The Novelist

By Georgia Jean Lewis

A writer battles with her own mind to make sense of the different stories she is writing. From action/adventure on Air Force One to a budding romance to a magical fantasy kingdom, all these stories allow the writer to escape.

But what is she escaping from?

As the line between reality and fiction is blurred, can the writer tear herself away from her beloved characters to focus and discover the truth of her surroundings?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398411630

Georgia Jean Lewis

Georgia Jean Lewis is a passionate writer in her mid-twenties. She has been telling stories in all forms from a young age – creative writing, verbal monologues, even stage plays and musicals. Having lived in bustling cities and quaint country towns, Georgia has a pool of experiences to draw from despite her young age, this is substituted with her over-active imagination. From fantasy to military, action-adventure to romantic relationships, Georgia is excited to see her work go from stories in her head to actors on a stage and now to her first novel.

Book preview

About the Author

Georgia Jean Lewis is a passionate writer in her mid-twenties. She has been telling stories in all forms from a young age – creative writing, verbal monologues, even stage plays and musicals.

Having lived in bustling cities and quaint country towns, Georgia has a pool of experiences to draw from despite her young age, this is substituted with her over-active imagination.

From fantasy to military, action-adventure to romantic relationships, Georgia is excited to see her work go from stories in her head to actors on a stage and now to her first novel.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my parents, Catherine and Brett, for their constant support from my pointless arts degree to my constantly changing career choices. I am the person I am today because of your love and support. I can’t ever thank you enough for everything you have given me. So, this is for you.

For my brother and sister, to whom I remember telling bedtime stories too. I guess this takes this one step further. I love you both.

To my grandparents for giving me a roof over my head and a place to write. I love and miss you.

Copyright Information ©

Georgia Jean Lewis 2022

The right of Georgia Jean Lewis to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398411623 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398411630 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I would like to acknowledge those who donated to the Gofundme fundraiser – your donations helped bring this book to life and I am eternally grateful.

I would also like to thank Austin Macauley Publishers for giving this new writer a chance to share her story.

Chapter One

Nickola Tallin

Chaos

Absolute chaos rained down on the Elven Kingdom that day. Fires leapt from house to house and the walls of the castle rumbled and flashed with purple magic. Terrified screams echoed through the forest as arrows pierced white elven flesh. Blood ran thick and fast and soaked the ground.

The creatures causing the damage to the kingdom were similar to the Elves in height and appearance except for their deep purple skin and black eyes, the Shades. Elven soldiers decked in armour of gold and bronze launched arrows and blasts of white energy at the attacking horde. But whatever Shades fell at the hands of the Elves, ten more took their place.

The Elves and the Shades had lived in harmony for hundreds of years, but for the Flast ten, the world of Sentora had been ravaged by the Orc Wars. Out of the Underground, the Orcs had risen and had begun their onslaught of the surface. No one was safe. They tore through small villages, large cities, and the most heavily guarded Dwarven fortresses.

Even Candon, the great capital of Sentora, found themselves under threat. But finally, the war seemed to be coming to an end. A majority of the Orc clans had been killed or surrendered to the Candon Army, only a few small groups remained.

In their desperate attempt to flee, the last of the Orcs had stormed the Northern Mountains, the home of the Shades. After a week of fighting, the Shades had lost their homeland of a thousand generations.

As a result, the Shades had fled to the nearest settlement, the two-thousand-acre Dire Forest, the Kingdom of the Forest Elves ruled by Queen Penelope and King Fjord, the Magnificent. But the Shades had not come as refugees, they came with fire and blood, taking everything, they could from the civilians and storming the castle.

A woman and child raced through the underbrush of the forest in a desperate attempt to escape the carnage now overrunning the Elven Kingdom. The woman was draped in a delicate flowing robe in two tones of brown. A sash tied around her waist held her own sword that dripped with blood.

Her tan skin dripped with sweat and her emerald green eyes were narrowed. The child being pulled along behind could not have been older than six or seven and was still in her riding clothes. Her tan pants and cream blouse with puffy sleeves were now stained with dull reds and scrapes of green from the underbrush.

Tears streaked down her face marking clean lines through dried blood and dirt. Stopping suddenly, the woman pushed the child into a hole in the base of a large oak tree.

You must be brave, Nickola, she whispered to the little girl, you are royal, which means you are the only hope for the Forest Elves. Do you understand?

What about you? sobbed the child gripping onto her mother’s hand.

I have to go back for your father, she said and pressed a gleaming dagger with a golden handle into her hands, he needs my help. Everything will be okay, I promise.

The little girl nodded and her mother pushed her deeper into the tree and concealed her with a large piece of bark, leaving just enough space for the young Princess to peak out. Before she could make her way back to the castle, three purple-skinned Shades surrounded her.

Where is the girl? hissed one. The Elven woman stood to her full royal height,

I sent her away, she said defiantly and drew her sword, the Forest Elves will always survive.

Not this time.

Purple energy erupted from the hands of the taller Shade and exploded into the chest of the woman. The blinding flash forced Nickola to shield her eyes, but her mother’s scream pierced through the darkness.

When she was able to pry her eyes open again, she saw her mother curled up in a smoking heap on the forest floor, but while the Shades still patrolled the forest, she dared not move from her hiding spot.

* * *

Nickola. Nickola wake up. Nickola Tallin awoke with her mother’s screams still echoing in her ears to the pale concerned face of her human travelling companion.

If we want to make Candon before sundown, we’ve got to get moving, he said with a worried look on his face.

Right, said Nickola and she forced herself to push the memory from her mind and focus on packing up their camp gear and saddling the horses. They had been riding for almost a week now, having left the city of Salt River far behind them and heading for the capital.

Back onto the narrow dirt road heading East, the horses’ hooves clipped along the gravel breaking through the sounds of the forest. Percy Newheart, Nickola’s travelling companion, was armed with a Great Sword and dressed in tan combat gear and a long black cloak, all tokens from the Orc Wars.

Nickola herself wore a simple blue long-sleeved travelling dress and carried a delicately carved bow and a full quiver of arrows was swung across her back. As an old habit, Nickola also had her mother’s dagger tucked up beneath her belt. Since the day her mother had given it to her, it had not left her side.

You had that dream again, didn’t you? asked Percy breaking her train of thought.

Nickola said nothing.

It doesn’t mean anything, you know that, right? There was nothing you could’ve done.

I know. But it doesn’t stop me from hearing my mother’s screams every night. That seemed to end the conversation. The dreams had happened before, some worse than others and Percy thought they sounded more like nightmares than dreams. But if Nickola didn’t want to talk about it, then he wasn’t going to push her.

The pair rode in silence for a while before coming to the edge of a steep hill looking down into a valley. Percy reviewed his map,

There’s a small fishing port on the other side of the valley, he said pointing, it’s just before we get into the main city of Candon and it would be a good place to rest for the night.

Decent pub?

For ale, said Percy, not quite fancy enough for Elven wines.

Percy, I’m not fancy enough for Elven wines.

Right, I’d forgotten. Not royalty. He said feigning apology. Nickola laughed with him,

No, she said, not today. There was almost a sadness that penetrated through those words and Nickola’s eyes seemed distant.

It had been thirty years since the end of the Orc Wars and the world of Sentora had settled back into a state of almost peace. Nickola Tallin had spent her years travelling and training with a group of monks who rode from town to town visiting monasteries and cathedrals. They identified as followers of ‘The Path’.

One winter, after many years of travelling and training with them, Nickola and the monks had passed an old abandoned farmhouse in a wooded clearing. An aging woman hobbled out of the door as their wagon was rolling past,

Please, she cried out, please, will you help us?

Nickola immediately jumped from the wagon before the driver had a chance to stop the horses.

What’s going on? she asked as she closed the gap between her and the other woman.

My husband, she sobbed, I don’t know what happened, he’s…he’s dying.

By now the four other monks travelling with Nickola had joined her in front of the farmhouse, all of whom wore maroon coloured travelling cloaks and stood in a semi-circle around Nickola and the woman. The head of the monks stepped up to the two women and spoke calmly and gently,

My good lady, I am Tal’dor Risinger. If you would show me to your husband, I can see what I can do to help.

Tal’dor Risinger was a tall dark-skinned man, clean shaven with a bald head. His entire right arm was covered by geometric tattoos from the shoulder all the way down to the wrist. With a delicate step unexpected from someone of his size, he led the group into the farmhouse. It had been Tal’dor who had found a young Nickola all those years ago and her admiration for him had never faltered.

Once inside, the cosiness of the farmhouse was at its peak. There was a modest-sized living area with a number of plush armchairs around an open fire roaring in the corner. The wooden floorboards underfoot were old and creaking and they led off to a narrow hallway.

The three doors leading off the hallway opened up to small but comfortable bedrooms. Only one of them was occupied. An old man with shallow cheeks, closed eyes, and grey wispy hair lay in the small bed, his chest barely moving with each breath.

Instructing the four other travellers to wait for him in the living room, Tal’dor moved to the side of the bed, grasped the old man’s hand and placed another on his head. He began mumbling and chanting under his breath and his hands began to glow a dim yellow.

What’s he doing? sobbed the woman. Nickola stood by her side in the doorway of the bedroom and explained,

he’s using a basic detect illness spell which will hopefully be able to tell him what ails your husband. When did he fall ill?

About a month ago, said the woman, he came back from town with a bloodied ear, two days later he could barely stand. I knew then that something was wrong.

We’ll do whatever we can to help him, said Nickola, I promise.

Tal’dor Risinger removed his hands from the dying man and turned back to the woman standing with Nickola. His eyes were full of pity.

It’s a rare form of Elderberry Toxin, he explained, there’s only a very small window, after the poison enters the body, that treatment is effective. I’m afraid this far along, he only has a few days, maybe less.

The dying man’s wife broke down in tears and Nickola walked her back out to the living area and sat her down in an armchair by the fire. The watching monks shuffled uncomfortably.

What’s your name? she asked softly.

Lucille, she sobbed, Lucille Fairhorn, my husband is Raymond.

Lucille, my name is Nickola. I know this is a lot to take in, do you have any other family? Anyone you can stay with who can take care of you? Lucille shook her head.

Both my sons died in the Orc Wars, Raymond is the only family I have left. At that point, Tal’dor reappeared from the hallway and gestured for the others to leave. A couple of them offered respectful bows to Lucille, then pulled their cloaks tighter as they filed out of the front door back to the wagon.

Wait! cried Lucille, where are you going?

I’m sorry, said Tal’dor gently, there’s nothing we can do for your husband. The only thing left is to keep him comfortable.

How am I supposed to do that at my age? asked Lucille, veering on the edge of tears again, There are days I can barely walk myself.

I’ll stay. said Nickola standing, I’ll stay and look after them and anyone else who comes this way.

Are you sure, Nickola? asked Tal’dor, You will be missed at the monastery.

I’m sure. The Path has shown me many things, Tal’dor. And you have been very kind to me, it’s time I passed on that kindness.

As you wish, said Tal’dor bowing, it has been an honour.

The honour was all mine, Nickola bowed back, a much deeper bow to show respect for the higher rank that Tal-dor held. Tal’dor led the rest of the monks back out of the cottage and into the caravan.

Nickola stood at the doorway and watched them all climb aboard. Tal’dor brought down her travelling pack that housed her valuables that she chose to take with her on their journey. They grasped each other’s forearms.

Good luck, Nickola, said Tal’dor, I hope our paths cross again someday.

As do I, Tal’dor. And thank you, for everything.

Tal’dor climbed up to the front of one of the wagons and gripped the reins. He bent down and whispered something to them and they set off a slow walk. Nickola waved them off and watched until they became lost in the sea of trees that surrounded them.

She took a deep breath. It felt good to be back in the forest. She hadn’t realised just how much she’d missed it. Albeit, it wasn’t the Dire Forest, but it would do nicely. With one final glance over her shoulder, Nickola closed the front door of the cottage and went about seeing to the sick man and his wife.

Over the next few days Nickola cared for Lucille and her husband as he grew weaker. Three days after the monks had left, with his wife’s hands clutched in his own, Raymond Fairhorn died in his bed. While his wife grieved, Nickola dug a grave at the edge of the western woods.

Following the traditions of her monastery, Nickola cleaned, dressed and blessed the body of Raymond to prepare him for his journey to the Afterlife. They buried him at sunset, just as the sun was disappearing behind the trees.

Lucille was never the same after her husband passed. She was doing less and less around the house, and spent a lot of her time re-reading old letters. Less than a week after Raymond was buried, Nickola found Lucille lifeless in her own bed, an old letter from Raymond grasped in her hand, the loss of her husband had been too great.

So, Nickola buried her beside her husband…but she never left the old farmhouse. Instead, she stayed and cared for it and for all those who passed through. It became a safe haven for weary travellers: Elves,