Chapter 24
Beskholme was a similar city to Thorvale in terms of layout and size. Both were built around the same time period in the vision of the first king of Thorntonvale; King Thar. The biggest difference between the two cities was the colour. Thorvale had beautiful buildings of white stone and bronze timber. Its walls were high and majestic. They too seemed to shine white in the sunlight. Thorvale was a bright city. Beskholme on the other hand was completely the opposite. As a person approached the city gates from the outside, they would notice how dull the walls looked. They were a mixture of grey and charcoal. The gates, once polished dark brown, were now black and dirty. Once through the gates, the streets seemed narrower and nowhere near as clean. Beskholme was an industrial city. All the grime, grease and soot from the many factories covered the town in filth. Even the people did not seem as well attired or groomed. Their clothes were tatty and covered in dust and stains. Soot covered faces were a common sight in Beskholme especially in the early evening as people returned home after a hard day’s work. Perhaps the most noticeable difference between the people of Beskholme and those from Thorvale was in the happiness and moral of the people. Those abiding in Thorvale were happy and vibrant people, instilling their energy into every street and building in the city. The people of Beskholme did not have the same enthusiasm for life. They seemed to amble around at a slower pace than their Thorvalian countrymen. One thing was for certain though, the people of Beskholme had been hardened by the conditions they lived in. They were a people not known for their warm and friendly welcome when a stranger entered the city. Soon, however, they would have to welcome half a city into their fold. A whistle started sounding loudly from one of the towers in the southern gate.
“Something approaches.” The watchman shouted between blasts.
This went on for some time. Eventually, John and Conrad heard the news. They put aside the business they were doing and headed for the watch tower to investigate what the commotion was all about. When they reached the tower they looked out across the fields they had rigged with traps. The sun had risen at least four hours ago. The time was close to noon. Beyond the field there were a series of small hills no bigger than the walls of the city. At the foot of the smallest hill, closest to the city, shapes could be seen moving slowly around it.
“The enemy has arrived.” John said solemnly fearing that their time was short.
“I don’t think they have.” Conrad replied. “They are moving far too slowly. The enemy would move quicker trying to give the impression that they were fresh and eager to fight. These creatures do not move like that. They look slow and weary.”
The watchman approached and handed a telescope to Conrad.
“I cannon tell, sir, but I think they are refugees. I can make out that there are only women and children escorted by a few guards.” The Watchman said.
Conrad raised the telescope and peered through. His keen vision could see the party clearly.
“By the looks of their clothing, I would say that Thorvale has either fallen or been evacuated. Its people come here.” Conrad said fearing the worst.
John took the telescope from Conrad and peered through.
“You are right; they do look like the people of Thorvale. I wonder what sort of a welcome they will receive here.” John replied. A thought dawned on Conrad.
“They will receive no welcome at all if they cross that field.”
A look of worry spread over their faces.
“Get me a horse.” John bellowed down into the street as he ran towards the stairs down.
Conrad followed shouting for the gates to be opened. This was going to be a race against the clock. A steed was waiting for John as he reached the bottom of the stairs. It had not been prepared. There was no saddle, reins or stirrups. John paused for a moment passing a questioning glance at the man who was holding the horse. He then jumped on and galloped bareback through the now opened city gates. A horse had not been prepared for Conrad so he went back up to the watch tower to observe the events unfold.
John had no difficulty in staying on the horse; he had often ridden bareback in his home village of Horton Peak. One of the tricks he had never learned though was to turn the horse using only his legs. John’s horse had blasted out of the city heading straight into the field where the manhole traps had been dug. John tried pressing his legs into the side of the horse but it did nothing. He tried kicking the side of the horse one leg at a time. Still the steed galloped straight ahead. Getting desperate as the horse was charging straight towards the first camouflaged manhole, John leaned forward and grabbed the horse’s mane. He pulled and tugged at it with all his might. Still the horse continued forward. The horse was about to hit the manhole when John let out a mighty shout.
“Turn to the left you stupid beast.” He dug his legs into the side of the horse with all the strength he could muster. At the last second it turned, only now it was heading towards another hole.
Conrad stood on the wall with the watchmen, looking at the farce that was going on before him. Despite the serious nature of the situation, the comical sight in front of him had forced a grin to spread across his face. He watched as John headed towards one hole only to turn just in time before heading towards another then another. When the wind picked up, John’s pleas for the horse to “Turn, turn, turn” could be heard. Finally, John got his horse under control. Conrad had forgotten about the approaching refugees. He looked up to see that they were nearly at the manhole trap furthest from the city gates.
“Come on John, move it.” He said under his breath.
“Stop, stop.” John cried out as he raced towards the massive group of people. He waved his arms furiously above his head. The people didn’t stop. John was about a thousand yards away from the people, who in turn were only a hundred metres away from the manhole trap. John whispered in his horse’s ear.
“Run faster than ever before, I beg you.” John didn’t know if it was his plea, his soft voice or the respect the horse had for him but he didn’t care at this point; the horse was running faster.
“Stop, you are walking into a trap.” He shouted again. The guard leading the group of people looked up. He obviously hadn’t heard him clearly. The guard ran forward in John’s direction.
“No, you fool, stop.” It was too late. The guard had moved too far onto the manhole trap. Branches that had been covering the manhole gave way, sending the guard crashing through and plummeting to his death. The people who had been following came to a sudden halt. John rode his steed around the edge of the large manhole. Most of it was still covered with camouflage as it had been designed to only collapse when a certain amount of weight was upon it. John rode up to another of the guards.
“Where do you hail from?” John asked with a tremble in his voice. The adrenaline was racing round his body from the ride and from the sight of the guard falling through the hole.
“The King sent us from Thorvale. We were instructed to bring the women and children away from the battlefield.” The guard said in a formal manner.
“Why did the King evacuate the city? When I left, the King had believed that the walls of the castle would hold strong; that no enemy could get through.”
“I only know that the battle on the shorefront did not go as planned. Our men were slaughtered.” The Guard replied.
John paused in thought for a moment before continuing the conversation.
“Our enemy must have an extensive and powerful army if it put fear into the King. Do you know any specifics about our enemy?” John asked.
“All I know is that two hundred ships landed. Hundreds of thousands of the foulest creatures march against us.”
“Do you know what fate befell Thorvale?”
“I do not.”
John looked rather worried. If the guard had not exaggerated the number of enemy who march against the people of Thorntonvale, the defences they had created around Beskholme would not even be a deterrent.
“You need to
have your people follow me.” John began. “The fields are rigged for trapping our foes. Any who try to cross will die as you have already witnessed.”
With that, John led the refugees of Thorvale into the relative safety of Beskholme’s walls. As John approached the city from the outside, the dirty walls that once seemed so high suddenly did not seem as grand.
The soldiers of the local garrison aided the refugees into the city. John and Conrad moved away from the crowd to speak in private.
“I have a bad feeling about this.” John stated. “We did not put into place effective evacuation plans; it was overlooked by the war council.”
Conrad looked thoughtful, “Are we assuming the worst has happened to Thorvale; that it has fallen to the enemy?”
“I do not feel we have a choice. If the King has sent only women and children, I would also assume that the men have been used to aid in the defence.” John paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “The guard leading the refugees talked about there being hundreds of thousands of enemy creatures. If these numbers are to be believed, no city can stand a chance.”
“Then we must evacuate this city and any other that we come across along the way. We must head west to the Sacred Hills.” Conrad replied.
“We still have to set the explosives around Beskholme. It was to be another two weeks before evacuation was required; giving us time to organise the exodus.”
Conrad looked sternly at John, “We no longer have that amount of time. We send the people away now and rig the explosives. That alone will take at least a couple of days; time that we may not have.”
“Especially if the enemy forces are following the refugees.” John concluded, ominously.
With that, the two men started about the task to clear the city.
The King had walked through the night and had made good ground. It would only take him another two to three hours to reach Beskholme. Henried felt totally exhausted. His feet felt like they had lead weights attached to them. Each step he took seemed to be a little bit slower than the last. On top of being physically tired, King Henried was also emotionally drained. The long walk had given him time to reflect on the defeat his people had suffered by the hands of the enemy. That was not the only line of thought he had. There was a shadow in his mind. It was a blank space where a memory should have been. He could remember his brief battle with the black figure in the streets of Thorvale. Everything was so clear; every word and movement. The only thing he couldn’t see was the figure itself. It was almost as if his memory was a picture that had a section cut out. This disturbed him greatly. How could he possibly forget the face of his enemy? The King’s thoughts then turned to the city itself. What would be left of the once great city of Thorvale, the city his ancestors build, and would he ever return to see it? He could imagine the scene. The streets would be filled with rotting corpses; the cobbles would have red rivers of blood flowing down their cracks. The once majestic buildings would be nothing but ruins. Where once white walls stood high and majestic, only partial charred black walls would remain. The symbols of power and unity that were scattered around the city; the statues, gardens, and monuments would be desecrated. The image in his head brought tears to his eyes. His final chain of thought was by far the worst. Homes, statues and monuments could be rebuilt. However, families could not. Thousands of good men died during the night. Some of them will have had wives, mothers, and children. Never again would their children set eyes on their fathers. They would grow up only knowing their mother’s love; only knowing their father from the tales that were told to them as they were tucked into bed. Wives would be climbing into bed alone when the next night arrived not realising that they will do this for the rest of their lives. It was not just the men who had lost their lives, in a metaphorical sense, so had their families. Henried was crying now. He was in the middle of nowhere in a place where nobody would see him so he allowed his normally hard veneer to crumble. The King fell to his knees, head in his hands. He cried for half an hour. Periodically he would calm down but then his thoughts would overtake him again. The feelings would flood back like a tidal wave and the tears would flow. A strange drumming sound from behind finally snapped Henried from his grief. He did not recognise the sound of the drums so went to investigate. He had followed in the footsteps of the refugees for a lot of the way. They had taken a route through some uneven terrain that was easy to hide behind. It was a series of small hills that began only a couple of miles northeast of Thorvale. Back there, the hills were very petit. In fact they were really just slight slopes. These hills stretched northwards for nearly sixty miles. As each mile passed, the hills seemed to get progressively higher. The drumming sound was echoing through a very small valley. For those who were too lazy to scale a hill to get to the other side, small passes allowed a straight and flat route to be adopted. It was in one of these passes that the noise was being made. King Henried scaled one of the small hills that overlooked the pass. It wasn’t very steep so he moved up the hill as fast as his tired legs would carry him. As he reached a point where the slope began its descent into the valley, Henried fell onto his belly to avoid being seen. He had not reached the top of the hill so his view of the valley was slightly obscured. Only a small part of the valley floor could be seen. The view west, where the drumming was coming from, was blocked. Henried did not try to improve his vantage point opting to wait for the drumming to appear before him. This afforded him an excellent chance to rest his legs and to catch his breath. The constant ‘dum, dum, dum’ of the drums sounded increasingly louder with each passing second. Henried started to feel the slight release of adrenaline pass through his veins in anticipation of what he may see. All of a sudden the drumming stopped. Everything was silent. Henried had no idea what was in the valley but a cold feeling ran down his spine. Ever since childhood he had a strange sixth sense when things were not right. This was one of those times. He crawled back below the brow of the hill before standing up. The last thing he wanted at this point was an unknown enemy spotting their prey. It was too late though and Henried had yet to realise it. The approaching party were Goblins. They had split from the main army to go hunting on their own. As they passed through the valley they smelt something in the air. It was sweat and fear. Goblins by all rights should not have been out in the sunlight; their eyes were not suited to the brightness. However, they could manoeuvre and act as efficient hunters using their keen senses of hearing and smell. They often practiced in the daylight to keep their senses honed. The Goblins could smell human flesh from half a mile away on a still day. When the wind was high, this range magnified greatly, providing the wind was in the right direction. Crawling on all fours but still moving as swiftly as if they were sprinting, the creatures of the night scaled the hill. They were trying to outflank their prey. As the weather was very calm on this day, they had been able to pinpoint their target to an area of only a few metres square. Each hand and foot hit the ground with incredible stealth. Even the grass they touched did not rustle. As they neared the top of the hill, the Goblins sensed that their prey was on the move. They moved even more swiftly. The King began to run. The nagging feeling of unease would not leave him. Instinct was the only impulse he was acting on. Peering over his shoulder, he saw the peak of the hill come alive with what looked like huge insects. His heavy legs would not move any quicker despite the instant increase of fear and vulnerability he felt grow within him. Each step plodded along. It was as if his legs were nice and calm; out for a leisurely jog. As the chase began, the King did not dare to take his eyes from his pursuers for fear that they may pounce on him from behind. If they were going to kill him, he would face his slayers head on. Up ahead, a small cave could be seen in the side of the hill. The King realised that he would not be able to outrun the enemy so he darted for the cave. When he reached it, the cave turned out to be very small and dark. Henried could barely stand up in it. It would make swinging his sword very difficult indeed. There was no other choice; he would have to enter the cave. Th
is prospect held two problems. The first was that if the Goblins chose to pursue him, they would be able to see in the pitch black of the cave and he wouldn’t. The second problem was that he didn’t know if entering the cave would lead him towards a danger far greater than the Goblins. The lands of Thorntonvale were widely regarded as safe travelling routes but only the brave or the foolish would dare enter a cave alone. Feeling that he had no choice, Henried took the risk. With his arms outstretched feeling the sides of the cave wall, The King proceeded into the gloom. Many times he hit his head on the low ceiling. After a few minutes, the heat of blood could be felt running down his forehead. The good news was that there was little sign of pursuit. As he took another step, the ground disappeared. Inertia sent him tumbling forward. Henried dropped for but a second but it felt like a lifetime in the blackness. He landed to the sound of a huge snap. A burning pain shot through his shin. It was immediately obvious that a bone was broken. Nausea flooded over him within seconds. He had just enough time to look around. A tunnel was visible with a strange dim red glow emanating from deep within. Briefly, he saw the blurred outline of something approaching before all faded to black.
The King opened his eyes then rapidly blinked them as the bright light made him squint. A strange figure could be seen standing in front of him. The only thing that was visible was the colour of the figure’s robe. It was deep red with yellow trim on the collar, the cuffs and striking a V shape across its chest.
“Welcome.” A slow but mellow voice said. The words were spoken by what sounded like a very old and tired woman. The voice was strangely deep though. As Henried’s eyes adjusted to the light he could see the features of this figure. It was definitely a woman. Her face looked surprisingly youthful. She had emerald green eyes, pronounced cheek and jaw bones, a short button nose and a large, but not unattractive, mole above her mouth on the right hand side. She stood no more than five feet tall but somehow seemed longer. The woman was very thin and had a slight hunch. It looked like the hunch of either an old or a shy woman. Her hair was long, down to her lower back, but it was grey and very tangled. She walked forward and helped Henried to sit up.
“You have taken quite a beating by the looks of you.” The woman began. “If you feel like you are going to be sick, let me know. I would rather catch it in something than have to clean it off my floor.”
As he sat upright, his leg fired a shooting pain through his body. He looked down, grimacing, to see that it had been placed in a splint.
“I noticed your damaged leg.” The woman began again. “I thought that you would need to get it treated. Until that time however, my splint should hold it in place.”
“Who are you?” The King asked feeling a little perplexed and disorientated.
“I am just a lonely woman, living a lonely life. I just wait here in my house for a lovely man to come along and sweep me off my feet. Or perhaps I will sweep them off their feet.” She said with a wry smile.
“If you are after a man, the city is the place for you.” Henried replied. “A beautiful woman like you would be able to have her pick.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” The woman said. This time the voice seemed to change. It had a slight hint of gruffness.
“It has been a long time since I got anywhere with a woman, flattery or no. Ever since my wife died giving birth to our son, my responsibilities have gotten in the way of romance.”
“Responsibilities?” The woman enquired the smile growing on her face.
“Do you not recognise me?” Henried replied.
“I am very sorry but no, I have no idea who you are.”
“I am Henried, King of Thorntonvale.” He proclaimed.
The woman’s face seemed to change. It grew instantly darker as if she had stepped from the light into shade.
“The King, eh? A good feast shall be had this night.” Her voice seemed to twist and adjust its pitch from mellow to sharp. Henried did not notice. He figured that he was still slightly dazed from his ordeal.
“Please, do not go to any trouble on my account.” He said honestly. “I do not wish to have any special favours at this time. I do not deserve them.”
The woman turned her back and walked over to the other side of the room. There in the corner, a table stood. She started rattling some items but the King could not make out what she was doing.
“You deserve everything.” She mumbled under her breath.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear that.” The King shouted across the room.
“I asked why you did not deserve any special treatment.” She said in a less deceptive voice.
“I have failed my people. An army of chaos has come to destroy mankind and they have done a good job so far. I think that I may be the only survivor of the battle.” Tears ran down the face of the King.
“There, there,” The woman comforted, “soon everything will be better. Drink this.” She handed him a goblet that was made out of pure gold. There was a strange engraving on the side. It was an engraving of a woman sitting on top of a man making love to him. Henried turned the cup around to reveal another engraving. This one was strange. The woman was still astride the man but this time her head and upper torso was that of a giant snake; its venomous tongue firmly lodged in the chest of the man.
“Interesting engravings.” He observed.
“They show a Sinratta, or snake girl, ravishing her victim before devouring him.” She replied.
“A Sinratta, I have not heard of them before.” The King said.
“The Sinratta were a race born of witchcraft. The medalling into the dark arts by a novice Mage created a twisted marriage between a giant anaconda and a young girl of radiant beauty. The first Sinratta looked just like the one on the second engraving on that goblet. She drugged the Mage and then made love to him. As she did so, she stole some of his power. She gained the ability to take on any form she wished. An instant before he climaxed, she sent forth her venom and killed the Mage. Apparently he made quite a nice meal. She enjoyed eating each part of him.” The Woman watched closely as the King took a sip of his drink.
“I am glad these things don’t exist anymore.” Henried said relaxing a little.
The woman only smiled. She could see that the King had taken the bait. She lay down next to him and started rubbing his chest.
“What large muscles you have, my King.” She said. This time her voice was changing dramatically. It was much gruffer and was now piercingly sharp. Each word could cut through the very soul of a man. The King seemed not to notice.
Henried reached across and gently pulled her robe off her left shoulder. It dropped down exposing an ample, pert breast. The woman pulled open Henried’s shirt. It had already been unbuttoned halfway, now it was gone completely. She started kissing his chest, slowly working her way down. As she reached his trousers, she gently undid his belt and buttons before slowly working her way into his trousers with her tongue. With blinding speed, she pulled his trousers off exposing Henried’s naked groin and toned legs. Henried reached down and pulled her up on top of him. He grimaced as she knocked his broken leg. They indulged in a long passionate kiss as Henried forcefully ripped the rest of her clothes off. They made love with fire and passion. The King had never experienced anything like it in his life. He was experiencing extraordinary feelings of pleasure that even his wife had not given him. He could feel himself nearing climax. Suddenly, the images of the engravings he had seen on the goblet flashed in his mind. He opened his eyes to see the torso of the woman twist and mutate into the form of a large green and yellow snake. It was looking at the ceiling; leaning back in climactic ecstasy. Henried desperately looked around. Next to where he lay, his sword was within arms length. He reached out and grabbed it just as his climax was about to erupt. The snake looked down and opened its mouth; exposing the huge venomous tongue. It hissed. Then Henried sat up and thrust the sword forward. There was a brief pause. Everything was silent. The Sinratta keeled over to one side; dead. Henried gathered hi
s clothes and got dressed with great haste. He left his shirt off, only donning his armour. He limped across to the table in the corner, picked it up and slammed it into the wall. It broke into many pieces. He gathered a few of the smaller wooden shards and then tore up his shirt. He wrapped a piece of shirt around each piece of wood. There was some liqueur in a vat next to where the table had been. Henried dipped the end of each piece of wood into the vat to allow the alcohol to soak into the shirt. He then lit one of the torches from one of the many fires that burned in this strange cavern. He then departed using the only exit there was. It wasn’t long before he was out of the cave and at the bottom of the hills. Despite having a broken leg, Henried did not feel the pain. He wondered if it was the potion he had been given to drink. Night had fallen. He looked south and could see a red glow lighting the clouds in the distance.
“The fires of a city now dead.” He said aloud in a resigned way. The incident in the cave had been quite an ordeal but it had been exactly what the King had needed to restore balance to his mind. He felt more focused than ever. He continued his journey to Beskholme with no sign of the Goblins who had hunted him earlier.
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