Plain of the Fourteen Pillars - Book 1



  Plain of the Fourteen Pillars

  By

  T K Foster

  Copyright 2013 by T K Foster

  Cover by Paul Beeley at www.createimaginations.co.uk

  License Statement

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, as well as businesses and or organizations is purely coincidental or for literary effect.

  This story is for Nicholas, James and Mackenzie, the three most important people in my life.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A hole.

  Billy dropped himself through the tangled base of a line of thicket to get to that hole, while all around him a barrage of bullets and missiles whistled a crazy, chaotic tune.

  He landed softly amongst deep leaf litter. It was a good place to hunker down.

  Hunker in the bunker, he thought, and a snicker crossed his lips.

  While the war continued above, Billy considered his next move. For the moment he was locked down, unable to move from the hole which was now his sanctuary. Dutifully he reached for the box at his side, but hesitated. There was a momentary pause in the din outside, a short silence, a name called from a distance which he could not make out.

  Billy felt a pain in his shoulder and immediately thought he’d been shot. He hesitantly expected to see blood gushing down his arm, instead realised that the leather strap from the box was digging into him and bruising the muscle it was wrapped around. He grimaced, then shifted his position among the leaves and relaxed the strap’s bite on his shoulder. The box was made entirely of leather, and it was crafted well. The gas mask it once contained had been old and grey, and the powdery mould that coated its cracked structure had spored a noxious smell; so Billy had tossed it away. He kept the box though; placed it at his side and hung by the strap over his shoulder it now housed his most prized possession.

  The din continued above, the silence was broken.

  Billy unclipped the lid on the box and reached inside.

  He growled....

  Then he grunted....

  He was the man, and as such professed the ultimate skill to put an end to this horrendous battle; a battle fought with courage and honour, where the man would come out on top, having obliterated his adversaries, and all for the sake of Queen and Country.

  With a renewed outpouring of energy brought about by the near fatal wound to his upper arm Billy pulled from the box his iron, a weapon of renown, a pistol made from perfect British craftsmanship.

  He leapt to his feet and fired into the surrounds, discharging the gun until its chamber was empty and spent. In a single hand motion he disengaged the wasted clip, reached into the box for a second one and engaged it ready for another round of bloodletting. But all was silent.

  Too silent.

  Surely the enemy had not retreated so quickly. The cowards. Billy still had a monster of fight left in him. His trigger finger was poised, ready to take his mark at the slightest of movement beyond the bunker.

  But it did not come. At least, not for some time anyway.

  While he waited, cautioning himself, eyes like a kestrel, ears pricked and muscles tensed, Billy failed to notice the chill breeze which now disturbed the air surrounding him. The trees bristled at its presence, whooshing and swaying with its gentle embrace. Leaf litter at his feet began to rise and fall with the movement of the wind. A random leaf blew away from the gully every few seconds.

  In fact, Billy failed to realise just how cold his environment had suddenly become overall; that is before he felt the goose bumps rising on his arms against the material of his shirt sleeves.

  He shivered, but not for one moment did he relax his study of the surrounding territory.

  To his wonder, though befitting to the sudden drop in temperature, a mist began to roll in over the ground. Billy watched as tiny particles of water danced past his face. He felt the sudden flash of cold as those same particles swirled back at him in the breeze and splashed against his bare skin.

  Billy poked out his tongue and tasted the mist. It didn’t taste like anything, but it was refreshing. He felt his ears freeze and lifted a hand to touch one. It was icy and numb, and he imagined how red it must be.

  By now he was sure the enemy would have retreated, or passed by. Maybe he had killed them all.

  A Job well done soldier.

  But wait....

  A movement in the undergrowth....

  A sniper!

  Billy heard a cry in the distance, a familiar voice, “Billy....come in now, its supper time”.

  What was that.... the enemy had managed to break through the front lines? Good grief! They needed him back at base now, they needed him to take command of the situation and lead them to victory.

  Now only one thing stood in his way, he must eliminate the sniper or lose face.

  Quickly he seized the moment and stumbled from the gully with a terrifying roar, his iron pointed at the undergrowth and at the sniper hiding within its thick tangle. The clamour startled the sniper and Billy took chase when the cleverly disguised intruder emerged from the bushes and bounded down a long stretch of cleared ground.

  In the ensuing moments the swirling fog appeared to gather intensity, chilling him to the bone, drenching his jacket and saturating his hair.

  Yet Billy was not deterred. He was a soldier, and a darn good one at that.

  He raised his arm and took aim at the sniper; with its long ears and fluffy white tail it blended into the surroundings perfectly. But Billy was no fool, a wolf in sheep’s clothing the sniper was.... a chameleon.

  Billy pulled the trigger and discharged a small plastic missile from his pellet gun, it travelled fast and smacked into the rabbit’s furry bottom. The rabbit jumped... jerked.... made a strange sound, its movements became laboured, and then it vanished into the fog.

  Billy leapt into the air with absolute delight and revelry. Jubilation empowered him. He danced while he ran; he waved his gun in the air and shook his fist at the defeated enemy. And though he was cold and wet he didn’t care, he was the hero of the day; and when the hero of the day finally reached the very same spot his foe had fallen, he too vanished into the fog.

  CHAPTER TWO