Cecil looked at them. “What do we do?”
Moral indignation flooded Jack’s face. “Well, I’ll tell you what I’m bloody well not going to do and that’s lie back and think of bloody England.” He grabbed a wrench and took a swing at the now tumescent and dripping appendage. “D’you know, Ces,” he said, “after this, I can see me and you is going to need a long talk about... country matters.”
Frank leered. “After this, I don’t think he’ll need one.”
MATHERS WATCHED AS the giant beetle attempted to mount the Ivanhoe, using its mandibles to try to bite and hold the tank’s roof, its legs scrambling for leverage as it began to grind against the rear of the tank. All thought of its own safety washed away in a primal urge too strong to ignore.
The tank juddered forward, but the beetle was determined not to lose its mount and tottered forwards with it, almost comically, still attached.
Mathers felt a hint of shame that the ironclad should be misused so shamefully, as if it had been a faithful beast unwillingly put out to stud. He picked up a rock and hurled it at the creature, but it bounced off. He picked up another one and edged closer, this time aiming at its face. It bounced off a mandible. He felt light-headed, but didn’t stop. Whatever he was feeling, it wasn’t fear; it was... exhilaration. He picked up another rock and, yelling incoherently, he charged. He ran at the tank and, using his momentum, and the starboard gun barrel, in one swift move he scrambled onto the Ivanhoe and began smashing at the beetle’s legs, which seemed to be the most vulnerable part. Smoke began billowing out from the smothered exhaust vents beneath the beetle. He was about to leap on its back in an attempt to stove its head in when a sheering screech ripped the sky.
A shadow flicked overhead.
Mathers looked up. A large creature like a manta ray swooped down over the rutting beetle. It had a long neck and small head, with a deceptively wide mouth and sharp teeth. The beetle, locked as it was in congress with the tank, neither knew nor cared.
The flying creature Mathers recognised; the men called it a jabberwock. They preyed on the herds of tripodgiraffes that roamed the veldt. It wheeled round and extended its hind legs and sharp talons, like a hawk’s. Mathers, unperturbed, threw the rock at it, less of a defence and more of a challenge. He stood on the beetle’s back as it humped and roared at the jabberwock in defiance. So close to death and he had never felt so alive.
By now, the beetle was hastily trying to dismount the tank but seemed to be having difficulty withdrawing.
The jabberwock screeched again as it dived towards the unnatural pairing. Mathers, stood atop the mating beetle, was prepared to meet the thing head on, though with what he had no idea and didn’t care. The struggling stone beetle freed itself and slipped clumsily off the back of the tank, tipping Mathers from its back. He put out a hand but found no hold and fell from the creature onto the starboard tank track before tumbling heavily to the ground by the sponson. His graceless dismount saved his life, as talons tore through empty air above him.
Winded and dazed, he shuffled back on his buttocks away from the tracks, for fear the tank should start up again and crush him. Shrieking in frustration, the jabberwock banked sharply and, talons first, slammed down onto the disorientated and satiated stone beetle. Using its great manta wings to stabilise itself, the jabberwock sought gaps that its sharp curved claws could lock under, while its head sought similar weaknesses on its prey’s back.
The beetle flailed pointlessly, unable to grasp anything of its attacker with its mandibles. Turning this way and that like a dog chasing its tail, desperate to dislodge its assailant from its back, it slammed into the tank, shunting it sideways. Mathers watched as the vehicle slid several feet towards him. He could only see the flapping of the great wings and hear the cries of the jabberwock, hidden from view by the tank.
His face and back began to prickle with drying sweat, he felt a wave of nausea rise up, and he vomited on the ground. What the hell did he think he was doing? His hands began to shake. Thinking of himself up on the tank beating that damn thing with a rock made him heave again. Jesus. His head began to pound.
There was a screech of triumph as the jabberwock rose from the ground, talons locked tightly onto the beetle. The stone beetle’s legs thrashed weakly, defenceless. The pair rose higher and higher as Mathers scrambled to his feet. Trembling, feeling faint and clammy, he staggered towards the tank.
The jabberwock cawed loudly and released the beetle, which dropped like a dead weight. There was a wet cracking sound as the beetle slammed down onto the tank’s roof. It clawed feebly. Triumphant, the jabberwock flew down and began to prise at the cracked carapace with a taloned foot. Its long neck and hooked beak began ripping at the innards, tearing its soft wet organs.
Thirty feet away, Mathers made to creep towards the sponson hatch, but the gimlet-eyed predator spotted him. For a moment, he thought it was going to attack, but it just extended its neck, screeched in his direction, warning him off, and went back to tearing at the beetle carcass.
The jabberwock kept one eye on him, jealously guarding its kill as it ripped and tore, throwing back its head to swallow lumps of offal. He needed to get the thing and its meal off the tank. Slowly, still trembling, he edged round to the front of the tank and ducked round the starboard track horn, and over the pervasive rumble of the engine shouted into the driver’s cockpit.
“Clegg, the beetle thing is lying on the starboard track. If you drive forwards the track might run it off the front of the tank.”
Clegg nodded his comprehension through the driver’s visor. Mathers saw him turn back in the tank and yell something. Her ran up the engine and the tank jerked into life, then began, clanking track plate by track plate, to inch forwards. The beetle carcass moved. The jabberwock didn’t notice at first, but when its kill was tugged away from it, it looked around for the unseen rival.
Mathers backed off and watched the progress of the dead beetle as it ground slowly forward. The jabberwock, furious that its meal was being snatched, put one clawed foot on the body to hold it. The tracks ground on inexorably, shredding the underside of the carcass and leaving viscous blue stains on the track plates. The weight of the jabberwock was holding it back.
Mathers would have to do something. Picking up a rock, he threw it at the jabberwock to draw its attention. The first one hit its body; it turned and hissed at him. The second hit its neck. It roared in his direction. A third had it rearing up over its kill and spreading its huge wings. But Mathers now felt no fear. He grinned to himself. His crew had better be ready for this.
“Come on!” he yelled at the beast, waving his arms. “Come on! You great ugly trout! Over here!” Ugly trout? Really? Was that the best he could do? Never mind. It seemed to do the trick. The jabberwock flapped its wings and took off, shrieking at him all the while. Mathers backed off even further, trying to draw the creature away from the tank. He glanced behind him. There were several boulders that might provide cover, if he could reach them.
Without the weight of the jabberwock, the beetle carcass began moving as the Ivanhoe advanced, and flopped limply off the front track horns, where it fell to the ground. The tank rolled over it, crushing it and staining the ground blue.
The jabberwock advanced on Mathers in short agile hops. Mathers wasn’t a serious threat to it, no more than an annoyance.
Now would be a good time, thought Mathers as he backed away, facing the creature.
A burst of machine gun fire from the driver’s position raked the jabberwock, perforating a bloody line across its wingspan. The jabberwock turned on the new threat. The landship lumbered towards it. There was another burst of machine gun fire and the jabberwock’s head vanished in an explosion of bloody vapour. The body staggered on another few yards under its own momentum before collapsing, also to be crushed under the tracks of the advancing Ivanhoe.
Mathers collapsed against the boulder, his breath coming in great heaving pants, sweat trickling down his back. He could feel
his heart banging in his chest and waited for it to settle down.
The tank halted and Clegg called out through the driver’s visor. “Lieutenant, are you all right?” Mathers nodded and waved his hand to brush off his driver’s concern, his mouth too dry to speak.
From the back of the tank, he could hear the sponson hatches clang open and the crew staggering out into the fresh air, a tangle of voices, to survey the bodies.
Perkins ignored the dead creature, turning his attention to the tank. Mathers watched him. He walked along its length checking the tracks and track plates, tapping rivets. Eventually he was satisfied.
“Damage?” asked Mathers, remembering his position, straightening himself up, and striding purposefully towards Perkins.
“We were lucky, a couple of buckled plates, but they should be all right. The track tension will need adjusting soon, but we’re all tickety-boo, sir.”
“Good man,” he said, patting him on the shoulder and walking off towards the tank.
“Sir?” asked Perkins.
Mathers turned. “What is it, Perkins?”
“I was just wondering, sir, shouldn’t we be heading back to camp? We’ve come far enough. We’ve found no sign of Jeffries so far and we’re reaching the limits of our range. Our fuel is limited, we should think about returning. I mean, they’ll be expecting us back, sir.”
“But we’re all right for now?”
“Yes, sir, but –”
Mathers stepped closer and fixed Perkins with a stare, aware that his eye had started to twitch again. “Any complaints?”
If Perkins noticed it, he didn’t say anything. “Complaints, sir? No sir.”
“Then we’ll carry on. As you were, Perkins.”
THE IVANHOE HEADED off, leaving the corpses behind to be picked over by whatever scavengers found them. They made for the forest a couple of miles off.
Mathers was still walking in front of the tank, only now he carried a large suitably gnarled wooden staff tied to the top of which was a PH gas hood, looking like some desiccated head. He wore his ‘turtle shell’ helmet and splash mask, even though he was outside. It afforded him some meagre protection at least. But more than that, right now it served to accompany his rain cape, daubed as it was with hand prints and strange arcane symbols, or at least what the crew had decided passed for magical signs: spirals, stars, lightning flashes and unblinking eyes. Mathers fancied himself the subject of some fantastical Arthur Rackham illustration. He looked for all the world like a tribal shaman leading some great, tamed antediluvian beast.
Which was exactly how it was supposed to look.
Behind him, the Ivanhoe squeaked, clanked and growled its way closer to the jungle, its periscopes up, looking like eye-stalks or antennae.
Mathers could hear the whispering again. This time it was more insistent. This time he thought he could detect words in the tinny susurration. It was coming from behind him, from the Ivanhoe. It was the Ivanhoe. No, not the Ivanhoe. It was Skarra.
Mathers walked on. And listened.
THEY HALTED AT the jungle edge. When Mathers looked there was nothing, but he knew they were there. The fumes from the tank allowed him to see their breathing; slight yellow eddies in the air around the undergrowth.
Through the protective eye slits of his splash mask, he caught a movement from the tree line. A group of urmen stepped out from under cover. One came forwards hesitantly.
Mathers braced himself. You could never be quitesure of the reaction, but he heard the great six pounders coming to bear behind him, and Clegg running up the engine so it sounded like a throaty growl. That usually did the trick. Behind his chainmail mask, Mathers smiled. He enjoyed this next bit.
The warrior stopped, his eyes wide with fear and, while still a full twenty yards away from the ironclad, gave a great cry, threw up his arms and dropped to his knees, genuflecting until his forehead touched the ground. Behind him, his fellows did the same, hardly daring to look upon them.
Then from his position of supplication, he spoke. “We have been expecting you. Your coming has been foretold.”
Mathers hadn’t expected that.
CHAPTER SIX
“Here Comes the Bogey Man...”
THEY WERE RUNNING with hatches and pistol ports shut now. Inside the tank, it was stifling, with only the four small festoon lights illuminating the compartment. The stench of sweating bodies, engine oil and rendered animal fats filled the small space, along with the ever-present hallucinogenic fumes from the engine. The men breathed deeply of it, oblivious to all but the petrol fruit fumes; each lost, momentarily, in their own little internal worlds. They might have been in an opium den but for the noise and the infernal juddering as the tank lumbered along the uneven ground. With his visor shut, Clegg had to use his look-stick in order to drive.
“What’s going on? Have the natives bought it?” asked Norman.
“Yeah,” he said. “Now pipe down ’til the Loot gives us the signal.”
Norman winked. “Looks like we’ve got another performance coming up, boys.”
“Good, we haven’t had any decent scran for ages. I wasn’t going to eat that fungus muck they was dishing out before we left. God, what I wouldn’t give for a nice bit o’ mutton.”
“Speak for yourself,” barked Reggie. “Give me a nice fillet steak any day.”
At the back, by the starboard gear levers, Alfie watched small close-knit ripples of red emanating from the vibrating engine and saw each man glowing with a faint aura. He shook his head to disperse the sight as he had tried many times before. The coloured patterns remained drifting in his vision like the stubborn after-images of a star shell. He didn’t like much about this stunt. Everything in his gut told him they shouldn’t be doing this, but do it they did, each time more brazenly and more confidently than the last.
On their first encounter with an urmen enclave the natives, thinking the tank was Skarra, this world’s god of the underworld, prostrated themselves before it and treated the crew as holy men. The crew went along with it in a bemused manner, because it suited their purpose. They rather liked the idea. Too much, it seemed. After months of subsisting on half rations and whatever vile local stew the mongey wallahs came up with, it was a relief to be feted for a change.
Reinforced by the euphoria and confidence imparted by the constant inhalation of the fumes, they were soon exaggerating and expanding the act until it was like a carnival sideshow. Norman, the ex-music hall actor, painted their rain capes with magic symbols and did a few conjuring tricks. At first it was just a jolly, but as the weeks went on their attitudes were tempered by the fumes, and as their side effects took hold, they began to half-believe the act themselves.
Alfie felt a sharp rap on his turtle shell. Jack was staring at him. He looked around to find Frank, Cecil and Norman staring across the engine at him.
Norman stepped up to him and put his mouth close to his ear in order to yell over the sound of the engine.
“I’ll say this once. We’ve got a chance to be something here, to be someone. Don’t you dare muck this up for us.” He poked Alfie in the shoulder to emphasise his point.
Alfie was a little taken aback. He glanced at each of his crewmates in turn. They looked at him with expectation. They wanted his compliance. Alfie, disappointed in his mates but more so in himself, gave a reluctant nod.
Norman held his gaze a little longer, pointed to his own eyes and then at Alfie, “I’m watching you,” before turning back to his gun.
OUTSIDE, MATHERS TURNED around and, with an expansive gesture, held his staff aloft, like Moses before the burning bush, and bowed low before the tank. The ironclad wavered gently in his vision, an effect of the fuel fumes, although it seemed to him that the tank was breathing, its sides expanding and contracting, a fact he now accepted as quite natural.
He wheeled smartly to face the front, his rain cape whipping around him as he turned. He had them in the palm of his hand. He raised his staff like a Regimental Sergeant Major
on a parade ground and nodded at the urman. “Lead on. Skarra, god of the underworld, will follow.”
The urman backed slowly away on his knees before getting to his feet and walking back into the jungle with his companions, casting fearful glances behind them. The warriors before him slipped into the undergrowth and vanished from sight, only to re-emerge tens of yards further on.
BEHIND HIS MASK, Mathers took a deep breath and began to march imperiously behind them, ushering the way for his god. Behind him, the armoured juggernaut kept up a stately pace as they entered the jungle.
The undergrowth closed in about them, the shrubbery and saplings groaned and snapped, giving way under the rolling plates of the Ivanhoe. Mathers was aware of shapes in the undergrowth surrounding them. Quick, fleeting, almost insubstantial. More urmen. He pretended not to notice, keeping his steady pace.
The noise of the oncoming tank quelled the chatters and whoops of unseen beasts and the high boughs shook as creatures, startled by the unworldly noise beneath, took flight through the canopy.
The tank took no heed. An air of death, of lifelessness, surrounded it, striking trees and ploughing over stricken trunks as if gorging itself on the life that fell before it. That life should flee it or be crushed beneath it seemed only right and something the urmen expected from a god of the underworld. No wonder they melted into the undergrowth, reappearing only to offer a brief benediction and a direction, unwilling to approach for fear of their very lives being sucked from them.
All the time as he walked, Mathers could hear the tank muttering to him in its mechanical growl, whispering encouragements and dark truths, pattering out half-perceived homilies, making promises, soothing with words of power. It filled his head with such concepts that it began to pound, luring him with talk of other spaces, other realms. Ideas so profound that he couldn’t hold them in his mind and they slipped from his consciousness, leaving only a vague sense of loss and shame as though he had somehow disappointed it.
The Ironclad Prophecy Page 9
