Beyond the Valley of Thorns

by Patrick Carman

  “So there are eighty-eight outside the castle and ten inside?” John asked.

  “That’s right. And we’re quite sure where most of the eighty-eight are at any given moment.” It was Margaret, speaking out after a long silence. “They run in two shifts, one by day and one by night, and they switch over at dawn and dusk,” she continued. “There are usually forty-four that move about at night, forty-four when it’s light outside. There are fifteen along the Valley of Thorns, another ten patrolling the forest, and three along the cliffs at the sea; on the wharf are ten more making their rounds, two watch the gate leading up to the tower, and four stand guard around the base of the Dark Tower itself.”

  “And the sleeping giants?” asked John.

  “There is a barracks next to the Dark Tower, down by the lake,” said Margaret. “I can only imagine what an awful place it must be. The stench alone is surely wretched beyond imagination.”

  “There is yet another problem we have neglected to mention,” said Balmoral. He turned and grabbed hold of a stone in the mantel of the fireplace, pulled it out, and reached inside. When his hand came out it held what one might call a short sword, about a foot long with a primitive wooden handle.

  “This would be one of only a very few fighting blades we have among us in Castalia. Grindall does not stand for a weapon of any kind in the hands of a peasant, and he’s been diligent about making sure there are none to be had. We have no armor, no helmets, few swords, and certainly no bows and arrows. What we have is hidden away, and I don’t think it numbers more than a few dozen shabby blades.”

  As Balmoral went on, we discovered there were ways to get hold of things quickly that could be used as weapons, things like axes and small knives used for various tasks on the wharf, but these were few in number and our lack of protective armor remained a problem. We were nearly weaponless with no shields for defense. Our enemy, full of anger and three times the size of a full-grown man, had an almost impossible advantage. It was a hopeless situation.

  Just then, a frantic knock came at the door. Margaret was nearest to the entrance and, after looking through the peephole, removed the plank. To our surprise, Enid burst into the room, pushing the door closed behind her. Shaking, she fumbled with the plank and dropped it, then Margaret helped her secure it over the door once more.

  Enid turned to us, out of breath, and stammered, “Someone has seen them! The giants are going from door to door looking for intruders on the wharf!”

  CHAPTER 19

  THE OGRE

  We looked at one another for a brief, still moment, faint sounds from the fireplace popping gently through the room. Then there was a terrible, loud bang on the door. Julia buried her head in my arm and I held her close.

  “Ogre!” Balmoral whispered. He dropped his pipe where he stood, bound for the table, and grabbed hold of his daughter, then thrust the girl into her mother’s arms.

  “To the back of the room with you, and cover the poor child’s eyes,” he said. All of the women obeyed except me. I rose from the table and stood with John in the center of the room. Again there was a pounding at the door, this time so loud and violent the very walls shook and sparks flew up into the chimney.

  “Margaret! Come quickly,” said Balmoral. “You unhitch the door then run for the back of the room. I’m going for the rooftops to see if I can get a shot at him from above.” He was gone into a dark corner of the room and up a makeshift ladder before anyone could stop him, swinging open a trapdoor and disappearing outside.

  Margaret was so frightened she could hardly speak. She slowly inched her way toward the door, but when it was pounded again so hard it almost fell off the hinges and into the room, she backed away into the shadows where the others sat trembling against the wall. I looked at John.

  “Do you want me to open it?” I asked, my hands shaking as I grabbed an iron and walked toward the entryway. John nodded his approval, holding his small sword out into the air in front of him. A moment later I stood at the door and slid the plank free. There was a final crash against the door and it flew open, the ogre’s massive arm throwing me to the floor in the center of the room.

  He was so big, so horrible — the small space of the home seemed to magnify everything about him. His huge swollen head, the shoulders hunched over, the awful smell of his rotting body. The women were screaming as he swung wildly around the room, grunting until he stood staring at me, dripping thick green and red from his lower lip. John leaped onto the table and stood with his sword drawn to protect me. As the beast turned to him, I crawled through his enormous legs to safety.

  With John on top of the table, he and the ogre were almost the same height. The ogre unsheathed his giant sword and held it out toward John’s. It was as though John were holding a butter knife, and from where I lay in the room I knew he had no chance of escape.

  “Run for the door, Alexa! Take the women and the child with you. Get them out of here while I have his attention!”

  It was a brave thing to ask, knowing he could never escape from the room alive on his own. He was my protector, my friend. I couldn’t bear the idea of letting him go.

  Just then a guttural noise from outside the room escaped into the night air. “Aaaaarggghhh!”

  Any hope I’d had was taken away completely as I waited for more ogres to enter the room. I clutched my Jocasta and whispered a desperate plea. “Where are you, Elyon? Will you help us?”

  The ogre turned away from John and in one stride was at the doorjamb. When he turned John jumped from the table and lunged at the beast from behind. There was a loud clang as his blade struck armor. I was overcome with fear, cowering in the dark recesses of the room, watching in frozen horror as the ogre stepped closer to my friend.

  “Run, Alexa! You must escape!” John yelled. The ogre took one swing at him — not with the sword, but with his huge hand. I watched with horror as John was thrown into the wall with terrible force. His body fell, slumped against the wall, to the ground.

  The ogre turned in our direction and sniffed the air as if he’d smelled something he was looking for. His eyes fell on the leather pouch around my neck.

  “Aaaaarggghhh!”

  It was the noise from outside the door once more, more ghastly than the last time we’d heard it. I felt certain this was where my life and the adventure would end, torn to pieces by two ogres in a peasant’s hovel.

  The ogre heard the noise and returned to the doorjamb, lowering his gruesome head to get out. He peered from side to side, then made a terrible sound and began staggering to and fro, ducking his head back into the room. He turned in our direction, and there before us was the wooden handle of a blade sticking out of the top of the ogre’s head.

  The ogre teetered drunkenly, his eyes bulging and wild, and dropped his huge sword with a loud clang. One of his feet stepped into the fire, sparks igniting up his leg. Then the ogre fell over the table and onto the stone floor in a smelly heap. Balmoral jumped down off the roof and landed in the doorway. With a look of satisfaction on his face, he strode into the room, dusted himself off, and stood over the giant.

  “You see there, I told you it would work,” Balmoral said, a wide smile across his face. I stood up next to Balmoral and looked at the ogre.

  At first the beast lay perfectly still. I could hear the faint, disgusting sound of his insides squishing free, the sound of death permeating the room. But then one of his long arms swept quickly out along the floor and the extended fingers caught hold of me at the ankle and jerked me off my feet in one powerful motion. I kicked with my free leg and Balmoral struck the terrible beast over and over again with his bare fists. The ogre let go of my leg for an instant and then the huge hand was across my chest, wrapping tightly around the leather pouch that held my Jocasta. Balmoral kept on swinging at the ogre with little effect. The ogre seemed to be entirely dead but for its one hand holding tightly to what it had found.

  “Out of the way!” It was John, advancing across the room, sword in hand. He sw
ung the sword down on the ogre’s arm again and again, but it was like trying to cut through inches of worn leather. As I lay there I looked at the ogre’s face, and for a brief moment he opened his eyes and saw John standing over him. The sight of John swinging away with the sword seemed to bring forth some final bit of rage stored up in the ogre. Faster than I thought possible, the hand let go of the Jocasta and the arm shot up. I was free, but the ogre had taken hold of John’s neck and pulled him down to the floor.

  I scurried away, screaming for Balmoral to do something. John Christopher’s eyes caught mine then, and though I expected to see fear, he only looked at me as he always had — peaceful, a faint smile, as if he were doing just the thing he had come to do. Then his eyes closed and everything was quiet but for the faint crying of the women and the child in the room.

  I sat stunned, unable to believe what had happened. Balmoral lunged for the blade in the ogre’s head and pressed it deeper. I knew I shouldn’t do it, but for some reason I moved closer to John, not caring whether or not the ogre would come alive again. I touched John’s face, and then I did the only thing I could think of that made any sense at all. I placed both my hands on the pouch around his neck, opened it, and took out the glowing blue Jocasta. The ogre did not stir, all the life now passed out of him.

  I held the blue stone in the faint light of the room and listened to Julia whimpering in the corner. The Jocasta was still throbbing, its light like a dying heart beating its last. I walked over to Julia and handed it to her, watching as she took it. She held it in her little hand and it beat three more times. Boom, boom, boom. The last of the watery blue light faded away, and I knew for certain that John Christopher was no longer among us.

  The last Jocasta hung around my neck. All the rest were gone forever.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE SECRET IN ARMON’S LEATHER BAG

  The whole world seemed to shrink to the one fact: John was dead. I wanted time to stop. I wanted everything to stop. I wanted simply to stay in the same place and mourn my friend’s death. But everything kept moving as it always does. I was still alive, and I was still involved in things that wouldn’t wait for my needs to be met. The night was late, and I knew I had to gather my things and go.

  Balmoral had visited with his friend the butcher and said what needed to be said in order to fill both packs with meat. Hearing of our terrible night and our plans to help liberate Castalia, the butcher had even gone to the trouble of slicing the meat into single portions.

  I kissed Julia on the head and we embraced, and I told her to be ready. I promised things were going to get better very soon. Then Balmoral and Margaret called me to the door and it shut behind us, the cool night air a welcome relief from the ghastly scene inside.

  “There was nothing you or anyone else could have done,” Balmoral told me. “The ogre had him, and no amount of force was going to set your friend free.”

  He was carrying one of the packs full of meat and would have carried both had I not insisted on taking the second. I heard his words but didn’t listen, my mind racing back to the room where I’d sat over John and wept. I had pulled the terrible dead hand off his throat and tried my best to say good-bye. We would bring him back to Bridewell, but for now I had to leave.

  “Something is different,” I said. Margaret took hold of my hand and tried to comfort me, said something about how things were going to change, that John’s death would not be in vain.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I said. “I feel something I haven’t felt before. It started the moment John’s Jocasta faded away.”

  “What do you feel?” asked Balmoral.

  And then a long silence followed by words I had never been surer of.

  “Elyon is near. It’s as if I feel his very presence hanging around my neck.”

  It was the most unusual feeling, both comforting and frightening at the same time. I felt as though some new presence had moved suddenly closer, a wonderful presence, but a dangerous one as well.

  We walked a while more in silence and arrived at the edge of the wharf, the two guards aware of our presence. As if on cue, they stepped aside, bowed graciously in Balmoral’s direction, and let us pass into the night without a word. I looked at Balmoral, and he whispered, “They may work for Grindall, but they are still Castalians.” Then he winked at me and we continued on in silence until we reached the edge of the trees, where Piggott stood waiting. As I had expected, he was full of questions. “Who are these people?” “Where is John?” “What took so long?” “Did you get the meat?” I waved him off with my hand and told him he would have to wait for answers until we reached the clock tower. As we entered the forest, Margaret took hold of my hand.

  “Balmoral will go with you and meet with Armon,” she said, “but I must return home and help clean up before dawn. We have but a few precious hours before light. Before night sets again we must be ready to strike if we are to catch Grindall unaware.”

  “She’s right,” said Balmoral. “Either we mobilize and attempt a strike tomorrow night, or we risk losing our advantage. Already an ogre is dead, and he will be missed.”

  Margaret hugged me, and I think if not for the work I knew lay ahead, I would have wept and wept in her arms. Instead I made it a quick encounter, turned, and left her standing at the edge of the wood.

  Before long we arrived and entered the clock tower where we met Murphy and Yipes. We left the two heavy packs of meat in the lower chamber for Piggott and Scroggs to distribute as they pleased, then we ascended the ladder, Murphy on my shoulder squeaking question after question.

  The upper room of the clock tower, suffused with gray light, held the soft glow of night like a cup of warm milk. As soon as I was all the way up the ladder and in the room, I slumped over in a corner, completely exhausted, and I cried uncontrollably. My friend was gone forever, the stress of what remained of our task was heavy on my mind, and I longed for the many comforts of home. The adventure had become something more, something that was no longer fanciful. Already a great cost had been paid, and as I wept, I felt certain much more would be paid before we were through. I looked up to see silent faces all around me, filled with concern, and I was able to compose myself enough to tell them who Balmoral was and let him give the account of the evening.

  “It will have to be quick. We’ve absolutely no time to waste,” he said, and then he proceeded to tell them all about our encounter with the ogre, about the weaknesses we had discovered in their defense, and about the death of John.

  Yipes gasped when he heard the news, while Murphy came over and curled into a ball in my lap — a perfect, silent gesture. Armon remained still, closed his eyes, and lowered his head. Odessa remained standing and slowly lowered her head, too, until her nose hung only inches from the floor.

  “He was brave, very brave,” said Balmoral. “He stood his ground to protect the innocent, and if we win the fight before us, his death will forever be remembered as the beginning of the end of the reign of Grindall.”

  Armon raised his head, looked Balmoral squarely in the face, and questioned him.

  “What powers do you have to rally your people?”

  “If Grindall allowed a leader among us, I would be that leader,” said Balmoral. I looked at this simple, feeble man, and I was stunned. All the while I’d been in the presence of the true ruler of the Castalians, and I’d thought him nothing more than a broken man with some fanciful ideas.

  “I can have two hundred men ready to fight by nightfall the next, but our weaponry is primitive — stones, a few dozen knives, no armor to speak of. The fifty Castalian guards who work for Grindall don’t even have swords. They have only horns to blow when trouble is afoot, and then the ogres come running. It is a problem for which I have no answer.”

  Armon looked long and hard at Balmoral, and though he could not stand upright in the space, he did get up on one knee.

  “I don’t think that will be such a problem,” he said. Then he took hold of the massive bag he’d be
en carrying since we’d met him, untied the rope at the top, and poured the contents into the middle of the room. Sword after sword fell forth. Chain mail, shields, bows, and arrows all tumbled onto the floor. The pack seemed to hold an endless array of armament. It must have weighed hundreds of pounds, and I was newly amazed by Armon’s superhuman strength. Balmoral’s eyes were as wide as saucers, and he laughed with excitement, touching the different objects, holding them in his hands.

  “I think it’s time we started planning,” said Armon, and then he turned and jumped out the wide window. A moment later we heard whining, and Piggott was raised on giant hands over the windowsill. Scroggs followed, and then Armon climbed back into the clock tower and pushed all the armor aside so we might sit in the center of the room.

  The eight of us sat in a circle — me, Armon, Balmoral, Yipes, Murphy, Odessa, Piggott, and Scroggs. Balmoral produced a map he’d been working on for many months and placed it in the center of the circle. It was drawn on parchment paper with black ink, and it detailed the position of each ogre.

  “I can’t read or write, but this drawing is about as close to perfect as I can get it. I would have shown it to you earlier, but with all the commotion, well —” Balmoral broke off, glanced at me, and looked down at the map. It took him a moment to get going again, but he had so much energy and passion that before long he was enthralled in the plan, taking us with him every step of the way. First he detailed all the events of the evening, giving special attention to the encounter with the ogre and the way it had been destroyed. It was more than a little grotesque, the way Balmoral explained how easily the blade went into the top of the head, as if the skull were made of eggshell instead of bone.