Free Fiction Friday + UPDATE
I've been busy the last few weeks putting together Twin Monocle's newest release, a multi-author anthology of weird and strange short stories called 'blank tapes'. I've had to learn a lot during the process but I think I'm finally there.
The whole reason I started Twin Monocle was to release this book so to celebrate I'm giving away a novella for free. That's right,an entire book for free. You lucky people. All you have to do is sign up to the Twin Monocle Publishing News by clicking this LINK
From there you can sign up and I'll send you an e-book of 'The Ripper's Grip' which is part one of the new series 'The Positively True Adventures of Albion Roddles, Cave-Gentleman of Renown.' It's a satirical, funny, thrilling, swashbuckling, detective, mystery, steampunk caper which I'm sure you'll love, but don't take my word for it, read the opening chapter right here, right now:
The Green Hell
The Opulon rises through the canopy of that verdant hell they call the Amazon rainforest, breaching the highest tree tops like a North Sea orca riding the waves of some otherworldly ocean. The bronze hull of the vessel catches the evening light and briefly it is transmogrified in to a shooting star heading for the heavens. A burst of smoke-laced fire belches under the balloon and it is free of the trees.
“Stoke the fire Hapsgoode, they can still reach us with their arrows,” cries the captain of this impossible vessel, his voice tinged with urgency, but tethered by a stoic calm.
As she clears the highest point of the forest, the Opulon climbs higher still revealing her full majesty. An airship non-parreil claimed the world famous Mongolfier Brothers, those two godfathers of the Age of Flight, upon hearing of her design. Truly it was a wonder to behold, unlike anything to grace the skies of the South American continent before or since save perhaps for the wings of the Bird God Quetzalcoatl. The balloon itself is a bright red fecund belly filled with heated air and lashed with a mesh of rope affixing it to the main body itself. Although the eye is drawn to the inflated globe on first viewing, it is the lower chamber that dazzles the most. Of all the modern machines created by man, none have so perfectly combined the elegance of design with the principals of solid British engineering.
“The wood is still fresh and moist. It’ll burn Alby, it’ll burn, but I cannot guarantee a swift ascent,” said Hapsgoode with a rasp, “the balloon just isn’t getting enough hot air.”
His voice was distant and thin carried as it was through the matrix of relay pipes that laced the Opulon like a nervous system. Albion could still hear his dear friend even as the wind buffeted him against the outer shell of the vessel. He held on to one of the many handles placed along the hull, there to assist with maintenance, but now worked adequately when trying to navigate during in-flight extra-vehicular activity.
The Tear of the Thunderbird is what the natives wanted, a stone that was sacred to them even in this time of enlightenment. They were simple people of a kind Albion was more than familiar with, but it was the nature of man to bestow meaning to things that were in essence useless. The weight of the stone, which was of not inconsiderable size, pulled on his jacket from its place in his pocket. He rubbed it now between his forefinger and thumb. Useless to them perhaps, but not to the Empire.
An arrow passed within a hand span of his ear. Albion recoiled and flattened himself against the hull.
Even though their arrows were crude, should one of the tribe’s missiles pierce the balloon no amount of decent dry wood could keep them aloft. Furthermore Albion had spotted a pair of stowaways who clung to the ship despite their apparent fear of being hoisted skyward, such was their attachment to the prized artifact. He would have to deal with them before joining Hapsgoode in the engine room.
Unlike their classical counterparts these Amazonians were men. Small wiry chaps with elaborately and colourfully painted markings on their exposed skin. They both had an elegant bow hooked over their shoulder, but no arrows having spent their ammunition. The barbed spears would do the trick however.
Albion Roddles, gentleman, adventurer, man of science, balloonist, essayist, close personal friend of the Empress herself, and captain of the Opulon, unsheathed a sword from its concealment in his malacca cane. He pointed the blade at the advancing tribesmen.
“Jump now and the trees may break your fall. Your life will not be guaranteed, but there is always a chance. Fight me however and you will perish.”
He knew that they could not understand a word of what he spoke, but it was his duty as a gentleman to at least give them the opportunity. He thrust forward disarming the closest of the two men who then toppled from his clumsy perch atop an aileron. The man tumbled through the air and was caught in the branches of a passing fruit-laden tree. The second warrior was more cautious now that his comrade had fallen. His spear jabbed tentatively at Albion who dismissed the blows with a swipe of his cane-sword. Albion allowed the man to strike first countering his thrust like a Spanish matador, or rather would that be a picador as the manoeuvre was followed by a deft slash. The Amazonian passed under Albion’s arm, through the tail of his coat and back out the other side quite perplexed and unsteady on his feet whereupon he was slapped about the legs with the flat of the blade.
It must be noted at this juncture that not only was Albion’s sword remarkable for its concealment within an otherwise ordinary looking cane, but had another altogether more interesting property. The hilt of the weapon housed a cell made from magnesium rods and compacted salts. This element of Albion’s own devising carried enough electrical charge to temporarily paralyse, which it now did to Albion’s aggressor.
The naked warrior squealed as a jolt of electricity passed through him, a sensation to which he would be quite unaccustomed. He slumped forward howling more in fear than pain. A quick shove with the heel of his boot was all it took for Albion to clear the fellow from the airship.
Certain that there were no more uninvited passengers, Albion retreated through a porthole back into the study, closing it securely behind him just as a volley of arrows splashed harmlessly against the glass. A thick green substance remained where the tips had struck and now slowly trickled. He touched the glass as if proximity to the poisons that streaked it would give him greater insight.
A guttural honking signalled that Hapsgoode was trying to contact him. Snapped from his reverie, Albion dashed to the bleating linguahorn and lifted the conch to his lips.
“What is it Dilard?” he said using Hapsgoode’s first name, a rare event that put the Welshman out of sorts. Albion placed the conch to his ear and awaited the reply.
“You’d better hold on to something,” came a voice from the shell.
With his free hand Roddles clasped the sturdy oak of his writing desk.
“What have you done Hapsgoode?”
“Just make sure you’re secure. I’ve thrown a bottle of brandy into the furnace.”
“Not not the ‘53?”
“You have me confused with a philistine of some kind. I tossed in the ‘49. It’ll take us up to the jet stream, but the ride will be…” he searched for the bon mot, “Energizing.”
Albion dropped the device which returned to its holding clasp attached as it was to a spring wound cable that guaranteed that it never fell to the floor or in anyway became a nuisance to members of the crew through obstruction, and placed another hand on the desk.
“I was never partial to that particular grape anyway,” he muttered to himself.
The explosion that followed shook the entire frame of the Opulon, and as if caught on the breath of Zephyros himself, the mighty airship took to the heavens soaring away from the reach of the savage’s arrows and the humid climate of the Amazon.
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