Claws scratched against stone.
The haze beyond rippled, revealing hunched, dark shapes of what had once been men. The Half-dead. The result, Maaka believed, of experimentation gone terribly wrong. Or the deliberate mutation of his race. Of equal height, their hunched backs made them appear shorter, disguising their fierce sinewy strength. With large egg-shaped eyes, mouths of sharp elongated teeth and bony faces that constantly wore expressions of feral hunger, the Half-dead were not a pretty sight. But by any manner of thinking, they were a deadly foe.
His vision sharpened.
The Half-dead were moving fast. And heading their way.
Keeping his gaze fixed on the oncoming army, he signalled his second-in-command who had crept several paces away to his right.
In response, Junta raised a bone horn to his lips and the blast rent the air with raucous warning.
The humming ceased.
Behind them, the Freebers sprang into well-trained action. They herded the warthogs and carts into a rough circle in the middle of the field and set blocks behind the wheels of the carts. Shortening the leads of the warthogs and still clutching their farming implements they huddled in the centre. The farmers’ heavy breathing mingled with the snorts of the warthogs sounded far too loud in the sudden hush that had fallen over the land.
Maaka tightened his grip on his weapons. He inhaled deeply. His lungs filled with heat, dust, sweat, fear—and a smell that made his gut clench.
The thick stench of rotting flesh.
They were close.
He leapt to his feet, twisting his body to the side to present the smallest possible target. Knees bent and legs braced, he balanced his weight, then pivoted. He swept his sword in a wide arc and cleaved an oncoming creature in half. Blood and gore spurted in a long spray, coating Maaka’s skin with false warmth.
The top half of the creature’s torso slid to the ground. A moment later, its legs collapsed in a puddle of blood and bone.
Maaka vaulted over the twitching remains. With his axe he chopped the head off the next Half-dead as a mass of slavering beings swarmed towards him.
This would not be an easy win.
He met the next creature, sword against sword. He smashed his axe against a Half-dead’s shield. The creature fell backwards and was trampled underfoot.
He slashed and hacked through the enemy lines. Weapons clashed. The grunts and cries of men and monsters roiled like bubbling lava in the heat. A malevolent bog that sucked ever downwards on their courage.
For a moment, the onslaught faltered. Maaka paused to gather his strength. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement. He raised his axe and warded off the sword thrust just in time—the blow would have spliced open his chest, spilled his heart onto the ground.
His opponent’s sword nicked his forearm. Then the tip dug deep across his chest bone. Maaka slammed his forehead against the Half-dead’s skull.
The Half-dead lost his grip and the weapon clattered to the ground.
It reeled on its clawed feet. He drove his knee into its groin. With a gnash of its three rows of teeth it collapsed, shrieking.
Maaka plunged his sword hilt deep into the creature’s chest.
He yanked his sword free, then wiped a blood-smeared hand across his face. Chest heaving, he gulped in lungfuls of stinking air. He swung round in a half-crouch to check his unguarded back. Once, years ago, he had fought side-by-side, back-to-back with Junta. But with their numbers dwindling, they now fought alone on many fronts, not just this one.
Sweat and blood dried into stiff, sticky streaks over his body. His wounds burned like fire and his tired body throbbed with pain. He clenched his jaw and buried his longing for release from this madness. All his senses tuned back into the fight they had yet to win.
Maaka raised his axe above his head and held his sword at the ready. Immediately, Junta blew another blast on the horn. On cue, the warriors who had been waiting beyond the field surged to their feet and charged towards the Half-dead to attack from the rear.
The farmers screamed.
He swung round to see their enemy had broken through on the flank of his men. The creatures scrambled over the carts brandishing blood-soaked swords and jagged spears. The warthogs squealed with fear and plunged in their harnesses, terrified farmers holding tight to their leads.
Maaka roared his fury.
He bounded forward, over the dead and the dying littering the rough field. Ahead he saw the soulless creatures had surmounted the carts and were on the other side, their ever hungry gazes fixed on their prey. He slipped between the restless warthogs, aware of the pounding footsteps of his men behind him.
Wielding both sword and axe, he hacked at his enemy. Blood, tissue and bone flew through the air. After what seemed like a lifetime of killing, no more Half-deads breathed within the confines of the carts.
The horn’s screech rent three times through the fury of battle.
Thank the god, Leon. Our enemy retreats.
The Half-dead fled into the distance with his men harrying at their heels. No doubt the survivors would disappear into their holes to plan the next onslaught. Unfortunately, the cunning creatures changed the location of their barrows often and Maaka and his men had so far been unable to ambush them where they nested.
Maaka lowered his weapons, his clasp slippery with blood. He swayed and cast an encompassing glance at the aftermath of battle, where the fields bore testimony to the ferocity of the attack. Inside his cage of skin, his muscles shook with exhaustion and his soul shrivelled at the scene of carnage. The stench of spilled blood tainted the air like poisonous fumes.
He noticed how tightly he gripped his weapons. Noticed the smears of blood and tissue on his limbs and torso. He swallowed over the acid distaste burning his throat. It was always the same, but each time he emerged from a fight, he found it harder and harder to restrain his blood lust.
How soon before the blackness consumed what remained of honesty, humility and honour? When he allowed his guard to drop and he was bitten but not dead. The day when he became as one with the Half-dead.
Soulless.
Pitiless.
The pleading of the wounded crept through the dust-thick air. The Freebers, weeping and moaning, disbanded from their huddle to search the fallen for comrades and friends who might still live.
Shaking off his grim thoughts he stalked about collecting discarded weapons. He constantly scanned the horizon, keeping a close watch while sadness and guilt twisted his gut at those who remained among the living sporting horrific injuries. Hands and feet bitten off, long ropes of intestines hanging from open wounds, broken limbs … There was little he could do to help them.
Junta limped towards him. Maaka tossed a poleaxe and sword onto the small pile of unbroken weapons. He saw in his friend’s gaunt face and exhausted gait the familiar toll the constant killing exacted.
‘A close won victory,’ said Maaka. The stained weapon in his friend’s hand reminded him he had yet to see to his own weapon. He strode over and grabbed some tufts of grass and wiped the filth from his weapons before inspecting both blade and axe. The edges were jagged and blunt. They would need to be re-sharpened and soon. He hooked them onto the wide leather belt around his hips and asked, ‘How many men did we lose? I noticed the creatures broke through on the left flank. Besan and his men held that area. What news of them?’
‘I’ve sent a recovery team for Besan and his squad.’
A recovery team, not a rescue mission. Another friend lost.
They exchanged grim glances.
‘And the others?’ Maaka winced at the harshness in his voice.
‘Five dead and at least ten are injured.’ Junta gave a heavy sigh. ‘Some will not last the night.’
‘If only we had the knowledge to heal such wounds.’ Maaka glared into the distance, looking north. North to the Central Fortress. North where there was such technology. North where there was medicine for those considered worthy. For the pure
, or the Purideans as they called themselves. Where the Corporation ruled, an iron chokehold cloaked in a silken robe.
Another land of myth and half-truths where the murderer of his family resided in decadent comfort.
‘Their time will come,’ he vowed. He fingered his jaw, aware that it pulsed with an insidious ache, vaguely recalling a collision with a Half-dead’s fist. ‘I noticed at least half their number held back and did not attack. Why did they retreat?’
Junta shrugged.
Maaka rubbed the back of his neck. Time to worry over his enemy’s strange strategy later. There was still work to be done. ‘Burn the creatures’ corpses. You know what to do with our men and the Freebers.’
Maaka gestured to the head farmer. ‘Gather the injured onto the carts. We will help gather the remaining wheat and gammas. We must be ready to leave here within the hour and well within your hills before night fall.’
He called two of his men over. Together they hauled the bodies of the Half-dead into a pile on a stony patch of ground well away from the ploughed field. There was no need for him to issue orders, they had all performed these tasks too many times before.
When the appointed hour was up, the pile of corpses, ripe with the stench of partly rotted flesh, was ignited. Maaka turned hastily away from the noxious smell and the throat-choking black smoke as the warthogs were slapped into motion and the cavalcade moved out.
Maaka led the way, scouting ahead, his gaze sweeping the vista before him. Now and then he paused to sniff the slight breeze. His warriors trotted at the sides of the carts and to the rear, ever ready for an attack.
Mindful of the wounded, Maaka kept the pace slow. He chaffed at the delay as time slipped past and the night hovered beyond the edges of the horizon like the threat of eternal fire.
By the time they reached the Freebers’ settlement only a meagre ray of sunlight still illuminated the landscape. There, he left his wounded in the hands of their allies. Although their medical skill was limited, he knew they would do all they could for his men. He continued on with his men to their lair, several weary hours further, within the outskirts of the Fallen City. They took their dead with them, dragging them behind on litters made of rope, metal poles and branches.
A thin crescent moon hung high amid a glittering path of stars. Darkness shrouded the land. Frost sprinkled the ground like a crystal carpet and crunched under their feet as they strode along a wide road that twisted around crumbled, fire-ravaged buildings—most of which were half buried in earth, debris and vines.
His bones ached from the cold, his wounds stung with the prick of the frigid air and with every step he took, his muscles shook with profound exhaustion. But he dared not slow the pace until they reached their sanctuary.
From out of the shadows of the ruins slunk thin animals, the pale moonlight reflected in their red eyes and glinting off their sharp teeth.
Maaka emitted a shrill whistle and heard a whistle in reply.
Good. At least our base is safe for the moment. He cast a swift glance at Junta who walked, head lowered, at his side. The presence of the were-dogs his people had domesticated a generation ago should keep the Half-dead and the other predators at bay. With luck, his men would be able to rest.
The lead were-dog padded to his side, a low growl rumbled from its throat. At Maaka’s sharp gesture, the animal calmed and after a cautious circle around the litter, trotted at his side.
They climbed a series of broken stone steps and passed under a wide brick arch which led into a massive cavern with walls of concrete and intact roof. He ducked his head beneath the frayed ends of dangling wires. They often used this place and had spent many hours exploring the tunnels that lay beneath the building, with its curious paths of iron rails.
If needed, they had more than one escape route.
A warrior strode forward to greet him. Maaka gripped the man’s forearm and asked, ‘What news?’
‘All is well, Chief. We had a minor skirmish to the north but our enemy has spared us this day.’
‘Good. We have brought our dead with us, Tar.’
The other warrior looked beyond him and Maaka heard him suck in a heavy sigh. ‘Leave them with me.’
Maaka slapped Tar’s shoulders and walked away. Fatigue slammed into his body with the force of a tsunami. He swayed and only the knowledge that food and rest were a few paces away kept him on his feet. He left his men and stumbled up several flights of stairs until he emerged onto the roof of the building.
Groaning with relief, he sank down onto a pile of furs, staring at the stars with his mind numb of reason and emotion.
The were-dog sank onto its haunches and watched.
Several minutes later, Maaka hauled himself to his feet and wandered across the roof, stepping carefully to avoid the gaping holes, protruding metal girders and mounds of rubble.
Best to clean his wounds before the pus of infection took hold and ate away his flesh. And by the god, Leon, I stink!
Beneath the slight shelter afforded by a leaning slab of concrete, he found a metal pail filled with stagnant water with a pile of reasonably clean rags close by. He unbuckled his belt and removed the pouch made of animal hide which protected his manhood, and then the loose coarsely-woven trousers, tossing them onto the ground. With brisk efficiency, he sloughed off the blood, grime and gore, then inspected his wounds before smearing a noxious smelling salve over his body. He sighed as the slow releasing heat from the herbs ebbed through his skin and eased his tight, aching muscles.
Maaka stretched and arching his back, attempting to work out his aches. He grabbed his belt and pouch, a clean pair of trousers and stalked naked back to his makeshift bed. Time to sharpen his weapons. No hunter ever took his rest with blunt sword or axe unless he wanted to wake to find himself a Half-dead’s next meal.
Settled back amongst his furs, he scrutinised his sword blade before reaching for his small hoard of tools. He filed the edge before polishing the blade using long, careful strokes against his oiled whetstone, when he heard footsteps approaching from behind. The scent of rich, roasted meat filled his nostrils and he twisted his lips into a grim smile.
‘Aah, Junta. You have brought food. Thank you.’ He straightened and took the cracked meat-filled platter from his friend. Maaka muttered a brief prayer, giving thanks for the life-giving gift of food. It would do no good to question from whence it came. Best be thankful there was sufficient tonight to fill his empty belly. He tossed the patient were-dog a bone. The animal fell to gnawing with gusto and Maaka’s gut rolled over.
Beside him, Junta groaned as he lowered his battered body onto the furs. His friend linked his arms beneath his head and stared, frowning, up at the night sky
Maaka forced the food down his throat and cast his friend a curious glance. ‘What is it, you look for?’
‘One of our Elders said he had seen lights in the sky earlier this eve.’
Maaka hissed in a sharp breath. He stared skywards where destruction had rained down onto all countries of the earth until the dirt turned to rivers of blood. In his mind the oft repeated myths and fireside stories of his childhood reverberated. Of the technology that man had once possessed and used to almost destroy the human race.
‘I see them.’ Shock audible in his quiet voice, Junta pointed, due east from the moon.
Maaka stiffened. His lips peeled back over his teeth and he snarled.
Lights in the sky.
The foreshadowing of change.
Of doom.
His hunger fled. He threw the remains of his meal to the were-dog and rose to his feet, weapons in his hands.
‘No rest for us tonight, Junta. We will track these lights and see for ourselves whether these gods will prove to be friend or foe.’ He raised his arm and gestured with his axe at the green and red blinking lights moving with steady purpose across the heavens. Prophesy or no prophesy he would take by force, if he had to, these gods’ technology.
Then, he would rid this land of the C
orporation for all time.
Chapter 3
On board the Quinnie
Sherise had deliberately chosen the communal compartment for the moment when she’d impart the harsh news to the Earth passengers. She hoped that the familiarity of the room would bring a measure of comfort. A futile hope, she well knew and, judging by the angry faces turned toward her, a wasted hope.
She stood facing them, grateful for the support of Bree, by her side. Lord Barid, of whose presence she’d requested, had refused to attend. In fact, he’d been adamantly opposed to her decision of total disclosure, citing such an act would bring down unrest and trouble on their heads. Didn’t he realise they were already neck deep in trouble? Rather surprisingly, when she’d spoken of her intentions it had been Commander Dyrke who’d sided with her. And Sherise still didn’t know quite what to make of that; a military warrior born and bred would have been all for keeping the passengers, and crew for that matter, in the dark and thus easier to control.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Maureen Adams, wringing her hands together as she stared almost imploringly at Sherise. ‘How could this have happened?’
‘Yeah! What the hell was another ship doing floating about on our flight path? Why didn’t you guys pick it up before the collision?’ snapped her engineer husband, a burly man of middle age. His red face signalled his rising temper. After being captured by the enemy, the Adams had been separated for many cycles. They were one of the few lucky couples who’d managed to both survive and find each other again at the end of the war. Now they were keen to return to their family, having left behind three adult children and several grandchildren when they’d volunteered to be part of the first colonist mission.
Quest For Earth Page 3
