by Ste Sharp
‘It’s…’
‘Growing back,’ Althorn said in disbelief.
At the end of Euryleia’s scorched wrist grew a tiny baby-like hand.
‘Maybe you will fire your bow again.’ Althorn smiled.
‘Yes.’ Tears ran from Euryleia’s eyes and she wrapped the bandage back over then raised her head, distracted by something behind him. ‘Look.’
‘Althorn?’ Mihran called out and Althorn turned to see the red silhouette of their commander beckoning him.
Althorn patted Euryleia on the shoulder. ‘See you later.’
‘Follow me.’ Mihran walked Althorn away from the camp.
Away from human ears and Lutamek sensors, Althorn thought.
‘The way forward,’ Mihran stared into Althorn’s eyes, ‘how does it look?’
Althorn looked out at the horizon to avoid Mihran’s gaze: there was something about his eyes he could never quite trust. ‘Ahead is the same barren land, scattered with the dead. A few dips.’ He pointed to the horizon. ‘But mostly flat. We can reach the far hills by nightfall.’
‘It might be best to take our time,’ Mihran said.
‘Why?’ Althorn asked.
The Commander squinted. ‘What if our location is known?’
‘A trap?’
‘Maybe.’ Mihran turned away, as he always did when anyone asked him too many questions, and gestured to where Euryleia was sitting. ‘You look after her well.’
Althorn nodded.
‘As though she were a daughter to you… or sister.’ He let the comment hang.
Althorn didn’t know what to say. Did Mihran know? He kept his eyes fixed on Euryleia for fear of betraying his true emotions. The image of his sister, which had haunted him for days, came to him: her pained face; the recognition in her eyes; a slight smile on her lips; the line across her throat. It had been ten years since he had seen her taken by the men who had destroyed his clan.
‘Yes,’ Althorn replied, ‘she needs to be looked after.’
Through the pain of grief and the acidic burn of shame that had eaten at him since his blade had taken her life, Althorn felt a new emotion rising like a sun in the winter months: he felt proud of his sister. She had done well for a slave with no family – she had married a king no less! And the crying child must have been his nephew or niece. A future king or queen.
‘Good,’ Mihran replied. ‘Your skills are essential in our army, Althorn, not just your speed but in keeping us together.’
‘Thank you, I–’ Althorn started but the shaking ground silenced him.
The huge shape of Two-zero-three, the Lutamek leader, came close. ‘Humans.’
‘Yes,’ Mihran replied.
‘You offer us a distraction, yet you plan a delay – are you going back on your word?’
Had Two-zero-three been listening to their conversation? Althorn saw Mihran’s nostrils flare.
‘My men have been walking for ten days. We are preparing for battle, but your attack set us back.’
‘Our scans show your soldiers are in good physical condition. Why do you delay?’
Mihran looked around to see who was listening, then replied in a hushed voice. ‘It is psychological strength we are building not just the physical. What would you know of biological strength?’
‘We have organic components,’ Two-zero-three replied without apparent emotion. ‘Our ancestors were organic, multilimbed bipeds similar to yourselves. They developed implants, metallic limbs and ionic neural pathways… until the mechanical replaced ninety-eight percent of the biological.’
Mihran nodded. ‘Then you should appreciate our need for rest.’
The robot took a second before responding. ‘We will proceed ahead of you to clear the path of Brakari scouts.’
‘We appreciate the offer,’ Mihran replied. ‘It would be most helpful.’ He turned. ‘Althorn?’
‘Yes.’
‘A change to our plans – if our path is cleared we need every soldier back before tomorrow’s dawn. I need you to find the rescue party and, if they have him, John Greene.’
***
The day after the battle with the blue creatures, Gal-qadan’s band of warriors entered a forest of tall trees and thick undergrowth. Gal-qadan felt uneasy: this was easy ambush territory and the crunch of hooves on dry twigs broadcast their presence for miles.
When a clearing appeared, the leading soldiers rushed forward to catch a glimpse of the hazy sky and feel the wind on their faces.
‘No!’ Gal-qadan barked. ‘We go around!’ He had learnt that death lurked in every glade.
Some men ignored him, desperate for a release from the claustrophobic forest, but it was too late: they had already alerted a new enemy who closed in on them. Gal-qadan felt the muscles in his tocka’s back tense. He looked to Kastor, whose tocka was making low noises to call the herd together, and out of the shadows a faint red glow appeared. The unearthly light neared and formed shapes, growing in definition as they drew closer.
‘What are they?’ Dakaniha whispered to Gal-qadan, who responded by slipping the bow off his shoulder.
Gal-qadan’s eyes grew accustomed to the blood-red shade emanating from each creature to see long arms and thick legs. They were no bigger than an average man, carrying an array of unrecognisable weapons in their oversized hands. The sound of swords unsheathing and stretched bow strings filled the glade as the red enemy neared.
Gal-qadan gave sharp orders to his men. ‘Archers.’
Around him, Dakaniha, Tode and other bowmen drew their taut bowstrings to their ears. He looked at Ethan, with his long rifle primed and aimed.
Gal-qadan loaded his own bow. ‘Release!’ he yelled.
A volley of arrows whipped through the air, following the whistling bullet from Ethan’s gun, but Gal-qadan watched in confusion as the missiles passed through the red aliens and smashed into the trees beyond. Kastor and Osayimwese’s spears met the same end.
‘Release!’ Gal-qadan shouted again, not believing his eyes. The second volley fared the same. How could he defeat an enemy he couldn’t touch?
The red enemy broke into an attacking run. At fifty paces away each red beast threw, launched or spat some kind of missile. Explosions rocked the ground around Gal-qadan’s men as the tocka were sent into disarray.
Gal-qadan turned to retreat and caught sight of a white mist curling through the trees, but ignored it. ‘We’re surrounded!’ he shouted. ‘Divide and retreat!’
Those who could command their tocka drove them left or right, with the remaining tocka obediently following. The sound of exploding trees rang in Gal-qadan’s ears as the red army’s missiles grew more destructive. He cast a look back and saw the mist again. It had drifted into the clearing, mingling with the smoke from the explosions. Something about the way it twisted and twirled kept Gal-qadan’s attention, so he slowed his tocka and the others joined suit.
Three shapes formed from the mist: legs, arms and heads became clear. Layer upon layer of detail built until three robed samurai warriors could be seen, holding glinting swords above their heads. The red army was distracted and turned to fire but the swordsmen were already on them. High-pitched yells echoed through the air as the samurai leapt in at the enemy, slicing them to pieces with power and deft accuracy.
‘Our allies,’ Gal-qadan spoke to no one in particular.
‘What shall we do, Khan?’ Tode asked.
What could they do? Their weapons were useless and the samurai looked unharmed and full of energy as they fought. What Gal-qadan would give to have those men in his army! He had to give them a sign, he thought, to show they were on the same side.
‘We must assist!’ He kicked at his tocka and it leapt forward. ‘Attack! Everyone attack!’
***
Gal-qadan wandered amongst the dismembered alien corpses, staring at the strange forms and marvelling at the ferocity and skill with which they had been despatched.
‘No sign of the swordsmen,’ Tode reported.
>
Gal-qadan nodded. ‘Spirit warriors,’ he whispered.
‘Khan?’
Gal-qadan shook his head and mounted his tocka. ‘We move on.’
His men looked tired and weren’t talking as much as earlier, which was a relief. Dakaniha, with his ridiculous four eyes, looked pleased with himself, while Ethan, the rifleman, looked greyer than before, but only when fatigue set in would Gal-qadan be concerned.
‘So why did our weapons pass through them if the swordsmen could kill them?’ Dakaniha asked what Gal-qadan had been unable to answer. Only when the samurai had injured a red creature could Gal-qadan’s troops physically attack them.
‘My guess is shielding,’ Tode answered.
‘No,’ Dakaniha replied. ‘They had no shields.’
‘None we could see,’ Tode replied. ‘But what if their shields did the opposite to ours – let the arrows through?’
‘Weapons of the gods?’ Kastor joined the conversation.
‘Something like that,’ Tode said.
And yet the samurai were able to bring down those shields, Gal-qadan thought. He had to have them in his army. A cold shiver ran across his shoulders and he looked back into the hazy forest. Never ignore a cold feeling, he thought, but only saw damp trees.
‘So why didn’t we take one of their shields?’ Dakaniha asked.
‘Did you see any?’ Kastor responded. ‘Because I didn’t.’
‘He’s right, it was just flesh and armour,’ Tode said.
As they left the forest, Gal-qadan saw grass hummocks, suggesting they were on the fringes of a great plain: his kind of territory. But when he reached the edge, his men had stopped in a huddle.
‘What is it this time?’ Gal-qadan asked.
Was this another argument? Gal-qadan half hoped so. He would be obliged to kill someone to restore his authority. But who would he kill? He needed control of the tocka but doubted they would let him ride if he killed Kastor. Dakaniha maybe? He had been of little practical use and, for some reason, his extra eyes offended him.
Dakaniha sat proud on his tocka. ‘I have found a trail, Great Leader.’
‘Made by whom?’ Gal-qadan snapped back.
Dakaniha straightened his back. ‘Made by another group of humans, Great Leader.’
***
John opened his eyes. His head was dizzy and his body ached but from what, he couldn’t remember. Maybe he’d been drugged? His last memory was of the huge creature interrogating him… threatening him. John could picture his ugly, fish-like face covered in eyes and mouthparts, but couldn’t remember anything else. John’s body shuddered and his breathing sped up as panic seeped into his muscles. He pulled against his restraints and looked around. What if that thing came back?
He heard his father’s voice. ‘Take your time, son.’
He always said that when he learnt something new and John had used the same phrase when Joe took his first steps. The thought calmed him down, but tears filled his eyes: Rosie should have been with him to share those moments. Their son had needed his mother. Why did she have to die? The same question over and over. Anger rushed through John and he stretched, rattling the metal restraints.
‘Damn it,’ he gasped.
With a resigned sigh, he blinked away his tears. His bed was raised, giving him a good view of the room, and he could see a few trophy-like body parts nailed to the wall near a set of lethal-looking metal implements. John shivered and felt his left leg twitch. He had to get out of here.
A noise made him turn. They were back. He could hear the telltale scraping sound and pictured them: the large angry one; the tiny one with flashing sides who hid in the corner; the thickset one with the scarred face. Panic was rising again and John pulled on his chains.
He could hear a voice, ‘…still alive?’
‘–gave him some Penchack to take the memories away.’
‘Good.’
John relaxed a little. Maybe he could reason with these two and ask them to let him out? All he wanted to do was get back to his army so he could get to the silver gates and back to Joe. He strained his neck, looking for anything he could reach to prise the metal clasps off his wrists. There was nothing within reach on the tables and all he saw on the walls were more body parts… John stopped and stared. His throat dried, his eyes widened and, without meaning to, he made a whimpering sound.
Nailed to the mud-brick wall hung the bottom half of his left leg.
John’s eyesight blurred.
He didn’t feel pain, but instinctively looked to his feet and shook his legs. He didn’t care who heard him. One leg rattled its fixings while the other felt stuck. Stretching and peering down, he could just make out the tip of his right boot. Not his left.
John stared back at the leg on the wall.
First his arm got swallowed by his machine gun and now he’d lost a leg? How could he go home like this? What would his parents say? His grandfather would just have more reasons to put him down. More importantly, what would Joe think of him? Would he be scared? How could he hug his son like this, or run with him?
John’s left hand formed a fist as he strained against his bonds again. The mechanisms in his gun-arm clicked and he felt warmth grow inside the gun. Light flooded the room and John closed his eyes. He heard claws scraping across the ground and wheezing sounds.
‘It’s awake.’
‘Yes.’
‘How long until Panzicosta returns?’
‘Hours. Probably after sundown,’ replied the distorted voice of the scarred beast. ‘He likes to leave them to regain energy. It delays their death.’
‘And you’re sure you’ll be fine, Krotank?’
Krotank coughed. ‘My fighting days are numbered and I grow tired of this world. As soon as you are free of the walls I’ll head into the plains.’
‘Are you certain?’
Krotank replied, ‘There’s much to explore here. That’s all I ever wanted, you know? To explore. Then I was called up in the army and, well, we ended up here.’
‘Your time was one of our bloodiest.’
‘The expansionists and the eradication of the Crarl, yes, but when was our history ever peaceful?’ Krotank replied.
As John listened, he realised these Brakari weren’t natives of this land – they were fighting for their survival too! Which meant they must have lost their battle or they wouldn’t still be here. The thought gave him strength. The Brakari had lost, which meant his people could beat them.
John opened his eyes. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Yes?’ A sleek grey head appeared by his side. It wasn’t as hideous as the large creature who had tortured him, but its numerous eyes and mouth pincers weren’t pretty either.
‘What have you done to me? To my leg?’
‘General Panzicosta…’
‘I don’t care about the bloody General,’ John bellowed, feeling his anger grow. Once again, he acted as he thought Mihran or Lavalle would. ‘I demand my freedom.’
‘Well that’s interesting because…’
‘Release me now!’
The small Brakari tilted its head to one side. ‘Are you fit enough to travel?’
‘I–’ John cast a look at the wall where his amputated leg hung. ‘I don’t know. No.’ John tried to control his panic. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘You misunderstand me, John Greene.’ The creature moved and the metal clasps snapped open. ‘I have come to free you.’
John took his time to slide off the bed and stared at the creatures. Then he stretched to retrieve his amputated leg, leaning over a table with the stump of his right leg sticking out impotently.
‘You won’t be able to use it,’ Krotank said. ‘It’s been embalmed.’
John stopped and rested on a table.
‘Drained of all liquids, then pumped full of–’
‘Yes, I get the picture.’ John had never felt like this before. It was beyond anger. He felt infiltrated and abused… dirty and less than an animal. ‘What else did
you bastards do to me?’
‘It wasn’t us,’ the feminine creature replied.
‘But you let that thing cut my leg off and God knows what else…’ John slipped his good hand down his trousers to check everything was in place. ‘Oh, thank God.’ His shoulders relaxed.
‘General Panzicosta is very…’ The female paused. ‘It would be best to start from the beginning.’
John turned to look at her. Although smaller than his torturer, at four foot tall and six foot long, she still intimidated John in the small room.
‘I am Millok and we,’ she turned to Krotank, ‘have given you drugs to remove all pain and memories of your time with the General.’
John was ready for an argument but the words sunk in and his head dropped a notch. ‘Thank you.’
‘We are…’ Millok started.
‘Rebelling against our leader’s cause,’ Krotank finished the sentence.
‘Rebels?’ John whispered. Could he trust them? What if it was another trap, like when he followed Joe to the hospital and then Crossley? This time he would be prepared, he told himself. Or ready to escape at the first chance.
‘We can take you back to your army,’ Millok said.
‘Why can’t you just let me go.’ John looked at the doorway that stood ajar. ‘I can make it on my own, thanks.’
With a hop, John moved towards the exit, but the weight of his gun-arm pulled him into a table, knocking off the marbles he’d seen earlier. Weren’t these some kind of shield? John thought and grabbed a few. If he could get back to his army, maybe Mihran or Li would find a way to use them.
‘Where are my bags?’ he asked and shoved the marbles in his pocket.
‘Here.’ Krotank swung the satchels onto the table.
‘I’ve got everything I need.’ John scooped up more marbles.
‘You cannot travel alone. Do you even know where you are?’ Millok asked.
John peered through the tiny window, where a slither of the hazy sky could be seen. All he needed was a crutch and he could make a good go of it, he was sure.
‘You are in a city, John Greene,’ Millok said.
