The Road to Bedlam (Courts of the Feyre) - Softcover

9780857662392: The Road to Bedlam (Courts of the Feyre)
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The sequel to Sixty-One Nails "There's been an accident. It's your daughter." But Alex isn't dead. She's been snatched because she came into her magical power early. Her father, Niall Petersen, must use his own wayward magic to track her down and save her from the madness of Bedlam. File under: Urban Fantasy [ Undying Madness / Insane Magic / Secret Realities / Stolen Children ]

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About the Author:
Mike Shevdon lives in Bedfordshire, England, with his wife and son, where he pursues the various masteries of weapons, technology, and cookery. His love of Fantasy & SF started in the 70s with C S Lewis, Robert Heinlein and Isaac Asimov and continued through Alan Garner, Ursula Le Guin and Barbara Hambly. More recent influences include Mike Carey, Phil Rickman, Neil Gaiman, and Robert Crais, among many others. He has studied martial arts for many years, mainly aikido and archery. Friends have sometimes remarked that his pastimes always seem to involve something sharp or pointy. The pen should therefore be no surprise, though he's still trying to figure out how to get an edge on a laptop.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
THE ROAD TO BEDLAM, by Mike Shevdon
Book 2 of the Courts of the Feyre

CHAPTER ONE 
 
Kayleigh was running out of places to look.  It wasn't like Alex to skip lessons like this.  Well okay, just that once, but they'd done it together, scaring each other with the prospect of getting caught in town when they should be at school.  This was different.  They had arranged to meet before Geography so that they could swap ideas on the homework, so where was she?

She went through the outer doors, peeping around the wall in case a teacher lurked there.  The playground was empty; no teachers and no Alex.  She was about to go back into the building when she heard a noise from the gym block.  It was more of a yell than a scream and it wasn't Alex's voice, but there shouldn't be anyone in the gym block at this time.

She checked the playground again and ran across the tarmac, praying that the teachers in the rooms facing the playground were now engaged with their mid-morning classes and too busy to be looking out the windows.  She reached the side door to the gym and slipped through, breathing hard.  The echo from her school shoes on the wooden floor where outdoor footwear wasn't allowed made her walk around the edge rather than crossing the open space.  She stopped and listened.  There were voices in the girl's changing room.

She tiptoed quickly down the passage and stopped.  The voices were louder.  She leaned on the door, pushing it open slightly and recognised Tracy Welham's voice and the unmistakable smell of cigarettes.  She was about to ease the door closed again and leave them to coat their lungs with tar when she heard Alex.

"I won't tell anyone, honest, but you have to let me past."

"Have to, do I?" challenged Tracy.  She was in the year above them and had a bad reputation. 

"You'd better let me go now," Alex asserted, "or something bad is going to happen."

"Yeah," Tracy said, "Something bad is going to happen.  Grab her."

It was the sound of the scuffle that made Kayleigh push into the changing rooms.  Two other girls, mates of Tracy's, were holding Alex, pushing her into one of the cubicles.  At the sound of the door, Tracy turned to face Kayleigh.

"You'd better let her go or I'm gonna get the teachers."  Kayleigh raised her voice, keen to make sure the others heard her.

"Get out of here now, horse-face," said Tracy, "or you're getting the same."

They crowded Alex into the cubicle and she could hear the grunts and shoves as Alex struggled against the two older girls.

Tracy tossed the cigarette into one of the sinks and made a grab for Kayleigh's long hair. 

Kayleigh evaded her, slipping back past the changing room door and pulling it closed behind her.  Tracy's arm came around the gap and Kayleigh trapped it in the door.

"You little sod!" Tracy's hand grasped for Kayleigh. "I'm gonna rip your hair out."

"Kayleigh!" Alex's voice sounded hollow in the tiled room.  "Tell them to stop, tell them I can't hold it.  It's getting free.  I can't hold it!" 

Kayleigh's mind raced.  "You have to let her go," she shouted through the door at Tracy. "She's not herself.  You don't understand.  She's really going to lose it."

"Yeah, we're really scared about that."  Tracy shouted to her mates, "Drown the little bitch."  She pulled her arm back and slammed the door closed on Kayleigh.

Kayleigh pushed at the door, her shoes sliding on the smooth floor as she pushed against Tracy holding it shut from the other side.

"You don't understand.  You have to let her go!"

From behind the door came the sound of burbling and then coughing and retching.

"Drown the bitch!" Tracy urged them.

The sound of burbling resumed, but underlined by another gurgling sound.  Kayleigh hammered on the door, screaming for them to stop.  The gurgling deepened to a low rumble, the sound vibrating in Kayleigh bones, making her teeth ache.  The temperature dropped suddenly, the chill sending goose bumps down Kayleigh's arms.

There was a moment of silence.

Then the rumbling returned, building to a crescendo until everything burst at once behind the door.  Kayleigh hammered on the door, screaming for them to open it before it was too late, pleading with Tracy.  Water started streaming out from under the door, pooling around Kayleigh's feet.  Suddenly the pressure on the door reversed and it was Tracy trying to pull it open.

Water crashed into the gap, the weight of it against the door pressing it shut.  Tracy was screaming for her to push, her hands were white against the edge of the door as water and sewage from the drains pressed the gap closed.  Kayleigh tried to wedge her foot in it but the flow was too strong, it was pushing her aside.  The door slammed shut on Tracy's fingers.  Kayleigh heard her yank them free with a bone-popping wrench.

The screams turned to hammering as the changing room rapidly filled with foul-smelling water.  Kayleigh could hear them, shouting and yelling as the water swirled around them.  Water streamed under the door, spraying round the edges as the pressure built.  She could see the door handle rattle and then jerk as hands were dragged away, screams gulped-off as they lost their footing and were swept under.  Their cries echoed, rising and fading as the water began to turn, the screams turning to gasps as they tried to swim against the swirling current.  Her imagination conjured the vortex, tugging at their clothes, pulling them into the centre, dragging them under. 

Kayleigh turned and ran down the passage and out through the gym screaming for someone, anyone, to come and help. She ran across the playground, tears streaming down her face, shouting until her voice cracked, knowing it was already too late.
 
-----
 
The pool of light was no more than twelve feet across and, for this critical moment, defined my world.  Beyond its boundary circled my attackers.  They would not kill me, at least not on purpose, but they would hurt me if they could. 

The blade in my hand was heavy, a training blade made of dark wood, the handle worn smooth by calloused hands and burnished with sweat.  I held it level, two-handed, keeping my grip light but firm, giving it the potential for movement in any direction and leaving my assailants no clue as to how I would react.

It had been a long day, both physically and mentally.  I was already aching and sore from earlier sessions and I was unlikely to leave this circle without further bruises to add to my collection. 

I took a slow breath, rejecting the distraction of consequences.  I had to stay in the moment and not let my mind wander.  I had to deny them an opening, an opportunity to step into my circle and attack. 

This was my circle.  It had been made for me to define the space I could defend.  Every day the circle got smaller, sometimes by a little, sometimes a lot.  I'd given up trying to predict how it would change, only acknowledging that it would not grow in size, only shrink.

A shift in the air brought me round as a dark figure danced into the light, blade arcing down at my head.  I stepped forward and around, sliding my own blade diagonally upwards so that his slice glanced off my blade with a clack and swished down over my shoulder.  I spun and sliced my blade where the shadow had been but it just whistled through empty air, the figure once again merging with the shadows.

"Too slow," chuckled Tate, his deep voice rumbling from the darkness.

I stepped back into the centre only to have a figure leap in front of me launching a series of short diagonal strikes.  I used my own blade to deflect each one, slowly giving ground, only to realise that her intent was not to strike me, but to drive me backwards out of the circle.  Once outside the pool of light I would be at the mercy of anyone already accustomed to the shadow.  I deflected the next slice and pushed the attacking sword away, using its momentum to break my attacker's balance and letting my own point drop.  I reversed my grip and punched the pommel hard into the attacker's midriff.

There was an answering grunt as my blow sank home and the figure folded over, at the same time trying to tangle my wrist in her grip.  I wrenched the sword away, lowering my stance to give me posture and drawing the blade up in a long slice.  It found only shadows.

"Good.  You remembered," This was the voice of my tutor and I smiled at the rare praise.  It was he who had taught me that both ends of a sword were a weapon.

I circled slowly, regaining my position at the centre.  This would not end until someone went down.  The fight wasn't over until it was won or lost, another maxim from my lessons.
I barely saw the next attack.  The figure emerged at my left flank, almost casually.  He cut downwards in one clean strike, my ears registering the whistle of the blade even as I stepped sideways to avoid it, no time for a deflecting blow.  It glanced painfully off my shoulder, but I used the angular momentum to launch a horizontal slice that would part his head from his shoulders. 

My slice whirred through empty space as I felt something hook behind my ankle.  It was whipped upwards and I sailed over backwards landing with a crunch on my shoulders.  The air was driven from my lungs in a great whoosh, my blade bouncing out of my hand across the floor.

A point pressed against my throat, just hard enough to make breathing difficult.

"How many times have I told you not to let go of your weapon?"  Garvin paused, literally pressing home his point, and then withdrawing it, allowing me to respond.

"I couldn't hold it."

"No wonder.  You went down like a sack of gravel."

His form blended and shifted from the indistinct shadowy figure that had decked me into a lean wiry man in a charcoal jacket and turtle-neck shirt. The style was austere and it suited him. 

The fluorescent lights flickered on and the circle vanished in their glare.

I lay on my back, trying to catch my breath.  Amber was by the door, switching the lights back on.  She showed no indication of being winded after the punch in the midriff, her quiet eyes observing me as she observed everything.

Tate, the other assailant, grinned at me in the harsh light.  Garvin collected my weapon from the floor and then walked across the tiles to the wall-mounted rack where the weapons were stored.  He checked down the length of each blade carefully before stowing his sword and mine in their appointed places.

Then he took another practice blade from the rack and paced back towards me.  I recognised it immediately and sagged at what the heavier, longer blade meant.

"Two hundred," he instructed me.

I sat up and took it from him.  What he meant was that I had to do two hundred practice cuts against the car-tyre that hung at chest height from a chain in the corner before I could leave for the evening.  I sighed deeply, knowing that I could tell him no, but that if I did, he would instruct me no further.

I nodded and he turned and walked away towards the door.  Tate stood, leaning on the end of his sword, his grin widening at my misfortune.

"It's a sword, not a walking stick, Tate," Garvin reminded him as he came to the door.  "Clean and check the weapons."

The smile vanished from Tate's lips and he lifted the end of the sword from the floor, saluting in acceptance of the rebuke and of the chore that went with it.  Though I rated Tate as a fighter, I also knew that he would do whatever Garvin told him, almost without question.  It was a matter of leadership.  Garvin led and Tate followed.

I pulled myself to my feet, careful not to use the practice-sword for support in case that earned me a further two hundred cuts.  A glance towards the door showed that Garvin had left, Amber in tow.

"He had you clean there, Niall."  Tate's rumbling chuckle made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

"That's true," I admitted, "but a few weeks ago he would never have had the opportunity because either you or Amber would have got there first."

His smile widened.  "You're coming along, sure enough," he nodded, acknowledging the progress I had made, "but I could still take you in an even fight."

I let the wooden sword swing gently back and forth in my hand and looked him over.  He was taller than me and heavier.  His dark brown hair fell in long waves to his shoulders, adding to the impression of bulk.  He was certainly stronger than me and I knew that for all his muscled bulk he could move like quicksilver when he wanted to.

"With one of these, maybe," I indicated the heavier practice sword, "but with something lighter?  I'm not sure that's true any more, Tate."

It wasn't a challenge.  A challenge implied ego and that had been knocked out of me, at least as far as swords were concerned.  But part of mastering a weapon was knowing how good you were, who you could take and who you couldn't.  A month ago I wouldn't have speculated, but now?  I really didn't know who would win. 

"Some other time, huh?  I've the weapons to check over."

It was my turn to grin.  Maybe he didn't know either.

He nodded and turned to the weapons racks to carry out his chore.  I knew that he would inspect every blade carefully, rather than have Garvin find one later with a chip out of it or a crack along the grain.  Garvin had told him to check them and he would, because that was what Garvin expected.

I walked over to the tyre hanging from its chain.  I knew that cutting at the heavy reinforced rubber built strength and stamina and that in a real fight it wouldn't matter if I was tired, bruised and sore.  But this wasn't a real fight.

My first two cuts set the pace and after that I let my body take over, varying the cuts each time as I had been laboriously taught.  Overhead down, left side, inside left, slide and cut, turn and slice.  My body followed the rhythm of it, the heavy thwack of the sword against the rubber punctuating the turns and twists, my brain counting down the cuts to zero.

After fifty strokes I broke the rhythm, preventing my imaginary opponent from guessing the timing.  The whistle and thwack of the blade accelerated and slowed, doubled and paused.  I tailored my movements, becoming sharp then smooth, elaborate then direct, pushing myself to find new ways of hammering the swinging rubber.

I missed the time on one, sending shock waves vibrating up my wrist, and reacted by turning and sliding the blade through the centre in a long thrust designed to impale before spinning around, letti...

"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.

  • PublisherAngry Robot
  • Publication date2012
  • ISBN 10 0857662392
  • ISBN 13 9780857662392
  • BindingPaperback
  • Edition number2
  • Number of pages445
  • Rating

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