by Toby Frost
‘She visits you rarely, then?’
‘Oh no – she’s always there, just unconscious most of the time. Sometimes I even wonder about the little woman. Small and portly she may be, but there is a look of ferocity to her, especially when I have taken the last chocolate biscuit...’
‘Your trust in humans is your weakness, Suruk. Think of the Edenites and their foul customs. Never underestimate mankind’s capacity for bigotry, even to their own kind.’
Suruk nodded. ‘True. I never understood prejudice. After all, humans all look the same to me. Squat and ugly, with funny little mouths.’
‘If you think their faces are weird, you should see what goes on at the end of their legs,’ Volgath added, pulling a face. ‘And those noses! I don’t see how anyone could have finished evolving and still have a nose. We M’Lak are thankfully free of prejudice,’ he added, ‘largely because we’re a bit better than everyone else. Which is why you should think carefully about the relics. They belong to Ravnavar, Suruk.’
‘I see.’
‘I hope you do. Grimdall was from Ravnavar: the relics are his, not the property of the Space Empire. The relics could never be transported to the British Museum and left there. For one thing, they belong elsewhere. For another, they would kill the guards and escape.’
Suruk lowered his glass. ‘Escape?’
‘Of course.’ Volgath chuckled. Firelight flickered around his mandibles. ‘Grimdall is dead, but his mighty steed, the Mechanical Maneater, lives on. And the Maneater will slay anyone unworthy who claims Grimdall’s heritage. The custodian of the relics must prove himself to them.’
Suruk said, ‘I see now why your task is such a burden, and an honour. And why you get so few applicants.’
‘Oh, there have been many applicants, Suruk. But the final interview proved difficult. Terminal, to be precise.’
Suruk was silent. He gazed into the dark.
‘You look troubled,’ Volgath said. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘That we should get marshmallows and roast them on a stick, like boy scouts.’
‘How many boy scouts can you fit on one stick?’ Volgath sighed. ‘Truly, Suruk, we think alike. Perhaps you are ready to prove yourself worth of the relics.’
Suruk finished his sherry. ‘I was spawned ready.’
Volgath said, ‘This is no mere battle I refer to. If you wish to find the relics, you must face your worst fears – and survive.’
‘My worst fears?’
‘Indeed. What do you dread? From what do you recoil?’
‘Losing the war. The lemming scum enslaving my people. Of dying before the Greater Galactic Happiness and Friendship Collective is rendered into a lifeless heap of skulls.’
‘That is every warrior’s fear. But what about you?’
‘Hmm. Well, I have never liked dishonour much. Or yogurt. Or bees. I am not overly fond of tarantulas, either. They give me indigestion.’
Volgath smiled. ‘Those are your darkest fears?’
Suruk shrugged.
‘Then you must gird your mandibles, Suruk the Slayer. I have tested your body. Now I shall test your soul. I will take you into your darkest places. In the Cavern of Dread, you will face… er… a giant dishonourable bee, covered in yogurt. Or something like that.’
Suruk took a deep breath. ‘I am ready.’
‘Good. Then follow me.’
Volgath crossed the courtyard and stepped under an arch. ‘Come, warrior.’
Suruk looked up at the trees, certain that he was being watched. He saw nothing. Then he picked up his spear, stretched his neck, and followed.
They walked into a stone tunnel. Amber light seeped out from translucent panels in the roof. The floor sloped down, winding deep into the earth. On the walls, ancient carvings depicted monsters, ghosts and demons. Stories from the old legends.
‘Hold!’ Volgath cried.
Suruk looked round. ‘What is it?’
‘Atmosphere,’ Volgath said. He reached into an alcove and pulled a lever. War-drums rose up around them, a frantic jungle clatter. Beasts screeched and howled. The drumming grew quicker, swelled around them like a heart about to burst.
‘Splendid,’ Suruk said. ‘Mood music.’
At the end stood a door. Carved on it was a single figure, a leaping caricature of a M’Lak warrior in silhouette, dancing across a landscape. Suruk would have known that shape and its bright eyes anywhere. It was the Dark One, the guardian of Ethrethar, lord of the dead.
‘Beyond is his territory,’ Volgath said.
Suruk nodded. ‘I have faced him before.’
The door swung open. ‘Every warrior has a weakness,’ Volgath said, ‘a thing that he cannot defeat. Face it, Suruk, and rise again!’
Something hit Suruk hard in the back. He stumbled forward, and as he realised that it was probably Volgath’s boot, the door slammed behind him.
Suruk stood there in the darkness, half-expecting a rubber spider to drop from the ceiling. He tried to imagine the most fearsome, terrifying thing he had ever encountered, and remembered the time when Smith had kept a large mirror in the hold. He had stumbled upon that thing a few times and given himself quite a scare.
He heard speech. For a moment, he thought it was his own voice. Slowly, the voices rose in conversation – and with them, the tinkle of glass and the glug of wine.
‘It’s been a really good year,’ said a voice at his shoulder. Suruk whipped round, saw nothing. ‘The shop has turned a really nice little profit. You know, I’m thinking that I might join the Chamber of Commerce next year. It’s good for business.’
Suruk listened. Yes, the voice was really there, as well as the background murmur. They were all M’Lak voices, deep and properly croaky. Far off, someone said something about canapés.
Suruk raised his spear and took a step forward. The voices moved around him, swirling through the dank air. He did not know where the door was.
‘Took a holiday to Los Angeles. We picked up some lovely trophies.’
‘And I said to him: “What the Hell are you?” You should have seen his face!’
There was polite laughter. And then, crystal clear, a throaty voice said, ‘So, Agshad: how are the kids?’
Suruk paused. Agshad? Surely not. That was his father’s name.
‘Well, now you ask, not so bad.’
You’re dead, Suruk thought. You died fighting the Yull, father.
‘I’m very proud of him, to tell the truth,’ said Agshad Nine-Swords. ‘My boy’s really gone out there and made something of himself. Taken the bull by the horns, you might say. He’s a real achiever, you know. A credit to the family.’
Thank you, Father, Suruk thought. I am proud to have honoured you with my deeds.
‘Just don’t ask me about Suruk,’ Agshad added.
‘What?’
‘I mean, he’s a bit slow compared to Morgar, I know. But I’m sure he’ll turn out alright in the end.’
Suruk froze.
‘You need to do something with that lad,’ said a voice.
‘The boy’s a late starter, that’s all,’ Suruk’s father replied. ‘He’s, you know, got his own ways. He means well. He’s got a good heart.’
‘Whose chest did he hack it from?’ another voice inquired, and Suruk was surrounded by gurgling laughter. ‘If he takes enough heads, he might end up with a good brain too.’
Suruk raised his spear. ‘Fools!’ he snarled.
‘Look,’ Agshad said, ‘Suruk’s just… old-fashioned.’
The other voice put on an accent. ‘Greetings,’ it exclaimed. ‘Welcome to the house of burgers!’
Suruk snarled. The mocking laughter rose to answer him, spinning around him like a cloud of flies.
‘Do you desire fries with that?’
‘Silence, upstart!’ Suruk barked, but the voices would not stop.
‘Look, father. I devoured a crayon! I built a sandcastle in the litter tray!’
‘Come out!’ Suruk cried. ‘Co
me out and face me!’
And it was silent.
A dream, Suruk thought. Nothing more than that. And I have banished it.
Light blossomed in front of him. It came from neon strips in the ceiling, and it glinted on beer pumps and rows of glasses. A figure stood at the bar, a tall M’Lak, his back to Suruk.
This is real, Suruk thought. It cannot be, but…
He wished it was bees and yoghurt.
A hand came down on his shoulder. He looked round and saw one of the elders of his house, the most venerable ancients of the line of Urgar the Miffed. ‘We’ve found you an arch-enemy,’ the elder said. ‘From a really good line, too. They’re all real killers. You’ll have loads to talk about.’
A second voice, at his left. ‘Look, he just scowled at you. He doesn’t like you either. Go on, Suruk, go and threaten him.’
‘No,’ Suruk said, but it did not come out as he had wanted it to. In his mind, it was a roar of defiance. It came out sounding like dread. ‘I have nothing against this person.’
‘Oh, don’t be shy,’ another elder crooned. They were around him like jackals, pushing him towards the figure at the bar. ‘Go over and introduce yourself. Spill his pint.’
‘I will choose my own nemesis,’ Suruk said, but his voice was cracked and weak.
‘Look, he’s all alone. Time to make your move, Suruk. Ask him what he’s looking at.’
Suruk took a step towards the bar. ‘I… I cannot. I won’t.’
He felt a slap on the back. He winced. ‘Go on, lad. When I was your age…’
A horrible sense of embarrassment crawled over his body. The words of threat and challenge dried up in his mouth. Shame seemed to shrink him. His mandibles drooped.
Not this, Suruk thought. Not this.
And he tore free of their weak, ushering hands, twisted round and cried, ‘No, I shall not! I will battle who I choose! You cannot make me. I, Suruk, will slay who I please. I will arrange my own carnage. Leave me, damn you, leave me alone!’
And suddenly, he was alone. He stood in a dim-lit, empty cellar. It smelt of dust.
Suruk blinked a couple of times. His family, and his fear of their disapproval, was gone. He found the door easily. It wasn’t locked. The corridor was empty. Suruk climbed up, alone, with the strange but familiar feeling of recovering from mild concussion.
As he reached the exit, he heard the Yull.
‘Dar huphep!’ a lemming man howled, and then a scream followed by a loud, clattering thud.
‘Hup yullai!’ a second rodent shrieked, and a moment later it let out a thin yowl of pain.
Suruk dropped down and crept forward, still in the shadows.
Volgath stood in the courtyard. Around him lay a dozen or so lemming men in various forms of armour: officers, from the look of it. Axes were scattered on the ground.
Single combat, Suruk thought. That would have been surprisingly honourable, if there hadn’t been a queue of about forty other Yullian officers stretching around the corner into the forest, waiting for a go.
Another lemming man let out a battle cry and ran forward. Volgath sidestepped and his fingers flicked up into the rodent’s throat. The lemming squeaked and staggered drunkenly aside, clutching his neck. Volgath’s hand was bloody.
But so was his side, Suruk saw, and his shoulder and hip. There was only a certain amount of lemming warlords that anyone could be expected to defeat in a single afternoon. Volgath will die here, Suruk thought. Or at least, he will without me.
Suruk raised his spear. He had dealt with his own family. Nothing could frighten him now.
And Volgath saw him. It was just a quick glance, but his eyes locked straight onto Suruk’s. Volgath gave a tiny shake of the head. Suruk waited.
‘Hup!’
The lemming men stopped, and the queue jerked to attention. A huge, pale figure lumbered into view, flanked by bodyguards. Suruk did not need to see the creature’s single eye to know that he was looking at General Wikwot.
‘So,’ Wikwot declared. ‘This is your mighty citadel, is it? You are the master of weapons. And yet we simply walked in. This world is ours for the taking, and do you know how we won it?’
Volgath grimaced. ‘By a whisker?’
‘Oh, very funny. Most amusing. The answer is “easily”. Your world is finished, your temple ruined, your wretched people doomed.’ He snorted, amused. ‘And to think that you actually look tough.’
‘And you definitely smell strong.’
Wikwot glanced over his shoulder. ‘This animal does not merit a warrior’s death. Bind him and bring me the power tools. We will soon learn where the Relics of Grimdall are hidden.’
‘Fool,’ Volgath said. ‘You still do not understand what you are spawning with. Strike me and you will regret it.’
‘Silence!’ Wikwot lashed out. His paw hit Volgath’s cheek. Slowly, like a poorly-balanced totem pole, Volgath fell backwards. He hit the ground.
Wikwot looked down at the body. He bent down, checked Volgath’s pulse and stood up. The general took out a cigarette and jammed it into the corner of his chops. ‘Ah, fecinec,’ he muttered. A minion stepped in with a lighter, and Wikwot turned and lumbered away.
The lemming men closed ranks around the general, and followed him into the trees.
* * *
Suruk squatted down beside Volgath. The ancient was quite cold to the touch, definitely more greenish grey than greyish green. ‘They would have made you betray your people,’ Suruk said. ‘So you made yourself die. Truly, a warrior’s death.’
Volgath’s hand grabbed him round the ankle.
Suruk gasped; he drew back, but Volgath clung on, and, very slowly, the elder opened his mouth. ‘Suruk!’ he whispered.
‘Yes, old one?’
‘I do not have long.’
‘Indeed.’
The ancient chuckled; there was blood on his fangs. ‘There is an ancient technique to feigning death.’ He smiled. ‘But this time, I may not have to act much longer.’
‘You did well,’ Suruk replied. ‘Now the fools of Yullia are confounded. But who will take care of the temple?’
‘Forget the temple. Its time has gone. You must know the location of the relics of Grimdall.’
‘Yes. Tell me.’
Volgath grimaced. ‘Lean closer, and I will whisper to you.’
Suruk was not accustomed to being very near anyone. When you bred with yourself, you didn’t tend to need a lot of physical contact with anybody else. He glanced over his shoulder, feeling slightly awkward, and then feeling guilty for feeling awkward. Strange: he had never felt guilty about much at all before.
He put his face close to Volgath’s.
‘It is a secret I have hidden well,’ Volgath whispered. ‘Never have I shared it before.’
‘Tell me. In the name of Ravnavar.’
Volgath’s eyes met those of his protégé. ‘Kiss me quick,’ he gasped.
‘Ah.’ Suruk looked over his shoulder again. He had spent enough time among humans to know that this sort of thing went on, and was perfectly legal. But the M’Lak? Awkward. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you are dying, I suppose…’
‘Not out here!’ Volgath gasped. ‘In my chambers!’
The master threw out his arm, and his hand slapped against the paving stones.
‘I suppose it is more private,’ Suruk said. ‘But Volgath, you must realise… I appreciate that you have had something of a shock… you are a great and fierce warrior, and truly we are comrades in arms… arms as in weapons, that is, not – ugh – hugging… but our people were not meant to kiss. For one thing, our mandibles would stab each other’s faces. Which lacks romance, Volgath. Volgath?’
Volgath was dead. Properly dead.
Suruk shook his head. ‘A great shame. Dreadful, and yet rather fortunate, timing.’ He crouched down beside the corpse. ‘Well, ancient, you wanted to go to your room. I can at least do that.’
He heaved Volgath’s body onto his shoulder. Suruk straighten
ed up and walked towards the arches.
Volgath’s room was small and simple. There were few concessions to luxury. A modest rack held a couple of practice spears. A photograph showed Volgath standing over a dead quanbeast, a sabre in either hand. On the far side of the wall, another photo showed Volgath on holiday, standing at some waterfront in a striped jacket and straw boater. Under it, Suruk found a bench.
Suruk laid him along the bench. ‘You lived well, old one,’ he said. ‘You died well, too. All shall know of your deeds, except, maybe… that bit…’
He straightened up, and stopped.
Suruk leaned towards the photograph of Volgath’s holiday. It was a standard 3D affair, the sort of thing you could buy on any package tour. But it was Volgath’s outfit that struck him: not the straw hat in itself, but the words on the brim.
‘Kiss me quick,’ Suruk said.
He lifted the picture down. What was that place? The terrain looked like Andor. Some sort of lake, it seemed. People jumped into the lake from a charabanc-shuttle hovering overhead. A sign in the background reminded patrons to refrain from petting. A holiday resort.
Suruk turned the picture over. There was a cross on the back. He drew a stiletto and pushed it into the cross. Then he flipped the photograph over again.
A small island rose out of the lake like the hump of a sea monster. It could not have been more than ten feet across. The glittering tip of the stiletto stuck out of the island.
Outside, something rumbled. The Yull were coming back.
* * *
The Yullian camp was so vast that General Wikwot had no idea where it ended. From his tent, he could see thousands of soldiers and, even though many of the trees had been hacked down to make space, it was impossible to tell where the extra treehouses and warrens stopped.
The more the merrier, he thought. The more lemmings who witnessed his victory and the resulting bloodbath, the greater his glory. Then he would return to Yullia, dragging slaves by the million, and the idiots who had written him off would be laughing on the other side of their muzzles.
He swaggered through the rows of tents, past soldiers sharpening their torture implements and rubbing dung onto their bayonets. A ladder stood against a tall tree and, as Wikwot passed, a trooper did penance for some minor disciplinary infringement by rushing up the ladder and throwing himself from the top rung. The general paused to admire the soldier’s descent.
