Dark: The Dark Trilogy, #1

Dark

IN THE STRANGE labyrinth of pipes on the planet called Dark, things are falling apart. Dun doesn't want to be a hero, he just wants to find an answer to the terrifying dreams he's been having. But the answers, the real answers, are going to take him places he's never imagined and tear him from the only home he's ever known.

With only a half-made map from his missing father, he'll need all the help he can get. With an old friend, a new friend and the mysterious Myrch to guide him, he journeys through parts of his world he’s never imagined.

Are his dreams real foretellings? Who can he trust to be who they say there are? What are the strange forces that seem to be literally pulling their world apart? As he travels through a world that is much bigger than he thought it was, he learns more about himself than he ever knew there was to know.

PAUL ARVIDSON is a forty-something ex lighting designer who lives in rural Somerset. He juggles his non-author time bringing up his children and fighting against being sucked into his wife’s chicken breeding business. The Dark Trilogy is his first series.

Dark

a novel by

Paul L Arvidson

ISBN-13: 978-1535486682

ISBN-10: 1535486686

Ed. Lauren Schmeltz from Write Divas and cover by betibup33 from thebookcoverdesigner.com, both with grateful thanks.

Printed with CreateSpace

Available online from paularvidson.co.uk and real-life bookshops.

© Copyright Paul L Arvidson 2016

For Cheryl, Leah, and Nenna

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Next... Darker

Thank you

––––––––

Dark

This is Lt. Myrch Weston, service number NXBF-105345-GDT. Not that that matters overmuch now. I’m the last of the mission to Deepspace Colony Sirius 4, though the natives here call it Dark.

Excerpts from . Found by E.S.V Vixen Terradate: 26102225.

Chapter One

DUN SAT BOLT UPRIGHT in the darkness. Eyes open. Heart battering. He could still feel it coming.

Churning cold metallic water, spray everywhere, his sinews twanged tight, heart banging, ears singing. At least that’s blocking out the sound of... What? What is it? What in the Gods is it? It’s coming, still coming. It’s like it’s, it’s a hunger. Driven. Want and hate. Blood and bone. Closer. Closer and ... He inhaled a final struggling breath and shoved the horror in his head away.

He could hear his brothers and sisters making small stirring noises not far from him. He hoped he hadn’t woken Mother too; he’d never hear the end of it. Since Father had disappeared, Mother had changed. Not close to him. Not warm. He’d become the man of the family and that was that. He still felt too young but what could he do? Someone had to hunt and forage while Mother cared for the little ones and he was the eldest. And now he was waking everyone more nights than not with these blasted dreams.

All that was familiar trickled into his brain: his bed of reeds underneath him, the drone of the fans, and the warm mammalian smell of his family. A new span in the Dark; time to wake up. The nightmares took longer to shake off. He dreamed of something pursuing him through tunnels, his calves deep in water. It was something horrible hunting him down. He ran and ran until his lungs felt like rags. Then, of course, as it got to him, he’d wake up. Every time he tried to get back to sleep, there it would be again, waiting.

He sighed. There was no telling Mother about his dreams. One day Father had gone out and had never come back. Just like that. It was like he’d ceased to exist. Once Father’s smell had faded from their home, it grew harder and harder to remember he had ever been there.

Thinking about Father always made him feel a sharp sadness, even though it had happened two ages ago. Mother had pined, of course. Crying at night once she knew the babies were asleep. Hearing her weep in the darkness, Dun knew he’d be growing up faster than his friends. He couldn’t talk to most of them about his concerns, except Padg. The others were busy playing and chasing each other as if nothing had happened; for them nothing had.

Padg, though, he had his own responsibilities. Being the son of the Shaman could do that. They’d known each other since they’d been the two youngest pups in the village. Padg had always been the most worldly of all their group, not averse to getting into trouble with the rest of them, but certainly averse to getting caught. He’d saved them all from many a beating. Now with Father gone, it felt to Dun like Padg was the only one he could talk to. Odd. The sense of responsibility Dun felt he’d had thrust upon him, Padg had been born with.

AFTER BREAKFAST AND helping Mother feed the little ones, Dun went out, slamming the rush door behind him. He walked to the wooden span across the massive river pipe; the crossing that gave the Bridge-folk their name. From there, it was easy to follow the rope path to the village. He needed to reach the Shaman’s compound on the opposite side of the village if he wanted to talk to Padg about why he’d been feeling so odd.

Out of the burrow, he was enveloped by the hum of smell and noise from the village. Some kind of auction of a new piece of found tech seemed to be taking place in the market. He heard raised voices, oddly (usually trading in Bridge-town was a good-natured affair). He couldn’t process any of it today. It was all he could do to follow the rope guides underfoot without walking into anything. His head buzzed. He was relieved to finally reach the woven gate and the wisps of incense and worked wood told him he’d reached his destination.

Dunno... was all his friend could muster after Dun retold his dream.

Well, thanks for that; great help.

I mean, it might be something, it might be nothing.

Somehow, none of today is working out how I’d planned, Dun sighed.

A breeze outside stirred the wooden wind chimes beside the lean-to shed Padg used as his workshop. Dun stretched out his arm to feel along the rack that held his friend’s work in progress. He felt twisted bamboo staves that would be made into sword-spears, preferred weapon among the Bridge-folk. A shup-shup-shup sound indicated Padg had resumed work with sanding the sword-spear at his bench. The sword was made out of the extremely hard, woody stem of one of the larger fungi growing in the depths; it didn’t stay sharp for very long, but long enough. The hunters usually carried two or three strapped to their backs for good measure. Padg carved particularly well; he was especially good at forming the helical twist in the shaft of the weapon that made it fly true when thrown.

Padg? Hello?

Hush, I’m sanding.

Oh.

The rhythm of the sanding was a reassuring odd kind of tune with the wooden, just musical, clunking of the chimes.

Padg?

Sanding? Tricky. Needs concentration.

Sorry, it’s just...

The sanding block clattered to the floor.

Right! I give up, Padg said. Grab a rod from the rack; there’s some scraps in the bucket. You need something to occupy your hands.

Fishing was always Padg’s go-to in a crisis. They left through the back flap of Padg’s workshop and headed to his favorite spot: a rusted through hole at the top of the massive pipe. They scrambled up the side using massive bolt heads in the metal surface of the pipe as a makeshift ladder. Once at the top they gathered their kit, baited the long lines necessary to get down far enough and let each one fall through the hole with a satisfying ‘plop’.

They fished for a while in companionable silence. A lazy breeze, scented faintly with vinegar, drifted up through the hole.

Detail! Padg cried suddenly.

Eh? Dun cocked his head, bewildered.

Detail, my friend. That’s what was bothering me.

Good, I’m glad. Care to tell me why?

Your dream. Most peoples’ dreams are vague, full of confused smells, feelings, sometimes sounds. You know, the I was there with my friend but it was really my sister and then the tunnel became my house, kind of thing. Yours felt like you were there.

You can say that again, Dun said.

Maybe you were.

What do you mean?

Just what I said. Maybe you were there. Or at least maybe you will be.

You’re talking in riddles.

Might be I’m not explaining it right. Listen, Dad talks about this kind of stuff all the time. You sit around and hear enough of it, and you kind of get a feel for it. Let’s go back and find him; I think he’ll be able to help. Besides, the fishing’s rubbish today.

Chapter Two

DO YOU KNOW WHAT FORETELLING is, Dun? The voice of Barg the Shaman was deep and reassuring. Dun guessed that came with the job.

No.

Dun, Padg, and his father enjoyed the warmth of the small air vent in the hut. Many of the shared buildings and all homes had a vent somewhere. They all came out of the ground or walls and delivered air in varying temperatures and smells, ending usually in a metal grill or mesh. The vent in Barg’s floor had the unusual combination of a warm air flow and no smell other than a slight tinge of metal. This allowed Barg to place bags of herbs on the grill, which warmed by the air flow, would permeate the hut. Dun felt wrapped in perfume: the sweet and the spicy, the nutty and the resinous; too enveloped and overwhelmed to work out one smell from the next. It was a warm blanket of aroma, comforting and welcoming.

Have you been sleeping well, Dun?

Well...er...no. Not really.

The Shaman didn’t reply. Dun felt he had to fill the void, but his brain skittered to work out exactly what to say, without sounding foolish.

I’ve been dreaming quite a bit. Every rest. Usually several times each rest.

And you’ve been remembering them all, in great detail?

Yes. How did you...

Getting more compelling, more vital?

Yes.

Somewhere in the depths of the vent Dun could hear the ping of metal expanding. The Shaman made a non-committal humming sound.

When they first started, they were weird. On the inside of my head. Noises and scents but really vivid, quite random. Then there was this odd sensation... Like tingling or prickling, waves of something, blankets maybe but not, sometimes filling the whole of the inside of my head and hurting. I’m not describing this very well.

Those are called extra-sensory factors.

Oh?

Things that you can’t describe in sounds, touch, smell, taste or air-sense. It takes a while to get used to those, but you will. They’re something that you won’t really make a lot of, unfortunately. We don’t know what they mean. They come in different types; some foretellers have called them flavors; it helps to categorize them, but ultimately it’s hard to tell what they might mean. Historically, foretellers tend to ignore them, to be honest.

Dun was so lost in his own thoughts in the effort to take everything in. Barg filled the gap this time.

Have the dreams been getting more consistent? Recurring?

I’ve been having one dream that has, yes.

What happens?

I’m running along one of the rivers, in a tunnel and I’m being chased by something. A horrible something. It’s hunting me. It won’t give up and it’s gaining on me. But I can’t smell it or air-sense it; I just know it’s coming. Almost, but not quite like, I know what it’s thinking... A horrible ‘other’ thing.

The same every time?

Yes, well, starting the same every time, but it seems like there’s some more each time. Like a story? Dun had intended his tone to be rhetorical, but Barg answered.

Yes, like a story. Except this one may be real. And you may be in it.

Hey, I said that, Padg chipped in.

Thank you, Padg, his father replied. You have been listening all these years. It is a shame, though, that you’ve never had the foretelling gift.

Curse, more like.

Padg! The Shaman could crack his voice like a whip.

Sorry, Father.

What do you mean, ‘curse?’ Dun asked, worried.

Some people find the responsibility that comes with the gift of foretelling too much for them.

That’s the folk it doesn’t drive bats!

Padg! That’s quite enough. This is a serious discussion of a very serious matter. If you can’t listen seriously then go outside. Young Dun here has the gift of foretelling whether he wants it or not. What matters now is that he understands it and what he does with it.

Sorry.

Hmm.

A distant clang echoed up the air vent with a sigh of acrid air.

So is it the future then? I’m experiencing the future?

No. Not exactly. Sometimes it may be the future, sometimes it can be the past, sometimes it is a foretelling from far away. Neither your future or your past.

So what use is that to me? Or to anyone?

That is for you to decide, Berg said. That is what makes the difference between a good Foreteller and Mad-folk. That is the riddle that is foretelling.

So you can’t tell me what my dream meant?

No. Only you can know that. All I can say is that you do have the gift.

But this dream, he corrected himself, foretelling seemed so real. And it’s not happened to me yet, so it must be my future, mustn’t it?

"Each foretelling appears from the mind of someone there, sometimes many minds. All of that appears in your mind. It seems like it’s come from you. This is a lot to take in for one day, my young friend. Go home and think about it. Return to me after the next rest, and we’ll talk some more."

Dun left the hut in a daze, foretelling, multiple futures, madness, extra-sensory-whatever-the-hells-they-were. He already had way more responsibility than ever he felt ready for, and now this. It was a long while before Dun realized Padg was still there walking alongside him, and to be honest with himself, Dun hadn’t the first idea where he was going. He let his legs and the noisy current of folk carry him, while his conscious brain wasn’t occupied with the task of directing him. The smell of Dodg’s sweet-food stall on the market hit him just before he hit it.

Dun! Padg laughed.

Sorry—in another world there.

Feeling guilty for dragging his friend halfway across the village, Dun felt in his shoulder bag for some trade strips he knew still carried some credit. He could smell the Sweetcrackle dried mushrooms on the stand. He asked for two handfuls and handed over the wooden trade strip. The sound of a few brief scratches followed as Dodg made tallies on it, before handing it back to Dun.

Thanks.

The friends walked on munching side by side for a while. They tried to give the bowl in the center of the village, where auctions usually took place, a wide berth. The rowdy market that Dun had heard earlier seemed to have descended into a full-blown row. The raised voices of Bridge-folk seemed to be interspersed with the nasal shrieks of a group of River-folk traders.

You don’t think that’ll happen to me do you? Dun said.

What? Padg said. Foretelling? Sounds like it already has.

No, not the foretelling or whatever it’s called; the going mad.

Don’t know. Probably not.

Probably. That was reassuring. Well, he’d have to settle for that for now, while he worked out what exactly was going on inside his head. Until then, he was supposed to do chores. Mother would need him by now. It would be chaos there, though; the pups fighting, Mother shouting. It wasn’t much better staying here, whatever the hells was going on today. He needed time alone to think. He said good-bye to Padg. Maybe another go at some fish?

DUN CREPT BACK THROUGH the rush door of the family home at River-hole. It was eerily quiet. Maybe Mother had taken the little ones to crêche in the village; it was about that time. He searched for his hunting bag. His mother had made it for his father, and Dun felt awkward using it. The bag was a traditional folk woven one from reeds, as opposed to the recent trends of making bags out of materials from found-things. Dun didn’t have much to do with found-things. Not particularly because of the inherent danger or because of any traditionalist streak in him, but mostly because they were usually so damned expensive. The market traders and traveling visitors from the Machine-folk who collected and sold found-things made plenty of trade tallies to offset the risks they took, but on the whole, Dun didn’t get it. For most problems, there was a folk generated solution available, cheaper or free, and that suited him fine. He swung the bag over his shoulder and made for the passage that led from the family room down to the river. The texture of the bag in his hands was strangely comforting today.

He could feel the cloud of fresh moisture many strides before he reached the river. The sensation was something he took for granted. It permeated the whole tribe’s life, his family’s especially since of all the tribe, they lived closest to it, their home called River-hole due to a convenient tunnel to the bank. The noise of the water rose and fell with the seemingly random levels of the river, quieter today as it happened, but it was always there. He walked down to the edge of the water; there was the walkway along the edge of the river. He walked the familiar route to his favorite fishing place, underfoot the textured metal mesh lightly crunching with rust. Stopping at his usual place, just after the air grill on the wall, he lay down on his belly, arm in the water, to wait.

Patience was one of his strong points. He was always able to distract himself in one part of his brain, working out what he’d do next, planning ahead, while another part of him lay in wait, wired and sprung to pounce. A swish in the water and a fish would be caught, stunned and in his bag. That is, if a fish came along. He twitched his fingers. Funny, it seemed like he was having to reach farther down today, to even reach the water. Ah well, everything today seemed like more effort. Maybe, it was his attitude he should be focussing on...

Aaaaaaaang!

In the water, the blood, his hand, the pain. Something churning in the water. Angry, cold, alien. He snatched his hand out, sure to feel blood dripping down his arm but no. His hand was fine, wet with water, but fine. He wiggled his fingers. What the hell was going on? His pulse hammered. The dreaming, foretelling, again? While he was awake? He could scarcely cope with it every night. Would it be every night? Gods, he hoped not. He forced his breath slowly through his teeth.

Whether or not he could stand it, he was starting to understand the folk who couldn’t. When he was very young, there was someone from the village who had started behaving oddly. Beng? Or was it Teng? Dun couldn’t recall, but he could remember that the poor unfortunate became more and more strange and disassociated, talking to himself, arguing with absent demons. Eventually, you couldn’t smell him in the village and no one talked about him anymore. Now Dun knew why. He was beginning to imagine how this new gift could easily crack someone. The sleeplessness alone was enough to fray him at the edges.

He slowly clenched and unclenched his hand. He had the gift, want it or not, and he was just going to have to cope. There was no one else.

A cramp in his shoulder told Dun how long he’d been there. It never normally took this much effort to find a catch. He moved his spot to somewhere farther upstream, a spot he liked less but nearer the village bridge where the pipe turned. It was busier there. Dun didn’t like the disturbance, people going into the village, the noise of the market more obvious, but it was a sure place to catch something. He waited again. Slowly a chilling feeling crept up his insides; he carried on fishing, trying to quell it, but in the end, he had to let the obvious overwhelm him. No fish. There were no fish.

There had always been fish. How could there not be? He sat back on his haunches, head in his hands trying to think. The family would be fine—there were mushrooms he could find if he wanted—but that wasn’t the point. They’d be fine for now. All the Bridge-folk would be fine for now. But fish were an important part of what everyone had to eat. And then there was trade, although the woven weed bags that the Bridge-folk produced were very fine, by far the most important trade good was the fish. And there was something else he couldn’t put his finger on. A tickling in the back of his mind. Something important. He had all the fragments, but he couldn’t make them into one piece. Something was terribly wrong. One of the Elders in the village needed to know. Now.

He went straight to the Shaman’s hut. All he heard when he got in earshot was the snick-snick of Padg whittling. Dun could tell the noise of Padg’s carving from twenty or thirty strides away.

Padg!

Hey! What’s wrong? You’re panting.

Where’s your father?

Some meeting of the elders in the Moot-hall. Why?

Dun grabbed Padg by his shoulder and pulled him up to standing. The sword-spear he was working on fell to the floor with a clatter.

Hells! Do you know how long those things take to sharpen?

Dun kept pulling. Come on, we’ve got to go there. Now!

Padg stopped resisting and fell into an easy lope, alongside Dun. Why?

Fish! Dun shouted.

Eh?

There’s no fish. In the river. None.

Gods!

They slowed only as they reached the Moot-hall, a long low building built like the rest of the village hut dwellings from reeds and mud, but this was the largest building in the village and had the added feature of double-skinned walls, stuffed on the inside with fur to damp down noise from inside and out. However, no amount of auditory dampening or protection was going to hide the raised voices heard when the friends arrived.

...care how important this is. He’s too young!

Padg grabbed Dun and pulled him down into a crouch, just around the edge of the Moot-hall from its door.

He’s wise for his years.

But not many of those!

He’s perfectly capable.

Enough! The voice of Ardg, the village Alpha, was heard loudly, and then more quietly he said, We have no choice.

But we would be sending him to certain... danger. Why can we not send a fully grown band of hunters?

You know why, Greng. We and only we of the Elders-moot know of the other threat that faces us. We must act with that in mind.

How goes the discussion with our River-folk ‘guest?’ Dun made out the odd, deep tones of Myrch, the Alpha’s most recent advisor.

He still won’t tell us what he was searching for. A female voice was Swych’s, the head of the Hunter’s Guild.

Though clearly up to no good, poking through the Bibliotheca. All of our records and maps? Myrch said.

We have nothing to hide, Ardg said.

You say that like it’s a good thing, Myrch said.

Both Padg and Dun were lifted off their feet swiftly and silently, gripped by the scruff from behind.

People who listen at doors, get bent noses.

The quiet, precise voice carried almost no scent. It could only be Swych, head of the hunter’s guild and tutor to both Padg and