could be heard from miles out on the plain. Its distinctive, lonely whistle heralding a distant presence on the long, laborious route from the East African coast, all the way to the northern end of the line at Kitale, nestled at the foot of Mount Elgon, a settlement hardly bigger than our home town of Eldoret. And every evening a motley band of weary travellers disgorged themselves almost reluctantly from the old world charm of the Victorian carriages onto Eldoret’s one and only platform. Yet it was purely by chance we had been there that early December evening, just in time to catch the arrival of Ted and Vera Lescal, complete with their young son and the object of our immediate interest: Rosalind. Willowy, flaxen-haired and in the full bloom of young womanhood, she had lit up our immediate horizons in the way only a pretty girl can. Even as we stood staring with open admiration and rapt attention, I realised I was jealous; jealous of Matt’s easy charm and more obvious attractions. Not that the girl had given either of us more than a passing glance, but the hormones that had been affecting us both lately needed little excuse to start jumping. All I knew was even then I couldn’t look at Rosalind without my heart racing and my body responding with embarrassing tautness under, dare I mention, a pair of fashionably brief khaki shorts. And her simple presence had been the problem. Although I can’t say I had been particularly aware of it until then, I had found m