by Craig Zerf
‘Really?’ Asked Lonny skeptically.
‘Really,’ affirmed Jack. ‘I think that we should head there. It would be nice to be a part of something again. Be normal. Sleep in a bed. Belong.’
The twins nodded. 'Okay, Jack. Let’s do it. Do you know the way?’
‘I do.’
The next morning the three companions headed off with a purpose.
***
Seth Hil-Nu took a sip of the ice-cold sherbet, savoring the taste of orange, lime, peach and rose petals. Like most of the Fair-Folk he had become hopelessly addicted to the fruit and flower petal based drinks, the combination effecting his alien makeup in much the same way that alcohol effected humans.
Commander Ammon drank only fresh water. At room temperature.
‘This so called Free State worries me,’ he said.
‘No need,’ said Seth. ‘We patrol the area in front of the wall and, to my knowledge, hardly any humans even know that it exists.’
‘True,’ agreed Ammon. ‘But I sense great power beyond the wall. And I like not the rumors of the human they call The Forever Man.’
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ insisted Seth. ‘Myths started by a desperate people who clutch at straws.’
‘Yet their mages manage to keep you out,’ countered Ammon.
‘True,’ admitted Seth. ‘They have some talent with shielding. But we shall penetrate their shields. It is merely a question of time. I have instructed the magic circle to change their tactics. Now, instead of bludgeoning away at them we have adopted a more insidious approach. We have flooded the area with subtle power and wait for it to seep in, to find the smallest of cracks in their defense and slowly ease its way through. Like water breaking a rock. Slowly but surely.’
‘How long?’ Asked Ammon.
‘Not long,’ assured Seth. ‘Not long.’
Ammon sighed in exasperation. ‘Not long is an unacceptable time frame,’ he said. ‘I need a firmer commitment, senior mage. In the meantime I am going to send a small team to attempt to achieve clandestine observation. Perhaps even sneak in past the human sentries.’
Seth raised an eyebrow in disbelief. ‘But, commander. That would be placing one of the Fair-Folk in great danger. Do you really think that the risk versus the reward warrants such a step?’
‘I will not send one of us,’ replied Ammon.
‘But who else? We cannot trust any of the humans. Even the Worthies are not beyond reproach. To be honest, we still aren’t that sure how these people think. They are illogical, stubborn and contrary.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of humans either. I was thinking of sending a single Orc. I plan on sending sergeant Kob.’
‘The strange Orc?’ Questioned Seth. ‘I have heard of him. Some say that he should have been put down. He fits not the mold and, I have heard tell, that he thinks. Actually thinks as opposed to simply obeying. The pit masters say that he is an abnormality brought on by Orcs associating too closely with humans. It has clouded the replication magiks and resulted in a faulty reproduction.’
‘I agree,’ said Ammon. ‘But I feel that his abnormalities might be put to our advantage. I have spoken to him and he grasped the concept of a clandestine operation instantly, something that no other Orc would be capable of. Also, he claims to have met the so-called Forever Man. In fact he engaged him in single combat.’
‘Really? What did he have to say about him?’
Ammon shrugged. ‘Orcs are not given to great skill with their verbal expression. He simply said that the human was a good fighter.’
‘So what made him think that he was facing the mythical Forever Man?’
He claimed that the human he fought was faster and stronger than him, as well as being able to absorb more physical punishment.’
‘Never,’ scoffed Seth. ‘Thin skins could never out-muscle and Orc. It’s impossible.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Ammon. ‘But Orcs have never been known to lie. So now I hope that you can appreciate my concern a little more.’
‘I do, my old friend,’ replied Seth. ‘Indeed I do.’ The mage downed the rest of his sherbet and shuddered nervously.
Chapter 6
There were sixty of them. They were equally distributed between the ten strange looking craft that they rode in. Six men in each. The craft were constructed of wooden planks bound together in the overlapping caravel method and were fashioned with a low, wide profile and had two long outriggers, one per side. A single lugsail stood high on each vessel.
The rig was perfectly suited to skimming across the ice and slush that the Irish Sea had become since the global cooling that had followed the pulse. It also sailed well across any open water that it came to.
This was no fishing smack. There were no nets and no derricks for lifting. But there was a fair sized hold. Because this was a craft designed with only one purpose in mind – raiding.
Getting in fast, loading up with spoils and getting out.
***
Angus Hume set his last game snare on the top of the cliffs overlooking Portavaddie, stood up, stretched and stared out at the Irish Sea. As usual, visibility was down to less than a mile, confounded by the perpetual fog that lurked above the icy surface. Small fishing boats could venture a mile or so out to sea before they came up against solid sheets of ice and the broken teeth of countless small icebergs.
Still, even in those conditions, the fishing was spectacularly good with fish stocks having increased tenfold since the pulse had put a cessation to all industrial scale commercial fishing. As a result, the village was relatively well off, in the scheme of things. Food was plentiful, they had a brisk trade in smoked fish, bone meal and fish oil and wanted for nothing.
The main reason that Angus bothered to trap rabbits was to offer the villagers a choice between fish and game. Also, he cured the fur and sold the pelts to widow MacGeekie who made mittens that were in big demand in the interior.
In fact, it would be safe to say that Portavaddie was one of the few places that was doing much better after the pulse than before.
And then, in the distance, Angus saw what looked like a group of water striders. Low and flat with two long legs sticking out either side. As they got closer he recognized them for what they were. Some sort of sail powered craft.
They moved with a particular grace and speed, skimming across the ice and water like they were hovering above it and, in no time at all, they had pulled up onto the beach below the village.
The men disembarked swiftly and formed up on the beach. Four men in front and behind them, eight rows of seven. Even at the distance that Angus was he could see that the men were well armed. Short swords and long spears, perhaps eight foot in length. But the most striking part of their weaponry were their shields. Round in shape and covered in highly polished gold, each one reflecting back the pulse light in an orgasm of color.
They started to march towards the village and Angus’ heart sank. It was patently obvious from the marching men’s demeanor that this was no trade delegation. There would be neither offer of payment nor talk of deals. These were men who had come to take what they wanted by blade and by fist.
These were raiders.
Angus dropped his snares and water flask, drew his short sword and ran as fast as he could down the rugged mountain track, slipping and sliding as he did, his old limbs unequal to the task but his fear and anger driving him hard nonetheless.
***
Effemy Gordania sat on a bale of straw. In front of her sat her students. Mister bunny, Patrick the postman, wooden dog and Raggie rag doll. She had fashioned chairs out of lengths of kindling and the stable wall behind her served as her blackboard.
Today she was teaching her toys mathematics and wooden dog was being particularly obtuse. But Effemy was a good teacher, kind and patient. Much like her mother who, in actuality, was the real village teacher and was tasked with teaching the children of Portavaddie their three R’s.
But today was a Sunday so there was no school. In fact t
here wasn’t much of anything, Sunday being well observed in Portavaddie, a village that had more churches than it did pubs.
But before Effemy could explain the math problem to wooden dog in more detail, she was interrupted by the sounds of shouting. Grown up shouting. Men’s voices. Guttural and incoherent. Shouting for shouting’s sake. Not for communication.
Then she heard another sound. It was a sound that she had never heard before, so she got up from her hay bale and walked around the corner to take a look.
The sound that she had never heard before was the sound of metal striking metal. Of blade clashing against blade as the surprised men of Portavaddie fought for their lives. And the lives of their families.
And then the shouting turned to screams of agony and yells of terror as the raiders started to decimate the civilian population. There seemed to be no answer to their long spears. And they moved as one. Close drilled and deadly, golden shield to golden shield, spears stabbing, swords hacking and boots trampling.
The main street ran red with the free flowing of blood and gore and the raiders split up to seek out more victims. A group of seven raiders ran past Effemy, ignoring her completely.
The little girl ran back to her classroom and gathered up her toys.
‘Quiet,’ she urged them. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe. We’ll hide in the stables.’
Effemy ran into the stables, went to the back and burrowed into the piles of hay, covering herself completely.
She held wooden dog’s mouth shut as they all lay still, because she knew that wooden dog was very scared and wanted to cry. But she also knew that he mustn’t or else the bad men would find them and stab them with their long spears and make their blood spill out of them.
‘Quiet,’ she whispered to wooden dog. ‘Be very quite.’
***
Angus lay with his back against the wall, legs splayed out in front of him like a child at play. His short sword lay broken and notched at his side. He had been stabbed in the shoulder and his left leg. The bleeding had eased but he simply did not seem to have enough energy to move himself, try as he might. And, to be honest, he didn’t really care anymore. He was old, he had put up a good fight and there was no shame in simply slipping away.
He heard a slight sound and looked up to see a little girl standing in front of him. She was holding a carved wooden dog with felt ears.
‘Hello sweety,’ he croaked.
‘Hello,’ she replied. ‘Are you sore?’
Angus nodded. ‘A little bit,’ he admitted.
‘Everyone is dead,’ answered Effemy.
Angus peered around him. It appeared that the little girl was correct. Strangely the raiders had not set fire to everything. They had systematically gone through every house and removed anything of value that they could find. Cutlery, coins, weapons, fine clothing and blankets. Preserved food.
They had left the village a lifeless worthless hulk.
When he turned his head back the little girl was gone. But within minutes she returned, carrying a sewing basket. She opened it and pulled out various lengths of bandage.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Let’s try to make you better.’
Angus took a deep breath and, for the little girls sake, he made himself care again.
‘You’re Catriona’s girl, aren’t you?’ Asked Angus. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Effemy.’
‘Pretty name,’ said Angus. ‘It means “Good Speaker”. Did you know that?’
Effemy nodded. ‘Daddy says that I’m always speaking. He says that he should have named me Shysie ‘cause it means “Silence” then maybe a wouldn’t talk so much.’
Angus chuckled. ‘Maybe. Effemy, could you help me here? Hold put you finger on the bandage while I tie it tight.’
The old man pulled the bandage tight on his leg and then, after a few attempts at strapping his shoulder wound he gave up. The angle was too awkward and, although Effemy tried to help she wasn’t strong enough to bind the bandage tightly enough. Eventually Angus simply fashioned a sling from the length of linen so that, at least, he could take the weight off his arm and keep it semi-immobilized.
‘Can we go and find my mommy and daddy now?’ Asked Effemy.
‘Where is your house?’ Enquired Angus.
The little girl pointed down the road. ‘Last one on the left. With the green door.’
Angus pulled himself to his feet, wincing at the pain as he did so.
‘I tell you what, Effemy my sweet,’ ha said. ‘You wait here with your dog and I’ll go and take a quick look for your parents. Okay?’
Effemy nodded and the old man limped down the street towards the house. He glanced at the bodies sprawled alongside the road as he walked, checking to see if any might be alive. But the long spears had dealt wounds of such savagery and depth as to have ensured death. He marveled that he was still alive and put it down to the fact that his wounds probably looked more life threatening than they actually were.
The green door to Effemy’s house was open and he stepped inside, waiting on the threshold for a few seconds to allow his eyes to adjust to the interiors gloom.
Effemy’s father lay on his back in the middle of the sitting room. He had died badly, his torso and face a mass of deep cuts. In his right hand he held a bloodied knife, so he must have stabbed someone at least.
The little girl's mother lay at the bottom of the stairs. Her throat had been cut.
Her dress was still ruched up around her waist and her legs were sprawled open exposing her nakedness to the uncaring world.
Angus pulled her dress down to cover her. Then he closed her eyes.
He shut the door behind him as he left the house and limped back to Effemy.
He knelt down in front of her and gathered her into his arms, ignoring the pain of his shoulder wound.
‘I’m sorry, sweety,’ he said. ‘Mommy and daddy have gone to heaven.’
Effemy said nothing but the old man could feel her tears running down his cheek and onto his neck.
Angus held her until she stopped crying then he stood up.
And took her hand.
‘Come on then, little one,’ he said. ‘We need to get to the village of Glenan Burn to get help and to spread the news about this.
And the two of them set off towards the cliffs, leaving the dead village behind them.
Chapter 7
The three travelers stopped at the gate and the twins stood still while Jack walked forward to present himself to the guards.
There was a brief conversation and then Jack beckoned to the twins.
‘Come on, boys,’ he said. ‘We’re in.’
The boys trudged after the ex-SBS soldier and one of the guards who had led them through the gate. It had been a tough three weeks since the burning of the Orc armory. They had stayed out of sight and lived off the land. Jack had indulged in two more small acts of sabotage along the way. He had thrown a dead sheep’s carcass into a well and he had laid a series of spiked traps along a trail that the Orcs often used. Traps that simply consisted of a hole about a foot deep, wide enough for an Orc’s foot to fit into, with a sharpened wooden spike set into the bottom. The hole would then be covered over with grass or twigs to conceal.
But, in the main, they had simply slogged northwards looking for the Abbey.
And, that evening, they had finally found it and had sneaked past the Orc encampment on its borders.
After a few minutes of walking they came to another gate. This one was set into a high stone wall. It looked ancient but well kept. The gate was open and flanked by yet more armed guards.
Their guard beckoned for them to continue following and they did so without talking.
He headed for the main building, a large stone edifice, five stories high. When he got to the front door he handed them over to the two guards standing there.
‘Newcomers,’ he told the guards. ‘One of them ex-military so I brought them to see the captain.’
The new g
uards nodded and the other guard left to return to his post.
One of the guards opened the front door.
‘Come on,’ he said as he walked in. The three followed him.
The door opened into a large double-vaulted entrance hall. A fire crackled in a huge hearth. Carpets covered the wooden floor and candles in wall sconces lit the room.
‘Wait here,’ ordered the guard as he left, walking down the long adjoining corridor and entering a room at the very end.
The three travelers stood close to the fire, holding their hands out for warmth. They stood silently. Waiting. Jack seemed to be at ease but the young twin brothers were obviously nervous. Wary of what might happen next.
After a while the door at the end of the corridor opened and the guard called out to them.
‘Come on down. The captain will see you now.’
He showed the trio in and then left, closing the door as he did so.
Jack and the twins found themselves in a large study. Wood paneling, fireplace, scattered Chesterfield chairs and a desk with a man sitting behind it.
The man stood to greet them and walked around the desk, hand outstretched.
He was around six feet tall, a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, brown with steaks of gray. He wore an eye patch over his right eye and a massive scar crawled down his face from temple to lip. His neck was thick with muscle and he moved with the surefootedness and confidence of a warrior.
He shook Jack’s hand first and then moved on to Lonny and Donny.
‘Greetings, travelers,’ he said. ‘My name is Axel. I am the commanding officer of the Abbey. You may call me Axel, or Captain or Chief if you prefer.’
‘Corporal Jack Olsen, sir,’ responded Jack. ‘SBS. X squadron.’
Axel smiled. ‘By strength and guile, hey corporal,’ he said, quoting the SBS motto.