by Craig Zerf
Janice downed the rum, lay back and, within minutes was asleep again.
Chapter 32
Commander Ammon had left the thinnest line of defense that he dared. A mere seven hundred battle Orcs, fifty trolls, five hundred goblin archers and around five hundred constructs to supply arrows, water and replace broken weapons. He had also placed four much smaller groups of warriors on the passes through the mountains that the Elven tribes had used to get through into the realm.
There was little, if no chance at all, that any of these defenders would make it through the gateway to the new world. But they all knew that. He had not asked for volunteers. He had simply instructed and they had obeyed. This was not bravery nor was it patriotism, it was merely inbred discipline. The Orcs, trolls, goblins and constructs had been selectively bred for many, many generations so as to be refined into the perfect tools for their particular job.
Orcs stood around five feet ten inches high, weighed three hundred plus pounds. Massively thick bones and two-inch thick gray hide. Eyes deep set to avoid injury, no discernable ears to get ripped off, no hair to hold on to and their noses little more than two holes in their face covered by skin flaps. Their large jaws were lined with rows of sharp canines and their three fingered hands sported long black talons, razor sharp talons. In short, they were perfect killing machines.
Goblins, however, were much sorter. Five feet tall, short bowlegs that caused them to waddle when they walked. Large eyes capable of seeing almost as well in the dark as in daylight. Long arms that reached almost to the floor and hugely overdeveloped chest and back muscles. Thus a five foot tall Goblin was capable of firing a six foot long recurved bow.
The trolls were little more than massive, twelve-foot tall, mountains of muscle. Slow witted and just capable of following commands, they were an unstoppable force when used correctly. Their ten-foot shields and twenty-foot pikes capable not only of forming a defensive wall but also of delivering a crushing advance.
Seth and the rest of the twelve mages that formed the magik-high-commission had formed a magik circle on a huge plain behind the city. There they had fasted for three days and they traveled collectively to the planet Earth and the destination, the stone circle in Cornwall. And now they were creating the gateway to their new world.
The physical size of the gateway would be in the region of six yards across by two yards high. Thus the population would have to file through the opening, marching five abreast. The column of refugees together with the orc-drawn wagons and the piles of supplies would be over twenty leagues long and would take around five days and nights to get through completely.
This meant that Ammon and his troops had to keep the Elven hordes off their backs for another few days.
Ammon heard Seth’s voice in his head as the mage far-spoke him.
‘Not long, commander. I think that you should begin to ready the populace. In a couple more hours we will have coalesced enough energy to open the portal.’
Ammon pulsed a thought of thanks back and strode off to ready the first wave of Orcs and goblins that would go through the gateway in force, in order to secure the area for the rest.
Chapter 33
Basel Ratford, the old commander in chief of the Belmarsh boys, was dead. Patrick’s rifle shot had blown off the back part of the chief’s foot, septicemia had set in within hours and by the end of the next day he was too weak to move.
So, in a show of human kindness and compassion, the Belmarsh boys had decided that anyone who was too pathetic to even feed themselves was far too feeble to be their leader and they decided to vote for a new one, leaving Basel to die slowly from dehydration.
The voting had turned into a full scale brawl and eventually, after three deaths, a monster of a man know to all as Ratfink, real name Jonathan Naybor, mass murderer and habitual steroid taker, became the next commander in chief. Unlike the former chief however, Naybor was an educated man. He had gained a history degree from Essex University before his lifetime incarceration and, in the last twelve years of his imprisonment, he had, through the Open University, garnered honors and a master’s degree in history and then a doctorate in Philosophy.
Officially he was J. Naybor MA (Hist) Ph.D AKA Ratfink AKA Commander in Chief the Belmarsh Boys.
He was a staunch follower of the Giovanni Gentile School of fascist philosophy. And saw himself as a cross between Mussolini, Hitler and Julius Caesar. Like many habitual murderers, he suffered from massive delusions of grandeur combined with clinical paranoia and megalomania. Up until the pulse, these delusions were being controlled by the ingestion of industrial quantities of Respiridone antipsychotic medication. Now, however, his psychosis was allowed full rein.
Already he had reorganized the structure of the Belmarsh boys. Under him he had nominated three Vice Presidents. All of them had master degrees. One he put in charge of enforcement or private body guarding and internal discipline. The second in charge of the army, or external discipline and the third in charge of what he called civics. Food, clothing shelter and organisational structures.
Naybor was not content to simply roam the countryside raping and looting. Not for him the nomadic life of the Mongolian horseman. No, he had decided that he was going to start a true kingdom. And to do that he needed a castle. Some form of physical defence with living quarters for his army and entourage.
That morning the boys had taken over the small village of Twyfram where they had decided to settle in for a few days. A church, a shop, a pub and a few houses. Naybor had stopped the men rampaging through the village, pillaging and destroying. Burned houses and dead citizens didn’t help anything. For a king needs subjects and land and water. So what was the point of murdering all of your subjects and burning all of your property to the ground?
So he had appropriated the largest house in the village and now he and his three VPs were poring over a large ordnance survey map that had been unrolled and placed on the dining room table.
The chief was looking for a castle. He pointed at a circle on the map.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘The fortified Abbey of Lilysworth.’ He turned to one of his VPs. ‘Cody, go and get some locals. I want to know what the hell this abbey place is.’
Cody saluted and headed for the door.
‘No, wait,’ called Naybor. ‘The girls. Kill two birds with one stone. Bring, oh say, five or six of the best looking girls. Young, late teens early twenties.’
The chief walked over to the window and looked out at the view. Rolling downs, hedges, apple trees. All in vivid shades of green. Truly God’s own country, he thought. He took a cigarette from a pack, placed it between his lips and waited. A VP leaned over and flicked a flame. The chief inhaled and carried on contemplating the view. His view.
The door opened and Cody led a gaggle of six girls into the room. They huddled into the corner. Afraid.
Naybor gestured to the one closest to him. Short, brunette, shoulder length hair. Blue eyes, large breasts. She shuffled towards him, her feet dragging in trepidation.
‘Come on, girl,’ he said. ‘No need to worry. I mean you no harm. Now, look here,’ he pointed at the map. ‘This abbey. What do you know about it?’
‘It’s an old abbey,’ she answered, her voice small and tight.
‘Obviously,’ said Naybor. ‘Have you been there?’
She nodded.
‘And?’ He encouraged her.
‘It’s big. Got a high wall all round it and a big wooden gate. It’s a school as well. Don’t know what the school’s called.’
‘How many students?’ Asked the chief. ‘Is it a boarding school?’
She nodded. ‘About three hundred I suppose. Maybe more.’
The chief grinned. ‘Perfect, absolutely perfect. Accommodation for the boys and more. Fortified, probably got some bloody serious headmaster’s house for yours truly. Prefectomundo.’
He swaggered over to the group of girls, his head held high ala Mussolini’s el Duce pose.
‘Spread
out, girls,’ he said. ‘Your commander in chief wants a gander at you.’
The girls shuffled into a ragged row and the chief walked down it. He paused at the third girl. She was tiny. Little more than a child. Her white t-shirt revealed adolescent breasts and her figure had yet to mature into the curves of womanhood.
‘How old are you?’ He asked. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Eleven. My name’s Tammy.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ shouted the chief. ‘Jesus H Christ. Cody, come here. What the hell is this? Do you think I’m a pedo? A little girl bonker?’ He slapped Cody so hard that the VP fell to the floor. The chief kicked him a few times. ‘Are you a baby bonker, Cody?’ He asked. ‘Is that why you chose this child? You know what we do to baby bonkers, don’t you?’
‘No, chief,’ yelled Cody. ‘Sorry, chief. My mistake. You said young so I got a spread. Look,’ he pointed at a red haired girl. ‘She’s maybe thirty-five or so. Young to old. Give you a choice, chief. Sorry.’
‘She’s eleven, you dick. Eleven.’ He kicked Cody again.
Tammy took advantage of the confusion to run for the door. She opened it and disappeared across the fields, running as fast as she could.
‘Ah, crap,’ growled the chief. ‘Now look what you’ve done. Get up, quickly.’ Cody staggered to his feet.
‘There,’ the chief pointed out of the window at the fleeing girl. ‘She’s getting away. Shoot her.’
Cody looked puzzled. ‘But, chief. If I shoot her then you’ll beat me up.’
‘No, Cody. If you bonk her I’ll kill you. Now shoot the bitch before she gets away. Can’t have people flouting the law that way. Just wont do.’
Cody went to the window, drew his nine-millimeter Browning Hi-Power, lined it up and pulled the trigger.
Tammy went down like her legs had been chopped out from under her, disappearing into the long grass.
A couple of the girls screamed.
Naybor held a finger to his lips. ‘Shut up.’ He cast his gaze along them, taking in the attributes of each one. Finally he spoke.
‘Ha, stuff it. I’m the chief, why choose. Cody, get them into the upstairs bedroom, make sure that they’re stripped and ready. I’ll be up in a few minutes.’
He strode to the window and looked for Tammy’s body. But it was hidden in the long grass and was too far away. It had been a good shot. A great shot, actually. He must remember to congratulate Cody. After all, a good leader knew when to be cruel and when to be kind. And he was a good leader, he thought. Perhaps the best ever.
Tammy lay in the grass. She hadn’t moved since she had tripped while running. The bullet that someone had fired at her had whistled over her head so close that it had actually flicked up a piece of her hair.
Her mother had always laughed at her clumsiness but this time, falling over had saved her life.
With great patience the young girl crawled through the long grass, working her way towards the woods. She had two things in her mind; firstly, get away from the terrible gang of men that had taken over the village. Secondly, warn the abbey that the gang was coming. She had been to the abbey before to listen to a music recital and she had liked both the place and the people. Especially the old professor who was the headmaster of the school.
In the back of her mind she did have a third concern. Tammy did not actually live in the village, she had gone on school holidays with her friend Rebecca and had no idea where her parents or her older brother, Marcus, were. Or even if they were still alive. But she had forced all thoughts of them from her mind in order to concentrate solely on survival.
After forty minutes of careful crawling she got to the edge of the forest and scuttled into the shelter of the trees. It took her a while to orientate herself and, once she had, she jogged off in, what she hoped was, the direction of the abbey.
That night she slept under a bush. Six hours of fits and starts. As the sun rose, so did she. She spent the first ten minutes sucking the dew off leaves to assuage her thirst. It worked better than she had hoped although it did leave a slightly bitter taste in her mouth. Then she continued her slow jog towards the abbey, keeping her eyes skinned for any strangers.
Around mid day she came across a small spring and she lay on her stomach, put her mouth into the water and drank until she felt fit to burst. By now her feet were a mass of blisters and she was exhausted. Although she was a fit young girl and had even been a member of the school track team; she had little body fat and had not eaten for two days now. To keep going, her body was now processing its own muscle fiber. Eating itself in a self-destructive need for energy.
Tammy could no longer jog and decided to walk fast for twenty steps then walk slowly for the next twenty, then rest for ten seconds. She kept this up for two hours before the ten-second rest became twenty seconds. Then a minute and, finally, she simply crawled to a clump of bushes on the side of the road and fell into an exhausted coma-like sleep.
She was awoken just after first light by the sound of people talking. She was too terrified to move lest someone see her so she could not get a look at them. She lay as still as death and waited. If she heard a female voice, she told herself, then she would reveal herself, but she had learned of late that groups of males were not to be trusted.
Twenty minutes later she heard a rattle of gunfire and knew that she had made the correct decision remaining hidden. She stayed curled up under the bushes for another hour, shivering as waves of fear and exhaustion washed over her. When she finally ventured out and started to walk again, every step was agony as the blisters on her feet burst and bled and the lack of liquids ensured that her joints and muscles were stiff and painful due to the surfeit of lactic acid that her dehydrated body could no longer drain away.
By the early evening she was still walking, one ragged step after the other. A simple automotive movement that her exhausted body was carrying out in the same way as she breathed in and out.
She was also starting to hallucinate. Large winged creatures flapped across her vision causing momentary black outs. Tiny undulations in the road became mountains worthy of Lord of the Rings landscapes. Her ears felt as though stuffed with cotton wool.
And then she came to a wall. A wall so tall and so vast as to mean that her journey was at an end. There was no possible way of getting over or around or through such a wall. She stared at the wall for a while. Thinking. And the more that she contemplated it the more she realized that something was wrong. The wall was at a strange angle. Eventually she worked it out and chuckled to herself. She was lying down. She had collapsed at the base of the wall. It was over. She fluttered in and out of consciousness. Grays and blacks and red spots surged across her vision.
And then a female face. Pale and beautiful and framed with long red hair smiled down at her. And a man lent over her. He was huge and his green eyes sparkled like jewels. He picked her up and cradled her to his chest while the girl stroked her hair. Someone held a water bottle to her lips and she drank, the water coursed through her. The finest champagne, its life giving properties swelling her dehydrated cells, thinning her blood, switching her kidneys back on. Life.
The big man carried her. Walking towards a gate in the huge wall. She felt like she was in a hammock on a ship. Cradled by his arms and safe from the elements.
‘They’re coming,’ she whispered to him. ‘They’re coming and they’re going to kill everyone.’
Nathaniel shook his head and smiled.
‘No, my darling,’ he said. ‘Whoever they are - they’re coming and they are going to try to kill everyone. But I won’t let that happen.’
And she smiled back at him and fell asleep. Secure in the knowledge that she had done the right thing.
Chapter 34
Papa Dante was impressed. He stood in front of his vardo, unarmed, staring up at the guards on the wall. The large wooden gates in front of him were further protected by rows of wooden stakes that would allow a wagon through but only via a torturous S that meant no one could charge
the gates.
Two young men stood on the wall, one armed with a shotgun and the other with what looked like some sort of .22 target rifle. They both had their weapons trained on him. Papa was not offended by this unfriendly gesture. Bad times oft called for bad behavior. And anyway, although neither of the young men on the ramparts knew it, Papa had placed two of his men in the trees and they had their assault rifles trained on the defenders. So, if all went wrong Papa was reasonably confident that his men would fire first. After all, the youngsters on the parapet both looked extremely nervous. And young. Very young. Also Papa had approached in peace looking only for some help with the young injured soldier that they had with them.
Then Papa heard some footsteps behind him. He turned to see a tall man in full combat gear. In his right hand he held an M249M22 machine gun. In his left, clutched together by their barrels, two assault rifles. Two assault rifles that had belonged to his men in the trees. The man dropped the assault rifles and brought the machine gun to bear. Papa noticed that, incongruously, the man also had an old-fashioned battle axe clipped to his belt.
‘How ya’ll doing?’ He asked.
Papa nodded. ‘We be doing fine, good sir. We be doing fine.’ He pointed at the rifles. ‘My men,’ he continued. ‘Are they?’ He drew a finger across his throat.
The soldier shook his head. ‘Unconscious. They’ll be fine. Wake up with a headache and a bit of embarrassment. Nothing permanent. So how can I help?’
‘We have a young man with us,’ said Papa Dante. ‘Found him and a young lass in less than fortunate circumstances. The young man is a soldier. Looks to be a captain by his uniform. The lady is a doctor. The soldier needs medicine. Antibiotics. We have done what we can but when we saw this place we thought it worth the ask.’