How to use this Page

Prologue

The Kings Road to Thesia

he air took no notice of the foolishly brave villager as it drifted across the dusty gray hills. The morning was still and heavy with the soundless echoes of legend, like each day that had come before it since the Kingdom had fallen. His foot edged a ripped and tattered emblem still tenuously attached to its broken standard, strewn across the ground in defeat, a profound contrast to its once proud and ruthless meaning. Upon it was a vulture, its silver wings outstretched against a crest as gray as the abandoned battlefield it now memorialized. Perhaps its once great King still ruled. The marooned farmers of Thesia, first village on the Kings Road in the province of Kulnas, had no way to know.

Other than the heavy mist, his was the first presence to linger in this place since the battle, if it could be called by that name. He, like so many others, wished to understand what had occurred on that night so long ago, but only Ornas, despite the dire cautions of his fellows, dared set foot upon ground instead of road in Kulnas Forge.

Perhaps he was indeed foolish, driven by a youthful belief in his own invincibility to venture forth while others hurried through the land, glancing neither left nor right. Perhaps he could, despite the failures of so many others in the attempt, parlay foolishness into a destiny other than that of a tiller of soil.

The simple farmers of Thesia had believed that night would be their last under the stars. Families huddled in their hovels, dove under wagons and into granaries, and closed their eyes against what they never attempted to describe, fearing the very mention of what they had seen and heard would cause its return. The white fire in the skies was too horrible even for nightmares.

Ten regiments had been swept into history on that night. Under the banner of the King of Silver they had once threatened Kulnas itself, yet now their only legacy was an undiscovered tale of vengeance visited upon them by a being whose name was rarely even whispered, much less spoken. Even Ornas listened to that urgent advice. She was known as the Pure Defender of the Realm, yet many believed that she would bring destruction to any who stood before her. All but one legend were loath to speak the name LadyStar.

Will my name, Ornas wondered, be written into legend by my deeds upon this field this day? He stood only a few yards off the road, still apprehensive whatever his reckless courage. It was here that soldiers fought, he thought. Looking around he saw gray mists swirling over only slightly darker ground. The faded trees at the edges of the hilly fields leaned against the mist like rogues in an alleyway, their leafless limbs as sharp as daggers.

The air was cold. Those who knew Kulnas were accustomed to the chill of the morning. The trees and the road were his only companions, or so he hoped. Many of the villagers who still made their homes in Thesia believed this field was haunted: That any who stepped off the road here would face the same woman clad in ghostly white robes that had driven the Vulture Crest back. Stories of her victory had become part of their very culture, already cemented into the village’s traditions by the optimistic rhymes of their children, yet still careful to omit the name given her by legend.

Tales had reached many lands now that King Gaelen’s soldiers no longer obstructed the scribes of Isia, Chaer, Varcarel and Kulnas from their travels. Many wanted to know more about those legends, but only Ornas allowed his curiosity to carry him off the road and into the site of one of the most significant events in the entire recorded history of Aventar.

He walked slowly, making his way further off the road and further into the slowly swirling mist. To a more frightened eye, the wisps of fog might appear to be ghosts themselves: circling, fading, then reappearing in the corner of the eye only to vanish once again. To a more apprehensive ear, the sound of the wind might have been a faint cackling: a jeer or taunt to challenge a hapless fool’s search for nothing. Her eyes could be upon me right this moment, Ornas thought, turning quickly to look back in the direction of the now obscured road. His mind raced.

If the mist be a ghost, it surrounds me, he observed. Despite his practical way of thinking, the culture of superstition he had lived among his entire life in Thesia could not be ignored completely.

He turned forward once again and huge dark shape emerged from the mist. Ornas jumped back with a shout and gasped for air. It did not move. The young man remained, his hand clutching his chest, still breathing deeply and quickly as he slowly recovered from the shock. A blackened shape sat there in the now slightly bluish but yet darker mist. It was easily the size of a small dwelling with what appeared to be several columns lying flat across it. At its base were wheels, one to the right and one to the left, each with a diameter half Ornas’ height. His eyes widened. Perhaps I have found an engine of war!

Ornas was as excited by his discovery as he was frightened by its sudden appearance. Even to one unfamiliar with the mechanisms of battle, the huge device, whatever its former purpose, was as much a ghost as the imagined shapes in the mist. Ornas surmised it had once perhaps been constructed of wood, but now only a charred husk remained. He picked at the edge of one plank with his fingers, pulling a piece of the blackened remains of its outer wall free. It was exactly the same texture as burnt kindling. Ornas was amazed.

How many men, he supposed, must have manned this once fearsome war machine? How could it now be only a shadow of its former glory? What could have defeated them so utterly?

But defeated they were. So much so that only the machine remained. No man had stood to defend it. There was not one helm, nor even a shield or weapon upon the engine or the ground near it. There was nothing except its pulverized shell: abandoned, then destroyed by power beyond comprehension.

Even valor had been first to flee this engagement, Ornas thought. Yet, there was one oddity.

Underneath a small pile of rubble towards what Ornas surmised was the front of the machine he could see the edge of what he thought might be a thick metal chain. It was intriguing if only for the fact it was not burnt. Ornas knelt under the leaning planks and supports, reaching towards the chain. He could just reach it without crawling underneath the engine, and he slowly pulled it free. A length of tarnished links looped around his fingers, and pulled straight against his grip, apparently attached to something else still under the rubble. Ornas pulled harder and the entire pile of rubble moved as a heavy disc-shaped object emerged from underneath it.

Ornas gasped as he saw its color. There was an almost transparent light greenish-colored crystal disc attached to the chain. It slid along the ground as Ornas pulled it from underneath the war machine, then lifted it as he stood up. It dangled from the chain, slowly spinning in the chilled morning air. It was a perfect flawless crystal amulet nearly as wide as his shoe, and even Ornas could tell the chain was made of silver. It was as heavy as a large grain measuring stone, a treasure beyond his wildest imaginings. Surely now he would be as famous as the men who fought here!

The air took no notice of the foolishly brave villager as he hurried back towards the road.

I'm in Chapter Five of ODD.... I think this is good, although I have just realised I have no idea what happens next and that the plot I thought I was writing isn't the plot at all, and that everything's different.

This wouldn't be a problem, but the book is meant to be handed in on Monday. Argh.

Still, the people who wanted fairy tales found it and some of them knew
what it was and liked it for being exactly that, and one of those people was
film-maker Matthew Vaughn.


I tend to be extremely protective when it comes to adaptations of my
work, but after talking to Matthew and to his collaborator, screenwriter Jane
Goldman, I felt safe. I enjoyed their screenplay and I really like the film they
made – which takes liberties with the plot all over the place, compressing,
expanding, changing, simplifying and complicating, all in the space of two
hours. (I know I didn’t write a pirate captain performing a can-can in drag, for
a start...)

But I think the reason I liked what Matthew and Jane did so
much is that they had treated what I had made as a fairy tale. Not as a novel,
to adapt or to ignore, but as a tale that they loved, to retell. A star still
falls, a boy still promises to bring it to his true love, there are still wicked
witches and ghosts and lords (although the lords have now become Princes). They even gave it an unabashedly happy ending, which is something people tend to do
when they retell fairytales.