The Soulburn Talisman: Prologue

The story begins...

Apr 26, 2024

I’m publishing the opening pages of my debut novel, The Soulburn Talisman, here on Substack over the next 3 weeks. If you like the sound of it, make sure to pre-order your copy ahead of the release date on May 31.

Prologue

At sunset, they met by the shore.

There were two of them. They wore cloaks and shrouded faces. Salt waves foamed up to their feet, then slid back into the sea, then came again, sucking white sand into the water. They were alone on the beach, and had been since they arrived.

Neither spoke. There was no need.

After some time, a ship came into view on the horizon, a black silhouette against the sinking red sun. They watched in silence as it grew larger, driving into the bay against the outgoing tide, its sails bulging in the breeze. Two dozen oars helped it along, dipping into the water in tandem. The ship made no sound as it drew closer.

Finally, its approach ceased. The sail went up and the anchor dropped. Another smaller boat - a skiff - came around the far side of the ship and started towards shore, driven by a single pair of oars. There were two figures on deck.

The pair on the shore watched and said nothing.

It took just a few minutes for the little boat to reach them. They heard the bottom of the hull scrape over stones, and then its passengers leapt noisily into the water, going in up to their knees. They waded onto the beach, dragging the skiff with them. The sun was almost gone as they stepped onto the loose sand, puffing with exertion.

‘You’re late,’ said one of the cloaked figures coolly.

The sailors didn’t respond. Instead, one of them reached back into the boat and, with a grunt, hauled something out. It looked like a bundle of wet rags.

There was a muffled cry from the bundle as it was dumped on the sand.

‘Oomph!’

The cloaked figure standing nearest said, ‘Untie him.’

The sailors obeyed, then stepped back. The other cloaked figure, taller than the one who’d spoken, tossed them a coin purse. After glancing inside, the sailors turned back to the skiff. Within seconds, they had it on the water again, rowing away from the shore. Dying embers of red sunlight burned across the horizon beyond the ship.

The bundle of rags groaned at the feet of the cloaked figures.

‘Get up,’ said the taller one.

The rags shifted and fell away, revealing a man in filthy, tattered clothing. He was barefoot, curled up on the sand, holding his head. He groaned again.

‘Get up,’ the tall one repeated.

The man squinted at them from between crusted eyelids. With a gasp, he scrambled to his feet.

‘Don’t run,’ said the shorter one. ‘You won’t get far.’

Ignoring the warning, the man from the skiff turned and bolted.

A flash of violet lit up the beach. The man shrieked and collapsed to the sand. He clutched at his back, now singed and smoking, moaning pitifully.

The cloaked figures walked the few paces to where he lay and stood over him.

‘I did warn you,’ said the shorter one.

The man rolled onto his side and stared up at them. His face was deathly white; his grey eyes, now bulging out of their sockets, flooded with rage and fear.

‘What is this?’ he spluttered. He glared from one to the other, still holding his injured back. ‘Why’ve you brought me here?’

‘Freed you, you mean,’ corrected the tall one.

‘Don’t feel so free right now.’

‘Strictly speaking, you’re not,’ said the shorter one. ‘But you will be, if you do as we say.’

The man looked from one shadowed face to the other, rising slowly to his feet. He winced again at the pain in his back.

‘This isn’t a trick?’ he said warily.

‘No.’

‘I won’t go back there.’

‘That’s entirely up to you.’

The man swallowed. He ran a hand through his greasy brown hair.

‘What d’you want me to do?’

The shorter one reached into his cloak and pulled out a pouch, much like the coin purse given to the sailors. He held it out with a gloved hand. ‘Here.’

Cautiously, the man in rags took the pouch. He looked at each of the cloaked figures in turn, but they’d fallen silent again. Loosening the draw string, he peered inside the pouch.

His grey eyes widened. He stared at what was inside, then at them.

‘Are these…?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where did you get them?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ The shorter one threw a glance towards the horizon, where the skiff had reached the ship again. ‘You understand what they are?’

‘I do.’ There was awe in the ragged man’s voice.

‘Good. Then your task is simple. One must be delivered to our associate - it must be placed directly into his hand. The manner in which you achieve that is up to you. We know of your abilities. You were selected for this task based on the unique… talents… you possess. Think of this as a second chance, to redeem yourself.’

The ragged man grinned, baring teeth the colour of mustard. The pouch trembled in his filthy hands.

‘And the other?’ he said.

‘Keep it for yourself,’ answered the tall one. ‘The time will come for you to use it. You’ll know when.’

‘How?’

‘He will show you.’

His grey eyes were wide again. ‘So it’s true? Everything they say?’

‘You’re his servant, are you not?’

The man in tattered clothing gazed into the pouch, then pulled the drawstrings tight again. He stood tall, suddenly oblivious to the burn on his back. ‘I am.’

‘Good.’

‘I do this,’ he said, ‘and I’m free? You won’t send me back there?’

‘If you succeed in this,’ said the shorter one, ‘you may well end up commanding those who imprisoned you.’

The ragged man’s eyes flashed with malevolence. ‘Now wouldn’t that be something?’

‘Come,’ said the tall one, motioning. ‘We’ll tell you more on the way.’

They started up the beach. On the horizon, the final glimmers of eventide light faded and the ship disappeared.

Darkness had fallen.