The Heretic Land (53 page)

Do you have a set writing routine and, if so, what is it?

My writing is built around my busy family life. My wife and I have two young children, so there’s school, football, hockey, rugby, scouts, cubs, ballet. I tend to follow a normal working day – when my wife’s in work and the kids are in school – but I do often work in the evenings, or sometimes at weekends if the deadlines are pressing. I’m also currently in training for a marathon and, more distant, triathlons, so there’s all that to squeeze in. Anyway … a writer’s
always
working.

Do you have a favourite character in
The Heretic Land
? If so, why?

I really like Lechmy Borle (Leki to her friends). She’s strong, determined, complex, and she has dark depths which only become apparent as the book progresses. It’s strange that I’d choose her because she’s not actually a POV character … maybe that makes her that much more mysterious.

Some authors talk of their characters ‘surprising’ them by their actions; is this something that has happened to you?

I think for me it’s usually the story surprising me more than the characters. My characters are carried along by the story, and as story isn’t something I plot out to the nth degree, I think often they’re as surprised as I am by a particular turn of events. I think that’s a really good sign that the story has taken over, and it’s important to give ideas their full range of scope and possibilities. Otherwise it’s easy to hamper yourself – or
blinker your creativity, if you like – if you try to restrain a growing, living, breathing story to previously conceived ideas. A few pages of notes cannot amount to the three-dimensional, complex world you create when the actual writing begins. I listen to the story, and sometimes it takes me in directions I hadn’t anticipated. And I love it, because, as I’ve said before, I’m often keen to get to the end of writing a book to see what happens.

Do you chat about your books with other authors as you’re writing them, or do you prefer to keep the story in your own head until the first draft is complete?

I suffer what many close writing friends of mine suffer from – insecurity about my work. So if someone asks me what my new book is about and I throw a couple of sentences their way (‘It’s about a sleeping god who wakes, and the people who have an interest in why it’s woken up’), I instantly go into panic mode. Is that it? What else is it about? Where’s the story in that? Is it original enough? Haven’t I read that novel before? What if it’s rubbish? For this reason, I tend not to talk much about work in progress. There’s partly that insecurity thing … and also the fact that I hate telling a story verbally before I’ve written and told it on the page. For the same reason, writing synopses doesn’t fill me with glee, though I understand the need for them in business terms.

If you have to live for one month as a character in a novel, which novel and which character would you choose?

Well, as it would all be made up … I think I’d have to go for someone really, really bad. Randall Flagg from Stephen King’s
The Stand
. That’s one
novel that really fed my desire to be a writer, and Flagg has always been one of my favourite bad guys, both charismatic and brutal. And let’s face it, he’s pretty cool too. Cowboy boots, denims … the bad guys are always the cool ones. And I’ve never been cool. So yes, just for one month I’d be the Walkin’ Dude.

What would you do if you weren’t a writer?

I did have a day job for twenty years, but that feels like the hazy past now … almost another life. I think because writing has always been a part of me, I really can’t think far beyond it. There’s nothing I’d rather be doing, and nothing else I’d really want to do. But if realities shifted and I found myself in another version of my world, maybe I’d have learned an instrument when I was younger and I’d be in a band. A rock band, of course. Although the lack of hair might be a problem. Can’t head bang when you’re a baldy, see.

if you enjoyed

THE HERETIC LAND

look out for

book one of the Tainted Realm series

by

Ian Irvine

He’s coming for me. There’s
no way
out. He’s going to take me to the cellar and they’re going to hack my head open like Mama’s and
there’s no way out
. He’s coming for me.

Round and round it cycled, as it had ever since Tali had read her father’s horrifying letter this morning. To survive, she had to escape, though in a thousand years no Pale slave ever had. There was only one way to gain your freedom here – the way Tali’s mother had been given hers.

‘Your eyes are
really red,’ said Mia, arms folded over her pregnant belly. ‘Something the matter?’

They were in the sweltering toadstool grottoes where they worked twelve hours a day, every day of the month, every month of the year. At times the drifting spore clouds were thick enough to clog the eyes.

‘Stupid spores,’ Tali lied. ‘They gunk everything up.’

‘You look terrible. Have a break; I’ll do this row for you.’

‘Thanks, Mia.’

Tali had woken in the middle of the night feeling as if a stone heart was grinding against her skull with every beat. And with each beat, brilliant reds and yellows swirled madly in her inner eye, like beams trying to find the way out of a sealed lighthouse until, with a spike of pain, they burst forth and she collapsed into sleep.

When the work gong had dragged her into wakefulness this morning, the inside of her skull felt bruised. She desperately needed to think, to plan, but now the colours were back, spinning like clay on a potter’s wheel, and fits of irrational anger kept flaring. She had to restrain herself from smashing the toadstool trays against the bench.

He’s coming for me and there’s no way out. They’re going to cut a hole in my head, just like Mama. No way out,
no way out!

Tali pressed her cheek against the wet wall and after a minute the colours faded, the headache died to a dull throb. Take deep breaths and stay calm. Don’t do anything silly. You’ve got time. He might not come for months, even years. Mama had been twenty-six, after all.

Her racing heartbeat steadied and Tali wiped her face. ‘I’m all right now.’

‘Be careful. The Cythonians are really agitated today.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Keep
your head down and don’t attract attention.’

Tali managed a smile. ‘When did
I
ever do that?’

‘I’m always getting you out of trouble.’ Shaking her head fondly, Mia turned away to her work.

The grottoes were a series of broad, low-ceilinged tunnels linked by arched doorways. Cages filled with fat-bellied fireflies provided a bluish light that barely illuminated the walls, which were sculpted to resemble a forest by moonlight – a humid glen whose every surface was covered in fungi, like the grottoes themselves. The air was so heavy with their mixed earthy, fishy, foetid and garlicky odours that it made Tali heave.

The floor shook, grinding the stone trays against the benches. It had been shaking all day. What was the enemy up to in the secret lower levels? Was that why they were so touchy?

‘Tali,
try
to look like you’re working.’

‘Sorry.’

Today’s job, one of the worst of her slave duties, was de-grubbing the harvest. Tiered stone benches running the length of each grotto were stacked with trays of edible toadstools and mushrooms, dozens of kinds, plus leathery cloud ear fungi and giant red puffballs as big as Tali’s head. The puffballs had to be cut and bagged carefully lest they gush clouds of stinging flame-spores everywhere. In the darkest corners, tiny toadstools sprouted in clusters like luminous white velvet, though Tali wasn’t fool enough to stroke them. They were delicious when properly cooked, but deadly to touch in their natural state.

Reaching between the brown toadstools in front of her, she found a red-and-yellow girr-grub by feel and crushed it, wincing as the sharp bristles pricked her fingers. After dropping the muck
into her compost bucket she rinsed her hands under a wall spring. Last year she had sucked a sore finger covered in girr slime and spent the next three days throwing up the lining of her stomach.

Mia was humming as she worked. At least she could still dream. Tali’s vow to hunt down her mother’s killers had never faltered, but in ten years she had learned nothing more about them and this morning’s revelation had extinguished all hope. This morning, her eighteenth birthday and coming-of-age day, Little Nan had given Tali the letter her father had written her mother only days before his own tragic death. The letter that made it clear Tali would be next to die.

Her hand clenched on the stone tray. ‘It’s not right!’ she hissed.

‘What?’ said Mia.

‘Our servitude! Living in terror every day of our lives. Sleeping on stone beds. Being flogged for a scowl or a sideways look. Torn apart from our loved ones—’

‘Don’t say such things,’ Mia whispered. ‘What if the guards hear?’

Tali’s voice rose. ‘Worked to death in the heatstone mines, killed for no reason at all.’ The blood was pounding in her head. ‘We’ve got to throw off our chains and cast the enemy down.’

‘Shh!’ Mia slapped her hand over Tali’s mouth. ‘They’ll condemn you to the acidulators.’

Tali yanked the hand away. ‘If they try,’ she said recklessly, ‘I’ll smash—’

Mia shook her head and backed away, her eyes wide and frightened.

A ululating whistle sounded behind Tali and she sprang aside, too late. The chymical chuck-lash wrapped around her left shoulder and went off,
crack-crack-crack
.

She staggered
several steps, clutching her blistered, bloody shoulder, and through a drift of brown smoke saw Orlyk, the bandy-legged guard, scowling at her. A fringe of chuck-lashes swung from Orlyk’s belt like red bootlaces and she was raising another, ready to throw. Most of the guards were decent enough, but Orlyk was an embittered brute and she had been in a foul temper all day. And if she’d actually heard what Tali had said—

‘Lazy, Pale swine,’ Orlyk grunted, her blue-tattooed throat rising and falling like a calling toad. ‘Come the day when Khirrikai leads us to take back our land and we don’t need your kind any more. Oh, soon come the day!’

Tali’s head gave another throb. She fantasised about tearing the chuck-lashes from Orlyk’s belt, driving her to the nearest effluxor with them and dumping her head-first into the filth.

‘Tali!’ Mia hissed.

Lower your eyes and say, ‘Yes. Master.’

Tali shivered at the hatred in Orlyk’s bulging eyes, then managed to regain control and forced out the sickening words, ‘Thank you for correcting me, Master.’

She bowed lower than necessary. One day, Orlyk, one day! Tali knew how to defend herself, for she had practised the bare-handed art with Nurse Bet every week since her mother’s murder, but raising a hand against a guard was fatal.

Orlyk snapped the tip of a chuck-lash at Tali’s left ear,
crack-crack
, grunted, ‘Work, slave,’ and headed after another victim.

The pain was like a chisel hammered through Tali’s ear. She lost sight for a few seconds, the colours in her head swirled and danced, then her returning sight revealed Orlyk’s broad back as she approached the archway. Scalding blood was dripping from Tali’s ear onto her bare shoulder, and blood-drenched memory roused such
fury that she snatched up a chunk of rock.

‘Tali, no!’ Mia hissed.

As the guard passed the puffball trays, Tali hurled her rock twenty yards and struck a giant puffball at its base. It disgorged an orange torrent of flame-spores, but then the shockwave set off a hundred other puffballs and she watched in horror as the guard disappeared behind churning spore clouds. When they settled, Orlyk was convulsing on the floor, choking, her face and throat swelling monstrously.

‘Are you insane?’ hissed Mia. ‘If she dies …’

‘I didn’t mean that to happen,’ Tali whispered.

‘You never do.’

‘Sorry, Mia. I’m really sorry.’

Mia ran down the far side of the bench, picked the rock out of the puffball tray and tossed it out of sight. Reaching up to the clangours beside the archway, she struck the square healer’s bell with the ring-rod. The bell’s chime was picked up by trumpet-mouthed bell-pipes running across the ceiling, and shortly Tali made out an echo from outside. Mia came back, glaring at her.

‘I’m not taking it any longer,’ Tali said defensively. ‘If I have to die, I’m not going quietly.’

‘Leave me out of it,’ Mia snapped.

Shortly a lean, austere Cythonian, the red, linked-oval cheek tattoos of a healer standing out on his grey skin, ran in. ‘What happened?’

‘Puffballs went off spontaneously,’ Mia lied.

He inspected the tray of burst puffballs and the thick layer of orange spores surrounding Orlyk, then stared at Tali. She kept working, watching him from the corner of an eye. Her cheeks grew hot.

‘I tried really hard,’ Tali said under her breath once he had turned to Orlyk.
‘But when she hit me with the second chucklash—’

‘I told you not to draw attention to yourself.’

‘Mama died because I didn’t act quickly enough, and I’m never—’

‘Shh!’ said Mia.

Several slaves appeared on the other side of the archway, pretending to work while looking in sideways.

‘You!’ called the healer to the nearest slave, a thin girl with stringy yellow hair and eyes that must have seen a nightmare. ‘Run to the spagyrium. Get a sachet of blast-balm and a large head bag, quick!’ He handed her a rectangular healer’s token made from shiny tin.

‘B-blast-balm and head bag, Master,’ she said, head dutifully lowered.

‘
Large
head bag.’

‘Master!’ She ran out, sweaty feet slap-slapping on the stone floor.

The healer dragged Orlyk away from the spore-covered area, dampened a cloth and began to clean the spores out of her eyes, mouth, ears and nose. Orlyk’s face was scarlet, the swollen skin shiny and balloon-taut. Clotted sounds emerged from her throat as her lungs struggled to draw air.