by Andy Remic
Gamesh and Karn moved away and supervised the two Naravelle prisoners being dragged along the ground, groaning in agony and covered in blood.
Orana sat down before Jones, cross-legged. She caught his eye and smiled weakly. “I am sorry. It was not supposed to be like this.”
“It’s okay. I understand. And you must understand—I will leave. I will seek my fortune elsewhere. I will try and find my own way home. My King and Country need me. And . . . I miss Wales. Her valleys and forests. I miss Dolwyddelan.” Suddenly, an image of Sarah flashed into his mind, and he quelled it savagely. But he realised. ——. He missed her. The sweet round face, the softness of her hair, her kindness, the touch of her fingers on his flesh, the delicate brushing of her lips against his. Her firm breast under his hand. Her velvet flank. Her running her hands through his scalp. By all the Gods, he ——ing missed her.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” Jones breathed deeply. “One day, I would like to take you to Dolwyddelan. To Wales.”
Orana nodded, not quite understanding.
“I love you, Robert.” She smiled.
“And I you.”
“And I . . . I want you to attempt to unlock the Stoneway. Soon, the real armies will come, vast and numbering in their thousands. I have seen it all in my dreams. You are our only hope. I know it. I can feel it here.” She put her fist against her breast.
“I don’t understand. I think maybe you have the wrong person.”
“No. You are the one.”
“You mentioned a creature, a beast. Beyond the Stoneway? What beast? What can I possibly do?”
Orana shrugged, and suddenly the words of her brother drifted over to them. He was kicking one of the Naravelle soldiers in the face, and the man was moaning, lying on the ground, unable to protect himself. Other villagers had backed away, their faces white, whilst Gamesh vented his fury again and again.
Jones moved towards Gamesh, who kicked the soldier one final time, then operated the bolt on his rifle, took a step back, and touched the barrel to the man’s head.
“If you pull that trigger,” said Jones, “then you are a coward. A ——ing worm. You have beat him, shown him who is master; let it be enough.”
“They would have killed our women and our children,” said Gamesh, turning his fury on Jones with burning eyes. “What do you know of such things, stranger? If you are not quiet, then I will kill you as well, put you down like the diseased dog you are.”
“You think I have never seen war?” said Jones, voice soft. Gamesh paused, eyes looking up, the rifle still wavering above the whimpering soldier’s head. “I have seen battle, seen men ripped apart, their faces blasted off. I have seen bodies torn open, held together with shaking hands as brave, strong men wail for their mothers, their sisters, their wives, their lovers. I have seen gas attacks, men choking on their own vomit as their faces disintegrate. I have seen horrors you could never dream of, lad. During one battle, me and Bainbridge sat in a shell hole. A Hun had been shot in the stomach and was writhing in agony out in the mud and the rain, calling for his schwester. Bainbridge crawled out there under fire and ended the German’s life, stabbed him swift through the heart thus”—he gestured a violent movement—“because he could not ——ing stand to watch that enemy soldier suffer. You think these men are so different from yourself?” Jones looked around at the villagers, his face full of contempt, and they mumbled quietly and started to back away. “They are the same,” he hissed. “They are men, just like you and me, and they die like men. And what are you, Gamesh? A ——ing child with a gun, who does not even have the courage, nor the insight, to know when he is wrong.”
Jones turned and stalked away from the scene. Orana went as if to follow, but Karn stopped her, held her struggling.
Gamesh, cursing, moved away from the bleeding Naravelle and disappeared between a huddle of log buildings. The villagers departed, and several soldiers moved the enemy men to the prison at the rear of the village.
As Jones walked through the cold evening, his temper subsided, and he thought of Orana. He had been close. So close to losing his temper. And she had protected him.
Yet, still he knew he was being used. He knew it was a fact and he accepted it. He would attempt to unlock the Stoneway. And then he would leave, find an army to fight for, and maybe become a mercenary until he found his long way home. It was the only option he had left. It was all he knew how to do.
Jones laughed.
“The days of the bank are far behind,” whispered the ghostly voice of Webb in his mind, and Jones laughed again, shaking his head. “I am proud of you,” continued his old friend. “You showed courage and compassion for a fellow chap. You stood up to the bully. That was brave of you.”
“But . . . Gamesh was right, Webb. That enemy soldier would have killed the women and children. Orana has told me stories of Naravelle raids; they are merciless and deadly and efficient. They stop at nothing. They halt for no man, woman, or child!”
“And yet they are simply men—as are we all. They feel pain and they suffer and they die. Gamesh was high on the heat of battle, on the lust for death—it will pass, and then he will see clearly.”
“I do not think so.”
“Don’t worry, lad!” boomed Bainbridge. “If it had been me, I would have let Gamesh shoot the bugger. But—I do still admire your balls. You stood up to that bastard all right. But watch your back now . . . he’ll be after a spot of hurting, lad, and you’re on dodgy ground. Gods! I wish I was here with my fists; that Jorian bloke looked like a handy fellow, don’t you think?”
Jones walked on, reaching the edge of the buildings, where he found a group of boulders. The light was failing, and brushing debris from the rock he sat down, drew up his knees, and gazed up at the rearing mountains. In the distance he could see the Forest of Bone, the glare of red and black accentuated by the flickering of fires as enemy corpses were burned on a large pyre.
“What do you make of the Forest of Bone?” asked Jones.
“I’m not sure,” said Bainbridge, and for a while the two ghostly Tommies were strangely quiet. But Jones did not mind. Wind caressed his hair and he felt free, free of hatred and free of pain.
“You know what, Jones?”
“What, my friend?”
“Well, if that Jorian finds out about Orana being raped by enemy soldiers, then you are a ——ing dead man.”
“Ha!” Jones shook his head. “You think I don’t realise that?”
“Maybe,” rumbled Bainbridge, cracking his knuckles.
“It is time to leave this place, old friend,” said Webb.
“Not yet,” said Jones, watching the high, old mountains and breathing deep as a breeze swept down from the chilled peaks and kissed him like an icy lover. “No. Not just yet.”
The Sanatorium. “Woodland Law.” January 1904.
SLEEP CAME. He dreamed hazy dreams of Heartwood and Sharpwood and Soulwood, he dreamed of Hunter’s Hill . . . and he dreamed of the Skogsgrå. It was as if she was there, squatting on the bedrail at the foot of his bed once more. The room was dark, and in his dream she smiled at him, bark face wrinkling, whorls of grain contorting like optical illusions. Those large grey discs stared at him with an alien intelligence.
“Why have you brought me here?” he asked, at last.
“Where?”
“To another world. Another war.”
“What do you know of my world? You are just a little boy in his sickbed.”
“No. I was . . . on a battlefield. I think I died. Then you came for me. You took my hand. You brought me through the branches, you carried me through the tree roots, to this underworld place.”
The boy’s eyes were glassy. As if he looked through a portal to another realm.
The Skogsgrå blinked, a slow, almost reptilian blink. And she smiled, a smile of wild red berries. “This is why I have chosen you, Robert Jones. You are a very special child. The woods, they are part of your soul, and you are a par
t of theirs. You are symbiotic. Now. From whence did this union emerge? I will never know. But you can help free the Iron Beast. It is the most powerful of . . . weapons. Hopefully, together, we can bring an end to the wars in two worlds. With your unique powers. With your . . . symbiosis.”
“I . . . I don’t understand!”
“You will, my boy. You will.”
The door creaked open, allowing fluid yellow light to spill in.
A shadow slid sideways, was illuminated. The doctor was smoking. His eyes were dark.
He finished the cigarette, smoke spreading spirals through the air of the private room. He stepped forward, stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray, then turned and closed the door.
“No,” whimpered the boy. “Please, no!”
The man undressed, laying his tweed trousers and linen shirt neatly across the back of a chair. Finally, removing his socks, he stood completely naked, his erection silhouetted by moonlight spilling through a crack in the blinds.
“It’s time, boy.” The doctor’s voice was husky, and he sounded out of breath. His eyes gleamed.
Jones shuffled backwards under his bedcovers, panting, mouth dry, hands clutching the covers. “Please, please go away.”
“You’ve been a bad boy. You need to be punished.”
“I only ran away because you came and lay next to me! I was . . . I was frightened.”
The doctor moved forward, and his knees pressed against the edge of the bed, his erection terrifying, his smile slime-filled, and slick, and sick.
“I . . . I know your name! I will tell the matron!”
“What is my name, boy?” breathed the doctor, stooping over him.
“It’s . . . Doctor . . . Richard . . . er . . .” But words failed him as fear clamped his mind in an iron gauntlet, and squeezed.
“It doesn’t matter,” soothed Richard, and blinked the lazy blink of an emotionless predator.
Silence fell like tumbling snowflakes.
Time drifted.
There came a sudden crack. It sounded like a twig snapping.
The doctor turned, suddenly, and Jones gasped. From behind the doctor seemed to rear . . . a tree. Branches spread out, and blinking, Jones realised the branches were the Skogsgrå’s arms, sinewy branches like cords of torn timber flesh. At the ends of her arm and finger branches gleamed sharp claws filled with hundreds of glittering thorns. As she rose up, she seemed to grow around the doctor. He let out a short shriek as the Skogsgrå enveloped him, seemed to roll him up in a tangled ball of thrashing limbs which she folded neatly into place, rolled the doctor up, then crushed him in a series of swift heavy cracks as she compressed him and broke every bone in his body, including his skull.
Blood pattered on the floor. Then there came a thump as dead Doctor Richard was no more.
They thought the boy would be traumatised when they found the crushed sack of broken bones in its flaccid flesh bag the following morning. But, quite to the contrary, Robert Jones had slept like a baby, mind filled with sweet forest dreams.
The Naravelle Offensive. “Advance.” 12th. November 1917.
UNITS OF INFANTRY MARCHED across the lowlands, a great column of men, thousands in number, followed by horse-drawn wagons carrying supplies and water and weapons and ammunition—and the new mortars and mortar bombs which were to be tested for the first time in battle.
The host had been marching for hours and were weary. General Randaska Rex called a halt and the men set up temporary shelters, animal hides stretched across poles to ward off wind and rain. Rex felt excited, and he had to work hard not to allow his feelings to show. Excitement was not a trait he respected in a soldier, and especially in an officer! A man had to keep his head at all times, be professional as any military man should; a man had to be cool under fire, calm, and not allow emotion to cloud judgement.
Rex laughed quietly, for he knew it was all piss in the wind, and yet he had to keep up appearances. How many times had he lost his head in battle? Ten? Twenty? The rush of blood, the flow of adrenalin, the sheer exhilaration of murder and death and the power of a rifle in his hands pumping bullets into screaming faces before him . . .
The following morning, as a wintry sun appeared bloated and red on the horizon, the soldiers packed and then the great line of infantry moved out across the Eel Marshes. They had guides who chose their paths with care, following sweeping sections of solid rock leading through the centre of the marshes like a spider’s web, and serving as a highway.
It took the army six hours to cross, and once reaching solid ground, as they spread out on the opposite side of the Eel Marshes in their individual units, weary and sweating and with boots damp and backs tired from carrying heavy kit, Rex had them set up camp and then showed them the village. It lay a mile to the west, a small, undefended cluster of buildings housing perhaps forty men, women, and children . . .
Rex issued orders, and the infantry descended on the village and killed the men and raped the women and killed the children, looted the cabins and burnt them to the ground. They dragged back panicked cattle, slaughtered them, and had fresh roast meat over campfires.
Rex sat in his tent, eating chunks of meat and tracing lines on his battle map. The men sang in the distance and he smiled softly—this small pleasure, albeit fundamentally and morally wrong, was a necessary tactic in controlling the loyalties of his men. With no pleasure, with only constant pain and toil and hardship, rebellion would become a very real possibility.
Rex stared at the map. With the recent taking of the Talen Ridge, many routes of advance were open, and one of those included the lush valleys and mountain passes to the north. Several months previous, the defenders of Yellow Pass had been wiped out, but only one route led over the mountains and was far too narrow for the transportation of troops and heavy equipment. After Talen Ridge had been discovered, a violent skirmish ensued. But now . . .
Now.
Rex smiled to himself, finishing the succulent meat and licking fat from his fingers. His eyes glittered and, stepping from his tent, he grabbed a nearby soldier. “Where are the women prisoners being kept?” The soldier pointed to a small, guarded pen containing perhaps ten women.
Rex strode forward, unbuckling his belt and smiling at the frightened faces illuminated by firelight before him.
“A fine night!” He smiled. “Don’t you think so, my pretties?”
The Forest of Bone. “Outsider.” 12th. November 1917.
ORANA SAT BY THE FIRE, drinking sweet tea from a small cup. Jorian moved behind her but she did not turn, even when he crouched down and she could hear his gentle breathing.
“I am sorry,” he said, finally, voice somewhat sheepish. “I was angry. Sleep has cured my temper and my stupidity. I was wrong to condemn Jones as I did. But . . . I am sick of death. Sick of being frightened, frightened about Beth and about you . . . Why didn’t you tell us you were going over the mountains on some foolhardy journey based on a dream?”
“Oh, Daddy, you would have stopped me!” said Orana, turning and throwing herself into his arms. She started to weep, tears soaking into his shirt, and he held her tight, and they stayed there for some minutes before the fire. Eventually, Jorian released his daughter and looked down at her stained cheeks and wide, grey eyes.
“You scared us, my love. We thought you dead. There are still men out looking for you! What you did was dangerous and unfair on the people of the village . . .”
“I know,” she said. “But it came to me in a dream. I knew if I asked, then you would only say no. And I am a big girl, I . . . I looked after myself.”
“And this Jones, he truly saved your life?”
“Yes.”
“With explosions?”
“Yes. But he can no longer make them.”
“Good. The Femors have been using these mortar bombs on the front lines. I have heard they are horrific. They scatter hot metal and wood, they rip men apart, tear them up and scatter their flesh and limbs in a wide circle.” He shivered.
“It is unholy. It is evil. It is shameful.”
“Robert used the bombs against the walriders,” she whispered. “He is a good man. And . . . he loves me with all his heart. I see it in his eyes. He has fallen in love with me, and yet, I cannot tell him about . . .”
“Brefni? And your child? Daughter, you will have to speak with him. You will have to set his mind at rest. It is not fair to deceive a man thus.”
“I know. Have you heard from Brefni?”
“No. Not one of the unit returned. The Femor general keeps asking me for more men, but I cannot spare them. Aye! You would think he would realise the dangers of village life, what with roaming soldiers all around. But no, all he sees is the Greater Conquest, the Greater Plan . . . he would be Lord of the World, I think. He would be a God.”
Orana got to her feet and Jorian arose beside her, towering high and looking kindly on her brown hair. “Is it true? About the dream, about his having the key to Stoneway?”
“Yes,” she said. And gave a serious nod.
Jorian said, “I think, then, it is time we put it—and Jones—to the test. The Tonrothir Empire is advancing. If it is true, we could certainly do with the help.”
Jones was cold when he woke. His breath plumed before him and he moved across the small cabin and stabbed at the fire, but it was dead.
“That’s a bad omen,” muttered Bainbridge.
“Shut up,” said Jones. “I’m sick of your bloody voice in my head, do you know that?”
“Listen to the lad, Webb! I’m only trying to help. Doesn’t know bloody advice when it’s bloody given,” grumbled the voice of the large Tommy.
Jones washed in cold water, and shaved himself with some small amount of pain, cutting himself twice. The towel Orana had provided was rough, but it did the job, and when Jones opened the cabin’s cold black door he found a tray had been set on the porch. It had bread, cheese, a slab of meat, and a jug of cool water.
