The Bloodbaths of Beatrice & Bullsby

By Brock Rhodes

As war rages around them in this confusing world, commonfolk struggle to survive. As a result they change as a people. They become practical and ruthlessly hardnosed. When it seems they have things figured out, and they may reach a happy ending, a new threat emerges from out of this world, stirring up doubt, once again, in all they believe in.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brock Rhodes
• Release date: Aug 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310327643

Brock Rhodes

Rural Kansas boy living smack dab in middle of the city now.Worked in the media for a bit, worked several weird jobs for the sake of enlightenment (and survival), studied chemistry and mathematics at Wichita State. I studied angry. (Go Shockers!)The rest is way too complicated to get into here.

Book preview

THE BLOODBATHS OF

BEATRICE & BULLSBY

By Brock Rhodes

Smashwords Edition

Published by Brock Rhodes at Smashwords

Previously published as What’s A Dragon Gotta Do? by Brock Rhodes

Copyright 2014 by Brock Rhodes

This lyrical presentation of my mind & spirit is for sale at Smashwords. If you got a hold of it without paying for it, please head over to Smashwords and buy yourself a copy.

Also, I will always be independent. If you tell others about my books it will really help me out.

Thank you.

Dedicated to

Dagobert David Runes

whose book

Despotism: A Pictorial History of Tyranny

meant a lot to me as a young man.

And,

to Jeremy Rounkles,

my good friend since childhood

who left our world

just before I published this book.

I miss having you around, Rounkles.

I always wondered what you’d think of this story.

Guess I’ll just have to wait.

AND

To all

the billions

of the innocent bystanders

caught up

in bullshit.

… PUT ON THE WHOLE ARMOUR OF GOD, THAT YE MAY BE ABLE TO STAND AGAINST THE WILES OF THE DEVIL. FOR WE WRESTLE NOT AGAINST FLESH AND BLOOD, BUT AGAINST PRINCIPALITIES, AGAINST POWERS, AGAINST THE RULERS OF THE DARKNESS OF THIS WORLD, AGAINST SPIRITUAL WICKEDNESS IN HIGH PLACES…

Ephesians 6:11-12

Chapters

RAINING STRANGERS

EXODUS

THE VISITORS

THE LAST RAID

RAINING STRANGERS

0

Huffing and puffing, three warriors hang on to horses doing their best to hurry quickly through the hills, the dips, the rocks, the brooks, the muddy spots, the trees, past the fallen limbs, the thorny parts, and the potholes of hasty paths and poorly maintained dirt roads. Scramble, they do, through the green countryside as best they can in the twilight of an unseasonably cool midsummer’s day.

The horses are nicked, scraped, and tired from the work. They each fall a little deeper into clumsiness with every new gallop of this never ending string. Still they press on with a grace only these beasts can muster. Every once in a while, though, one or another yaws, spazzing a yak.

The three warriors are two battle-hardened knights and a young soldier. The soldier is still very much just a boy out risking his young life in the hope of having a title someday, to be somebody.

By instinct, they move in unison. Each are low in their saddle, barely holding on to the best grasps they can still muster with whatever grip they have remaining. All had abandoned their banners, any of their proud markings which might make them bait for unwelcomed danger, miles ago.

Not because these men are traitors. Never!

These men are warriors, soldiers. Many would call them patriots, who have been forced into a desperate situation while memorably, honorably, historically defending the rightful King. Now, in a harsh strategic retreat, they’ve been reduced to clinging onto these beasts bred to carry as they struggle to outrun the horrifying clutches of death into the comforting arms of dear life.

Each hour, of which there have been several, they’ve grown weaker and are no longer in any shape to fight. Dirty, a tad bloody, and tired, they can see the storm clouds taking over the sky. All think thoughts which welcome the chance of a good hard rain washing the sticky mud and blood off, but all are wise enough not to wish too hard as there isn’t a place to hide from getting too soggy. That would only add to their burden.

Also, it will be dark soon. There isn’t much time before there will be no choice but to make camp.

Growing more desperate with each moment, a stone wall reveals itself to them at a near distance. It’s merely a bald spot poking through untamed vines which climb the walls, but it’s also a miracle that affirms to them that their survival has been ordained by God after all. It would have been easy to assume that no one was inside these neglected walls if it weren’t for a joyful cacophony of noises piercing their eardrums like the buzz of a nearing gnat. The sound of happiness provokes them to break from their fleeing gallop in order to huddle up and figure out what to do next.

Sir Peter, a large, hardened, metal shelled man asks his brothers in arms as quietly as he can with his naturally deep and thunderous voice, Know where we are?

Tis curious, answers Sir Richard, a bit smaller, but also a bit hairier and a touch more seasoned than his associate. After looking around a bit from his parked saddle perch in order to calibrate himself, he concludes, No way to know. We are lost. I am so vanquished, I don’t know if we are dead or alive.

We are ghosts, say ye, haunting the rightful King’s country? Sir Peter asks, wincing a smile in a noble effort to break the tension.

Why not? smiles Sir Richard, taking the cue. And here we fount a secret realm of angels and fairies.

Your mum’d be proud.

My cousin lives there, says the boy, a teenager, small still in frame but big in youthful exuberance - a true son of this fine country. He’s doing his best to keep his chin up, but so far the fantasies of how he would fare on his first foray into his noble life have not been realized. Instead of marching triumphantly to grateful tunes into the wet kisses and hefty breasts of those he has liberated from their foul enemies, an army of evil and inferior impostors, he was forced to retreat from a merciless ambush. The boy hesitated to run, fearing a shame that would stick with him forever. But he was right to do it. These three are the only ones left, and they’re barely holding on as it is. He’d be just another dead kid otherwise. And he hasn’t lost all hope. No reason to yet. At least he’s still tagging along with the two great knights. Through the shivers of starvation and the chill in the air, the boy adds, I know this place. Tis friendly here.

The knights share a look of healthy doubt in the boy. A natural instinct alarmed by his shaky voice. Sir Richard asks, Do they serve the rightful King, boy?

Automatically the boy answers, Yes, of course, while thinking deeply about bread. It’s God’s mystery that it is so crisp and hard yet so fluffy and so soft. Then he wonders if some humongous monster, large enough to eat him like a piece of bread, would wonder the same thing about him? He’s hard on the outside with his chainmail armor covering his skin, though he’s not as hard as the knights with their plates covering their soft important parts. He ponders if there is something he wouldn’t eat right now. Would he eat himself if he were a monster big enough to do it while knowing it was him? Even if as a result he himself would be eaten? He would, he thinks, and he wouldn’t regret it.

The boy’s certainty makes Sir Richard raise his brow, Certain about that, boy?

Certainly. The boy is as unfamiliar with political details as anyone else caught in the countrywide crossfire as an innocent bystander, ignorant participant, or both. But he also doesn’t really care. He’s chosen the life of a knight for the glory and the fringe benefits; the loot, the women, and, oh yes, the feasts.

A feast is a devilish seductress in a starving country. The young man’s growling stomach sounds off that he has been seduced by the thought of one. He’s too dizzy, too shaky to really be sure of where they are. But he’s hopeful, and he figures whoever it is on the other side of those walls, they have food that he could eat.

So he adds, They always said so. Why wouldn’t they serve the rightful King? Then after running it through his mind to make sure it sounds right, he concludes, Anyone who refuses to love the rightful King is a fool.

Sirs Richard and Peter are relieved that the boy makes at least some sense.

From the distance, the village doesn’t seem foolish. Though, it does look a bit strange. It flies no flags, has no banners, and the walls are left untended. It seems like it has the intention to be invisible, but no one can say that’s foolish in a world where visibility beckons all sorts of trouble. Furthermore, it sounds healthy, full of life. Whoever lives there seems to be throwing a party, a merry one, which sounds welcoming indeed. Likely, food is there.

Sir Richard decides, I pray ye art right, boy. Horsies can carry but cannot cook. He pats the side of his horse’s strained belly to emphasize, And these horsies runned too much to taste good. We need to find food to eat and room to rest and soon.

Cautiously, they slowly trot toward the village, hoping to get a better gander without drawing attention to themselves in case, indeed, this village was not one under their rightful King. How dreadful it would be, the knights think, if after such a rough retreat they’d now be foolish enough to stumble into a secret nest of the disgusting vermin known as the enemy.

In their minds they each consider that maybe it wouldn’t matter anyway. Might as well gamble. With the streak of bad luck they’ve been having, they’re not likely to keep their heads too much longer anyway.

Quietly they watch and wait in deep consideration of their next move, proud of themselves for not making a peep or a rustle.

1

Then suddenly, cries echo from the top of the walls, bouncing around the sky under the approaching clouds, making the three jump, duck, and silently pray.

Comers! hollers a voice. Comers coming!

Comers! Comers! yells another.

And another, Three comers! Three comers!

And another, Three comers coming!

And so on, Three comers! Three horsies approaching!

Three comers and three horsies! Summon Lord Bullsby!

Summon Lord Bullsby! Comers! Comers!

When the music stops sounds of bumps, pops, and shuffling gasps escape the walls as the mysterious villagers scramble about. Poised in pause, the trio keep their distance as they scan for any clues and fear what may happen next. Unsure, they hurry into a vigilant huddle set to flee in case the moment comes when they must.

Sir Richard asks Sir Peter, Lord Bullsby?

As quietly as he can Sir Peter answers, Yes. I heardt it.

Ever hear of a Lord Bullsby?

Sir Peter shakes his head, Nary have I.

The boy interjects, Lord Bullsby. They said, ‘Lord Bullsby’, nodding his head in eager agreement, still hoping for a meal.

Sir Richard scans the raised gate, a drawbridge, over a wide moat and the top of the wall over it. He discusses with Sir Peter, Tis hard to keep up anymore. I recall not a mention of a Lord Bullsby. Tis best for us not to mention whence we come, and to watch for any sign of trouble until we know if this Bullsby character serves the rightful King or if he serves an evil impostor.

A few more men join the watchman on the wall over the gate and Sir Peter warns his cohorts, Watchee ye for archers.

Who’s goin’ there? yells a clear, confident voice from the mysterious village.

With only his eyes Sir Peter consults Sir Richard for a proper answer, but by curling in his lips and shaking his head Sir Richard tells him he has nothing to offer. So with his booming voice he asks in return, Hello there. Where this be?

Intensely, but unsuccessfully, the trio scrutinize what sounds to them like mumbling amongst the mysterious villagers for anything intelligible.

The voice returns, I am Lord Bullsby, servant of thy rightful King. Are ye friend or foe?

Relieved, the boy smiles at the knights, Ye heardt it. I said they love the rightful King. Eagerly he answers Lord Bullsby, We serve the rightful King as well. We escapedt an ambush and been riding for our lifes. Oh, how our horsies have runned. We are tired and hungried. Please help us!

More mumbling swells for a moment or two. Hisses, pops, and shuffling run its course like water starting to boil. Lord Bullsby proclaims, Well, ye heardt em. Open the gate and lower the bridge so our troubled friends may enter our home!

The mysterious villagers repeatedly shout, Hooray! to the rhythm of the rattling chains as the drawbridge lowers.

Sir Peter says to his associates, Twould be hard to fight off a whole village at this hour so late in our quest. I will speak to em. Remember ye, tell em nothing about whence we come til we are certain they are our friends.

The other two nod in agreement at Sir Peter. Always defensive, the knights put their hands on their swords, ready to unsheathe their blades if need be once the bridge is set.

The boy asks to clear his swelling confusion, Will there be a fight?

Sir Richard answers, A knight prepareth not be a dead one. Ready ye be for anythingy, boy, if ye wish to live a long life.

Grown a bit from the experience, the boy laments upon a short reflection, What a worrisome life this be.

Sirs Richard and Peter share in the fleeting moment of lament in confirmation of the boy’s innocent statement. A knight’s life is a worrisome life indeed. A rough life full of blood, pain, terror, and horror. Oh, the horror! The things they’ve seen. The things they’ve done. Thoughts of things that would inevitably be done to them abduct their minds before the thud of the lowered gate reaching its rest on the bank resummons their focus.

As daylight loses its grip on the world, falling out of the sky through dusk, the village portal has opened to reveal torch-lit villagers. Their hundred or so pairs of eyes vigilantly stare out at the visitors. None show arms. Front and center, a fancily dressed greybeard, draped in a fluffy green suit, raises his open arms to make a grand though humble invitation. It is the just introduced Lord Bullsby, who says, Welcome, ye friends! Welcome ye!

Lord Bullsby bows and offers his right hand out to his side where it’s promptly taken by a woman. She is older, like him, and also fancily dressed. Atop her head is a pointy hat befitting a wizard if it weren’t for a golden ribbon at the top which whips and flaps like a windsock pointing, now, predominantly behind her into the heart of the mysterious village.

The decoration of her dress makes Lord Bullsby look like a slouch by comparison. She’s so fluffy young maidens surround her to manage the overboard drapery; led by a curly-haired brunette named Ida. She has a small nose, big brown eyes, perfect eyebrows, and cute little ears poking slightly out of her hair.

Each of the half-dozen maidens is pretty in her own unique way. It’s an oddly exotic mix compared to what the knights have seen in the other villages. All are fit, healthy, and womanly, exuding pleasant demeanors. The cleanliness of their mouths attract the strangers. Their skin is a bit tan, not burned, while being oddly soft and smooth for girls of this country who haven’t been spoiled by birthright.

There is something delightfully strange about more than just the women, too. The men themselves are oddly clean. Their demeanors seem oddly pleasant and inviting – outside of palpable nervousness.

The noble couple waves out their clothes just before everyone executes a synchronized group curtsy to Lord Bullsby’s announcement, We are most honored to host such heroes!

Sir Peter, hypnotized by the display says, Delightful.

Sir Richard says, Wonderful.

The boy says, smiling at the fair maidens, Captivating.

They escort their horses over the heavy wooden tongue through the mouth and into the belly of the unknown but friendly enough beast. All of the smiling faces, a hundred or so of them, radiate good vibes their way. All seem to have taken a break from their party to make the strangers feel at home.

The boy asks the knights, Tis? Could this here be the gladdest place in all the world? Tis here?

The knights were pondering that very question themselves that moment. The pleasant pageantry of the peasantry is pleasantly profound. So many happy people. No sick beggars. No puddles of filth. The faces aren’t dirty or frowning. There is an almost magical lack of missing teeth.

Sir Richard answers, No way to know that, boy. After a few more moments of mere observation, however, he feels it safe to say, Tis the gladdest place in our fine country. I have seen much of it.

The knights, wisely always apprehensive, carry themselves with their priority always on defense. As they walk through the gate, under the wall, they notice men looking down upon them from the top of the wall. No weapons are in sight as the knights nod return greetings to the friendly, handsome faces they see.

The boy is overjoyed, Oh, God bless thee for helping us. Bless thee!

Lord Bullsby stops mid-huff as a line of fair maidens pass by the visitors with empty baskets and big smiles, saying things like, Welcome, and Pardon us.

The boy continues, We are most grateful to be here.

The young and pretty Ursula, from behind her curls, asks the knights as she passes, Are ye friends with Gilbert? before the girl following behind her shoos her along. They are followed closely behind by a young boy who nods a smile as he passes the knights while holding a bow with an arrow on a string.

Lord Bullsby wonders to himself Who is Gilbert? as he presses this little conference on by touching the boy’s shoulder in an act of camaraderie, We are blest by thee, boy. Welcome ye to our humble village. Lord Bullsby behaves humbly but surely looks wicked enough to be royalty. He properly introduces himself under his pointy eyebrows with his zig-zag mouth, I am Lord Bullsby. This here be Lady Bullsby.

The knights bow to the noble Lady and Lord. Lady Bullsby, the regal and bejeweled, is quiet but exudes a comforting hospitable gratitude towards the visitors.

Sir Richard explains, We escapedt great losses in order to continue our service to the rightful King. We are grateful for thy hospitality, Lord. I am Sir Richard. This is Sir Peter. This boy and us are all who survived.

We are grateful to thee for this chance to help the rightful King, good Sirs. Thank thee for this chance to host ye and be of service to his royal highness. Out here, we lack so much wealth, the richness of our duty to the fate of our fine land that our countrymen enjoy in other places. All we have here are - Lord Bullsby says, interrupting himself to stroke his hairy chin in careful consideration before asking to be sure about what he had just heard, Tis true? The only ones left, are ye?

Sir Peter, a little ashamed, feels the urge to explain, "From our army, yes. We runnned. Tis true. Twas