From the mist shrouded Tor at
Glastonbury, you can sometimes still just make out the ruins of an old
crumbling keep tower, seen as ancient even in the mid-1640’s. As the sun rose one
cold, crisp October morning, during those troubled years the keep guards
spotted two figures approaching cautiously from the woods. The musketeers raised their weapons, but
Colonel Hawson ordered them back to ease. ‘They have a truce flag. We must
parley with them.”
The strangers were wrapped in dark blankets and hid their faces under
black hoods. The flag was a crude heap of cloth tied around a long branch. .
The drummer in accompaniment kept a weary erratic beat.
“So, do they wish to surrender to us or do they hope we will surrender to them?” Commander Brentfast
asked.
“The one with the flag is limping, and staggering,” said Musketeer
Rowbotham. “I think he’s either ill or drunk.”
“They both look weak,” Colonel Hawson said. “I don’t like this one bit.”
Brentfast shouted to them. “If you bring plague or pox, you will not
gain entry to our fortress.”
A lisping, strained
hissing voice shouted back, in what could best be described as a loud,
insistent whisper. “We are well. We bring no such malady to you, Lord
Brentfast. Of that you have my word.”
“Well, they know who we are, at least,” Brentfast mumbled.
Brentfast called to the approaching pair. “Leave the drummer boy in
plain sight. Drop the flag there and approach. You will have ten minutes to
state your business. No more. After that, you must leave.”
“Your terms are agreeable, Lord Brentfast. “
The drummer stood still, within line of musket fire. The other man stepped forward as instructed.
The face cloak was pulled round more tightly, and the figure peered forward as though half blind. Every step looked painful for him. A glimpse
of a hand and a brief flash of the face revealed darkened skin that looked
burnt.
Brentfast instructed his
men. “Have a room prepared, and provide drinking water.”
“Yes, Sir,” Hawson said,
heading off to do just that. Word soon
came that a room was now ready close to the entrance, so that if these people
were spies they would see as little as possible of the keep interior.
As they entered the room,
Brentford offered to shake hands with the guest, but the figure shook his head.
“Let us be seated, Sir. I have precious little time. “
Brentford took a chair. . “You look in no state to
soldier for King or for Cromwell.”
“That is true, Lord
Brentfast. I am no soldier, but I assure you that I suffer no discomforts that
need worry you.”
An acrid, earthy aroma
wafted from the figure, and an air of
decay and rot exuded.
The room contained only
an oak table, and two stools. On the table were a water jug and two large
wooden cups. .
The man took the water
jug, and a hand was revealed that was dark, glistening, slippery and
serpentine. Its over-long fingers looked both webbed and shovel like.
“I like to look a man in
the eyes when I bargain with him.” Brentfast insisted, politely but
firmly.
“As you wish,” the figure hissed in its guttural loud whispering tone. “Be
warned that my looks may be alarming
to you. I beg you not to cry out in
distress.”
“I have seen death and
disfigurement on the battlefields. I am beyond squeamish now I assure you. ”
Slowly the creature
raised its hands and slid back its blanket cowl. The face, if such description suffices, slowly emerged. Only his
vow against crying out in alarm prevented Brentfast from doing just that. The head was hairless and almost
skinless. It was dark, glistening as though
coated in a film of mucus, and smooth, tapering at the top. It was the utterly
inhuman head of a worm like entity. Its
mole like eyes were slits, and even the gloomy lamplight of the room made the creature wince in some grief and
distress. Its clothes were covered in
soil, and much of this fell in spatters on the floor and onto the oaken table.
“My God, what foul fiend
are you?” Brentfast asked, as much in pity as in revulsion and fear.
“I am Alahan, of the burrowing Lumithoids. We are natural creatures in the soil and soft
rock beneath your World. We are
reclusive carion creatures. We feed exclusively on deceased rotting flesh of
fish or fowl. Mostly, we feed deep underground. However, some of us, myself included, hunt in higher marshland
like that, which borders this keep. Such liquefied ground catches unwary
creatures and human travelers. For years, we have fed on all that slides into
the mire. Now, with your war, many bodies lie around. Rich red fresh blood
drips down into the soil, and we have tasted it. Many of us have found the
taste intoxicating, and even addictive. We have been feeding on the unclaimed
corpses of the battlefields of your anti-Parliament rising. “
“That’s disgusting.”
. I agree. I am ashamed.
I am a ghoul, the old foods now leave me sickened and undernourished. I could no longer eat dead worms than you
could eat your venison without seasoning it and cooking it. “
“Why have you come here?
“Your army stands idle.
You must engage the enemy. Our food supply runs low. “
“You want us to fight
just so you can dine like vultures? You’re depraved.”
“Yes! I’m afraid so. Since the banquet you gave us at
Naseby, we have been left with a few meager portions. The King has taken to
hiding in siege towers and keeps like this.
Only in Scotland, does the body count satisfy any of our kind.”
“Then go to Scotland!”
“Alas, I cannot. We swim
through soul and soft rocks like limestone and sandstone. Northern hard stones
like granite will not let us swim through so easily. If we moved above the
ground we would be easily spotted. We try to keep our presence a secret from
humans. I only reveal my nature
through desperation. I am starving.“
“I cannot imagine
swimming through soils possible, let alone the ability to break rocks as you
describe.”
Without a word, Alahan
immediately pressed his left hand to the surface of the oaken table. It gouged
effortlessly into the four inches of wood, and scooped out circular plug of
timber, which the creature then crushed into sawdust with little visible sign
of effort.
“Dear God, how many
devils like you are there?”
“Hundreds and many swim
beneath your foundations of this keep, even as we speak. Should my negotiations
fail, we will undermine the ground under you and collapse the keep completely.
Few of you could survive such catastrophe “
“You threaten us?”
“Fight or die here. Kill
the Roundheads or die trying, so that we may dine upon the losing side...”
“You might as well
destroy the Keep. We would be the losers in your battle. We are not strong
enough to fight Parliament until support comes from the North. That is why we
hide out here. “
“Let us be your
reinforcements. The Parliament forces camp close to Glastonbury Tor, on the
edge of quaking mire, our ideal terrain. With our guidance, you shall turn the
tide of war in your favour.”
“You leave me no choice. I will concede to your demands. I have no means to fight
creatures so far beneath my feet that I cannot even see them. Give me a day to
prepare men and strategy. Tomorrow night we shall march, ready to fight at
first light”
“We have no more choice
than you. It is our nature.”
Alahan rejoined his
drummer and the two departed. The soldiers were keen to ask why they had
come.
Brentfast thought quickly. “They are worthy allies.
They have suffered Roundhead raids on their estates. They advised me of the
nature of the Roundheads stationed in a valley by the Tor. They ought to take
high ground, but the hill has pagan myths associated with it and they are
superstitious souls. I have decided that we will march against the Roundheads.
Get some sleep now and prepare for war. We will help the King recover his
former glory soon.”
90 men prepared for
battle, against a suspected 200. 30 musketeers loaded their guns. 70 pikemen
stood to attention, pikes advanced, ready to march. There were only 3 horses
spared to the regimente after the cavalry was routed at Naseby. The finest
naturally carried Lord Brentfast himself at the front. Standard-bearers and a
few swordsmen made up the remainder of the force. As night fell, they headed
into the woods. Overhanging trees meant that pikemen had to trail their battle
staffs. . Keeping the men close to one another was difficult, so progress was
slow. Brentfast stared repeatedly to the ground but the foul monsters gave no
sign or manifestation of their presence. Brentfast wondered what he was
fighting for now. This was not a fight for the King, but to save his own men.
Whoever won or lost, the worms would get to feed on the dead.
Close to dawn, the men came
to the edge of the woods. Brentfast joined the advance guard looking down to the valley in which the Parliament
forces were encamped. It was clear that there were not 200 men there, but 50 or
60. .
“We outnumber them,” the
men whispered in elation. “The rest of
them must have moved out.”
The charge began before Brentfast ordered the attack, and the men below looked up, but with little panic, as they moved into pike blocks and European style musketry formations. The musketeers were in three ranks, with men at the front kneeling, the middle line crouching and the rear line standing. They started to fire at will.
As Brentfast's men rushed
down the hill, they realized that it was a trap. The remainder of the 200 men
poured in from the left flank. Royalists who had fought without flinching at Naseby were taken
aback. Many panicked. Brentfast watched his men being massacred as they fought
bravely to the last. His own powder had
fired out quickly. and his horse having bolted from the field, he thrashed desperately with his sword, to free
himself from the closing gauntlet of carnage.
Suddenly, he realized that he faced a swordsman who
was not a true Roundhead, despite his uniform. He was facing William Paigne, a recent deserter from his own army.
“I take it that you were
visited by Alahan,” Paigne asked as they thrust and parried against one
another.
“You know of him?”
Brentford snarled.
“Indeed. I saw them
chewing on a man you sent to capture me. I killed him. They fed on his flesh. I
chased them and captured Alahan before he could burrow into the soil. I advised
him to bring about this assault. I needed a proper fight. I was captured at
Edgehill you know. Oh yes, it’s true. I spent a year in the tower of London. I
was released in an exchange of prisoners. I wanted revenge, but you put us al
to sleep in another castle. I felt like I was back in prison. I hate you more
than I hate Cromwell.”
A sword thrust cut into Brentfast and he fell, lying
helplessly on his back as his blood seeped down. He turned his head and saw
Paigne running. He thought he saw the
man slip and start to sink, as though the ground was swallowing him. Brentfast
had walked on that ground. He knew that it was not quicksand, and yet Paigne
vanished screaming there before his eyes.
All was silent apart from
the fading screams of the mortally wounded.
Someone came and snatched the boots from Brentfast’s feet. . Now he lay
alone in silence. He felt something bite at his back. He cried. “I’m not dead yet. I’m not dead yet….”
Arthur Chappell
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