Warlord of the Lonely Fortress: Prelude

By Alex James

~ Exploring difference through autism-based characters~

On a world of fortresses, gone is the age of barbarians when Aerol, their warlord, built his fighting force into warriors powerful enough to defeat any enemy standing before them.

Long-dead enemies haunt Aerol's mind – enemies that should have been vanquished. He must show them no fear, even if it means sacrificing himself. But when the kind and beautiful Hermena needs Aerol to save an order of scholars from death he’s soon conflicted about his plan.

~ A Tale of Sword & Sorcery, Mana-wielding Heroes and Demons ~

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex James
• Release date: Mar 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781005982300

Alex James

Alex James was the bass guitarist in the nineties band Blur, a life he chronicled with great success in his first book, Bit of a Blur. He now lives on a farm in the Cotswolds with his wife and five children, makes cheese, writes for both the Sun and the Spectator and has his own show on Classic FM. In September 2011 he hosted the ‘Harvest’ festival at his farm, combining the best in British music and food.

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Warlord of the Lonely Fortress – Prelude

Alex James

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Copyright 2023 Alex James. All rights reserved.

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Warlord of the Lonely Fortress

Cover art by Lawrence Mann

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Table of Contents

Warlord of the Lonely Fortress – Prelude

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

Acknowledgements

Chapter: Barbarism

Chapter: Apprentice Building

Glossary

About Alex James

Other Titles By Alex James

Connect With Me Online

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank Cielo Bellerose for her feedback on the prelude, putting me inside the reader’s mind, copy editor and proofreader Rachael Mortimer for her revisions, which corrected and helped my writing’s flow, and Lawrence Mann for the impeccable book cover.

Thanks to virtual assistant Sarah McBeath, for motivating me to write a prelude, which inspired new ideas.

Thanks to Michael R. Ames for the time he took working magic into my blurbs and for sharing his knowledge of the fantasy genre.

Thanks go to my family who have been a source of pre-publishing advice.

Thanks also to all my supporters on Facebook and on my newsletter who have stood by me for many years.

Chapter: Barbarism

Warlord Aerol was seeing obscure visual memories: formless limbs and faces. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t sleeping.

The faces were twisted with unsavoury distortion, hung in his mind’s deep, grinning with beaming, half-remembered eyes. The familiarity was painted with malevolent horror, purple-skinned Tekromun species like him in appearance but so different, opposing, in other ways. These Tekromun only brought bad things to him. A few such faces grew into focus: Tekromun with highlighted appendages on their heads, accompanied by darker, curly-appendaged squat Tekromun sipping from the teat of gossip and power to satisfy the jealousy of short stature.

As he recoiled from these faces, and could not, he willed horror upon them: crushing skulls, leaking bloodied eyes, making the faces expand to encompass the black featureless background to his memories.

He was sure the memories weren’t clear because he’d refused to revisit them, still did. Was this why different faces and experiences merged into one, pain’s tormenting flame? Nevertheless, he chose to continue seeing them.

He saw, then felt, feuding beneath his feet – all around him reaching out to pull him down with combined will. The arms wouldn’t let go of him as he tried to rise.

Then …

Messages were printed in lettering he could almost touch on the inside of the arms, taking him to realms beyond the bones of war, swimming behind lettered layers in a binding pattern: into darkened square blocked-out rooms amid his fellows’ agonies, trapped, pinned by long, far-reaching chains of torture, awaiting the next spike from their antagonists. In his periphery he saw a sharp elbow move, and then the hook at the end of a chain penetrated and embedded into his back. He bit his lip to quell the pain, and his fingernails scraped the unforgiving floor. His chest smashed onto the floor, and he grunted. It happened again, the same attack and pain until he could bear it no longer, until he was distracted by another, at a time after the attack.

Keen horrors awaited at the edge of his perception, and he had to get up and act: a cuff around his face, and his vision swam in disorientation as a black blot covered his eyesight. His skin was slack and his hulking body crashed to the floor again and again, until it could endure no more, and fatigue swelled through his veins, numbing him, becoming a part of his psychology, becoming inescapable.

Aerol’s eyes burst open, and he breathed in a huge gasp of air. He got up, feeling victim to an attack, looking about wildly. He was haunted by them, recurring and volatile, damaging most of all. He didn’t feel at home in his private meditation room, and if he didn’t feel at home here, something was wrong. Everything was in its place, and there was no disturbance or noise in the interior of the fortress, but as soon as the tumultuous wave of haunted emotion and doubt hit, he’d act to investigate what it was.

It took him longer to become alert. An edge of rough ceiling characterised his mood. There were no reassuring patrols of his soldiers outside of his meditation and sleeping chamber. He arranged the dirtied, holed rags that were his blankets into rectangular tidiness, fit for daytime, allowing his skin to breathe away the stale smells of sleep.

He poked the meditation mat with his toe, pleased the cold evidence of body sweat had dried up after his physical training yesterday. He raised the back of his shoulders and rolled them forward to loosen them.