A First Look at Alexander Armstrong's Evenfall: The Golden Linnet

Evenfall: The Golden Linnet may be publishing in September, but it has lived in my head since 2014! 

For someone who has been writing in one form or another for most of their life, it’s ridiculous how shy I was about putting an actual novel down on paper. 

It’s the story of Sam, an ordinary boy with an extraordinary destiny. A story of ancient magic and powerful enemies. Ultimately, it’s an epic adventure filled with bravery and friendship inspired by the stories that I loved sharing with my own four boys (aged from 17 down to 9 years old). 

I hope you enjoy it. 

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Chapter 27

Sam went through the entire house, packing everything he needed into his rucksack. When he’d finished, it was ten past ten. He changed into black tracksuit bottoms, a thick dark blue woolly jumper, a hoodie and a dark quilted coat, then carefully zipped the seal into the inside compartment of his rucksack. He’d have preferred to have it close to him in his coat pocket, but it felt less obvious hidden away.

On his way downstairs, he paused outside his dad’s room, where he could hear the water cascading down on to the pavement from the blocked gutter. It reminded him of what he had seen outside the window.

He slid his rucksack off, nipped in and dragged a chair over to the open window. Then, standing on the chair, he reached carefully through and up to the spattering gutter above. Feeling along, he quickly found the blockage: a great mound of soil where years and years of old leaves had built up. Sam removed several satisfying fistfuls, flinging them down on to the pavement below.

A brick was sitting heavily across the gutter’s pipe at the head of the pile of muck. The second Sam lifted it away, there was a thrilling surge as the great glut of water cleared all before

it and barrelled along towards the downpipe. The blockage, he realised, had been the cause of all the damp on his dad’s wall.

The brick in his hand, now he could see it, was perhaps not a brick, although about the right shape and weight. It was wrapped in polythene with three rubber bands around it. What was it? It felt . . . important. He longed to peel it open and see what was inside, but he couldn’t be late for Arabella so, unwilling to leave it behind, he wiped off the muck, chucked it in his rucksack and jumped down the stairs.

The hinges on the front door made their usual mournful little honk. Stepping out with his heavy rucksack over his shoulder, Sam wondered when he would hear that homely little sound again.

Outside, the full ferocity of the rainstorm hit him. Down the steps he ran, plashing on tiptoes through the deeper parts of the puddles alongside the dual carriageway, and then up and over the pedestrian bridge. He pulled up the collar of his coat to keep the rain out, but it seemed only to funnel all the drops straight down the back of his neck.

By Baths Bridge, the wind whipped viciously across the river’s surface, tearing through the downpour like a tornado through a wheatfield. It was dark apart from the eerie orange glow of a single street light on the far side of the river, where the wind was sending the branch of a tree berserk, throwing brutal shadows out across the river. Sam put his head down and ran across the bridge to the brick pier he’d seen from above, where he took refuge. The rain had soaked through every part of him.

It was 10.26.

Through the murk, Sam saw a large figure appear suddenly on the other side of the bridge, briefly blocking the dim light from the street. It disappeared into the shadows. He squinted, trying to make it out. It didn’t look much like an Arabella. He’d wait.

10.28.

A sudden, violent explosion made Sam leap. The orange street light blinked out. In the confusion that followed, as broken glass fell from the lamp casing, there was a scuffling on the other side, the yelp of a dog – but it was impossible to see what was going on.

As Sam’s eyes were adjusting to the total darkness, he heard urgent, gritty footsteps sprinting over the bridge through the downpour, to the side where he was hiding. Instinctively, he shrank as low as he could behind the brick pier. Was this a trap?

Or had he been followed?

Even without holding the seal in his hand, he realised he was channelling some of its power. He was aware not just of the rain, but of how it fell. He saw each drop, as silent as thistledown on its long, ponderous journey down to earth, joining the drum roll of tiny splashes only in its dying second. And then the smell of everything it touched – even things Sam never imagined had smells: rock; dust; the thick, bitter council paint on the road – hurled itself on to the air.

Sam stiffened. There was an unmistakeable new smell among all the other wet scents swirling around the riverbank. The sticky iron tang of warm blood. And a lot of it.

10:30.

The smell of blood had thrown Sam into a panic, but by listening to the breath in his nose as it flowed smoothly in and out he was able to ignore it and think calmly. The only question he had to answer was this: did he trust Arabella?

Yes, he decided. He did.

What happened next must have only taken seconds, but it felt like long minutes. Sam pushed himself off the wall and sprinted for the middle of the bridge. The wind found him and lashed and tore at his clothes. The golden seal felt warm against his back, through his rucksack. Someone shrieked his name – ‘Sam!’ – but it was lost in the maelstrom.

From off to the left through the dark stair rods of rain, came two flashes – Sam sensed their warmth on his face – followed immediately by two massive, hollow bangs. Two whip cracks fizzled against his wet hair and sliced off into the gloom. Footsteps pelted urgently over wet tarmac, getting louder. Coming straight for him through the storm.

In that instant, Sam’s vision soared up ten metres and circled around. In a brief flare of light, he saw precisely what he had to do. He hurled himself over the railing, vaulting off the bridge and down into the darkness below.

Chapter 28

Sam landed on the flat roof of a cargo barge motoring upstream at speed, his fall broken by a pile of coal bags. The gilded lettering on the front of the boat that he’d seen before he’d jumped spelled Arabella.

Sam’s thought process still hadn’t caught up with his reflexes when the boat doors opened. The man’s lopsided smile stopped the breath in Sam’s throat.

Uncle Jimmy.

He had binoculars round his neck and wore a military looking blue ribbed jumper, the type with cotton elbow patches, with the sleeves rolled up and filthy waterproof trousers. How could Sam ever have thought he wouldn’t recognise him? His uncle was the very essence of his mother. Jimmy folded him into a hug. ‘Hey, Sammut,’ he whispered in a husky voice.

Sammut! No one had called him Sammut since his mum died. Sam swallowed hard and held tightly on to his uncle, crumpling suddenly under the weight of overwhelming relief. His uncle was here. It was Uncle Jimmy who’d brought him the seal. Everything was going to be all right.

Jimmy ushered Sam through the cabin hatch, standing briefly at the barge’s steering wheel to nudge a chrome lever forward with the heel of his hand. The boat surged ahead and Sam felt the wind in his hair. They stood in silence until Baths Bridge had completely disappeared from view.

‘What was that shooting?’ Jimmy asked.

‘It was just a split second, but I think I saw three people,’ Sam said. ‘There was only one with a gun, but he was sprinting straight for me.’

‘Anyone hit?’

Sam shook his head, then quickly ran his hand carefully over his scalp to make sure. It was fine, the wetness was only water. He didn’t want to think how close he had come . . .

‘They followed you?’ Jimmy asked.

Sam nodded. ‘I didn’t know they were there till after I got to the bridge.’

‘Did you get a look at them?’

Sam shook his head.

‘It’s started, Sammy boy,’ said Jimmy. ‘There’s no way back to your old life from here, I’m afraid.’

‘What do you mean?’ Sam asked.

‘I’ll explain when we’re safely away,’ said Jimmy.

Sam concentrated on his breathing, trying to hold back the tide of thrill and dread flooding his system. All he could think of was that scent of blood. Its warmth, its horrible intimacy.

They chugged up the middle of the river in silence, standing in the open hatchway as the rain finally eased. They passed dense clumps of woodland on both banks, and when it felt as if they’d put enough between themselves and the bridge Jimmy pulled back on the throttle and turned off the ignition. The barge slowed silently against the current. Jimmy dropped an anchor off the front and another off the back, mooring them firmly in the middle of the river, then led Sam down the steps into the cabin.

‘This’ll buy us some time but we won’t have long. They know where we are,’ he said gruffly.

Sam had never been on a boat before. It was grimy and reminded him of the old coal hole round the back of Langley Terrace. He couldn’t see any machinery, but he could smell it strongly enough. Everything in the boat was rough wood, chipped in places, worn and polished in others through long use. There was a solid-looking wooden table on one side next to an old stove. Jimmy pulled out a stool for Sam. There were a couple of steaming baked potatoes on plates, surrounded by a pile of greasy foil wrappings.

‘Rule one,’ said Uncle Jimmy. ‘Always eat whenever you get a chance. I figured you’d be hungry. I also figured we’d get a bit more time, but waste not want not. Butter?’

Sam’s uncle sliced a thick wodge of butter straight from a pack and slotted it into the top of one of the potatoes. He slid the plate across to Sam and started on the other potato for

himself. The creamy smell of melted butter made the filthy surroundings instantly homely and warm.

‘Tell me everything,’ Jimmy said.

Sam picked up the potato and explained about Dad being so ill, and how they were about to lose their home, while he ate it in his hands. It had cooled enough not to scald him but was still hot enough for the butter to run down his chin. He was too hungry to care. With each mouthful, the horror receded, replaced by a taut sense of alertness.

He eyed Uncle Jimmy as he ate. It was extraordinary how familiar he seemed while still being very unlike the person he’d pictured. He was slim-built, but clearly strong. When he’d hugged him, Sam had felt how solidly he was put together. His face was grizzled but handsome, his cheeks, covered with a dusting of silver stubble, were slightly hollowed and his hair – it was clearly a long time since he had shaved his head – was short and blond, shot through with grey. Like Sam’s mum (and people had also said it about Sam), Jimmy’s green eyes had a mischievous look and seemed to glint permanently with humour.

Sam could sense his uncle appraising him too. His eyes darted about, one minute on Sam’s forehead, next on an ear, then his messy blond hair, then his chin, then back to his forehead.

‘You found Arabella in the nick of time,’ Jimmy said between mouthfuls. ‘I’m impressed.’ He nodded in approval. ‘Go and sit by the stove. That’ll dry you out.’

Sam polished off the last of his potato and did as he was bid, steam rising from his coat.

Jimmy sat forward. ‘Sam,’ he said, suddenly serious. ‘Listen. You’re more than a match for whatever lies ahead, okay? You’re a bright kid. But you are in great danger.’

‘I know,’ said Sam. ‘But no one’s told me why.’

‘What do you know about our family?’ said Jimmy. ‘On your mum’s side?’

Ken had asked the same thing, Sam remembered. Lit from above, he noticed the heavy bags under Jimmy’s eyes. His uncle looked exhausted.

‘I know they’re called Tempest, and . . . that’s about it,’ said Sam. ‘Tempesta,’ he added quietly, almost to himself.

Jimmy jolted. ‘Where did you hear Tempesta?’

‘It was just something this strange man said to my friend Ish,’ said Sam, surprised by his uncle’s reaction. ‘He ranted at him about “Tempesta” – there were other parts to it but it all sounded foreign.’

‘Portami la Tempesta . . .’ Jimmy murmured. All the colour had gone from his face.

‘That’s it. Who’s poor Tammy?’ asked Sam.

‘No . . .’ Jimmy collected himself. ‘Portami la Tempesta – it means “bring me the storm”. But it’s nothing, just a line from a song that came back to me when you said “Tempesta”.’ He looked straight at Sam. ‘You probably don’t know this, but we – the Tempests – are part of something big. Something ancient.’

Sam nodded. He’d worked that out already. The old symbol of the hand and the lightning bolts, all the strange things that had been happening to him – of course they were part of something ancient. He found the thought of ancient things reassuring.

‘What do you know about the Evening?’ Jimmy asked.

‘The evening? It . . . comes before the night?’ But Sam frowned, remembering the heading on his mum’s drawings.

‘Not that kind of evening.’ Jimmy paused, then sighed deeply. ‘The Evening are thousands of secret storytellers who started to come together in the Middle Ages. The Order of the Evening was made up of the five major Evening families. Their job is to serve the one true Tempest: a special individual who comes along every few generations. With me so far?’

Sam nodded, concentrating.

‘The Evening get their power from this Tempest. Now that power has run out, because there hasn’t been a Tempest for centuries,’ Jimmy continued. ‘The Order of the Evening was founded here in Durham, as a sort of secret society. It became immensely rich and powerful, using its influence to bring about peace and prosperity. Some people even thought it had magical powers. Squizz was researching it around the time she died.’

Sam’s heart squeezed. Squizz. His mum’s real name had been Eglantine – one of those old-fashioned names that pretty much guaranteed you’d be known by a nickname. And Squizz was the nickname that had found her.

‘She didn’t tell you anything about her research, did she?’ Jimmy asked. ‘Or give you anything . . . magical?’

Sam wanted to say that the seal Jimmy had given him was pretty magical, but the mention of his mother had brought a lump in his throat. He swallowed and shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

Jimmy ran his hands through his hair. ‘Most of what I know about the Evening I’ve just cobbled together from scraps of other people’s stories, so you should probably take it with a pinch of

salt. No one knows what became of them. The magic, the riches, even the Order themselves have all disappeared into thin air.’

‘Maybe they never existed,’ said Sam. It sounded like a fairy story to him.

‘Maybe,’ Jimmy conceded. ‘But all the whispers and half remembered tales I’ve heard are consistent on some points.’

‘Like what?’

Jimmy paused, as if once again deciding what to say. He cleared his throat. ‘The stories describe people who are able to . . . to move unseen through the world while staying in one place.’ He shot a glance at Sam, as if daring him to laugh. ‘They could inhabit time and space in such a powerful way that they could channel knowledge of events that happened on the other side of the world, from other places in time. They were diviners of truth . . .’

Sam felt as though if he moved, he’d betray himself in some way. He wanted to speak, to tell Jimmy everything, but instead he reached for his chain, tugging the pendant back and forth, back and forth.

Jimmy stared at the table, in deep thought. ‘I tracked down this old lady called Wenna McConchie to a Barnard Castle nursing home last year,’ he said finally. ‘I wanted to ask her if she knew anything about the Evening. She had strong connections to our family, you see.’

A lightning bolt went through Sam. That was a name from somewhere deep in his childhood – he could have sworn she was from a fairy tale – and it held a kind of magical glow even though he had no idea why. Wenna McConchie was an actual person, living in a nursing home in Barnard Castle? That was like being told Tinkerbell was working for the council.

‘But she wouldn’t even acknowledge me,’ Jimmy went on. ‘Just stared at the racing on the telly. The staff were very apologetic. Then, that same night, one of them called me and told me to hurry back. Apparently she’d started ranting about the one, the Tempest . . . They’d thought she was hallucinating, but I knew. I knew exactly what she was saying. Sam, I’m telling you, the Evening’s wealth and magic powers are true.’

‘Because of what some old lady said?’ asked Sam.

‘No, Sam. I’ve spoken with people all over the world about the Evening, trying to find the truth. There was this addled old guy I met in Hong Kong. He was the first. One of those people you try to ignore, but the more he spoke, the more I realised he knew a lot about who I was. He was strange.’ Uncle Jimmy frowned at a memory. ‘Then there was a monk I tracked down in France, and a wise woman in Russia. Tons of people. But there were certain things they all mentioned. And one word. I heard it again and again.’

‘And what was that?’

‘Bellasis,’ said Uncle Jimmy. ‘A place of power and magic. The home of the Tempest. Maybe if Squizz were still around, she’d be able to tell us about it, where to find it, what it all means – but she isn’t, and she can’t.’

‘But why does all this mean I’m in danger?’ asked Sam.

‘We are the last of the Tempest family bloodline, you and me. The Tempest family was head of the Order of the Evening. We are all that remains of the Order, its magic and its riches,’ Jimmy said calmly, although there was a fervent glint in his eye. He gestured with his hands, taking in the pair of them and their lowly surroundings. ‘But there are people out there, Sam, powerful people, who see the true Tempest – La Tempesta – as a person of supreme power. They know about the Order and crave what it had. And they’ll stop at nothing to get it. To make the entire Evening fall, forever.’

Sam was shaking his head. ‘Is someone seriously trying to kill us because of a fairy story about wealth and power?’

‘But, Sam, what if it isn’t a fairy story?’ Jimmy persisted. ‘I think the Order’s wealth and power still exists.’ He rose from his chair and put his hands on Sam’s head. ‘And, if you ask me, it’s all in here.’

Sam froze. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Our family’s ancient power,’ Jimmy said, ‘was being able to connect to an energy that exists in nature. They could not only take information from it, they could also bury things in it. Including themselves. And so I don’t think the Evening’s power did disappear. I think it just . . . went into hiding. I had a plan to protect you –’

There was a muted ping.

From a mobile phone. It came from outside. Just by one of the windows.

In a flash, Jimmy was out of the cabin. Sam had barely got to his feet before he heard a scuffle, and then his uncle was saying, ‘Sam, d’you know who this is?’

Jimmy came back inside. And next to him, dripping water on to the floor, was Ish.