by Craig Zerf
The blocks were being towed atop massive wooden sleighs with smooth carved runners carved from entire trees. In front of each runner walked teams of men with what looked like buckets of animal fat. Using ladles they were pouring the animal fat into the path of the runners. Another group of men were clearing the way of stones and impediments. The going was slow but steady.
He saw two men approaching him, striding up the hill, their white robes billowing around them as they came. One of them carried with him a stout staff and the other a bright sickle. They were quite obviously druids.
Nathaniel felt for his colt 45 but, instead, his hands discovered the haft of an axe. The weapon was a simple one. It stood around four foot high, the butterfly shaped double blades at least eighteen inches wide. The oak shaft two inches across and covered in brass studs. The handle covered in strips of wound leather.
A weapon for killing, not for show.
He glanced down to see with surprise that not only was his weapon different, so was his clothing. He was dressed entirely in steel armour. And, when he looked more closely at it, it was apparent that the armour had been fashioned out of old car parts. The Japanese Nissan symbol for their Infiniti car was emblazoned across his breastplate. The rest of the steel had been enamelled in deep black.
It was then that he realized that he was dreaming and he grinned to himself.
‘Bloody weird,’ he mumbled under his breath.
The druids got to within a few feet of him and both of them took a knee.
‘Our humble greetings to the Forever Man,’ said the one.
‘Through the dark hours of man’s night may you protect and surround us,’ the other intoned.
‘Greetings, druidic dudes,’ said Nathaniel. ‘I know that this is just a dream but, is that Stonehenge that you’re all building?’
‘That is the Hooded Gate, Forever Man, methinks that it is called Stanheng in your times. It is how we tell when and where the life-light will occur so that we may rekindle our magiks.’
Nathaniel slapped himself across the face. Hard. It stung. But that doesn’t prove anything, he thought to himself. When you get hurt in a dream then it often does actually feel sore. He tried to wake up.
‘You dream not, Fear Go Deo,’ said that druid with the sickle.
‘Bloody well am,’ countered Nathaniel.
‘Nay, Fear Go Deo, you have traveled, through time and space to see us.’
‘What’s Fear Go Deo?’ Asked the marine.
‘Tis your name, the Forever Man. You have ever been known thus. And ever will thou be thus known.’
‘Right,’ said Nathaniel. ‘I give up, may as well go with the flow. So, dude, why am I here?’
‘You need both warning and guidance.’
‘Hit me then,’ said Nathaniel.
‘Firstly, you must seek the other and, secondly, beware the folk that are fair and, finally, remember, when all appears lost, thine enemy of thine enemy is thine friend.’
‘Woah,’ said Nathaniel. ‘For a start, who is the other?’
‘Your time with us grows short. Remember, beware the fair folk.’
Nathaniel felt himself fading. Waking. The druid with the sickle grabbed his arm and slashed the back of the marine’s hand with the tip of the blade, twisting the sickle as he did. Almost as if he were writing something. Pain shot up his arm.
And he sat up in his bed.
The marine chuckled to himself. It had seemed so real. The feel of the wind on his face, the smells. The pain in his hand. He picked his hand up and looked at it.
Blood ran freely down the cut and dripped onto his bed.
And, carved into the back of his hand was the symbol
¥
Lemniscate - the sign for Infinity.
The mark of the Forever Man.
Chapter 24
Commander Ammon was exhausted. As soon as he and Seth had returned from the blue green planet, they had called for a meeting of the council and put forward their options. The decision had been made. And it had been made easily, as the options were little more than a choice between go and live, or stay and die.
Now he had to prepare for the withdrawal and evacuation of close on one and a half million beings.
All told there were approximately 100 000 fair folk. 80 000 constructs, 800 000 battle Orcs, 10 000 trolls and 400 000 goblins.
Firstly Ammon had ordered mass hunting to take place. All edible animals both domesticated and wild, were killed, quartered and smoked or salt-cured. Maize meal was ground and stored in sacks, vegetables were pickled, fruits became jams and barrels of flour for bread were stocked up. This was to ensure that, when they got to their new chrome, they had at least six months worth of food.
As well as food he started stocking extra arrows by the hundreds of thousands, spears, armor, handcarts, tents, shovels, cooking pots and swords. Everything that he would need to start what would basically be a huge tent city surrounded by a stockade. He had not noticed a great number of trees in the area they were heading to so even the stockades had to be prefabricated ready to be transported through the gate.
At the same time, Ammon could not allow the hive to suspect that something untoward was happening. So, he had instituted a series of lightning strikes against the enemy. Sending his fast, mobile Orc battle groups deep into enemy territory to slash and burn. Cut supply lines. Raid camps and put tents and other structures to the torch.
The first party through the gate were to consist of a handful of fair folk officers, five thousand Orcs and five thousand goblins. Their remit was to secure the area. Once that was achieved then the rest of the nation would be fed through the gate.
He would leave a rearguard of mixed troops defending the gateway until the last possible moment and then they too, hopefully, would be brought through to their new world.
The major thing that worried Ammon was the beings of the new planet (Seth had told him that the inhabitants named it Earth, so he’d better get used to calling it such. Also, Seth had said that the beings were Humans, so that was another one to remember). Although Seth had assured him that the humans were experiencing some sort of meltdown in their civilisation it was obvious from the mage’s other stories of Earth’s history that the humans had, at one stage, been unbelievably powerful. And without magik. A purely technological power. Actually, that had not been strictly true. As Ammon had pointed out to Seth, the very gateway itself was going to open in a circle of Light stones or, standing stones. And that proved that magik had, at least at some stage in the extremely distant past, been well used. But again Seth had assured him; the magik had long since died out. There was little to worry about. They would be the superior beings.
As well as their lack of magik, Seth had noted that they were extremely susceptible to the Fair-Folk’s glamouring skills. This was the skill that the Fair-Folk had since birth. A way of letting people see what they wanted to see when looking at them. It was an ancient survival technique that they had, of late, had little use for but, when actually physically entering a new realm or planet it would serve them well.
Seth had conducted many experiments in his Earthly travels and had concluded that, with a small amount of concentration, the human beings saw the Fair Folk as tall, well muscled, handsome and blond versions of themselves. However, when they first see the Orcs, Goblins and Bugbears they would see true. The magikal-biological constructs that the Fair Folk bred would also be seen as their true selves; however, they were, on appearance, similar to human children. Small, smooth skinned, large eyes, a fuzzy crop of hair on their heads. The only major difference being that they were possessed of two fully adult sets of genitalia. After all, they had been designed not only to fetch and carry but also to provide entertainment for the soldiers after battle.
Ammon had also been toying with a few ideas. He had not broached the subject with Seth or any other members of the council yet. But he was convinced that, due to the humans ease at being glamoured, they might find that there would be
no need to create any new constructs. It may be that they could simply glamour the humans into doing their will, and doing so gratefully.
However, those thoughts were for later. For now he had a mountain of administrative work and then he needed some rest. A full night’s sleep would be perfect but a couple of hours would suffice.
He drew his cloak closer around his shoulders to ward off the chill and set to his work.
Chapter 25
Axel had gotten the villagers to build fires. Many fires. They had also put together a couple of hundred torches. The torches were as rudimentary as one could imagine. A three-foot length of wood, the end wrapped in bandages torn from sheets until it looked like a giant Q-tip. These had been soaked in cooking oil and then distributed amongst the people.
The officers had also helped make up around one hundred Molotov cocktails. There wasn’t enough time to get very fancy about them so they were simply a mixture of gasoline and diesel fuel in a glass bottle with a rag stuffed into the neck. Axel figured that these would be good both as defense and as illumination.
Axel had also gathered all of the villagers together and talked to them. He had advised that the women and children were retired to the village church with five armed men and when, or if, the day was lost, they were to attempt to make a run for it.
Patrick walked up to Axel who was standing on the wall, looking out across the fields. He carried with him an implausibly expensive bottle of red wine from Axel’s father’s cellar, and two cut crystal glasses. In his shirt pocket he had stuffed a few cigars.
He poured wine into the glasses and held one out to his friend. Axel took it.
‘Cheers.’
Patrick toasted back. ‘Cheers. Health, wealth and all that crap.’ He held the glass up to the setting sun. The light caught the crystal and spread a rainbow over his unshaven face that matched the ever-present multicolor coruscation in the sky. A Kandinsky painting. Or perhaps an early Mondrian. ‘I always though that I’d get mine in Afghanistan,’ Patrick continued. ‘Or maybe some toilet in Africa. Definitely did not expect rural, bloody England. What about you?’
Axel shrugged. ‘Thought that I’d survive. Maybe make Major then retire, take over the family business. Get married, have a bunch of rug-rats. Get gout, have a stroke, premature baldness. Normal. Just normal.’
Patrick laughed. ‘Christ, kill me now. Really? Is that how you saw your future?’
Axel nodded. ‘Ordinary, you know. No EMP strikes or solar flares. No fighting hoards of psychotic criminals in a village in the middle of an English county. Definitely no end-of-the-world scenarios. Tea with the vicar, village cricket, Pimms and cucumber bloody sandwiches. Where’s Dom?’
Patrick grinned. ‘With that fat blonde bird from the post office.’
‘Who, Sweaty-Betty?’
‘That’s the one. He figured that he deserved a last shag and she was the only one whom he reckoned was a definite.’
‘Well,’ said Axel. ‘He’s correct there.’
Patrick pulled out two cigars and bit the ends off them. Flicked his Zippo and got one going, handed it to Axel and then worked on his own.
The two of them stood in compatible silence for a while as the sun sank slowly behind the trees.
‘I reckon they’ll come around ten o’clock,’ said Axel. ‘Maybe later. But not earlier. And they’ll come slowly, clear a path, chuck ladders against the walls. Rely on the dark to shield them.’
‘So what do we do?’ Asked Patrick.
‘We wait. Keep our eyes skinned. Think we see something, anything, we throw a Molotov at the movement and see what happens.’
After a few more minutes Axel left Patrick at the wall and went for a walk around the village. He stopped wherever he saw people and chatted. Lifting spirits, cracking jokes, giving advice. The vicar was holding a service in the village square. A short and simple one.
‘When you go out to war against your enemies,’ said the vicar. ‘And you see horses and chariots and an army larger than your own, you shall not be afraid of them, for the Lord your God is with you. And when you draw near to the battle, the priest shall come forward and speak to the people and shall say to them, Hear, O Israel, today you are drawing near for battle against your enemies: let not your heart faint. Do not fear or panic or be in dread of them, for the Lord your God is he who goes with you to fight for you against your enemies.’
‘Hallelujah, father,’ whispered Axel.
Someone touched Axel on the shoulder and he spun around quickly. His nerves on edge.
‘Whoa, boy.’
It was Dom, rifle in hand and ridiculous broadsword strapped across his back.
‘Surveying the troops?’ Asked Dom.
‘Yah,’ agreed Axel. ‘Poor bastards. They don’t deserve this.’
‘And we do?’
‘It’s different. Butcher, baker and candlestick maker. Not soldier.’
‘What can I say?’ Asked Dom. ‘Sometimes life gives you lemons and there’s bugger all that you can do about it. Sometimes being a soldier simply sucks the big one. Remember what Colonel Biggums used to say?’
Both of the young men spoke together; ‘Please don’t tell my mum that I’m a soldier, she thinks that I play the piano in a whorehouse.’
Axel laughed. Genuine happy laughter.
‘We’d better take up our positions. Won’t be long now.’ He turned to face the vicar and shouted. ‘Father. Positions please.’
All around became a roil of movement. People running to the walls, lighting torches, saying last second prayers.
And Axel was correct. They didn’t have to wait long. Although the moon was less than half full it was a cloudless night and, with the extra aurora, one could pick out movement at about thirty yards. Axel lit up a Molotov and heaved it at the area that he suspected. The flaming bottle arced through the air and exploded on the ground, flaring up in a burst of yellow flame. The firelight clearly picked out a group of men crawling along the ground, dragging a ladder behind them. The villagers on Axel’s wall opened up with their shotguns, spraying the area with buckshot. Then the flame went out and the night seemed even darker than before.
Axel heard the crump of exploding bottles coming from the other walls as similar scenarios unfolded.
It was the beginning of a long night.
The next two hours carried on in the same way. The thump of Molotovs exploding accompanied by short smatterings of small arms fire.
And then the intensity of firing increased at Patrick’s wall. Axel glanced over to see Molotovs sailing in from the other side of the wall. Six, seven, eight of them. One struck a villager in the chest and he went up like a Guy. A stuffed straw man except for the screaming and rolling about. Other villagers threw buckets of water on him and the fire sizzled to a steaming halt but the screaming continued.
He saw a ladder thump against the top of the wooden fence. Patrick ran along the walkway and kicked the ladder off, leaning over and firing his shotgun into the faces of the people below. People fired back and Axel saw Patrick take a hit, his hair flicking up as buckshot pellets struck him. But although blood poured down from his scalp he appeared to be okay with the injury.
And then there were people at Axel’s wall. Running in hard, twenty or thirty of them appearing out of the dark. Their clothes and faces blackened with mud. Carrying ladders. Maybe seven or eight sets of them. Axel aimed his Webley and started to fire. The old handgun booming like a cannon. Next to him shotguns cracked and Molotovs fluttered through the air, bursting in billows of flames.
The ladders thudded up against the fence. Axel reloaded and walked to the top of the first ladder, kicking it sideways so that it slid off the wall, taking another one with it. People came boiling over the top of the next ladder and Axel shot them as they came, the Webley bucking in his hand like a live animal. Two other male villagers were using their makeshift spears, jabbing at the faces of the criminals as they climbed the ladders. There was a volley of fire from the bottom of
the fence and both of the spear-wielding villagers went down in a welter of blood. Axel reloaded again, fired, reloaded. The old pistol red-hot. Every time he touched it, his skin would blister and slough off. After the seventh reload, the rounds started to cook off in the barrel. The captain dropped the revolver to the ground, its usefulness over.
He swung the pump action shotgun off its sling over his shoulder and started to fire at the attackers. Rapidly, pumping the action as fast as he could.
And then the fence was clear. They had beaten the attackers back.
Axel turned to survey Patrick’s wall only to be greeted by a scene of total disaster. Not only had the enemy breached the defenses, they had actually smashed down a portion of the fence and were pouring in.
But even worse than that, the vicar’s fence had also gone and Axel could see that the church was surrounded, already burning strongly as a group of the prisoners threw Molotov after Molotov at it. The roaring of the flames almost drowning out the screams of the women and children trapped inside.
Axel grabbed a spear and reloaded the shotgun as he ran to assist, anger and hatred swamping his other emotions in a blind fury. He gestured at five other villagers. ‘With me,’ he shouted. ‘The rest of you stay on this wall.’
As soon as he had reloaded he started firing from the hip, taking out two men by the time he got to the mêlée. And then it was hand-to-hand. He slashed at man’s throat and the knife on the broomstick cut deep. Blood sprayed in an arc and he went down. Axel spun and smashed the butt of his makeshift spear into another attacker’s temple, then he raised it high and stabbed down into his clavicle, plunging the blade deep, turning and withdrawing.
More of the Belmarsh boys were pouring in through the gap, forcing the villagers back, step by bloody step.
Patrick had lost his rifle and now also wielded a spear, fighting like a demon. A combination of MMA and animal fury. He glanced across at Axel and laughed. The bastard was enjoying himself. Doing what he had been trained to do. He pivoted and struck again, slashing and parrying. And then a massive thug came at him, wielding his empty shotgun like a baseball bat. Patrick raised his spear to block the blow but it was to no avail, the weapon merely shattered the cheap wooden handle and smashed into Patrick’s temple. He went down like a stone and another three prisoners piled in. Kicking and stabbing him on the ground.
