There Came a Darkening from the West E-Book

Nigel Ledsham-Darter

• Herausgeber: M-Y Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 313

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Straddling three wildly different and distant places and eras with its legs wide open, There Came a Darkening from the West is a saga of epic proportions. Laden with dark, foreboding imagery and interwoven with hilarious strands of even darker humour, it’s about gods, power and sex – and the consequences of love, betrayal and greed in the fictional Citadel of Sputen Duyvil.

Charting the birth and eventual destruction of the Citadel through the eyes of the central characters, the tale takes us on a rollercoaster ride from a modern-day world on the brink of anarchy, where petrol’s a luxury only affordable for the super-rich; a place populated by con-artists and asset-strippers, money-men and robots, to mediaeval times teeming with serfs and lords, seamen and whores. It’s like a black-magic mix of Game of Thrones with Dungeons and Dragons with all the gore and glory of primitive tribal warfare as well as the more subtle but equally sickening consequences of its modern-day counterpart.

By turns other-worldly and in-your-face brash, with earthy language to match, There Came A Darkening from the West is a rare feat in that it’s apocalyptic, yet knows when to keep its tongue in its cheek.

Born in 1953 Nigel was part of the baby boomer years, growing up in the exciting times of the Sixties and Seventies when life seemed to hold so much promise. Educated at Framlingham College and Broxbourne Grammar School, Nigel went on to a career in the Display and Exhibition Sector working in both the retail and manufacturing sides of the business. Hobbies include the love of a good book, writing, photography and an insatiable appetite for good music. He is often to be found at London’s small but select venues appreciating the fine musicianship of the bands performing.

Leseprobe

There Came a Darkeningfrom the West

A Novel By

Nigel Ledsham-Darter

A story concerning gods, power and sex. Set in three different time periods based around the fictional Citadel of Sputen Duyvil, it charts the birth and ultimate destruction of the Citadel through the eyes of the central characters.

Love, betrayal and greed are the drivers of events to unfold.

All text Nigel Ledsham-Darter 2015

Nigel Ledsham-Darter has asserted his moral right under the copyright, designs and patents act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design by Damian Cooper

Prologue

Crows

There are crows for as far as an eye can see, perched upon every high branch, they jostle and preen, discarded black feathers twirl lazily groundward, their guttural calls echo around the clearing. Some have taken to the air, riding the thermals in easy circles, their large black wings held wide, ragged wing tips spread like fingers gently caressing the air that holds them aloft.

In the centre of the clearing stands Velha son of Velhan, naked and smeared with the blood of the sheep he has just ritually slaughtered. He is talking in tongues, a skill he had learnt from his long dead father, a skill passed down the generations by fathers to sons. Perched upon the sheep’s carcass, a bead of entrail hanging from his jet black beak, stands the largest of all the crows, his beady eye alert to any nearby dangers.

Velha’s chant grows faster and faster and louder and louder until all the words merge into one long wail, and then in a sudden moment of complete unity, silence falls upon the clearing. Not a sound can be heard. Slowly the breeze begins to rustle in the trees and the cicadas start to chirp, the howl of a lone wolf calls from far away as if sending a message for the crows to resume their cacophony of chatter. Velha holds his arms aloft and one by one the crows take to the skies until the sky darkens as the mass swoops and swirls. The large black crow gulps down the hanging entrail and then he too spreads his massive wings and lumbers skyward.

The spell has been cast. What has been done can no longer be undone.

It begins.

Chapter 1

The Valley

On the level valley that spread out from the base of the majestic mountains that holds the great city on high, the farmers tended to their land. Stripped torsoed young men wielded scythes in the meadows of lush grass, a sight that brought a whirl of twitter and lustful chatter from within the bushes of soft fruits where young daughters peeled ripened berries from thorned stalks. The gentle sun shone down, a soothing south easterly breeze robbing the harshness from its rays. On the outskirts of the fields, the elders sat beneath the shade thrown by the shadows of awaiting carts, playing games upon boards as heavy hooved horses shooed the flies with swish of mane and tail. Upon a flatbed two easeled artists set about the scene. Their brushes traced the serenity of the day in colours warm and pleasing on the eye.

Far off and high up in the mountain a sentry spied a darkening coming from the west, a maelstrom of blackening mass swirling ever nearer. In the fields the torsoed boys stopped mid swing and looked up into the skies, their mouths agape as they took in the sight of a thousand flapping wings approaching at great speed. As the approaching squawks and screeches grew louder and met upon fair ears, the bush maidens ceased their chatter and also looked skywards. An awful fear gripped their hearts as they dropped their laden baskets, hitched their billowing skirts above their knees and begun their fruitless dash for safety. For indeed it was fruitless, because before they could clear the rows, the cloud descended and the merciless killing had begun.

From a high turret a sentry set a spyglass to his eye and witnessed the horror taking place below. He rang a bell of alarm and soon other bells were ringing all around the city.

In the streets, back-alleys and squares the squires and common men, going about their everyday business, momentarily stopped in their tracks and looked skyward in a state of bewilderment of a sound they had not heard for many many a year. Indeed some had never heard before as their lives had been blessed by more than a full generation of peace. Clutching their goods close to their chests the men scurried toward the Great Hall, as the woman-folk gathered their broods and shooed them off toward the safety of home.

Inside the Great Hall a murmur of anticipation rose to the rafters and mingled with the smoke from a hundred flickering torches that lined the stone walls and cast a hundred wavering shadows upon the hanging banners that depicted in stitch stories of the city’s past histories. At the far end of the hall two gold laden thrones shimmered upon a dais draped with exotic skins. It was toward these thrones that all eyes were drawn as heralding trumpets announced the arrival of the Lord and his Lady.

It had begun

*

James Forsyth

James Forsyth dug a piece of trapped venison from between two back molars with a wooden tooth pick as he gazed out from his vast panoramic view. Below the trees had begun to blossom and the air seemed filled with the promise of new beginnings. For James the new beginnings were now moving fast and years of careful planning were about to bear fruit, and that fruit would be bountiful and taste all so very very sweet. He allowed himself a satisfied smile, as he caught a glimpse of his magnificence reflected in the thick plate glass before him.

He had to be careful though, even at this stage things could still go wrong, and even those sycophants with their smarmy loyalty would stab him in the back given half a chance. For wouldn’t they just love to slip into his size nine hand crafted shoes, don his bespoke suit and silken shirt. No doubt they would even be gratified to relieve him of his fine cotton boxers and leave him naked out in the cold. He knew they could be as ruthless as he had been to so many before him. There was only one code he lived his life by and that was; fuck them before they could fuck you, and fuck them he would. When this shit hit the fan there would be none of it blowing in his direction, that was for sure, for it had all been in the planning and now he was about to press the button on the final stages.

He swung around abruptly and rose from his chair, strode toward his trophy cabinet. Inside the trappings of his success were displayed, the awards and accreditations stood proudly amongst the collection of artefacts from days of the distant past, ancient cruelties that had always fascinated him. A shrunken head from the Amazon basin, a severed breast, some many centuries old, fashioned into a tobacco pouch, a Chilean shinbone flute, lampshade made from the skin of a tattooed human and penis skin pipe case. He inwardly smiled as he recalled the old joke; “if you rub it, it becomes an umbrella case!”

The history of Homo sapiens showed that man had always revelled in cruelty. From ancient times through to today, man has fashioned some ingenious ways to torture, kill, rip apart and display body parts in the most imaginative fashion. Killing with such cruelty allowed those in power to demonstrate the authority they held and was a good way of persuading the populace to toe the line. They managed to create some pretty fancy religions to justify the horrors and give credence to the bloodletting done in the name of which ever deity they chose to worship. The guy who came up with the idea of creating gods was a genius and as such should be revered above all the gods he had created. Setting one tribe against another, by getting them to worship opposing fictional deities showed outstanding forethought.

James had often speculated what it felt like to kill. Not from a distance, as he had done so many times before as a result of some of the decisions he has made in feathering his own nest. But what it actually felt like. To actually snuff out another life with his own bare hands, experience their desperation and observe the fear in their eyes as they realise the very last moments of their existence is slowly seeping away.

Now that is power!

That is the true power.

The power of life and death.

The power of God!

‘One day,’ he thought.

For now it had begun. There would be no turning back from this point and if all went to plan he would have the true power he craved and wealth beyond his wildest dreams and then, well, maybe a little indulgence would not go amiss.

*

Pilgrimage

Across the vast plains and passing of many moons there had been much blood spilt in the quest for power and riches. Great gods had been created to keep the poor at bay and increase the mysteries of those who held wealth like a dagger to a throat. Great pilgrimages were made by the peoples, whose homes were no more than rudimentary shacks dotted amongst the barren landscape. They would trudge in long lines over many leagues to witness the splendour of the temples raised to the gods and awe at the riches held within. Wise men with great long beards, swirling robes and hats of many colours chanted in low monotone to enhance the feeling of piety as the rag clad populous shuffled quietly through these great edifices, truly believing that such scale and splendour could only be the creations of the great gods themselves.

Jacob held on tightly to the little cold hands of his children. His wife shuffled behind, her back bowed with the weight of their trappings, a ragged shelter with poles of bamboo and clanking pots hung from her back. ‘See,’ Jacob said pointing a rheumatoid finger toward a great painted glass set within the grey stone wall; ‘The great god Ducas, builder of temples.’

His son looked up in wonderment, following the line of his father’s finger.

‘And over there is Droco and Thelea the gods of love.’

The boy smirked at the depiction of Droco with his large pendulous penis and Thelea with her full ripe breasts and exposed vermilion vagina, for he was of that age when stirrings from below were beginning to cloud his mind. The girls he once played childhood games with now took on a totally different significance and the games he imagined playing would now, no doubt, entail the removal of clothes. A sharp clip around the ear disturbed his erotic thoughts.

‘Pay attention boy’ his father admonished as he pointed toward the next window where Silas the great god of war stared out with eyes of raging fire, bearing shield, sword and bloodied lance, the severed heads of his enemies littering the ground around his feet.

They shuffled on following the solemn procession down the body of the temple; all the gods portrayed in window after window of glorious colours that glinted brightly, the outside sunlight illuminating the splendour of their powers. The gods of wind and rain, the frost maiden of snow and ice, and the naked beauty of innocence portrayed by Aesha with her small pert breasts and hair of golden meadow, small furry animals rummaged at her feet and behind her a vision of paradise.

Finally they came before a resplendent altar of sacrifice behind which was the largest window of all depicting the Great God. The God of all Gods. A rounded face set within a frame of long white hair and beard, eyes that revealed compassion and wisdom. In his hand he held a staff of shining light and in his lap sat the originator of mortal life, half man half beast.

This god was so powerful he could not be named, as to utter a name would show him to be equal to any other named creature which would demonstrate disrespect and be deemed as blasphemy of the highest order. So he was referred to as just the “Great God” or “God of Gods,” and although wise and kind he could rain down plagues and pestilence on those whom disbelieved. In his name, hearts have been ripped from his enemies and lands pillaged, women raped and subjected to hideous tortures and deaths so awful they could not be told of in decent company. For these were the stories for the strong at heart and those warriors who bathed in rivers of blood and buried their penises into the womenfolk of their foes and took as trophies their severed breasts to shape and stitch as smoke pouches or purses for their tokens.

*

The Chosen Ones

He made his way back to his desk, checked his watch and brushed a few flakes of detritus from his lapel. His psoriasis was raging, supposed to be a sign of stress although he felt very calm with the way things were progressing. Everything was going exactly to plan. He counted to ten and composed himself as the knock came upon the door, placed his elbows on the gleaming glass top of his desk and steepled his hands before him, in an almost reverent manner. On the count of ten he took a deep breath and bellowed; ‘come,’ and in they traipsed.

The Four Arseholes of the Apologics.

The ones he had selected to take the fall on his behalf.

The chosen ones.

Simon was first through the door, and as always perfectly groomed and upright. James wondered how he would survive inside. He would be a prize in the showers that’s for sure, pretty boy Simon with his coiffured blonde locks, manicured nails and polished skin, those sex starved monsters would shag the arse off him. Still at least he would be getting more sex than he got from that prissy wife of his, James presumed. Try as he might he just could not picture Simon and Shantelle at it, imagined them with the lights out, adopting the position favoured by the missionary’s and no doubt whilst he was humping away her mind would be off carousing some designer shop, plucking the most expensive items from the racks. He wondered how she and those two daughters of perfection would endure whilst their erstwhile breadwinner was banged up and all their wealth sequestered by the fraud squad. He couldn’t imagine her working, and who would employ her? She was as thick as two very short planks, with not one imaginative thought running through that vacuous brain of hers. Maybe she would have to go on the game, now there’s a thought. She certainly has the body for it, and let’s face it being a bit vacuous could be seen as a positive advantage in that line of work.

Behind Simon came Robert. Robert the adventurer. Robert the man of action, who could not look at a mountain without the urge to climb it, nor look at a sea without the urge to sail it. He was well travelled, his face burnished by wind and sun, his hair caught in a permanent wave of wind-sweep, and he possessed a body as rugged as granite. Robert’s whole aim in life was to make as much money as he could by forty five, retire and take to the seas. Sorry matey boy, a few years in prison scrubs and four grey walls is all you have coming your way my friend, James predicted.

Lastly trailed Ian and Andrew. The ever valuable yes men, the type of men that every company needs to flatter the egos of the good and great at the top. James, in all the years he had known them, did not think he had ever heard a negative word pass their lips. It was always; ’Yes James.’ ‘Brilliant James.’ ‘Superb James.’ ‘Of course James,’ to whatever he said. ‘Take a very long hike and jump of the highest fucking cliff you can find.’ And they would no doubt chime; ‘Certainly James.’

Ian was as tall and lanky as Andrew was short and fat. They looked like a comedy duo, Ian rattling around inside his suit whilst Andrew’s suit was doing all it could to contain him, buttons straining and likely to fly off and take out an eye at any moment.

‘Well,’ James said at last, un-steepling his hands and relaxing back in his chair. ‘It would seem that we are all a good deal richer today,’ he announced with flourish. ‘I am pleased to say that the transaction went our way and the funds have been directed straight into your individual off-shores.’

He noted their greedy smiles, the smug self-satisfaction that he had spotted in them all in the first place. One could only con those greedy enough to be conned, a fact he had learnt at an early age and he was still able to spot the vulnerable from a mile away. Start small, a few hundred or maybe a thou’ or two, and then slowly feed the greed and watch it bloom. Soon they have a nice house and flash car, the wife wears designer and the kids ride horses and go to posh schools, then they are hooked. Like heroin they need more and more and would sell their dear ol’ grannies if push came to shove.

Simon was the first to speak. ‘Thank you James.’

‘Yes thank you,’ Added Robert.

‘Brilliant James,’ Chimed Ian and Andrew.

‘My pleasure…So you can all go and buy that Ferrari or yacht or whatever it is that floats your boat, if you will excuse the pun.’ He allowed them a little chuckle time before continuing. ‘But be well aware of Mr Taxman! Your funds are out of sight of Mr Taxman so don’t be flashing it around, we don’t need nosey noses sniffing around the wrong holes now, do we?’

Although he knew damn well that nosey noses would shortly be sniffing around. Mainly due to the anonymous tip off he would soon be providing to an interested ear who would be only too eager to sniff out a big bust that would allow him to skip a rung or two on the old promotion ladder. Greed feeds greed but there is nothing like the voracity of an overzealous inspector once he gets the scent.

‘Well come on boys, let’s celebrate,’ he said rising from his chair and striding across to the hidden cupboard disguised as a block of books within library shelves. He pulled a bottle of Dom Perignon from a cooler unit within and popped the cork.

‘To us. The stinking rich,’ he toasted with a clink of glass.

‘The stinking rich!’ They trilled.

Chapter 2

Lord Alexane Gwilym

Lord Alexane Gwilym and his voluptuous wife Estrella took their places upon the golden thrones. The squires, elders and common men stood patiently awaiting an explanation of the tolling bells of alarm. Excitable chatter and speculation filled the air before the strike of a gavel signalled for silence.

Gwilym rose and stood before the men; ‘There is a murder of crows reaping havoc on the plains below. Our sentries report the sighting of many dead. Indeed it is likely there will be no survivors at all.’ A murmur spread around the hall. ‘We know neither from whence they came nor who sent them, but I suspect it be the magic of the forest folk in the east that have sent these winged demons.’

The murmur grew into disgruntled mutterings.

‘I will be forthright,’ he continued in a sombre tone, ‘If it is indeed the forest folk it is unlikely they will be working alone. For they alone would not possess the numbers for an attack on this level, and I fear that an attack such as this means that the city is in imminent danger of a major onslaught.’

‘But why?’ cried out a voice, ‘We have enjoyed generations of peace. Why now should anyone wish to make war with us?’

‘There have been whispers,’ Lord Gwilym admitted. ‘Word has reached me that King Charlotain of Castle Dematry has been in collusion with the tribes. He is a man of greed and wishes to expand his empire and to do that he will need more wealth, wealth that we possess in the mountains. I fear the tribes have united under his banner and that will make his army a formidable foe.’

A gasp arose and throttled the silent void left as Gwilym stopped speaking.

Estrella rose to join her husband, stood defiantly at his side, took his hand and began to speak; ‘We must be strong and resolute. If the danger of war is upon us then we must ready ourselves. We must sharpen our swords and lances, dust down the cannons and open up the armoury. We have the upper hand as our walls are strong and our position almost unassailable. We must prepare for siege, gather our stocks and rations. Every man woman and child must aid the preparations, for together we are strong.’ For emphasis she lifted her husband’s hand into the air.

‘Together we are strong!’ they both chanted

‘Together we are strong,’ the multitude replied

And so it had begun.

*

The Square

Jacob led the children through the square, his wife a couple of dutiful paces behind. A myriad of colours, sounds and aromas assaulted the senses. The hustle and bustle of street traders, jugglers and tricksters were more than young Brayan had ever seen in one place in his life, certainly far bigger than any village fair he had ever attended. Chickens scurried in the dirt, sheep and pigs rattled in their cages with a snort and baa, cows stomped their hooves and shook an irritation of flies from their heavy heads. The air filled with the cries from hawkers and shrieks of laughter from corner whores as they made lewd comments to the men that passed, making rude gestures and gauging estimated size of tackle with a quick snatch at crotch leaving many a red face male to scurry off.

Zula clung to her father’s jacket and tried to hide her face within its folds as Brayan took it all in, wide eyed, as the whores bared their breasts and generally behaved in a bawdy manner.

‘Want a bit of cunt do yer?’ one screeched as she caught his furtive gaze.

He felt his face flush and a wave of heat travel through his body.

‘Bout time to get yer tiddler wet!’ she howled, others joined and all lifted their skirts, exhibiting a blush of bush, laid bare before him.

His father berated the whores, told them to leave the boy alone which just encouraged them to be even more raucous. The one giving the come-on licked a pair fingers upon teasing tongue before burying them deep within her vagina, cackling like a witch and winking at the boy; ‘come and get it!’ she howled, ‘two tokens for all the cunt you want!’

Brayan moved his bag around to his front and clutched it to his groin in an effort to hide his rising embarrassment.

‘Father, I’m scared!’ a little voice rose up from Jacob’s jacket, he held her hand tighter.

‘It’s okay little one, they won’t hurt you,’ he reassured. ‘It is but just a jigger of drunken women!’

They carried on through the square, passing yet more hawkers and traders all desperate to sell their wares. Wares proclaimed to be far better than you would find in this or any other world and certainly far better from those who traded around the corner. The best cuts of meat! The freshest baked bread! Pies that were baked by the gods themselves! Jackets taken from the finest skins and stitched by Celeenion virgins! All was available for a price. With a purse of tokens you could get almost anything. Even souls were for sale if you had enough purchasing power.

Jacob led them from the square down a street of door-to-door inns. Drunken men drank and laughed, played board games and fornicated openly with the whores, bending them over barrels with one hand in the small of their back and in the other a tankard of ale. Jacob quickened the pace and Brayan clutched his bag even tighter to his groin knowing not where to look but gazing absolutely everywhere. He intended not to miss a thing.

At the end of the street lay the docks. A wide open space of water where many ships were moored, winches swinging wildly with loads of cargo liberated from dark and dank holds. Men of many colours. Men with bodies adorned with tattoos. Men so tall and muscled they blocked the light from the sun as they toiled with ropes and chains, or traversed the wooden walkways with wooden crates containing exotic wares raised upon their shoulders. Amid this flurry of activity rose the smell of rotting fish and the brine of the sea itself.

*

A Man of Military Bearing

The Dom’ had gone and so had they. James shut the bookcase and left the glasses for whomever it was that cleaned up after him. He had actually never ever laid eyes upon a cleaner. It was something that got done, like magic, like the shoe elf, who visits in the middle of the night and in the morning his office was always spick and span, tracks of hoovered furrows in the deep shag and a desktop that gleamed in the early morning light being the only trace of her existence.

Now it was time to act, he thought.

Time to implement stage two.

Stage one had been subtle. The acquisition of various key companies stripped of their assets, making the Chief Exec’s and CO’s a bundle of money and kicking the workers out onto the street, having paid them the bare minimum in remuneration. Thus aiding the ever widening gap between rich and poor. Thus increasing the growing unrest. Thus the rise of right wing think-tanks blaming those of different faiths, creeds or colours for all the woes of the world.

Divide and prosper.

Pitching one god against another.

James had found it surprisingly easy to manipulate the masses. He found it quite incredible that even in this day and age, with all the technology, with all the information at hand, the common man is quite happy to sit in front of a screen and wank himself silly rather than deal with the issues that really matter. They moan and they bleat and they bitch about those who have more than they and then return to their hovels and binge out on porn, box sets and TV dinners. Less than one percent own more than the ninety-nine percent, by sheer weight of numbers they should win if they rose up to the fight. It had happened elsewhere and why? Because the corruption was open and the dictators and power mongers thought that they could get away with it as the people were too weak and afraid to act. Their mistake was to allow the religious zealots to rise up behind them and seek power for their own designs, spreading the word of a particular god, any god will do, converting the disenfranchised and breeding an army of fanatics who were only too delighted to lay down their lives for the cause.

In the east the corruption seemed less obvious and faith too wide spread thus complacency rules. It is always the fault of someone else, the; “what can I do about it culture.” That is exactly what James relied on to feed the fires of hatred. Colour against colour. Faith against faith. Rich against poor. The right word leaked to the Daily Wail slowly stoked the embers of hatred and now it was time to raise the ante and set the world ablaze.

He retrieved the disposable from his wall safe and pressed the one number entered on speed dial. It was a number he had not called in a while but was still picked up within two rings and answered as usual with the single word; ‘Barnet’

James had no idea if this was the man’s real name, but he doubted it was, for Barnet was a man of mystery and a man of many talents who could be relied on to get the job done. He had performed his duties to the highest standards over the ten or so years that James had felt the need of his services. He certainly was a man with a military background and seemed to have many useful contacts within that theatre of operations.

‘Usual twenty minutes!’

‘Affirmative.’ The line went dead.

James replaced the phone in the safe and made for the executive lift. The doors swished open and he stepped in, selected the button for the basement garage, checked himself in the mirror, straightened his tie and brushed away a few flakes of dried skin from his lapel. The lift dropped to a halt and a ping of electronic bell signalled the doors to open, revealing an expanse of dimly lit grey painted concrete in the centre of which sat a bright yellow Lamborghini to which James held the key.

Petrol had become so exorbitantly expensive that only the super-rich could now afford it. James had his own fuel supply which was kept in large strong metal containers within the warehouse to where he was now heading. Cars for those that could afford them were electrically or solar powered and were limited in their range. The Lamborghini was over thirty years old but still roared like a youth in the first flushes of life. Her body was immaculate and her engine gleamed. He employed two old school mechanics to lavish old school care.

The shutter automatically rose as it sensed the car purring up the ramp. A fine sunny afternoon greeted James as he turned right and slowly traversed the pedestrian route that would lead him to the highway on the other side of the walled centre. Walkers gave appreciative glances as he cruised by. Both he and the car wallowed in the attention paid.

On the highway he headed west, shifted into gear and a purr became a roar. There were not many vehicles on this stretch which allowed James to full throttle. He passed, at some speed, through a wasteland of deserted and rundown factories. Any factories that still functioned were mainly staffed by robotics, their chimneys emitting great plumes of black and yellow smoke high up into the blue sky. James had made a pretty penny by the closure of many of these factories and the workers only had themselves to blame, with their demands for higher wages for less production. The health and safety sue culture meant no firm could function unless it kow-towed to the demands of stroppy shop stewards and the officers of wellbeing. Well technology put paid to that! Why pay workers who brought nothing but a baggage load of problems along with their packed lunches when you could build a robot that would work twenty-four-seven for a once a year maintenance program?

Fifteen minutes later found him turning off the highway and looping around an industrial slip road. Once proud factories had succumbed to rust, roofs that had fallen inwards as the girders that supported them surrendered and died. Tall windows with small panes, each and every one shattered by boy slung missiles of stone and brick. Here and there the homeless poor could be seen standing around braziers within the interior of the damp buildings.

At the end of the slip road was a gated cul-de-sac in which some of the survivors of the robotic revolution still plied their trades, the mechanics of vintage cars and the tool shops needed to fabricate new parts that are no longer available from the original manufacture’s. Trades that were in short supply and vital to the rich collector such as himself. James had been shrewd enough to spot this niche in the market, so he acquired this land and set up the Small Trades Federation which had turned out to be another one of his lucrative side lines, with the added bonus of affording him huge discounts for his own requirements and a rent free warehouse to which he was now heading.

The watchman stepped lively from the security hut at the sight of the Lamborghini, undid the heavy padlock and let the gates swing open. Thirty seconds later the shutter on the warehouse clattered upwards and James steered into the darkness, the shutter began to close as soon as he passed under. In a pool of light cast from a skylight, stood a man of military bearing, hands clasped behind his back in an at-ease stance. His suit was crisp with razor sharp creases, shoes highly buffed, his greying hair neatly cut with not a strand out of place.

He allowed himself a smile as James approached.

‘Forsyth old chap.’ He said extending a hand, ‘long time no see.’

‘Good of you to come.’

Barnet’s shake was firm as one would expect from a man of his bearing, ‘I presume you have a job for me?’

James nodded and bade Barnet to follow. They headed up the metal stairs that traversed the right hand wall of the warehouse and onto a walkway that led to a bank of offices that had seen better days. He opened the door to one, flicked the switch and a yellow fluorescent flickered reluctantly into life revealing a battered desk and two office style chairs. In unison the two men moved toward their respective chair, removed folded handkerchiefs from breast pocket and flicked away a gathering of dust before sitting and facing each other across the divide of the desk.

‘This is what I need you to do.’ James said.

*

Camp

They had marched through the forest, across the lush valleys and up onto the high plains. Along the way evidence of the crows murderous journey lay by the roadside, laying in a pools of congealed blood, empty eye sockets pointing skywards and a mask of horror etched upon pallid faces. The crows spared no one in their path, showed no mercy nor differentiated between man, woman or child. Even some of the most hardened men were repulsed by the sight of a young child bearing the scars of a thousand pecks. Their deaths must have been painful and terrifying.

His army consisted of some twelve thousand strong, four thousand of which were his own men, from Castle Demitry, fine archers and swordsmen, well-disciplined and finely turned out in their tunics of scarlet, helmets and shields of gleaming silver. The rest were made up from an amalgamation of the tribes, The Forest Men, Hill Folk and Men of the Plains, a rag bag bunch of ill-disciplined guerrilla fighters. It had taken King Charlotaine many years of negotiation to bring this bunch together, for many years of hatred and vendetta existed between the tribes.

Garston dismounted and handed the reins of his steed to his squire, who led the handsome stallion off for water and fodder. They were still a three day march from their ultimate destination but Garston felt this would be a good place to set camp and rest for a couple of days. There was fresh running water and trees bearing fruit for the taking. In a short while the tents were set and the smell of roasting hog filled the late afternoon air.

Garston removed his breast plate and vest of chain mail. His knave removed his cloak from a finely carved trunk and placed it around his lord’s shoulders. Garston pulled the cloak around him to ward off the night chill that would be soon setting in. Although early spring, with pleasantly warm days, the temperature dropped severely at this altitude when the sun dipped and darkness cloaked the sky. The lieutenant had already laid the maps out on the table and summoned the tribal heads and now Garston was preparing for what he was sure would be a heated encounter.

The most difficult part of controlling this army was controlling the tribal leaders. They possessed egos as big as the sky itself and meetings would often disintegrate into petty squabbles.

Who’s god was the greatest?

Who’s fighters were the most fearless?

Who had the biggest cock?

The only reason for them to unite was the promise of wealth, rape and plunder. Although their gods may differ at least they possessed gods unlike the heathens of Sputen Duyvil who worshipped none but their lords. The tribal chiefs truly believed that without a god on their side, Sputen Duyvil and those that dwelled within stood no chance of repelling an attack from such a force as this.

Garston sighed, took his place at the table and perused the maps before him, awaiting the inevitable squabble that was bound to take place.

‘If just once,’ he thought, ‘they could all agree then I would eat my weight in horseshit.’

Son of Ahan was first through the flap. He was a giant of a man, with a long beard braided with ferrules of silver and ribbons of dyed leather entwined within the plaits. His hair was shorn at the sides leaving a ridge of mane that hung down his back to his waist. He wore a jerkin of fine hide decorated with delicate etched scrolls, breeches of a quality felt and knee length boots that turned over at the top to form a collar of tassels.