by Craig Zerf
Nathaniel felt bile rise in his throat as he remembered the stew from the night before. Rich and flavorful. Slightly fatty. The room spun around him and he forced his head back into the game.
‘You can’t eat people,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘I…because. It’s evil.’
‘Says who?’
‘Look,’ continued Nathaniel. ‘You just can’t. No argument, end of story.’
‘I see,’ said Luckman.’ So you are now the judge and jury of all that you see. In a world gone mad you are the only sane one left. The guardian. What gives you the right? Stuff you very much, marine master sergeant. Stuff you utterly and completely. A couple of shotguns and a big axe do not give you the right to decide the path of the new world. We do what we have to do to stay alive. No more and no less. We are not killing for pleasure. We kill for survival. Without us many of these patients would die lingering horrible deaths. With us, at least they are kept as comfortable as possible and, in the end, their death is swift and they help others to live. We give their lives meaning. Who are you to take that away, you self righteous prick?’
On the floor the fat nurse giggled. ‘Prick,’ she snorted. ‘Prick, prick, prick.’
Nathaniel stood for a while. The strength of his emotions battered away at him like a gale. He could feel the storm picking at his riggings, threatening to tear away his anchor. His very humanity.
Eventually he spoke.
‘Where is my horse?’
‘If you go back down this corridor. Turn left at the stairway at the end. Follow it up until you get to a door. The door leads outside. The stables are at the back.’
‘What about the gates?’
Luckman put his hand in his pocket, drew out a large key and threw it to Nathaniel who caught it.
‘Lock the gate behind you. Throw the key back in.’
Nathaniel walked backwards to the door, opened it.
‘Sergeant,’ said Luckman. ‘Good luck. I mean it.’
The marine stared at the doctor for a while.
‘Go to hell, doctor. I mean it too.’
And Nathaniel left the building.
Chapter 6
It had been two weeks since commander Ammon and mage Seth had gone to the fishing village of Portnew to introduce themselves to the humans. And the meeting had been very prosperous. Ammon had set up a trading agreement with the village. In return for fish, fish oil and samphire edible seaweeds, Ammon had agreed to leave a contingent of battle orcs and goblins to protect the villagers from attack by roving groups of bandits. Two hundred orcs and one hundred goblins archers had been left behind with instructions to build a fortified stockade across the only entrance to the village. This would include large gates that would be constantly manned.
Ostensibly, the Fair-Folk now controlled access both in and out of Portnew. And they were being rewarded for the privilege.
Commander Ammon had wasted no time. As soon as he and Seth had returned to the Fair-Folk encampment he had put together another twenty bands of emissaries, each complete with their own contingent of battle orcs and goblins. They were all furnished with the same task. Do the same as Ammon had done to Portnew.
Within ten days the Fair-Folk had struck up similar agreements with another twenty-two towns and villages stretching from Coverack in the south to Polzeath in the north of the county.
Each one of these places had a minimum of two hundred battle orcs and one hundred goblins. Some of the larger establishments, had as many as five hundred orcs. Supplementing these permanent forts, Ammon had also arranged another twenty sets of fast battle groups, one hundred orcs and fifty goblins each, to patrol between the towns and villages on a constant rotational basis, checking on command structures, relaying messages and bringing intel back to Ammon.
To all intents and purposes, Cornwall was now under the control of the Fair-Folk.
***
Donal Treago was the eldest of nine brothers. Their ma wasn’t Catholic or anything. She simply enjoyed having children. Although, in all fairness, she had said that the last three boys were her attempt to have a daughter. She never did produce a female of the line and died giving birth to Jamie, younger than Donal by some twenty years.
When the pulse had hit, Donal had gathered the clan, including all of the relatives from the Bescoby side of the family. All told, including women and children, there were over one hundred and thirty of them. Sixty men and teenagers of near adult size and capability.
Between the entire clan they owned a substantial swath of land in central Cornwall. More than enough to subsist on. However, the unseasonable winter had taken its toll on both their crops and their livestock and they had been driven to hunt. And not only for game. They had also turned to raiding small hamlets and villages. Fishing villages were the most profitable as they often had an abundance of both fresh and dried fish, a great source of protein.
It had been over two weeks since the last raid and it was time. The clan had gathered and Donal had decided that they would march to Tryree, a fishing village on the west coast of Cornwall, some twelve miles from the Treago farm. As always, their plan was simplicity itself. Every adult capable of fighting would be armed with either shotguns or hunting rifles. They would simply advance, en masse, towards the village. Threats would be made and dissenters would be shot. Then they would strip the village of food and leave.
The first part of the plan went well. The march was uneventful.
But when the clan arrived at the village they found that the only entrance was blocked by a six-foot high wooden stockade. Built into the stockade was a sturdy double gate and, on each side of the gate a ten-foot tower. There appeared to be no defenders on the wall itself, or on the towers.
After a brief confabulation, Donal and ten men approached the gates. They walked up, weapons at the ready. When they were ten feet from the gates they stopped and Donal called out.
‘Hey! Open the gates. We mean no harm. We have come to trade.’
After less than a minute the gate creaked open and something stepped out.
There was a collective intake of breath.
‘What they hell?’ Expressed Donal.
In front of them was an armor clad being. Perhaps five foot ten, dressed in full battle armor but without a helmet, holding a broadsword and buckler.
And it was not human. Grey, rubber-like skin. No nose or ears. Deep set black eyes. Massive claws on the end of each finger.
The thing cast its gaze over the clan.
‘You have not come in peace,’ the thing rumbled. ‘You are obviously a party of war. Where are your wagons, your women folk, children?’
‘We left them at home,’ shouted Donal. ‘Now let us in, you pig ugly monster, or I swear, there will be hell to pay.’
The creature tilted its head to one side, thinking. Then it spoke again.
‘Go away or we will kill you all. I have spoken. Now obey or die.’
The thing turned its back on the clan and walked back into the gate. As it did so, Donal raised his shotgun and fired. A volley of pellets struck the creature’s back. Some pellets bounced off the armor, some penetrated its flesh.
Immediately the air was filled with a sound like a huge flock of birds taking wing and a shadow passed over the sun. The clan looked up to see a cloud of over one hundred yard-long steel tipped arrows arcing through the sky towards them.
‘Oh crap,’ said Donal as he looked up. ‘Run!’
Before the first volley had even struck, the second had been launched. And then the third as the goblin archers did what they did best.
The sound of steel striking flesh thudded across the land as the clan was stuck down by the hail of missiles.
And then the gates were flung open and the battle orcs poured forth, ululating and screaming as they came.
To call it a battle would be vastly exaggerating things. It was a mere slaughter. Eight minutes of broadswords cleaving human flesh. Eight minutes of screaming and pleadi
ng and agony. Eight minutes of death.
And then silence.
The orcs had defended the village. A pact had been sealed. They were now, truly, allies.
From the village the cheers of the thin skins could be heard as they sang their praises of the Fair-Folk’s soldiers.
Chapter 7
The Jesuits say, give me a child at seven and I shall show you the adult. If that saying is true then Emily Thomas, Milly to her friends, was going to grow up to be forthright, confident, caring and inquisitive.
If she was going to grow up at all. And, at the moment, that did not look probable.
There were three bad men. One stood over her. He had open sores all over his face and his breath smelt of rotten meat. It made Milly’s tummy feel sick. The two other bad men stood over her parents. Both her mother and father lay on the floor. The men hadn’t bothered to tie them up. They hadn’t even knocked them to the floor.
The fact was that both of her parents were on the very edge of starving to death, their bodies as drawn and emaciated as concentration camp victims. Milly was still relatively healthy. This was because her parents had ensured that she was fed and watered first. To the point that they had ensured their own starvation. It was the only way that they were able to keep their seven-year-old daughter alive.
The men had already ransacked the house and found no food. Runny sore man had kicked her daddy a few times and then had come to stand over her.
Eventually he spoke.
‘You can have the old one,’ he said to the two other men. ‘I’m gonna do the little one.’
‘No ways,’ said one of the other men. ‘This scrawny old bitch is almost dead. I ain’t into doing dead people. I’ll wait my turn with the girl. I’m a patient man.’
The third man giggled and kicked her daddy again. ‘I’ll do the old bird. Reckon she’ll stay alive long enough. Ain’t fussy. It’s been a while.’
Runny sore man undid his belt and dropped his trousers to the floor.
Then he made a strange noise. A grunt. Like someone had punched him in the stomach. He sank to his knees and then, ever so slowly, his head literally rolled off his neck and fell onto the floor.
Blood squirted high and Milly screamed.
Standing behind the runny sore man was another man. Tall with black hair and emerald green eyes. In his right hand he held an axe. His face was pale with anger, his jaw muscles taut. Without saying anything he swung right, whipping the axe in a semi-circle, level to the ground. It cleaved through the giggling man’s neck, causing his head to leap from his shoulders. Without pause the axe twisted and returned, striking the third man on his upper arm and lopping it off. The deadly blade continued its journey of death and clove through the man’s body, smashing ribs and muscles and cartilage as it hewed him in half.
The big man wiped the axe one of the dead men’s shirts and clipped it back onto his belt. Then he knelt down next to Milly. When he spoke his voice was quiet. Gentle. Caring.
‘Please don’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘I am your friend. I am here to help. Trust me. Did they hurt you?’
Milly shook her head.
‘Good,’ said the man as he stood up and walked over to her mommy and daddy.
He knelt next to them. First he checked her daddy, holding his hand against her daddy’s neck for a while. He shook his head to himself and then did the same to her mommy. He nodded and took a canteen of water from his webbing. Opened it. Held her mommy’s head up and trickled water into her desiccated mouth.
Most of it dribbled out but he was patient. Patient and tender. And eventually she started to swallow. After a few minutes her eyelids fluttered and she stared up at the big man, slowly coming into focus.
‘My baby?’ She croaked.
‘She’s safe,’ said Nathaniel.
The little girl came over and took her mother’s hand.
The mother smiled.
‘Take care of her,’ she said to Nathaniel.
The marine nodded. ‘I will.’
She smiled. And, slowly, the light drained from her eyes, turning the windows to her soul into mere dead baubles.
‘Mommy?’
Nathaniel picked up the girl and held her tight.
‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ he said. ‘Your mommy and your daddy are gone. They’re in heaven now, with God.’
Milly started to cry. ‘No. I want God to give them back. It’s not fair. Make him give them back.’
Nathaniel patted her back and held her until the tears stopped.
‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’ He asked.
‘Milly.’
‘Nice name. Okay, Milly. I’m going to put you down, then we need to go outside. I am going to dig a grave for your parents. I want you to collect as many flowers as you can. Okay?’
Milly nodded.
‘Good girl. Come now.’
Nathaniel dug the grave deep and he laid the couple down together. Milly insisted that he get a couple of pillows from the bedroom to lie under their heads. After he filled the hole in, Milly scattered the flowers over it. There weren’t many due to the cold. Mainly the muted pinks and yellows of flowering shrubs.
‘Would you like to say a prayer?’ Asked Nathaniel.
Milly nodded.
‘Our father, who art in heaven, Harold be thy name. Umm…forgive us our tesspass…passer. And deliver us our evil. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ said Nathaniel. ‘That was very nice, Milly. Well done.’
He led her to his horse and lifted her up onto the saddle. Then he climbed up behind her and kicked the horse into a walk.
‘What’s the horse’s name?’ Asked Milly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Nathaniel. ‘I’ve never asked him.’
‘That’s silly. Horses can’t talk. You have to name him.’
‘Okay then, Milly. Give him a name.’
‘Tintin.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes,’ said Milly. ‘Tintin.’
‘Tintin it is then.’
‘And what’s your name?’
‘I’m Nathaniel. Nathaniel Hogan.’
‘That’s quite a long name,’ said Milly. ‘I think that I will call you Nate.’
‘Nate?’
‘Yes.’
Nathaniel shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
They rode on in silence. After a while Nathaniel realized that Milly had fallen asleep. He held her tight and they continued on their way.
He had left the asylum four days ago and had only lucked across Milly’s predators because he had heard the men as they were ransacking the house. He would have left them to it but, at the last moment decided to take a look into the house. Just in case.
And now he had a young girl to take care of.
He made camp early, guiding the horse, Tintin, into the forest and picking a spot with his usual care. Sheltered from the weather, out of direct line of site of any trails.
He nudged Milly awake.
‘Hey, little one. Time to get off. We make camp here.’
He dismounted and lifted Milly down.
‘You collect as much wood as you can, Milly. But don’t go too far. Make sure that you can still see me at all times, okay?’
Milly nodded and started to pick up kindling.
As was Nathaniel’s custom, he built up three walls with snow, laid down his tarpaulin, laid the furs on top and then stretched the second tarp over the structure to form a low roof.
Then he went to his saddle bag and dug out a brace of pigeon that he had caught and plucked that morning. Milly had made a good-sized pile of wood near the front of the bivouac and Nathaniel built a small fire. He put a cast iron pot on the flames and threw in some snow to melt. As soon as the snow had become water he put a couple of handfuls of nettle leaves and sliced burdock roots in and then chucked the pigeons on top.
Next he got up and went searching for a birch tree. He found a good specimen not far from the camp and, taking his sharp knife, drilled a hole in the trunk. Then he
placed a mug on the ground and fashioned a small run off using a piece of bark, draining the tree sap into the mug. Whilst the sap was draining he took the time to set up a few rabbit snares.
It didn’t take long to fill the mug and when he had, he plugged the hole with snow and carried the mug back to camp.
‘Here,’ he offered the mug to Milly.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a gift from the trees,’ said Nathaniel. ‘Taste it. It’s called Fairy juice. It makes you strong.’
Milly took a cautious sip and her eyes registered her surprise.
‘Wow,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s sweet. Like honey. Thank you, Nate.’
Nathaniel nodded. He would tap the tree again the next morning and continue to feed her the sap for as long as birch trees were available. Because, although Milly was relatively healthy, she was painfully thin and the sap was high in carbohydrates, minerals and glucose. Perfect to get some meat on her bones.
While the stew simmered on the fire, Nathaniel took one of his black mink fur blankets and, using his knife and a length of leather cord he fashioned a small cape with a hood. He carved a neck clasp from a piece of wood and a loop of cord so that the cloak could be pulled tight against the weather.
Milly watched him with interest, sipping at her mug of sap.
Nathaniel held up the cloak.
‘Here, try it on.’
Milly finished her drink, put the mug down and came over. The marine slipped the cloak over her back.
She pulled it tight around her.
‘Snuggly,’ she said. ‘So warm.’ She gave the marine a kiss on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’
The marine scowled. ‘Yeah, well. Whatever. Let’s eat.’
After the meal Nathaniel put Milly into the bivouac and spread another fur over her. She was asleep within minutes, warm and full for the first time in many weeks.
The marine sat next to the fire for a while. As was his habit he tried to conjure up a small ball of fire like the old gipsy had shown him. But it was to no avail.