by Ste Sharp
‘John,’ Millok turned to him before pulling away, ‘you should never fight for vengeance.’
‘You think fighting for a righteous cause is better?’ John shook his head. ‘I’ve done that and look where that got us. One bleeding war after the next.’
‘No, you should fight for something you believe in,’ Millok said. ‘You should fight for your comrades – for your friends.’ She turned and, after a tug, they were speeding across the plain again.
Millok had something there, John thought. Back in France, after the shine had gone and reality kicked in, the only thing John and his mates had fought for was each other: looking out for snipers; telling stories; keeping spirits up when they got tired.
John thought about Crossley, Mata and Althorn. His head dropped as a wave of shame washed over him. He was right to volunteer to retrieve the Lutamek box but had been selfish seeking safety and abandoning his comrades. What would his grandfather have said about that? He pictured the old man’s red-cheeked face and brilliant-white hair as he spouted whatever had him fired up. ‘There are no second places in war, John!’
Maybe his grandfather had been right. He’d been to war and seen death, just like John had. Maybe the old man had been tough on John because, however hard he was, the reality of war would be much harder. Life had proven to be just as hard, John realised, and his thoughts turned to Rosie… and Joe.
The wooden cart bumped and jolted across the prairie as John’s feelings consolidated. He had something to fight for: justice. And he had something to die for: his friends.
They climbed the long hill to the war valley and a light wind carried odours of battle that John recognised as explosives, turned earth and burnt flesh.
‘We stop here.’ Millok pulled up and lay down.
‘Are you sure?’ John climbed off, ready to fight, but could hear the tinkle of the Brakari’s holes gasping for oxygen. Millok needed rest. ‘I’ll get some practice in,’ John said and walked away.
Like in the trenches, he picked a target fifty paces away, a rock, and prepared his weapon. There was no bipod, no circular ammunition case to clip on, nothing to oil and no water cooler to top up. ‘Water!’ He wished he’d kept the bucket from Abzicrutia to cool his gun-arm down. He scanned the gun for an air vent or some remnant of the cooling system but nothing could be found. If this weapon had evolved, like Li said they all had, why didn’t it have a way to remove the heat?
He told himself to forget it and stood in a stable firing position.
Using what felt like his fingers, John pictured a pointed bullet of compressed air and felt the shape take form inside the gun body. The sensation of heat was rising too.
Concentrate, John told himself, and fired.
The gun didn’t make a sound and neither did the rock. A line of bent grass to one side showed where his shot had disappeared. Just like when he had shot Doctor Cynigar, there were no bullet casings flying from his gun, so he wasn’t sure if he was firing slivers of metal or compressed air. He tried again, forming the shape, spinning then shooting. And missed. He tried again, with shorter and longer bullets, spinning one way, then the other, until a shard of stone finally splintered off the rock target with a satisfying crack.
The sound startled Millok, who stood up.
‘I’m rested,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
Her voice sounded loud to John. ‘Wait.’ He held up his good hand. ‘It’s too quiet. Something’s wrong.’
Millok followed John’s eyes up the hill towards the battle valley beyond.
John’s face dropped. ‘We need to go. Now.’ He clambered onto the cart as quickly as he could. ‘Quick!’
Millok pulled the cart up the rest of the hill and, as they reached the apex, the valley came into view. A dark line of torn earth curved an arc around where John’s army had been stationed and bodies of all sizes lay scattered across the valley, some ringed by scarlet, others in burnt craters, mostly on the human side of the battle.
Nothing moved.
John climbed off the cart. His good leg wobbled and he fell to the ground.
‘We’re too late.’
Chapter 20
He had no choice. That’s what Mihran reminded himself as he spurred his tocka back across the grassland towards the vast silhouette of the ruined fortress where they had left Crossley. His primary model switched the moment the new species arrived from the forest. Even if he ignored that, the next three suggested retreat as well.
We will fight again, Mihran had thought-cast after ordering the retreat.
They had to. Lose now and they would be stuck in this land with an even smaller army and there was no way Mihran wanted to be trapped here and risk becoming what the Brakari had turned into.
It was the silver gates or death.
He looked up at the green sky. They had enough light to keep fighting: no sign of dusk yet.
Commander. Gal-qadan’s harsh tones entered his head. When do we turn to fight?
Mihran had asked Gal-qadan to form the army’s rearguard, alongside the mounted knights who had survived Lavalle’s defence of the ford. The Mongol knew many tactics but was refusing to accept this was a true retreat.
Defend the rear then seek safety in the fort, Mihran thought-cast. New orders will follow. He turned to catch a glimpse of Gal-qadan’s sneer.
In between Mihran and Gal-qadan, the mass of humans and Sorean ran, limped and scampered across the plain. It was a sorry sight. Many were falling behind and being picked off by the fastest Brakari. Mihran began thought-casting Li to ask her advice but stopped as memories of the explosion came back. There was no one else he trusted.
The dark shape of the ruined fort loomed ahead like an enormous temple. It reminded Mihran of the huge ruins his army had camped in during their campaigns across Mesopotamia and Syria, only this fort had been scarred by flame rather than sand and time. For a moment, Mihran allowed himself to picture what this grand ruin had once been, just as he had done on those desert nights under the stars. He imagined an impenetrable gleaming fortress upon which armies had thrown their might: tall buttresses where skeletal metal now stood and imposing towers where stone now tottered as though leaning against the sky.
Everything returns to dust.
Ahead, Crossley and a number of soldiers stood by a fire with the giant pillars looming behind like a leafless forest. Mihran knew he had to take care and led his tocka on a winding path marked with yellow dots around what looked like deep trenches criss-crossing the ground in front of the ruin.
‘I hope it slows them down,’ he said as he pulled the tocka to a halt. ‘Have you searched the fort?’
‘Sure,’ Crossley replied. ‘We’ve got deep foundations – deeper than I can see anyway – and there are over five hundred pillars.’
‘Made of?’ Mihran asked.
‘Stone with a metal core,’ Crossley replied.
‘And the gap between pillars?’ Mihran asked.
‘The same all the way through.’
Too narrow for a Lutamek to enter and, Mihran hoped, too small for a Brakari. The humans and Sorean would be safe inside the stone forest as long as they were protected from the inevitable bombardment.
‘Anything else?’ Mihran asked.
Crossley raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, it’s funny you ask. Hector here,’ he pointed to a soldier Mihran didn’t recognise, ‘has found–’
‘Wait.’ Mihran held up a hand and dismounted his tocka. He didn’t recognise the new soldiers: four men and one woman. ‘Who are these people?’
‘Soldiers who heard your call to arms and…’
One of the men stepped forward and held out his fist. ‘I pledge my allegiance to your cause.’
Mihran stared at the broad-chested man and the newcomers. He ran their weapons and clothing through the list of soldiers Li had given him. The soldiers matched people missing from the inventory but Mihran had been fooled before. Behind them, the fastest foot soldiers were arriving: the Sorean and Olan were regrouping
nearby having navigated the maze of trenches.
‘Olan,’ Mihran called out.
The large Viking sauntered over, panting heavily. ‘Commander.’
‘What do you see here?’ Mihran gestured at the five new soldiers.
‘More soldiers!’ Olan forced a smile as he fought for breath.
‘All human?’
‘Yes.’ Olan stared at the woman, who held his gaze, forcing him to look away.
It was enough for Mihran, who trusted Olan’s chest plate. ‘Good. You are welcome in our army.’ He pointed at the oncoming enemy, who were forming a wide shadow across the horizon. ‘Your timing couldn’t be better.’ Mihran stared into Hector’s eyes. ‘Have you had any… changes?’
‘I…’ the man looked down at his feet.
‘Just tell him,’ Crossley said. ‘All of you – we haven’t got time for this!’
The big man gave Crossley a look similar to the one Lavalle saved for him, then turned to Mihran. ‘I can push arrows away with my thoughts.’
Mihran’s eyebrows raised. ‘Good.’ He’d last longer than most when it comes to hand-to-hand combat, he thought.
The other four listed their adaptations, none of which were game-changers, but Mihran added them to his model. ‘Crossley, I need the archers in position. Direct them as they arrive. All other troops are to be scattered throughout the fort.’
‘Yes, Commander. I know the perfect spot,’ Crossley replied.
Mihran closed his eyes to thought-cast the same message to his captains.
Nearly there, Samas replied.
And then wefight, Gal-qadan replied but Mihran didn’t respond. He wanted Gal-qadan’s tocka hidden deep inside the fortress.
Looks like I might be waylaid, Commander, Bowman replied and shared an image of a group of Brakari who had his group surrounded. Ethan and Euryleia were with him.
Lavalle, Mihran thought-cast. Help Bowman.
There would be fewer archers at the fort than Mihran had planned for. He adjusted his models. They were running out of time.
Mihran led his tocka into the fort, calming it with soft words as they passed in between pillars and into the darkness. This sanctuary would have to suffice, he told himself and, after a quick saunter around, he sought Crossley, who was giving directions.
‘…up that stairwell then jump over and you’ve got a perfect view. Hey, Commander, our spot is over here.’ He led Mihran and his tocka up a slope to a metal platform that gave them a clear view through the diagonal gaps between the pillars and a view of the ground straight ahead.
‘Perfect. And what about our other plans?’
‘Pretty perfect too.’ The American smiled.
A flash of light on the open plain caused them to turn and cover their eyes.
Mihran blinked to get rid of the black and white lines. Report, he thought-cast.
We’ve lost Ethan, Bowman replied. Several injured.
Get to safety, Mihran ordered. Lavalleis coming to your aid.
‘Well that screwed up my eyes.’ Crossley blinked and stared into the dark centre of the fort.
‘Leave me, I need to think,’ Mihran said. ‘Get the army in as quickly as possible.’
‘Yes, Commander.’
Mihran stood beside his tocka on the platform with a hundred questions circling his mind. He stroked his dyed beard, took a deep breath and started bringing order to the chaos. He visualised his thoughts as birds in a clear sky and herded them into groups. Thoughts about the origins of the fort; Gal-qadan’s alien weapon; injured soldiers; the new titans; Belsang. Categorised and prioritised, he pushed away the frivolous questions and concentrated on the immediate problems.
Regroup. Assess. Attack.
Words Li had told him came to mind: ‘In war, numbers are not an issue – concentrate your strength, assess your enemy and win the confidence of your soldiers.’
It was time for his wildcards: the unpredictable weapons and abilities. He couldn’t calculate their effect but they needed something to catch Belsang off guard.
First they needed to set the trap.
Billy, Mihran thought-cast the Scottish warrior, Sing me a song.
Aye , Commander.
Mihran saw Gal-qadan’s tocka winding through Crossley’s trenches and minefields.
Come straight through, Mihran ordered him and spoke when he came into earshot. ‘Send your troops deep, to our right flank. Then we must talk.’
Gal-qadan gave his orders then brought his tocka to the base of the ramp.
‘You have a choice, Gal-qadan,’ Mihran said. ‘Give your weapon to the infantry and lead your men, or dismount and fight here with your weapon.’
Gal-qadan snorted and looked away. Mihran took it as a sign he was weighing up his options. He was well aware he was forcing Gal-qadan to give up what the Mongol regarded as half his power.
‘It is borrowed anyway.’ Gal-qadan cut a strap holding the large gun on the back of his tocka, sending it crashing to the ground, and rode off without looking at Mihran.
‘Keep on the flank,’ Mihran said. ‘I’ll need you soon.’
‘Crossley,’ Mihran called out, ‘I have a new toy for you.’
Mihran scanned the army. If he pushed his mind out, he could feel where the archers and foot soldiers had been stationed. He could also feel the mass of Brakari and slave soldiers pressing down on them. He opened his eyes and listened to the Scottish lament that came and went with the breeze. Then he saw the first ghost warrior, standing by one of the front pillars, another shimmering into existence next to it.
The way of war, he thought, is a way of deception.
Now to prepare the attack.
***
John scanned the bodies on the valley floor and assumed the army had been taken into slavery by the Brakari, but the blinding flash over the horizon told him the fighting was still going on.
Millok pulled the cart to John and he clambered in. His friends needed him. How could he look them in the eye after all this and tell them he hadn’t tried to help?
Millok pulled away and, as they passed bodies and trails, John built a picture of his army’s last actions. The storage boxes lay empty where John had last seen them next to the bodies of the Lutamek, and a stream of abandoned weapons, bags and dead soldiers led back in the direction the army had walked that morning. John saw the hazy silhouette of a thousand smokestacks in the distance and it became clear.
‘It’s a retreat!’ he shouted to Millok. ‘A tactical retreat!’
‘How do… if it is… best?’ Millok’s words were cut off as she ran.
‘It is,’ John replied, guessing what Millok had said.
They had no time to stop and talk.
He pictured Crossley by the tall stacks of the ruined fort and smiled at what his friend would have in store for the Brakari. It was all part of Mihran’s plan! He must have known this would happen all along. The wind rushed past John’s ears and tousled his hair. It felt good. But as they passed more bodies, John’s good humour faded. Clusters of burnt human and Sorean bodies lay smouldering. A few Brakari carcases could be seen seeping dark blood into the grassland, but only a few.
John’s army was being hunted down and slaughtered.
Millok slowed down when the rearguard of the Brakari army came into view. From this distance, the haze of Brakari and their slave army looked endless and he didn’t recognise the huge lumbering beasts on the right wing.
He spotted the silhouette of a Lutamek.
‘I’ll turn the box on,’ he said to Millok, who unhitched herself and came round to inspect the Lutamek gadget.
‘Do you know what to do?’ she asked.
John stared at the twinkling lights and coloured buttons and swallowed. ‘I thought it would be obvious when the time came.’
‘How about this one?’ Millok used a leg blade to tap a square shape.
Nothing happened.
John rotated the cube, searching for a sign. A glass panel covered rows of tiny colo
ured lights and beneath each light he could see rows of dots, which matched the patterns he had seen on the Lutamek. He scanned them until he found one he recognised.
‘Here, Ten-ten.’ The light next to the rows of dots was red, while others flickered blue and many showed no light at all. ‘What does it mean?’
‘I assume the empty boxes are dead Lutamek.’
John scanned the empty lights until he found a set of dots he recognised. ‘Two-zero-three.’ He remembered the leader’s deep tones and stern manner. ‘He must have died when the Brakari set them against each another,’ John said. ‘What would the survivors do without a leader?’
‘Don’t worry about that, it’s the flashing lights we need to concentrate on – they must be the enslaved Lutamek,’ Millok replied.
John pressed one of the flashing lights and it turned red. He looked up and stared across the prairie, expecting one of the huge robots to jump into the air. But nothing happened. When he looked back it was flashing blue again.
Crossley would know what to do, John thought. Or Mihran or Althorn. But they were on the other side of the enormous enemy army. John started to feel hot. He didn’t want to make a decision like this, he just wanted to go home and leave all this behind.
‘Oh, bloody hell!’ he cursed and pressed all the flashing blue lights. They all changed to red, but a second later they were winking blue again.
‘Maybe we need to get closer?’ Millok suggested.
‘Closer?’ John knew they had to fight but what use were two soldiers against an entire army? Maybe distracting some Brakari would buy the army some time? He grabbed the tin soldier under his shirt. ‘Okay, let’s do it.’
Millok set off, skirting a wide arc to the Brakari’s left flank and John pressed the buttons. He looked for other signs on the box but, as they drew closer, his attention drifted.
‘What’s that?’ John pointed to two huddles of shapes off the left flank. Light flickered between them as though they were inside a tiny lightning storm.
Millok headed for it and John realised it was a separate melee.
‘They’re rounding up the stragglers!’ John shouted and his gun-arm clicked.
