Druan Episode 1: Dawn

By Mark Robson

Darkness consumed the world for centuries, under thick black clouds that blocked the sun. Without light, the plants withered and died, and the animals starved. Few survived in this wasteland of night. With a final, desperate effort, the shamans gathered together to form a great chant. They gave their lives to open the clouds and let sunlight shine back on the world.

When the scattered remnants of humanity step from the dark, with nothing but their wits and the waning power of an old shaman to protect them, they are faced with a cracked, lifeless desert. Led by a child, guided by the spirits, their deeds will become myth.

To survive, they must train a new generation of shamans to face the coming dangers. Thirteen students to guide the people into a new age. And, of those students, two young sisters will grow to stand at the heart of a legend.

Start Druan today with Episode 1. Each episode is written as a short story, to be read in a few hours, but together they tell the story of two sisters growing up in a new world and facing responsibilities and dangers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Robson
• Release date: Oct 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370606900

Book preview

Druan Episode 1: Dawn

By Mark Robson

Copyright 2016 Mark Robson

Smashwords Edition

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Cover Art by Alan Mence

Cover Text by James Eden

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Spring

The Age of the Sun, Year One.

Dawn broke their hearts. After all they endured, all they sacrificed, it seemed a betrayal of hope. The rewards of their survival lay before them, clear and stark in the light of the first day in centuries.

Few remained in the village. Their tiny population had dwindled over the long sunless years. Too few births, and too many lost to the harvesters. Deserted hovels stood silent and dark across the dusty ground, empty monuments to the stolen dead.

Those final dark hours lasted an eternity. The villagers huddled together in their crude shelters, shivering in the hot, clammy night air. They prayed to the spirits for deliverance, for an end and for a beginning. The long night dragged on.

And then they heard the cry, a boy’s voice, shouting at the sky, rising up and falling flat against the heavy clouds. Panic rippled through the village, instinctive and familiar. The harvesters would take him, they thought. More than any other time, the darkness of the deep night was their realm. Any noise or movement could bring them. The older, wiser villagers mourned him. It was already too late.

But the voice continued its high-pitched yell. It called for far too long. They should have come by now, thought the villagers. They should have taken him. And with this, the first few dared hope. What if?

With hope came doubt. They might be wrong. They might go outside and find the harvesters swarming overhead, liquid and deadly. Fear won and they stayed still and quiet in the darkness.

Finally, an old man stepped from his hut. Somehow he had survived down the years, helpless as his family were taken one by one. He had little fear, as there was nothing more the darkness could do to hurt him. Others eventually followed. On trembling legs, he led them toward the voice.

The boy stood at the centre of the rough circle of huts, by the great fire pit. It had been smothered when the twilit day ended and was now dead and dark. The boy hopped from one foot to the other, stepping forward and back in a feverish display of energy. His head was tilted so far back that he appeared on the brink of toppling over.

That they could see him at all was the first shock. There should have been no light at all, not even enough for dim shapes. The black clouds that blanketed the world left daylight as nothing more than the faintest grey, while at night there was nothing. The wandering shaman had told them of the sun, the ball of fire in the heavens that he saw on his spirit journeys, but they had not believed. How could they, when all they had known was night?

The boy kicked up dust with his bare feet and broke into a wordless song, simple vowel sounds in time with his clumsy dance. When the villagers asked him – in hushed whispers – why he was singing, his reply was to fling both arms skywards, fingers pointing. The villagers raised their eyes to the clouds, tipping their heads back as the boy had done.

There were gasps from those who could see, whispered questions from those whose eyesight had faded too far. Could it be true? What did it mean?

Directly above them, a single point of light blazed with majestic clarity. Impossibly distant and cold, it made the smothering clouds almost petty. In a world where the only light came from burning pitch, this stark, clean point was unbearably beautiful.

Words gathered around the boy’s song. Excited murmurs, boldly rising in volume, explaining, wondering, and finally beginning to hope. Others heard the voices and left their huts to stand by the fire pit. Soon the entire village was gathered beneath the clouds, their eyes fixed skywards.

Another light blinked faintly, but no less clear. Arms pointed. The boy’s song was drowned in voices. People hugged each other. They fell to their knees. They sat in the dust