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Author: V.C. Remus
Genre: Fantasy/Steampunk
Published: May 10, 2015
Pages: 276
Ages: 12+
Synopsis: The tale of a young boy’s struggles in the Victorian nation of Thorton. After witnessing the wrongful execution of his parents, Alistair Métis seeks his king for answers to a never-ending list of questions. However, a lowborn child cannot escape the shackles of poverty to scour cobbled streets while on the run from the law. Alistair, too, was sentenced to die for his father’s crimes. The young boy’s journey spans the unforgiving West. His story brims with airships, cutthroats, war, mischief and wonder.
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Excerpt
The brothers march for hours, accompanied by the tune of boots stomping through dirt, dried and wet grass, mud, shallow waters, and even an obstacle course of putrefied cattle.
“Are you soldiers or corpses?” the legate bellows for the umpteenth time. His arms swing like pendulums.
At the rear of the file, a boy vomits. The last ‘puker’—as the legate refers to the burgeoning number of ill—had abandoned the line upon fainting; his fate is now unknown, though Esmond mentioned spotting a cart.
The mélange of stress, fatigue, and the capital weathersayer’s all-too-apt predictions work a number on even the heartiest recruits. The acrid smell of rotting livestock under a pitiless sun worsens their situation.
As the fetid stench of vomit fades, signaling the defeat of yet another Tiro, the young man behind Alistair whispers into his ear, “So, the legate really did a number on you, Tiro Bellagio? I hear he pisses fire.”
“What?” Alistair responds, his face twisting in a knot.
“Fire. Y’know, flames?”
“I heard what you said.”
Alistair examines the legate’s grimace. Strangely, the longer he stares, the less outrageous his mythos becomes.
“Maybe you’re right,” Alistair responds, one step bolder than a whisper.
“Maybe you’re right,” Alistair responds, one step bolder than a whisper.
After the tenth mile, recruits pepper the emerald Testing Grounds. Others maintain the visage of a loosely formed flock of birds succumbing to the wind. Throat parched, Alistair is no exception. His vision tunnels, and he loses sensation in his legs.
“If I die now,” he groans, his head feeling too heavy for his neck, “I can stop.”
“Soldiers or corpses?” The legate echoes ahead of the file.
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