50K Complete!

Clockwork Heart 2, NaNoWriMo, Steampunk Comments (2)

Woo-hoo! Came in just under the wire this time, but I’m happy to have made it at all. This month was pretty hectic.

You can see my official NaNoWriMo page here, and my unofficial list of NaNoWriMo novels here, if you’d like to get an idea of my previous years’ attempts.

At 50,076 words, of course, Obstruction Currents is far from being complete — in fact, I’d hazard a guess that it’s maybe only a third, or perhaps a bit more than that, done right now. Clockwork Heart ran 119,827 words in the final, edited MS. Heck, I’ve only just got my characters back inside Ondinium, rather the worse for wear … they still have a crime to investigate and solve and, well, let’s just say a lot more to do, including another jaunt beyond the country’s borders.

So, here’s one last scene, explaining what I mean when I say “the worse for wear.” It contains spoilers if you haven’t read Clockwork Heart yet, and, of course, it’s very, very much a rough draft, so don’t get too invested in it. It could be radically changed or even vanish completely by the time I finish the manuscript….

The hands on her were cold, and so was the ground beneath her head and back. She turned her face away, trying to open her eyes, but something was gluing them shut. Whoever was touching her didn’t stop — she felt a rough grip running down her arms and legs, then pushing her ribs. She twisted away and gasped at the pain in her neck and back. Her head pounded as though it were going to split open.

Then the fingers were pushing her eyes open. Sticky, crusting blood peeled off her lids and eyelashes. She blinked as involuntary tears rose.

“Icarus.”  Flames danced off a bloody mask and the voice was rough and gravelly but familiar. She blinked again, feeling cold tracks running down her face as the tears overflowed, or maybe that was the ice rain. She tried to focus.  Pinpoints of light flared around the edge of her vision

“Am —”

“Can you fly?”

She stared at him, struggling to understand. His face and pale blond hair were black with blood and soot and there was something in his expression she had never seen before. His hands tightened on her shoulders and he pulled her up into a sitting position. She cried out as twisted and strained muscles protested.

“Can you fly, Icarus? We need help.”

This time the words registered, and so did his expression — desperation.  She crooked her head to one side, wincing at the effort.

He’d jammed a makeshift torch between two sheared-off edges of metal on the side of one of the overturned train cars. It lit several feet around them, and she saw broken glass glittering around them. Or maybe it was ice, because the ice rain still pounded around them, skittering off the torn metal and bouncing off Amcathra’s tattered and bloody uniform.

[...]

“Cris!” She lurched forward, grabbing Amcathra as she struggled to stand. He hissed in pain and collapsed, and she realized he’d been crouched with one leg stretched out, off-balance.  She ignored him, ignored the pulling sensation in her muscles as she got to her feet, ignored the way her vision blurred and darkened.  She drew in ragged breath.

Tears ran down her face, and she couldn’t seem to stop them. “Cris!”

“He lives,” Amcathra said, his voice tight as he grit his teeth. “Fly to the cable station. We need help.”

“Where is he?”

The lictor sat up and grabbed the armature buckles around her waist, yanking her backward. Taya staggered and stared down at him, ready to strike out — but something in his face stopped her.

“He was bleeding. I stopped it. But he needs help. Now.”

Taya felt a roaring in her ears. Cristof bleeding? In danger?

“Where is he?”

The lieutenant fought back to his knees, grimacing, and clutched his injured leg a moment. Sweat or melted ice ran down his face. He caught his breath and lifted his arm to point.

She turned around. Cristof wasn’t there, but her wings were visible, half-caught in an open window, still locked down.

“No, no … where is he?”

“Now, Icarus!”

“Oh, Lady,” she whispered, staggering toward them and fumbling for the key to the locks with blood-covered fingers. “Oh, Lady, don’t. Not yet.”

She tried to climb up the bent side of the car, slid back down, screamed with frustration, and tried again.  Ice and blood made her hands slip on the cold metal. She threw herself against it, feeling cramps in her neck and shoulders, and dug her nails into the splintered decorative wood paneling that bore the train’s name and the car’s number. Her grip held and she dragged herself forward until she was flat on the tilted side-turned-roof.  Still laying flat, she reached down and groped for the locks.

The key fell from her numb fingers into the darkness below.

She shouted oaths and pounded her fist on the side of the car, then looked out at Amcathra. The lictor had pulled himself back up to his feet and was holding up the torchto give her more light. His face was drawn and horrible to behold [...].

drupagliassotti @ November 30, 2008