The Ironclad Prophecy (24 page)

Beyond, the vegetation began to move and shake as though something large was lumbering through the undergrowth.

A scentirrii with a clay bioelectrical pack on its back and electric lance in its hands hissed and leapt, springing into the engulfing shadows beyond to challenge whatever lay there.

It was then, through the clearing fog of euphoria, that Atkins recalled the ‘devil’ of the urmen that the tank crew had been seeking, and wondered if the lurking menace ahead was the thing they sought.

Without warning, the scaly leaves of the scab trees were silhouetted against a brilliant blue-white electrical flash that died just as quickly as the high-pitched chatt squeal that pierced the leaden air.

Shreds of roiling, greasy black smoke slipped through the low bushes, easing across the ground. A chatt fired its electrical lance at it to no effect. They all fell back before the stygian cloud’s advance.

The fog lapped around the legs of several scentirrii and from within it things coiled around their feet. On gaining a grip on its prey, they recoiled rapidly into the jungle, like taut rubber suddenly released, dragging their victims away with them at tremendous speed, cracking them carelessly against tree trunks as they retreated.

Atkins staggered back drunkenly as the sooty smog rolled towards him, pulling Chandar with him. There were still secrets this chatt was withholding and he didn’t mean to lose it now. As they staggered back, they brushed past the ethereal shrouds, like cobwebs, tearing them before tripping over a tree root and falling to the ground. Chandar fell heavily on top of him.

The sooty cloud drifted towards them blindly. Somehow the gossamer shrouds and the greasy black smoke were connected, that much was clear. He knew enough from the past few seconds not to let it, or the things within it, touch him, but how to stop them?

Another scentirrii was snatched into the jungle with squeals and cracks as its carapace collided with trees and fallen trunks.

Atkins felt in his webbing. He still had some Mills bombs. The chatts hadn’t known enough to take them from him. He dragged Chandar over a fallen scab tree.

A scentirrii grabbed at Chandar and caught it by the leg, even as another thing coiled round its limbs from within the oily black smog.

Holding onto Chandar with one hand, Atkins pulled the bomb’s safety pin with his teeth and threw it into the middle of the smoky black cloud filling the glade.

The grenade exploded, blasting the cloud apart and shredding the thing within it, even as others thrashed and retreated into the jungle in alarm.

The concussion wave sent him crashing back into the undergrowth, even as it dispersed the ebony vapours and disintegrated the ghostly white veils that hung about them.

The deep bass rumble resonated through the jungle like a cry that made the very trees shudder.

Atkins, dazed and concussed, saw Chandar lying unconscious several yards away before he too sank into blackness.

I
N HIS TANK,
enveloped in the eternal mutterings of Skarra, Mathers felt safe. Outside of its iron embrace, he felt naked and mortal, like a hermit crab out of its shell.

It had become his cloak, his home, his bed, his temple. A cocoon, perhaps. He felt he was changing. But into what? Gone was the old Mathers, the Mathers that had stared at the tank in that Norfolk field and felt it haul up the fears and horrors from the bottom of his soul. That man had been asphyxiated with every breath of the petrol fruit fumes that had ultimately freed him. Even now, its vapours numbed the pains he felt in his abdomen, the pains that fogged his mind. In here, he could think more clearly.

Sat at his right hand, Clegg hunched forwards over the steering wheel as he peered out of the driver’s open visor. Mathers watched him, single-mindedly engaged in his task, and allowed himself a beatific smile. His crew were loyal, unquestioning. Had they not all shared in the Sacrament of the Fumes, their perceptions of the world around them transformed by its Grace, the truth revealed to them all on that Pentecostal fuel day? But one of the Ironclad Temple had lost his way, lost his faith, and been seduced by life outside these armoured cloisters. The disharmony among his disciples was troublesome. He didn’t need a Judas. Mathers wondered how best to deal with him. Of course, he must be given a chance to regain his faith, to repent his actions and reject the life outside. Being a member of this crew was a gift, albeit a gift that demanded sacrifice, and the others felt that Perkins wasn’t sacrificing enough. Yes, Perkins should have a chance to recant and do penance. But if he didn’t, Skarra told Mathers what he had to do.

He stared out of the visor of the driver’s cabin. As the ruddy vegetation rolled past, he lost himself in the cacophony of the tank. The engine sang psalms, like a host of mechanical angels, each noise producing colour, shapes and smells that blended and combined in arcane forms that seemed to him to be on the verge of unveiling meaning and knowledge.

He was jolted out of it by a bright flash. There it was again. Bright blue, with an aftertaste of sour limes. He pulled on the
Ivanhoe’s
brake levers and ordered Clegg to let the engine idle in neutral. He peered out through his visor in the direction the flash had come from.

It appeared the infantry had seen it too. They all held their rifles at the ready, straining to hear over the tank’s chuntering.

“What’s going on?” Mathers demanded.

“Flashes – looked like the chatts’ electrical lances – and an explosion, possibly a Mills bomb.”

There was a crashing and snapping as if something large and bulky were moving through the jungle with little regard for it, or little impedance from its vegetation. In another place, a world away, it might have been another tank crashing blinkered and uncaring through the undergrowth.

A deep, booming howl ripped the air, overlapped by a high-pitched squeal, the flavour of sarsparilla and carbolic. One of the infantrymen winced.

“That was a chatt, I’ve heard enough of ’em die to know it,” said the tall Fusilier.

The older, bullish one with the large hands gave orders. “Mercy, Porgy, Napoo, scout forwards. See what’s going on. Don’t engage. Come back here and report.”

Mathers watched them and their urman guide vanish into the undergrowth.

The sound of something flailing in the jungle continued for a short time. Several more high-pitched squeals punctuated the thrashing, before the sounds were lost in an explosion and diminished until the stutter of the
Ivanhoe’s
engine drowned it out.

A
TKINS HEARD HIS
name called faintly and from far away, but he wasn’t bothered. He was warm and safe. He wanted to stay here in the peaceful dark but then he remembered Flora. For a brief moment, he was content to bask in memories of her – her eyes, her smile – and then he remembered what he’d done. Shame flooded in, washing away the contentment, and he began to hurt. He deserved to be punished. He deserved pain. The more he listened to the voice and the nearer he drew to it, the more he hurt. The next time he heard his name called from afar he struck out for it, struggling for the surface, and with each wave of pain he thought only one thing: Flora.

Atkins opened his eyes and saw a female face staring down at him, lined with concern.

“Flora?”

“No. It’s Nellie. Remember?” The FANY turned and looked at Gutsy, who was peering over her shoulder. “He’s suffering from commotional shock.”

“Things came out of the trees,” Atkins croaked through dry lips, struggling to get up. “A black, oily smoke.”

“Well you seem to have done a bang up job of taking care of them,” said Gutsy.

“
One
of them,” Atkins pointed out. “The rest took the chatts.”

Gutsy shrugged. “Then I don’t think they’ll be back. I reckon we’ll be safe here for a while.”

Atkins looked around. A thin greasy black film, like an oil vapour, covered the part of the glade obscured by the smoke. “In that case, we’ll make camp here for the night. Porgy, Chalky, Pot Shot. You’re first on sentry duty.”

Atkins looked around and saw Chandar, who was squatting close by, chittering to itself. Evidently, its carapace had protected it from the worst of the blast.

Across the way, he saw the tank, half hidden by the undergrowth like a stalking beast. The tank crew were huddled together, muttering among themselves, Mathers in his rain cape and mask, sitting in-between the front track horns, holding court. Every now and again, one or another of them would flash an acrimonious glance at the Tommies.

As they settled down to sleep, another deep bass rumble made the ground beneath them vibrate and an ululating howl, that made them all shiver and huddle closer to their fires, cut the twilight.

Above them, half glimpsed through the canopy of leaves, the alien stars came out and the Sky Web of GarSuleth began to sparkle in the dark.

INTERLUDE FOUR

Letter from Private Thomas Atkins

to Flora Mullins

20th March 1917

My Dearest Flora,

We went for a bit of a nature ramble today with the tank lads. It didn’t go so well. The tank got stuck and I was attacked by insects.

Still and all, I had a happy time wandering through the woods, thinking how wonderful it would have been if you were here. Would a nature ramble agree with you in your condition, do you think? I don’t expect your Aunt lets you out of the house much.

Of course, all good things must come to an end and I came to a bad one right enough, banging my noggin. Out cold, I was, but I dreamt of you, so that was a bonus. It was just a pity that I had to wake from it so soon.

I write this now by fire light as we are camping out in the wilds. Not that Gutsy notices, he can sleep anywhere. I hope that tomorrow we can return to the comfort of our dugout. There’s a thing you thought you’d never hear me say. And here’s another, what I wouldn’t give for a pair of me mam’s knitted socks. I can’t darn to save me life and my last pair has got more holes than I’ve got toes.

Ever yours,

Thomas

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“That Wind Blowing...”

C
HILL DAWN JUST
tinted the pallid sky with vermillion smudges, like roughly smeared lipstick on a “lady typist’s” damask cheek. A thick, low fog had settled in the early hours, sinking down into the trenches, drifting sinuously through the valley and blanketing the veldt.

Everson chewed his bottom lip and felt the old familiar mixture of thrill and fear, as he walked along the duckboards from bay to bay along the fire trench, giving encouragement to weary soldiers who had withstood two days of attack and stood it with courage and fortitude. Even though losses had been lighter than he’d expected, here and there he noticed gaps beginning to open in the front line. Another day of assaults and he might not have the men left to close them.

His thoughts turned to Lance Corporal Atkins and his mission. There was no way of knowing how they were faring. No matter how much he wanted to, he could not depend on them now. He was resigned to fighting with what he had and determined to hold out here as long as possible.

After all, there was nowhere else to go.

Every man was Stood To on the fire steps, looking over the parapets and down their rifles towards the enemy, in expectation of a dawn attack.

High above, on the hill-top on the valley side, a lone light twinkled its iddy umpty message from the observation post to the HQ below.

A runner darted through the communications trenches, calling out in a low voice, “Lieutenant Everson?” and was passed along from bay to bay by weary, hungry soldiers.

Everson heard his name. “Over here, Barnes. What is it?”

The private handed over a scruffy stub of folded paper. “Message, sir.”