The Ironclad Prophecy (15 page)

The first thing they did was to put the local shaman in his place with a display of superior ‘magic.’ After that, the others usually fell over themselves to worship them.

Behind him, under his rain cape, Norman was preparing his trick.

“I love this bit,” said Cecil, the glee evident in his voice under his mask and cape. “Especially when Norman does his Great Stromboli bit. I wish he’d show me how it’s done.”

Reggie nudged him. “Ces, be quiet.”

“I feel sorry for the poor old fool that’s got to go up against us this time,” hissed Norman from underneath his mask. “This is going to be my best performance yet.”

“Well, I still feel dashed ridiculous.”

“Should be right at home then, Reggie.”

“Keep your bloody voices down and do it just as we’ve done before,” warned Frank.

Within the whispers and flutters of the torch flames Mathers heard the voice of Skarra. He cocked his head and listened. He halted the procession before the urman chief and his medicine man. Dranethwe glanced sidelong at his white-faced shaman, who sized up the masked commander, smacking his lips, unimpressed.

“Behold the Warrior Priests of Boojum,” said Mathers, indicating his crew. “We serve Skarra when he is in this world and we speak for him.”

The white clay smeared shaman stepped forward, proud and defiant.

We’re on his turf, thought Alfie, and he don’t like it one little bit. And I can’t say as I blame him, either.

“He looks like a slippery little bugger,” hissed Frank.

“Oh, aye, he looks proper carny, he does. We ought to keep an eye on this one,” said Wally.

Mathers thumped his staff end down on the ground, affronted. “You think you have the power to summon Skarra? Your magics are not strong enough for that. Skarra came because he wished it. As for us, you may question our power. But you may not like the answer.”

“Bloody hell, the sub’s piling it on a bit thick isn’t he, what’s he up to?” muttered Cecil. Alfie kicked him, warning him to be quiet.

The shaman approached Mathers and performed a series of practised moves of some magical significance, flicking his tongue in and out. Was this some sort of ceremonial greeting, or was the wily old codger sizing up the opposition? Perhaps it was more of a challenge. I’ll show you my juju, you show me yours. Mathers had seen the same thing in the Officer’s mess, when the new blood, cocksure of themselves, goaded the old guard, feeling threatened and having something to prove. This man’s ability had been called into question and they had appeared to challenge it. Best sort this now. Let this shower know who was in charge.

The shaman prised open a small leather bag hung from his waist, reached in and dug out a handful of white ashes. He began to dance around them, chanting, before throwing the ashes into the air above them. He sank down on his haunches and, with great intent, watched the ashes caught like swirling motes above them, drifting down over the crew in the shafts of sunlight, as if their motions divined some truth or intent.

“What on earth’s the geezer doing now?”

“Not Dulgur,” Jarak said finally.

“Is that the best he’s got? We’re well in here.”

Mathers thumped his staff on the ground twice and the file of tank crew behind him opened out into a well-drilled rank, sticking the torches into the ground either side of the
Ivanhoe
’s track horns.

The tank squatted like a great iron idol for him, its track horns open and welcoming like beneficent arms, lit by the torches planted either side. Alfie did have to admit it looked damned impressive.

Norman slipped something into his mouth under the chainmail that draped down over the lower half of his face. He stepped forwards and smoke and sparks began to billow through the chainmail curtain in front of his mouth.

The few simple conjuring tricks from his time on the boards had served him well at concert parties or for charming French peasant girls in the estaminets. Now, he made objects disappear and reappear and the urmen shuffled back uneasily with groans of fear. He tore up a large leaf, burnt it by breathing fire on it and brought it back, whole, to life again. To end the performance on a spectacular note, Jack fired the flare pistol from a pistol port and a bright white light arced into the vaulted forest space above.

“T
RULY, YOUR MAGIC
is great,” declared Dranethwe for all the assembled clan to hear. He glanced at Jarak, who glared back. Defeated, the shaman slunk away to lick his wounds, which were deep. He had lost face in front of his chief and his clan. The rest of the enclave fell to their knees, lowering their foreheads to the ground before Skarra.

“Up, up,” boomed Mathers. “Skarra accepts your genuflection and while Skarra may not feel the trials of life, his acolytes do. Bring food and water. Bring tribute for Skarra and his benevolence. Hurry. Do not anger him.”

The clan scrambled to their feet. Dranethwe clapped his hands and the throng burst into activity, mothers snatched children into large bark dwellings, afraid the god of the underworld would take their children before their time.

Dranethwe clapped his hands again and villagers brought forth platters of fruit and meats and laid them before the masked crew. Sat between the track horns of the
Ivanhoe
, the crew fell on the food, tearing at sticky wet pulps, spitting pips and stones and ripping greasy meat from carcasses.

“Oi, manners!” said Reggie.

Frank belched loudly, provoking raucous laughter from the crew.

“At least have the decency to say Grace. We are British. We are not savages. Have you forgotten everything I’ve taught you?”

“Sorry, Mother,” Frank said, with mock contrition.

One by one they put their food down and clasped their hands half-heartedly as Reggie said Grace, the sound of ‘Amen’ starting a race for the food again.

Reggie sighed. “Savages.”

Mathers, still wearing his splash mask, sat with them but ate little, watching his men with a sense of beneficence.

“Sir?” said Clegg, offering a platter of meats to Mathers. “Aren’t you eating?”

“Hmm? Shh. I’m listening to Skarra.”

“Skarra, sir? You mean
Ivanhoe
?”

“Hmm. Yes, I suppose I do. Don’t you hear it?”

“Hear what, sir? The engine is off.”

“You don’t hear it? No. No, of course you don’t. I’m blessed, aren’t I?” Mathers said, fingering his jacket collar through the neck hole of his rain cape.

Clegg looked at the two lieutenant pips winking in the firelight. “Yes, sir. I guess you are.”

Sated, they sat back, picked their teeth, and wiped their mouths on their sleeves. Round the fire before
Ivanhoe,
the crew spoke in low voices.

“This isn’t right,” muttered Alfie.

“It’s an offering. It’s their way. If we didn’t take it, they would be offended and what’s more, they’d know we wasn’t big juju men. Besides,” Frank added with a grin, “the women will come along later. They always do.”

“We used to be a tight-knit crew. What happened?” asked Alfie.

Frank glared at him. “
We
are. What happened to
you
, Alfie?”

“Got himself a long-haired chum is what happened.”

“Leave Nellie out of this. She’s got nothing to do with it. Can’t you see? What we’re doing, it’s wrong.”

Norman rolled his eyes. “Oh, listen to Uncle Joe, here.”

Wally leaned forward. “Look, we could live like these fellows, grubbing an existence, of course we could. But that’s no better than living in the trenches, is it? There’s nothing for us back there. Here we’ve got a chance, a real chance to be something better.”

Jack sat, whittling, not saying a word. Cecil kept glancing at him, watching him for cues, eager to jump whatever way Jack did, but Jack for the moment kept his own counsel.

N
ORMAN SPOKE THROUGH
a mouthful of meat. “Look, we’ve extended our travel range a little by bringing extra petrol fruit fuel with us, but if we got each of these enclaves to distil the petrol fruit as, say, an offering to the great Skarra, then what have we got?”

Cecil looked at him blankly, stuck out his lower lip and shook his head.

Alfie could see which way this was going.

Norman waved the meat bone about. “We’ve got ourselves a supply line, Reggie, haven’t we? Fuel dumps. We’d no longer be dependent on the camp. We’d have our own followers, our own army. We could push on and conquer more. We don’t need the poor bloody infantry. They need us more than we need them.”

Cecil nodded eagerly. “That’s right.”

Mathers, who had been silent until now, and content to listen, spoke up. “Why be soldiers, when we can be kings? Why be kings, when we can be gods?”

“Exactly, sir.”

Frank warmed to the theme. “And with an army of urmen we could enslave the chatts. They love digging, can’t get enough of it. But we can channel them, enslave them, and get them to dig for what we want them to dig for. This world is virgin territory, from what I’ve seen. Untapped wealth. We can get them to mine for gold, for silver, for rubies. Anything we want. We’d be rich.”

They sat back and each contemplated, for a moment, their own private fantasy.

Dranethwe made a sign of reverence, approached and cleared his throat. “Jarak, our shaman, he was once strong. He had the sight, but I fear he no longer has the strength to lead us in these matters. We made offerings and sought to invoke the gods. We are truly glad such strong magic has come to our aid. You have come to rid us of this torment.”

The crew exchanged wary glances. This was a new one. No one had asked anything of them before. They looked to Mathers for guidance.

“You sought... aid?” he asked.

“For many radii we have been plagued by an evil. A spirit taunts our enclave and snatches our people, takes our strongest and boldest with impunity. Jarak has cast wards and spoken charms but he cannot stop it. His attempts at banishment prove fruitless. The spirit’s magic is strong. You are the answer to our prayers.” He cast a submissive glance toward the tank.

“This spirit you speak of, how many has it snatched?” asked Mathers.

The tank crew’s gaze switched, as one, to Dranethwe.

“A dozen over the last three radii. Only the bravest of my warriors hunt now, but they cannot bring in enough game. The spirit takes from our hunting grounds, too. We are without the food we need.”

Mathers sat silently, contemplating the information.

The tank crew held their breath.

“The Warrior Priests of Boojum have heard you, and will intercede with Skarra on your behalf.”

Satisfied, Dranethwe backed away, bowing.

Mathers looked at his quizzical crew. “We have a tank. How hard can it be?”

They nodded and muttered in agreement.

Mathers sucked in air through his teeth and his brow furrowed briefly. The cramp in his stomach had returned, sharper and deeper than before. He suppressed a groan and eased himself up. “I’m just going into the tank. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

He walked unsteadily along the ironclad, one hand clutching his gut; he used the other to support himself against the tank’s side as he worked his way round the port sponson, wincing as he ducked under the gun. He clambered into the tank by the hatch at the rear of the sponson and pulled it shut behind him.

Making his way forwards to the driver’s cockpit, he pulled off his helmet and splash mask, took the hip flask from inside his tunic and took a quick slug of the liquid.

He sighed with relief. It was as if a great pressure had been released. It stopped his head from banging and eased the cramps in his stomach. He rested his head back against the shell rack at the front of the sponson and took another slug.

Outside, a long, unearthly shriek cut through the night.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“We’re Not Downhearted Yet...”

H
IGH ABOVE THE
encampment, Atkins and 1 Section, accompanied by Napoo, Chandar and Nellie Abbott, proceeded to make their way in Indian file up the valley side above the tree line. They’d make quicker time up here, and it was less dangerous skirting the forest below than going through it. They could easily pick up the tank’s trail at the valley head. It wasn’t going to be hard to find.