Hellsborough Chronicles - Hellsborough and The Dark Peak
The semi-mythical Van Hallam's adventures in Hellsborough and The Dark Peak.
The finished version of Dark Peak: Hellsborough Chronicles Book One, is now available in Kindle and paperback formats from Amazon -- or you can download the first 7 chapters for free in ePub or Kindle mobi format from Hellsborough Library
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Introduction » Chapter 1 » Chapter 2 » Chapter 3 » Chapter 4 » Chapter 5 » Chapter 6 » Chapter 7 »
Looking at him, Van bears a striking resemblance to Nosferatu, the vampire from ancient films in the off-world -- albeit, without the fangs. He is lithe and svelte, completely devoid of hair -- on his head or anywhere else judging by his arms, and incredibly old. Of course, Van sees this as a sign of advancement, the hairless ape and all that, being better developed evolutionary and cognitively superior, but that's just Van's view, of course. Yet despite his advanced years, he is every bit the formidable opponent, especially when it comes to cribbage.
I've got qualifications coming out of my ears, but there's something about that game, cribbage, that I just don't get, something that Van understands that I don't, and I'll be damned if I can't get it. He just always beats me at the final post, which is why I gave up playing against him and he gave up playing against me. One day, I'll try again. I keep watching and learning. One day I'll pluck up the courage to chance him again, and I'll better him. But that day is not going to be this evening.
That beer that I went and fetched a while back, that's gone. And another one after that. This one that we have now is a finely crafted IPA, generously hopped, and again, it's hitting the spot. Van has been absorbed in his game throughout those last drinks, and I have been biding my time, just enjoying the quiet of the place and soaking up what's left of the atmosphere -- Shalesmoor, the bar guy, appears to be in no rush to close after all.
This evening was a drismal one, typical of Hellsborough, a place seemingly with its own ecosystem; so these last few drinks maybe wasn't such a bad thing. The wind was fair howling outside, and Shalesmoor had taken to watching the flotsam and detritus blowing along the street and against the outside of the building. Occasionally, the leaves and litter and other assorted earth manure thrown up by the stormy weather stuck to the window in clods. The two of them: Van and Shalesmoor, are used to this weather, as is Shad, and they bid it no notice, but for me it's fearsome and I would rather be inside this bar than outside it, but then I am something of a fair weather tourist.
Van, noticing that my mind is wandering, draws me back in by continuing his story:
We had gone perhaps ten miles when the ground began to rise rapidly. We were, as I was later to learn, nearing the edge of one of The Dark Peak's vast reservoirs, where my encounter with the xin had taken place.
In a short time we gained the foot of the hills, and after traversing a narrow gorge came to an open valley, at the far extremity of which was a hidden xin village. Toward this we glided on the mentiloths, entering it by a bare and tatty track.
The village was no more than a camp. Huts constructed from the stems of ash trees and tents covered in raggedy canvas. In the buildings of the were camp were some nine or ten hundred creatures of the same breed as my captors, for such I now considered them despite the suave manner in which I had been trapped. But maybe in my naivety, I had allowed myself to be trapped, Pip.
With the exception of their armour and ornaments all of the xin were naked. The women didn't vary much in appearance to the men -- their tusks were larger in proportion to their smaller stature, and they were lighter in colour. The adult females ranged in height from three to five feet.
The children were light in color, even lighter than the women, and all looked precisely alike to me, except that some were taller than others; older, I presumed. But then all children look alike to me Pip, they always have, I guess that's just my lack of interest in youngen's.
I saw no signs of extreme age among any of them, nor is there any appreciable difference in their appearance from the age of maturity, about forty, until, at about the age of one thousand years, they go voluntarily upon their last strange pilgrimage to the Ripperthroat mountains, from which no xin has ever returned.
Do you know the old poem? Said Van, looking towards me and picking up his pint.
I looked at him quizzically, I know the story of the Dun, yes, back in medieval times, I said. It was known as the Dark river and there's a rhyme about human sacrifices being offered to it:
the shelving, slimy river Dun
each year a daughter or a son.
The very same, said Van. And you'd think that we humans and the xin had little in common, but that dark river, that's a shared experience. They think of it the way that we do. But you know, only about one xin in a thousand dies of sickness or disease, and possibly about twenty take the voluntary pilgrimage. The other 979 die violent deaths in duels, in hunting, and in war; but perhaps by far the greatest death loss comes during childhood, when many of the youngsters fall victim to the murk and its many horrors.
The average life expectancy of a xin after the age of maturity is about three hundred, but would be nearer the one-thousand mark were it not for the various ways of having a violent death. The xin, you know Pip, have remarkable skill in therapeutics and surgery and are extremely adept are healing themselves -- and it is because of that, that they consider life so lightly -- that is why they continue their dangerous sports and the warfare between their communities seems to never abate. Nothing contributes more to this early death as the fact that no male or female xin is ever voluntarily without some or other weapon or another.
As we neared what seemed to be the village centre, and my presence was discovered, we were immediately surrounded by hundreds of the creatures who seemed anxious to pluck me from my seat behind my guard. A word from the leader of the party stilled their clamor, and we proceeded at a trot to what seemed to be a wooden construct that served as some sort of community meeting space.
The building was low, but covered a large area. The main entrance was several paces in width and projected from the building proper to form a straw thatched canopy. There was no stairway, but a gentle incline to the first floor of the building opened into an large chamber encircled by a gallery for onlookers.
On the floor of this chamber, which was dotted with timber chairs, were assembled around fifty male xin seated near the steps of a rostrum. On the platform proper squatted a xin fatter than the rest, heavily loaded with metal ornaments, brightly coloured feathers and leather trappings ingeniously set with precious stones. His shoulders were draped in a short cape of green-ish fur lined with dull white silk.
Our party had halted at the entrance to the building, and at a sign from the leader I had been lowered to the ground. Again locking his arm in mine, we had proceeded into the audience chamber. There were few formalities observed in approaching the xin chieftain. My captor merely strode up to the rostrum, the others making way for him as he came. The chieftain rose to his feet and uttered the name of my escort who, in turn, halted and repeated the name of the chieftain followed by his title.
My captor's name, I now know, was Siltibog, and he was the vice-chieftain of the community -- a warrior and statesman of great ability. He evidently explained briefly the incidents connected with his expedition, including my capture, and when he had concluded the chieftain addressed me at some length.
I replied in my own language merely to convince him that we couldn't understand each other; but I noticed that when I smiled slightly when I ended, he did likewise. This, and the similar occurrence during my first talk with Siltibog, convinced me that we had at least something in common; the ability to smile, therefore to laugh; denoting a sense of humour.