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There Came a Darkening from the West

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Blurb

Straddling three wildly different and distant places and eras with its legs wide open, There Came a Darkening from the West is a saga of epic proportions. Laden with dark, foreboding imagery and interwoven with hilarious strands of even darker humour, it’s about gods, power and s*x – and the consequences of love, betrayal and greed in the fictional Citadel of Sputen Duyvil.

Charting the birth and eventual destruction of the Citadel through the eyes of the central characters, the tale takes us on a rollercoaster ride from a modern-day world on the brink of anarchy, where petrol’s a luxury only affordable for the super-rich; a place populated by con-artists and asset-strippers, money-men and robots, to mediaeval times teeming with serfs and lords, seamen and whores. It’s like a black-magic mix of Game of Thrones with Dungeons and Dragons with all the gore and glory of primitive tribal warfare as well as the more subtle but equally sickening consequences of its modern-day counterpart.

By turns other-worldly and in-your-face brash, with earthy language to match, There Came A Darkening from the West is a rare feat in that it’s apocalyptic, yet knows when to keep its tongue in its cheek.

Born in 1953 Nigel was part of the baby boomer years, growing up in the exciting times of the Sixties and Seventies when life seemed to hold so much promise. Educated at Framlingham College and Broxbourne Grammar School, Nigel went on to a career in the Display and Exhibition Sector working in both the retail and manufacturing sides of the business. Hobbies include the love of a good book, writing, photography and an insatiable appetite for good music. He is often to be found at London’s small but select venues appreciating the fine musicianship of the bands performing.

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Prologue
Prologue CrowsThere are crows for as far as an eye can see, perched upon every high branch, they jostle and preen, discarded black feathers twirl lazily groundward, their guttural calls echo around the clearing. Some have taken to the air, riding the thermals in easy circles, their large black wings held wide, ragged wing tips spread like fingers gently caressing the air that holds them aloft. In the centre of the clearing stands Velha son of Velhan, naked and smeared with the blood of the sheep he has just ritually slaughtered. He is talking in tongues, a skill he had learnt from his long dead father, a skill passed down the generations by fathers to sons. Perched upon the sheep’s carcass, a bead of entrail hanging from his jet black beak, stands the largest of all the crows, his beady eye alert to any nearby dangers. Velha’s chant grows faster and faster and louder and louder until all the words merge into one long wail, and then in a sudden moment of complete unity, silence falls upon the clearing. Not a sound can be heard. Slowly the breeze begins to rustle in the trees and the cicadas start to chirp, the howl of a lone wolf calls from far away as if sending a message for the crows to resume their cacophony of chatter. Velha holds his arms aloft and one by one the crows take to the skies until the sky darkens as the mass swoops and swirls. The large black crow gulps down the hanging entrail and then he too spreads his massive wings and lumbers skyward. The spell has been cast. What has been done can no longer be undone. It begins.

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