A NEW BEGINNING  (Part 1 of 3)

by Richard Banks

Without Conner there would be no hope. He is our leader, our guide and mentor. He has rescued us from despair. We are battered, traumatised, but despite all that has happened we have survived and daily grow in our resolve to keep going and never give up.

        He tells us that this is the year zero of a new age. He has freed us from the prison of memory; right now there is only the present and the future. There can be no looking back, the measure of our lives is to be found in each new day; if no worse who knows it might be the start of better. The green mist that covered the land is slowly rising into the sky. Its poisons hatched it may, one day, drift off into space. At present, it is a shroud through which the sun glimmers but never shines. Although it is July the weather is cold and leaves flutter down from the trees.

        Today we have twenty miles to walk. We journey towards Halmouth from whence the radio transmissions of a ferry company can sometimes be heard, incomplete snatches of conversation between crackles of static electricity. There is a ship at sea, maybe more. This may be the nearest thing to normal that still exists. Elsewhere radio and TV stations no longer transmit, the internet’s down and there’s been no gas and electricity for over two weeks. More people have died than survived. There is widespread panic and a breakdown in law and order. Nowhere is this worse than in the Cities and larger towns and no one goes there who doesn’t need to. In the villages through which we pass whole communities have perished and there is no one to stop us from breaking into shops and taking whatever food we can find. We avoid conflict, but do what we have to to survive; nobodies lives are more important than our own.

        After three hours we come to Little Hallop where there is a medieval church and a teashop with a garden that only a few weeks ago sold cream teas to a constant stream of visitors. Today the buildings remain undamaged, as they do elsewhere, but no living person remains. We come across two bodies outside a public house, otherwise, the villagers are in their beds where they perished with the coming of the mist. For now, no one has an explanation for what’s happened. How some folk have survived when most have not is only one of many unanswered questions. Maybe those still living only have a stay of execution, time alone will tell.

        On the main street, we find a grocer’s shop. To our relief, the door is shut and bolted. Everything that was inside when the mist came down is still there. Conner rings the bell. When no one answers he forces open the door and we go in. The shop is gloomy and instinctively Laura reaches out for the light switch which, of course, no longer works. The freezer has also ceased to function and an unpleasant smell is seeping out from within. We fill up our backpacks with tins and bottles from the shelves and are in and out in less than twenty minutes. The sooner we are back into open country the better, we are not the only ones scavenging for food. If we are spotted by another, larger group they may take all that we have.

        Conner leads the way. He has a compass and map that keeps us clear of the main roads and towns. Three weeks ago he was a school caretaker doing odd jobs for his more affluent neighbours, a former squaddy whose martial skills had no place in civilian life. Now he is our Chief. The world has changed and the future hinges on people like him. The twelve survivors he leads are now as irrelevant to the new world order as he was to that which preceded it; Tom was a stockbroker, Ellie a buyer for a fashion house, Laura a florist, and the others, including myself, computer gazing administrators. In case you’re wondering, my name’s Kate. There are also three children, the youngest of whom is eleven.

      A motorway bars our way. Devoid of its normal traffic it is used only by bikers who have taken over the petrol stations and prey on anyone who isn’t them. While the pumps still work the road is their racetrack and the roar of their machines can be heard day and night. This evening is no exception.

      We arrive just before sunset at the top of an embankment that slopes down to the road. To our left, a few minutes march away, is a bridge to the other side but any chance of a safe crossing is dashed by the sight of three men on the far side. We duck down behind some bushes. Conner observes them through his binoculars and confirms that they are armed; there is smoke from what may be an encampment. We have no choice but to wait until dark, move further down the road, and cross it on foot. There are six lanes and two hard shoulders, plus a fence on the central reservation between two crash barriers.

        We stay hidden watching the bikers roar by. In the course of the next hour, there are ten of them, the roar of their engines audible for seventeen seconds before they pass. If we start to cross when the road is quiet we will, most likely, reach the other side without mishap, providing we can find a way past the fence. When it is dark Conner sets off with a pair of bolt cutters to see if he can cut a way through. If he is seen by the bikers it will not go well for him, but he keeps close to the ground as they pass and in the darkness is unseen. He returns with the news that he has been successful but that the gap he has made is only wide enough for two people to squeeze through at the same time. His plan, therefore, is for us to make six separate crossings of two persons. He will be the last to go, alongside Alan, a retired banker, who being the oldest in our group will struggle more than most to make it in time.

        We wait until the next biker thunders by and as the sound of his machine fades into silence we listen out for the next one. When there is silence Bill and Judy begin their dash across. The rest of us watch as they scramble over the first crash barrier and through the fence before fading into the darkness. When twenty seconds have elapsed we assume they are safely on the other side. We listen for the approach of another bike but when nothing is heard Ellie and Clem set out. They are over the first barrier when the next rider is heard, but by the time he is past they have surely made it to the other side. The bike just gone is still audible when the sound of the next one can be heard. We wait until it has passed before Andy and his son make their move. When they are up to the fence and the road is still quiet Tom and Val follow on. For over a minute there is silence. Then the next cyclist roars by and I set-off with Laura. We are scarcely through the fence when the sound of the next bike can be heard. We have seventeen seconds to complete the remaining distance. It should be more than enough but Laura who is gasping for breath is struggling to get over the second barrier. I pull her over it and as she tumbles to the ground her backpack falls from her shoulders. We snatch it up and drag it along between us. We are close to panic but keep going, throwing ourselves down on the grassy slope of the opposite embankment. As we do so the headlights of the motorbike light up the tarmac over which we have just passed.

        We establish contact with the others who have already crossed. Everyone is OK apart from a few cuts and bruises. Only Conner and Alan remain on the other side. What has been difficult for forty-something Laura will likely be worse for Alan. No doubt this is why Conner is making the crossing with him. Another bike whizzes by. In the silence that follows I picture them starting off but almost immediately the next bike can be heard. They have seventeen seconds at most to get across. I start counting. On ten I think I hear them scrambling over the first barrier. The fence should take them only a second or two more. On thirteen I catch sight of their dark shapes struggling over the second barrier. They have three lanes and the hard shoulder to cross; they are not going to make it. I hear Conner’s voice saying to go back. If they lie down flat on the central reservation any possibility of a collision is avoided and they may not be seen. But for one of them logic no longer applies; he breaks free of the other man and runs as fast as he can towards us. He is halfway across when he is caught up in the headlight of the bike that a split second later ploughs into him. The cry of terror that precedes the collision is followed by the thud of metal on flesh and a shower of sparks as the bike overturns and somersaults down the road. There is shouting from the men on the bridge, more shouts as the petrol tank explodes, and then a quieter voice we know only too well. It is Conner. The rest of us are numb with shock but he is calm, in control. In his mind the only thing that matters right now is what happens next and that is to get as far away, as quickly as we can. “We’re all here,” I tell him. All, that is except Alan. That bit I don’t say, and as we scramble up the embankment he is already no more than collateral damage. More than ever I want to survive, the only thing that matters right now is me.

 [To be continued]

  Copyright Richard Banks      

 

       

 

                         In a Foreign Land 

Removed at the request of the Author.

Len Blogs

Tylywoch ~ 14

 Tylywoch ~ 14 Swordsmith III

By Len Morgan

   “Gone?”   He repeated in stunned disbelief, a lump forming in his throat.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” said the house steward, “we thought she had told you.   Her father is to be our new ambassador to the Cheilin Empire you see; it’s a great honour.” He continued in a more conciliatory vein, “of course you realise there could never have been anything permanent between you and Bianne, she is promised to a Cheilin prince.   Whilst you are obviously an admirable young man, a tradesman nonetheless doesn’t begin to measure up to a prince.   How long would it be before she started counting what she had given up to be with you?   I would suggest that you forget her, and seek a nice young woman with a background more similar to your own.”

Jax turned slowly from the door and walked away his legs unsteady like those of a newborn calf.  Tears blinding his eyes and flooding his cheeks, deep down, he was seething with anger.   He would not turn round, he would not let her servant see his true feelings so obviously and indelibly etched on his face.

.-…-. 

Had he turned, he would have seen her waving frantically calling tearfully from an upper window, crying aloud but in vain because he was too proud to turn.

“Come back Jax, I love you!” but her heartrending plea was in vain, her cries went unheard.   She watched him walk away “Don’t believe them Jax, listen to your heart, you must know I will love you forever?”

“He is a fine young man and probably he would make you very happy, but he isn’t yet sixteen, and I don’t think you could really be happy as a tradesman’s woman.   You are a Cantro, and destined for greater things,” her father the colonel pleaded.   “Angel, I know you don’t think so now, but what I do is for your own good!   You will thank me later, when you are married to prince Taleen Surbatt, of the 9^th Clan of the Cheilin Empire. 

.-…-. 

“Women!” said Terrek philosophically.    “They are the best and the worst thing that could happen to a man”  He put his arm around Jax’s shoulder in reassurance.   “Come partner, it’s not the end of the world.   If I had a silver skale for every time my heart has been broken I would never be sober.   Come, let’s get drunk!   You can forget and I can remember…” 

Jax awoke to the ringing of hammer on anvil.   He raised his head and groaned; In his head, a heavy ball of iron covered in spikes, crashed from side to side as he moved, “Gods!   What have I done to offend you?”

Outside in the bright sunlight, Terrek swung his hammer without a care in the world.   He swung it with a will, and uncanny precision, a blade sprang into being as if in answer to his will, blow by blow, its perfection becoming reality.  Then, as the steel cooled to cherry red, he quenched it in a barrel of thick green chemical soup of his own creation; the recipe of which he had promised to reveal to Jax on his sixteenth birthday together with other jealously guarded potions, incantations, and concoctions. Terrek would reveal all the secrets he used in the working of metal magic.   Seeing Jax was up and about he smiled, “you look terrible, but you can’t die yet, it’s six more weeks to your coming of age.   I want you to complete your training with my old master.   I gave him a vow, that while he lives I will not reveal his secrets to another.   However, if I should find an apprentice I considered worthy, I would send him back, to be finished.   You will not only be a great sword-smith, but with his help, you will also become a great metallurgist!    Now be a good fellow and dunk your head in my barrel.” 

Jax did as he was told, then wrinkling his nose in disgust asked “Why?”

Terrek burst into fits of laughter, “No reason.   I just wondered if you would be foolish enough to do it!” he took to his heels as Jax raised a sword with a roar and gave chase.

.-…-. 

     He left Terrek’s forge following the verbal instructions he’d been given, with orders to commit them to memory.   The journey took him five days, at last despite fleeting doubts, he found the cave just as Terrek had described it.   The sun stood high in the heavens, and he had to shade his eyes in order to make out the squat muscular figure standing in the mouth of the cave, silhouetted against the glow from within.  

“WELCOME JAX!” he called grandly in a deep baritone, from his high vantage point.   “I’m Orden, and this is my domain.   Climb up, come inside and I will show you around my forge.”

As Jax clambered onto the level plateau beside him, an involuntary invocation, escaped his lips “You're a Dwarf!?”

“I’m a Jellonan!”  he answered in mock hurt, What we lack in stature we more than make up for in strength and brains!   We are a race apart neither man nor myth.”   He looked up into Jax’s face, his violet eyes glowing and flashing with iridescent flecks of yellow.   “Terrek has told me much about you.   If you show half the promise he claims, we will make of you a passable craft-master,” he chuckled and his gravelly voice re-echoed from the surrounding hills.   His skin was the texture of leather and brown like coffee grounds, his hair sparse and wispy grey-white, and when he smiled his image transformed and he became remarkably childlike, his eyes full of mischief curiosity, and vitality; qualities you seldom encounter in the elderly; years have no bearing on age he would say, in Jellona I would be considered an adolescent.

 

As they entered the cave, large flat plates of pale opal glass that covered the roof of the cave, began to glow blue-white.   The glow intensified to rival the sun as they passed beneath then returned to pale opal again as he progressed beyond the influence of that particular plate.   They were moving towards a red glow, Jax experienced intense heat as they drew nearer, and had to halt unable to progress further.

“Here, you will need this,” said Orden handing him a hard face mask and a suit of stiff white material.   The eye slits in the mask were glazed with a dark brown smoky crystal.   “I know how fragile your human bodies are,” he said “It's amazing that you were able to develop any metallurgy at all, come I will show you the fires we have tapped from beneath the earth, from the molten core of the world.” 

The word that sprang to his mind was ‘Clinical’.   Everything was meticulously scrupulously clean, there was a place for everything, and everything was in its place.   No dust, no clutter.  

Orden continued as if reading his mind, “any possibility of contamination has been removed.   Even one extraneous dust mote might be enough to convert a valuable and complicated compound into useless waste.   Nothing must be left to chance if we wish to obtain consistent results in metallurgy.”

Jax reviewed the arboreal exterior of the cave in his mind, a mountain overgrown with trees shrubs, and strange unfamiliar plants, in wild profusion.   This place had always been avoided by Abalons, being viewed as haunted and inhabited by dark spirits.   Nobody had ever dared enter the enchanters wood uninvited, yet here in this cave was a level of technology he could never have dreamed could exist here on Abbalar.   “You have no town, no fields for crops, and no contact with the world beyond this mountain?”

“This mountain existed before men walked the earth.   It was and still is a volcano.   We channel its destructive energies for our own ends.   There are natural shafts and channels, leading from the molten source to the hearths of our forges.   We have added extensively, modifying and extending them.   The mountain is honeycombed with tubes and tunnels that channel heat to our homes in winter and provide the volcano with a multitude of safety valves that prevent continual eruptions.   He grasped a large wheel close to the forge hearth turning it one-half turn.   Thunder roiled in the bowels of the earth.   “TAD – the god of fire is clearing his throat!”   Orden grinned with amusement.   A moment later a stream of white-hot molten lava flowed down a narrow channel.   Orden dipped a bar of metal beneath its surface, immersed for a second only, he removed it in a bright white state.   Placing the block in an indentation on his oversized anvil he pulled a lever, releasing an enormous hammer the size of his torso.   It pounded the bar three times, with earth-shaking force.   What Orden removed was no longer a bar, it had become a broad flat blade straight and shining.

Jax gazed in amazement at perfection that would have taken him half a day to accomplish by hand.

“This is just a blank produced in this way to save time when blades are required in quantity.   It will cool slowly and receive a master's attention when required.” He seemingly tossed the blank carelessly into a cage with other similar blades, it fell neatly into place, ranked with practised precision.   “Blades and Swords are only a small part of our production.   The essence of our work is precision.   We cast and press shapes in metal, for purposes humanity will be unable to comprehend for another thousand years if ever.”

“We!   You are not alone?   I see no evidence of habitation…”

“We live within, come I will show you to your quarters.   You must have a private place, within our community, where you can be alone and at peace with yourself.”

Jax followed him down winding twisting tunnels cut into solid rock.   He knew he would very soon have been lost had Orden not indicated the chevrons pointing upwards or down, at each junction.  

At length, they entered a corridor of doors.   “You have been assigned room 147, third from the far end on the left.” Said Orden presenting him with an intricate key, worked in bronze.

“Thank you,” said Jax heading for his room, conscious of being tracked by those bright violet orbs.

 .-...-.

The key turned smoothly and silently in the lock.   A faint scent of citrus escaped through the opening door, lingering momentarily before being hurried away on a breeze.  Inside, the room was dimly lit but as he entered the pale blue light became brighter.   The walls were of smooth white material, warm to the touch.   There were chairs and a cot bed, covered in white linen sheets.   There was a second door, but he never got to explore further.   He felt unaccountably tired and sat on the edge of the bed.   Laying the kiln clothing and mask on the floor beside him, he stretched out briefly, closing his eyes...   

He smiled, as his nostrils detected the familiar aromas of Mistress Kaarp’s kitchen, bacon, eggs, new bread, and sausage, good memories he thought and smiled again briefly.

He opened his eyes, it was dark.   He sat up and the light slowly returned.   He was conscious of busy activity on the other side of the door he hadn’t yet explored.   He went through to discover Orden seated, with a child-like grin on his face.   Jax accepted the proffered seat opposite.   Orden pushed a plate his way, piled high with food, “It's about time you woke up” he said, “eat hearty, we have a long day ahead of us.”

Jax needed no second bidding, he tucked in.   It was good, almost as good as… no that would be blasphemous.   Returning to his sleeping quarters, he found his pack resting against the external wall, by the door.

“wear light cotton, kiln clothing, and your mask, I thought we might discover what you know of steel, Its components, and how they combine to produce the purest crystalline forms…” 

The days flew past, in a constant round of exciting new discoveries.   New compounds, challenges, and techniques.   Days became weeks, weeks of constant learning words of magic to imbue power to their creations, time taken up with theory and practice, gaining active experience.   But, in all that time he never once met another living soul.   Orden was perpetual motion, always animated and full of energy.   He kept Jax occupied from early morning, before sunrise, until long after the sun had set.   He collected Jax from his room each day and returned him at night.   At mid-day they stopped briefly to eat lunch and drink ale belch and talk, returning to the soul-cleansing work of creation.   To Jax, it seemed an idyllic life but, unreal and dreamlike, there had to be something more. 

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan

HAIGA (Photo Haiku)

May Day

by Robert Kingston

LOST AND FOUND (Part 2 & Last)

 LOST AND FOUND  (Part 2 & Last)

by Richard Banks           
            

         “Come and have a drink,” he says, “you look as though you need one.”

         He sits me down in a corner of the bar and over a whisky mac expresses his regrets over my unfortunate predicament. “You see there’s been a misunderstanding over your apartment and car. We thought you said that you owned them when you don’t which means that your capital assets don’t cover what you owe us.”

         “I need time.”

         “Yes, that’s what I thought, so here’s what we do. You pay us back over one year. That’s twelve monthly payments of £50,000.”

         “But...”

         “That’s the deal, pal. It’s the only one on the table. Don’t get me wrong, I did all that I could, but final decisions don’t rest with me. Believe me it could have been worse.”

         There’s an awkward silence.

         “Let’s look on the bright side,” he says lowering his voice. “You’re an accountant, you have client accounts, twenty of them if I’m not mistaken, surplus funds you invest in short term bonds. Pay us with that. It’s not your money but whose going to miss it? You keep the books, and if any one wants money out you transfer it from another account. Once you’ve paid us you could be all square in eighteen months. Everyone’s happy and no one the wiser.” Tom finishes his drink and leaves me to reflect on the feasibility of his proposition. 

         Of course, it’s not as easy as he makes out but as accountants go I’m a good one, in fact, more than good, and if anyone can do it it’s me. So, two days later I phone good, old Tom and tell him to expect the first instalment by the end of the month. I have a suggestion that he promises to consider: my professional services free for one year in lieu of the final payment. As an indication of my usefulness I tell him about this two year bond paying 4% interest twice a year. It’s an unlisted company,” I say, “but it’s risk free; the CEO has family connections that won’t see him fail.”

         Tom says he will get back to me and when he does we have a deal although it’s not quite the deal I was hoping for. However, it’s better than nothing and I also get to see Tom for regular progress meetings which gives me access to someone who could be more than useful to me. But mainly it’s up to me and if I mess up I’ll either be battered beyond repair or banged up for fraud.  And so I set to, working eighteen hours a day and pushing creative accountancy to a whole new level. Three weeks later I make the first payment and then a stroke of luck: one of my clients retires and heads off on a six month trip around the world. While he’s out playing so am I, and from now on his account is the first one I dip into. The next month I lose a client but gain two giving me additional room for manoeuvre. For the first time I’m beginning to feel in control and with nine payments made and only three to go I’m thinking that nothing’s going to get in my way. Then someone does, and it’s me. I’m out at dinner with a client. It’s his invite so I’m expecting him to pick-up at least half the bill but, after fumbling through his pockets he declares that his wallet must be in his other suit. He’s full of apologies. Next time he says it will all be on him. But next time is not what I’m concerned about and when I try and pay with my debit card the payment’s rejected for lack of funds.

         The next day a client pays an overdue bill and I’m solvent again but it’s too late, people are talking. “Never trust a hard-up accountant,” they say, “if he can’t take care of his own affairs, how can he be trusted with yours.” It’s a good point which is not lost on my biggest client who, without notice, sends in an auditor. The whole house of cards is about to fall but before it does I’m hot footing it away from Denton and everyone I’m in hock to. 

         Where I go is a secret I’m not telling you, only that it’s far, far away and doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the UK. I’m a new man, with a new name who will soon have a new face. Only one person is going to find me and as I sip beer at a beachside bar I see him walking along the promenade, suitcase in hand. He looks tired but when he sees me his face lights up and his walk quickens to a trot. He wants to run the last few yards, to embrace and kiss, but that’s not legal here so I motion him to slow down and not make a scene. When we’re close enough to touch it’s a firm handshake and the bonhomie of two regular guys who are pleased, but only pleased, to see each other. I buy him a beer. He gulps it down anxious to go inside to where we can be alone.

         “Is this ours?” Tom asks, glancing across the road at the Hotel M……

         I confirm that it is. “I’ve booked you into the room next to mine. Unpack, have a shower. I’ll be up soon.”

         When I am, we can be ourselves and after the passion of our reunion is exhausted we lie motionless on the bed wishing that the afternoon could last forever, at least that’s what I’m thinking.

         “Do we have the money?” asks Tom.

         “Of course we have the money.”

         “And it can’t be traced?”

         “No,” I assure him, “it’s been three times around the world, it’s lost to everyone but us.”

         “You nearly got me killed,” he says.

         I point out that if he hadn’t told Sunrise than the bond was his idea rather than mine they would only be looking for me rather than him. “Anyway”, I say, “they are looking for me, remember I’m three payments short of what I owe them. What’s more I’m also wanted by the law. But none of that matters because no one’s going to find us.”

         Tom seems reassured and his conversation returns to the money. “So how much did we make?”

         “Three mil.”

         “Pounds?”

         “Yes.”

         “And the interest payments that Sunrise received from your phoney bond came from the lump sum they paid to buy it.”

         This is not a question. He smiles remembering the first time I told him this, the unscripted business of our second progress meeting. 

         “Happy?” I ask.

         He says that he is and that I’m one heck of a devious bastard. By devious he means clever, but the best is yet to come. The town we are in has a casino which already has fifty grand of my hard earned cash. However, as the expression goes, if you can’t beat them join them which is why I have bought the business lock, stock and barrel. From now on all the money I lose on the tables will be mine and if that’s not devious I don’t know what is. Happy days are here again and this time they’re here for good!

The End.

 

 Copyright Richard Banks         

 WHERE ARE THE BLOODY CHICKENS

By Bob French

Jacque Fermanaux stood quite still for several minutes as he stared down towards the low cottage at the far end of the valley and allowed a tired smile to creep across his dirty face.  He had avoided the road through the village and had used instead, the narrow twisting lane with its green hedgerows and sweet smells of the countryside.

As he stood in the late afternoon sunlight, he was conscious of the stillness of the warm air; the firmness of the land beneath his boots and the feeling that he had finally reached home. 

The melodic sound of a Blackbird high in the Poplar trees over to his left started to call out its evening song bringing a smile to his face as he took a slow deep breath.  He always liked sitting down with Monique after a hard day on the farm.  Just sitting there with her and the sound of nature surrounding them.  He always used to tell her it was their reward for working hard and caring for God’s land.

Something flashed way off in the distance and his mind was suddenly cast back to another time; another place, when the heat of the day made him suffer from thirst and the cold bitter nights bit into his bones. The endless miles marching with little direction from his officers or food to endure the endless trudging up and down hills, everyday praying that they would not be attacked by Spanish partisans or the British.

Many of his friends had simply fallen out of formation, or wondered off into the darkness.  He felt sad for Marco and Phillippe, his friends these past six years, who had, like him, been taken by the French Militia to fight in the Spanish War against the British.   They had vanished a few weeks ago and hoped that their deaths had been quick. These thoughts he knew would never leave him until his dying day.

Jacque Fermanaux adjusted his tattered rucksack, re-slung his rifle, gave his faded blue battle dress jacket a good brush, and started to move down the lane, listening to the gentle murmur of bees and the distant bark of some farm dog, as it scurried around after the sheep on the slopes of the valley.

He felt content with himself as he reached the canopy of trees that over the years had grown over to form a gateway to the valley. His valley.

Jacque was aware that the passing of time was different here.  There was no need to hurry here or there or rush to keep pace.  Everything seemed to slow down, the pace of the world cared not for the summons of the bugle or the fast pace and rush of the business of war.

Suddenly a figure appeared from under the eaves of his cottage.  His mind quickly recognized the red jacket and white cross belts of the British.  His instincts were automatic.  He dropped to his knee, cocked his rifle, and took aim. He was about to pull the trigger when from his left, another Red Jacket appeared with a small boy high on his shoulders. Jacque swung his rifle back to the first Red Coat and pulled the trigger.

There was a loud bang and everyone froze.

The Red coat who had stepped out from under the eaves of the cottage stood still, then after a few seconds, laughed.

“God Jacque! I knew you were a lousy shot, but that was ridiculous.  I think you hit one of the cows in yonder field.”

Within seconds, Jacque was joined by Marco and Philipp his two friends who had mysteriously vanished from the Regiment one night some weeks ago.

 

“What are you two doing in British uniforms?”

“It was the only way we could pass through Wellington’s lines and fool the Spanish Partisans.”

Everyone was talking at once until the small boy who had been gently put down by Marco, tugged at Jacque’s trousers.

Marco bend down and lifted the boy up to face Jacque.

“This Dominique, is your Papa. He is a very brave man and like us, has come home from the wars to take care of you and Mama.”

 Jacque, stared into the little boy’s eyes and quietly cursed that day he and his friends had been taken by the Militia at the marketplace.

“Hello son. I see that you have grown up to be the man of the house. Sorry I was not here when you were born, but……”

Suddenly they heard a scream and everyone turned to see Marie, Jacque’s wife, striding towards them.

They quickly parted, thinking she was going to embrace her long lost husband, instead, she stood calmly in front of him, stared into his tired eyes, then slapped his face hard.

“You said that you were going to buy some chickens at the market.  That was six years ago.  So, where are the bloody chickens?”

Copyright Bob French  April 2022

 

Tylywoch ~ 13

Tylywoch ~ 13 Map of Cheilin

By Len Morgan

The Empire could be loosely described as a ‘D’ shape on its side, bounded to the North by a straight edge represented by the Sabre Tooth Mountain Range.   To the South and West is the sea and to the East the wild wide, fast-running Staalbech River, where it joins the sea, at its widest, it is 130 miles shore to shore.   The Staalbech is infamous for the lives it has claimed over the years.   It is not and never has been swimmable, despite numerous children’s stories to the contrary.   Only Sturdy sea-worthy sailing vessels would ever attempt a crossing.   The far bank from Cheilin is Bluttland, inhabited exclusively by Bedelacq's fanatical nomadic worshipers; a vengeful god who demands blood sacrifices on the night of the New Moons conjunction which happens twice a year.   On conjunction night, the sky turns red, the stars shine brighter than at any other time and Bluttland, living up to its name, flows with Blood.   Strangers are well-advised to stay away at this time - as all are fair game… 

Cheilin by contrast is remarkably stable, the Clans rule with iron hands, and the Eternal City presides overall.   Outside the clock face, the forts and the thirteenth Clan hold sway.   To the North, the beyond the Sabre Tooth Range, live the Huren, the Meyan, and the Kurdik races.   The inhabitants of Cheilin have never been encouraged to travel, so few know much about these races.   Those that do are either living as exiles, permanently outside of Cheilin, or they are Tylywoch.

.-...-.

His mother died birthing him, his father laid blame for her death on him and was never able to completely forgive him.   His father thrust him as far from him as he could, allowing him to be brought up by his nurse Glamhorten, a beautiful self possessed woman from Bluttland.   She had been sent to seduce the father, but had found him a lost cause; he was hopelessly in love with a memory.   The next best thing was the son Taleen.  She possessed him instead, in the name of the god of vengeance – Bedelacq – the god of her people.   She remained his guardian and mentor for most of his formative years.   At the time of conjunction, she taught him to worship the one.   Inhabitants of the palace frequently found the bodies of dead animals in odd places, drained of blood.   Palek, prince Taleen’s father refused to be concerned over a few dead animals and the habits of his son and Glamhorten.   She was an excellent nurse and companion to Taleen, neither ever bothered him which was just how he wanted it.

When Palek died, Taleen refused to grieve for the loss of that distant stand-offish man who'd done everything to avoid contact with him.   He knew no remorse, only anger at being cheated of his birthright.   Glamhorten assured him he had been born to rule the world in the name of and to the glory of Bedelacq, the one. 

Taleen turned all his anger and hatred onto princess Veille, now ruling in his father's stead.   They all told him she was a usurper, a thief, they made him swear blood vengeance against her in the name of Bedelacq, his father, and himself.   Glamhorten now his constant companion supported him and introduced him to a young Blutt Priest named Wilden, who became teacher and mentor to the ten-year-old.  In the years that followed he counselled patience and consolidation.   Taleen united the 9^th Clan behind him, building alliances with others.   The dreams of one spiteful and vengeful young man became the dreams of the whole Clan such was his magnetism.   He was cunning beyond words, infiltrating the inner sanctum of the Emerald Palace and moving his forces into the Eternal city without raising the suspicion or concern of anybody there.   Even the Tylywoch, the all seeing all knowing, were caught wrong footed by his stealth.   With Wilden beside him, he executed his coupe fearlessly with panache and daring.   Taking over the Emerald Palace, and executing the pretender Empress he’d long ago dubbed the ‘Shampress’.   It now simply required that he display her body and those of her bodyguard, now universally accused of her kidnap and murder.   At the end of the incident, he would be regarded as a hero of the Empire. 

Wilden had coordinated the attack to coincide with a major conjunction, to give him maximum power for the complete success of the venture.   His sister Glamhorten had been sent to turn a major clan to the one true God, to provide his followers with allies in the Empire, when they invaded.   A holy war, a Jihad, had been declared to bring the whole world to Bedelacq.   With infinite patience, they had laid plans spanning decades.   Plans that were now nearing fruition.   Wilden smiled at the irony, he’d engineered a relatively bloodless coup, to ensure an inexhaustible supply of blood for the God of vengeance.   He’d already had several hundred lives on the day of the attack, now the dungeons were full to the brim with Red Guards and close supporters of the Empress.   They would all play their part in bringing about the earthly manifestation of the God Bedelacq, in the corporeal form of the Emperor Taleen!    In just a few weeks his life’s work would be realised.   Wilden was exhilarated; intoxicated with joy anticipating their success. 

(To be continued) 

Copyright Len Morgan