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Short Synopsis
Io Lamont was no ordinary boy. But when his father and several of his colleagues disappeared from the face of the Earth, he was drawn down a path only the Gods themselves could have foreseen. Running on empty and in search of his dad, Io and his friends become entangled in an adventure that would test their own humanity to the limits of human
understanding.
Four friends united only in grief find a common bond and a common goal to understand the evils of men that would defile their heritage and kin, in an endless pursuit for power unbound. But while time is short, only together can they save the future of humankind before they themselves are caught up in the wake of things to come.
Destined to save the world of man, Io, Cassie, Fedyenka and young Jay become broiled in a mystery none of them wanted. But with destiny, only another way of saying they had no control over what came next, one thing was certain; not all of them would survive the coming of the end.
Sample Chapter 2.
Si vis pacem, Para bellum
A great quest befell on his doorstep. He never did see it coming though, but I guess that is usually how it works. That doorstep was a welcome mat. But It was not so welcome. Though if it were to land on any step on this glen, traditions would have it that it should land right here. This house was old as it was mature. It was a massive highland house and sat on the brim of a well-rounded hill. Even the hill had its own name. That had much more to do with the family that dwelt here throughout the ages than anything else.
Lamont Hill
It was a fitting name all the same.
It wasn't always so peaceful, in the days long before the first, blood was shed for miles around. That green hillside once bled red. Even in the days when men fought over land and hill, one thing would always remain the same.
A Lamont stood at the top of that hill.
An emblem was nailed to the wall above that door, one that in time would make more sense to its current residents than any other. Its inscription when translated read as..
'If you want peace, prepare for war.'
The signature itself was as symbolic as it gets. An open and out-stretched hand. Like any hidden meanings, complicit or not there was more to it than the Latin decipher.
The master of the house if you will, was an Ethan Lamont. A scientist by name- a scientist by nature. Much of his time was spent nose-deep in dusty old books, he had a vast spiral library and wrote more than a few of his own. His subject was ancient civilizations and his professorship was paleontology. Though he picked up far more than either of those in his thirty-five years. Not every lesson, mastered or not, sanctioned him with a pretty certificate to hang on his wall. He understood as much. It was that, that saw him spend more and more time away from his home.
In fact he was not at home.
Chapter 3
The house was in preparation as was the entire glen.
A dark cloud hovered this day of all days. There was a bleak calm floating across this hillside like a gray mist affecting the mood of all the glen folk. No one was unaffected by its grim reality. People had already begun that stretch of walk up into the stone mound. This was no highland gala nor was it the annual games. There was no caber tossing, fireball
throwing or any of the sort. But I couldn't say no-one will be playing a bagpipe today.
If traditions meant anything, then it meant a tune or two. Even in the saddest of times, parting these shores was a
celebration of wills too.
Black parasols were the in thing for the woman-folk and walking aids were a standard for the men folk. Gentlemanly canes with carved handles under the Lamont banner. The elderly and the infirm, children and their mothers would follow the masters of the household up the trail to Cemetery Hill.
As ever the Lamont's were running a little late.
2
One room in the house had already conjured up its own winter's fog, so much so, that it seeped out from under the door. It wasn't locked nor was it entirely closed. Inside though was a shape unclear. For sure it had two arms and legs and a
bountiful of fingers and toes. But that was as much as this mist was willing to go. As the room advanced in stature, so the fog diminished in size and a feeble boy no older than most, stood under a streaming faucet of water washing scores of filth away.
He climbed out, one leg at time and rubbed the condensate from the mirror above the towel rack, as his blurry face
partially came first into view.
"Io. We have to get going we're going to be late son!" Yelled a voice from downstairs.
The boy heard the call from his mother and stepped into the hall, grabbing a towel as he went. He walked for his room not too far away, passing numerous pictographs and superfluous wordings mounted along his route. A powder of steam
perforated the air by his feet as he walked, giving rise to a sprinkle of water across the floor. He momentarily slipped as one foot gave out from under him and his balance wavered for a second or two. His elbow struck and dislodged a picture-frame on the wall to his right. The glass cracked when it struck the floor.
He picked up the cracked frame, frowning as it came into view when he realised the satire of whom he maimed. He rolled his finger across the photograph now haphazardly exposed. It was one of his dad, his mum and little brother too. A small shard pricked his fingertip and by choice alone, a drop of blood from his tip bleached a printed smudge across his fathers face. His dire expression hit the frame with a vengeance when he tossed the wood-frame; the picture and glass shards clear across the hall as he obliterated the remainder of his line.
"Io is everything ok?"
It was his mother again.
His nameplate shook as Io slammed the bedroom door behind him. It read,
'Non nobis solum nati sumus.'
His dads doing. It meant, 'We are not born for ourselves alone.' Io was still struggling to understand the forced irony
behind this one.
Io found himself standing in front of yet another mirror. This time a full-length gold-rimmed antique. It had a way of
capturing the boy's gaze at times. Maybe a second window into his soul or something. Clichéd or not. His towel was still tightly wrapped around his waist. He had a slight belly, nothing over the top. Natural puppy fat as some would say. He was still sixteen mind you, but he had a lot of growing to do and his slight trail of hair that fell beneath the towel from his naval was prime example that Io was already in a state of change. It was easy to assume that he would come out the other side of his perturbation with a solid physique -but it was the change going on in the inside that had his mother worried.
Io passed his fingers through the short strands of his thick dark hair and squeezed the wet droplets onto the mirror surface in front of him. They slowly slid down in disarray. The light bounced off each individual droplet creating a look,
somewhat altered and fatigued, in a similar way to a circus show of mirrors would. Displaying an out of sort and
exaggerated caricatures of himself. It was unclear what improvisation came to light in Io's mirror of play. His psyche was already fragile and to this it would explain the thinking behind the uncertainty of his youth already on display.
The mood of the room fared no better but that was for the mirror to say. For its reflection bore a somewhat sombre clarity in words Io could not say. Revealing more than the obvious for it could not lie. Black trousers neatly pressed hung over a beautifully draped and festooned bedcover, beside which lay a perfectly starched white shirt and black tie. And by the foot of the bed sat a pair of black patented, finely polished boys slip-on shoes. The mirror told a story without uttering a single word, this was a day of mourning and destined to be a lengthy one at that.
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