Mountain at the Edge of Space

Alastair Anbard

Description

The Sidhe. The lost children. Snatched from the arms of mortals for eons and brought to the Mountain to linger for the rest of time. They serve as vessels for the gods - those mysterious, otherworldly beings who know nothing of the flesh, and in their infinite wisdom must take on a physical vessel for part of their existence, in order to understand all life. They dwell in the Mountain; that lonely hunk of rock floating aimlessly through the void. Though their days are often painfully uneventful, on certain occasions they are tasked with recording the names and histories of mortals in the Annals of Eternity. On very rare occasions, this means encountering a species that stands out from all the rest.When they meet a people with previously unseen power, living in the light of an unknown deity, they take them into their home as friends, allies. They have never known a true enemy. After all, who would dare to challenge the gods?

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 30 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781398483477
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Mountain at the Edge of Space
Alastair Anbard
Austin Macauley Publishers
2022-11-30
The Mountain at the Edge of Space About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgement I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX XXI XXII XXIII XXIV XXV XXVI XXVII XXVIII XXIX XXX XXXI XXXII XXXIII XXXIV XXXV XXXVI XXXVII XXXVIII XXXIX XL XLI XLII XLIII XLIV XLV XLVI XLVII XLVIII XLIX L LI LII LIII LIV LV LVI
About the Author
Born and raised in Dublin, Ireland, Alistair Anbard began putting stories together at a young age. Encouraged to both read and write by their parents, they developed a knack of conjuring up characters and worlds which consumed whole notebooks. They studied literature at university, by which time the mountain and its residents were already taking shape. A lifetime of being absorbed by science fiction, fantasy and horror, together with a passion of travel, culture, cuisine and mythology, eventually helped to form their scraps of writing into one complete project.
They continue to live in Dublin with their family and dogs.
Dedication
To those we have lost.
Copyright Information ©
Alastair Anbard 2022
The right of Alastair Anbard to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781398483460 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781398483477 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published 2022
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd ®
1 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5AA
Acknowledgement
Thanks to the multitudes of people who have encouraged me to pursue my passion, who gave me the confidence to put pen to paper. To those who discouraged me, who coaxed the fire in me. To the people I have met in life who have planted the seed of a character, or even an entire race in my mind. And of course, to the people whose works came before, whose worlds and tales I lost myself in, who taught me how to shape my own visions.
I
Duncan bit into the apple with a loud crunch , showering her hand in slobber and half-chewed chunks without much consideration. Crim tried to adjust her grip, momentarily taking it out from between his teeth in an act of boorishness that brought on a bout of angry braying from the old mule. He even stamped his hoof at her.
“Oh shut up, you old codger!” She shot back, wiping her sticky fingers in her patched brown trousers and offering the apple again. He near bit her finger with it this time, and Crim was certain he meant for her to feel the fleeting pinch of his oversized incisors. He relaxed as he chewed, giving her a minute to look around again. This was a pleasant little village, nestled on a rather flat hill in a shady valley surrounded on all sides by rocky slopes. Despite the heat, the mountains were high enough to don white caps, their feet covered in coarse grass and sparse foliage.
A broad stream, which she suspected could become a torrent in wet weather, ran from north to south, hooking around the hill as it passed. The village itself had grown down the easier slopes over time, with the church, a few municipal buildings and this large square at its heart. Today was Sunday, and the Sunday market was in full swing with people milling around the clusters of tents, stalls, carts and weighed-down blankets.
Crim took in a long, rather unnecessary, breath through her nose and allowed her concentration to flow outward, washing over the crowds and the buildings and the rustling queuna trees. Outwards and inwards she went; into the hearts and minds of passers-by. Just a glance—not enough to be intrusive. Into the houses, where more people sat in the shade eating or sleeping or just living their daily lives. Into the treetops to find the creatures that dwelt there. She took it in, all of it. After all, the shadows of the mountaintops were lengthening, and she hadn’t much time left.
The mule tossed his head, bumping her in the face hard enough to bring her rushing back into her own mind. Her hood fell, and Crim yanked it back up in a panic, checking her hands and arms so make sure her illusion had not faltered. Once certain she still looked like the same gangly mortal girl, she glared down at him, but he only flicked his ears and swished his tail at the cloud of flies gathering round his rear. Crim swatted them, too; bad as the cranky old ass was, he was allergic to most bites, and his mood was probably being made worse by the growing patch of irritated skin now visible on his tail.
“I can give you something for that.” A man in a battered grey hat shuffled out from the shelter of his porch to the shelter of the large tree she sat under. “My horses get the same, and it makes them grumpy too.”
“I’m fine, really. I asked my friend to get something for him.”
She stood on tiptoe to scan through the throng and, spotting a headful of dark curls, pointed to Sunshine, who was currently chatting with one of the shopkeepers and his wife, debating the price of bread. Crim had to smile at this; no matter what price they settled on, Sunshine was sure to give the couple double their original ask, for she only enjoyed the game of bartering and had no real need for the money. Sure enough, when she dropped a handful of coins into the husband’s hand, his wife slapped his arm and told him to give it back, but Sunshine was already moving away, laughing and telling them to use it on the roof.
They would not be the only ones with a little extra in their pockets today; Duncan’s cart was already piling up with baskets of fruit and vegetables, parcels of fresh meat, wheels of cheese, jugs of milk and the local brew, tins and jars and bags of whatever spice or herb or ointment or medicine that tickled their fancy. And they still had the satchels to fill. There would be nothing left to buy before the day’s end. Not that they needed any of it; they would try to eat most of the purchases in the coming days, the rest would be used as offerings.
“Yes…” The man said, watching with her as Sunshine now moved on to the next seller, who greeted her with open arms. “Don’t misunderstand me—I’m not selling. Let me give it to you.”
He offered a small metal tin full of a creamy, rather lumpy paste, which she supposed was a simpler version of what they themselves usually made. Crim took it and smiled her own lopsided smile, not nearly as radiant as Sunshine’s.
“Thank you, but…here…” She fished in her purse and produced three shining coins. The man’s eyes went wide, but he did not take them.
“No, I couldn’t, miss. It’s not worth that much.”
“I want you to have this much.”
“It wouldn’t be right.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Five, miss.”
“And another on the way?”
“How did you…?”
“I want you to have this much. All of you. Take it.”
Without another word, he took the money.
“Don’t stare like that, please, someone less honest might see. Put them in your pocket.”
He did so, and with the next move of his hand swept his hat off his head. He was not old, but already his black hair was thinning. Attempting to pat down the wisps, he offered: “If you’ll not take that, miss, at least let us treat you and your friend to dinner. There’s plenty would be happy to put you up, I’m sure, and we’ve not much space, but my wife, she cooks—”
Crim kept her expression in check. “Of course, thank you.”
He grinned now, looking less worried. “It’s our pleasure, miss! And you can stay the night, if you need!”
“ Perfect .”
Sunshine punched her in the shoulder, laughing as they unhitched the cart from Duncan and fished their packs out from the day’s winnings.
“You sly rat!”
“What? He offered, I accepted!”
“Oh? And you didn’t put the idea in his head?”
“I did not discourage him.”
A snort. Her friend tossed some of her curls about, studying her. Crim stared back, wordlessly pleading for her to take up the offer. “Fine. But just one night! And you can explain this to Mentor when we get back!”
“Just one night. And I’ll take the blame, of course.”
Another punch, harder this time.
“Ow.”
*
Dinner was served on a large table, though not quite large enough to accommodate the thirteen people that gathered round to eat. Besides Miguel (their host) and his bubbly little wife, there came their five children; three boys and two girls, some charging, some skipping, one crawling. The toddler sat and was fed on his father’s knee, leaving a seat free for his grandfather, who was rather deaf and relied on his wife to relay everything directly to his one good ear. Miguel’s wife’s elder brother sat opposite them, smiling shyly in sharp contrast to his stout frame, and spooning generous portions out to their guests and his teenage daughter before he let a morsel past his own lips.
Crim dug into her food with genuine enthusiasm; Loretta and her mother, with some help from her niece, had prepared whole platters of sliced plantains and potatoes, fried vegetables, and a strange meat which Crim very much suspected was guinea pig (a hunch she did not share with Sunshine). Everything had been carefully seasoned and cooked to perfection; even the guinea pig (presumably) had been cut up to resemble thin strips of chicken, so that Sunshine did not question what she was