The Ironclad Prophecy (34 page)

Prof and Chalky had started to make their own torches, cutting at a little grove of saplings. Saplings with a black bark with silver-grey veins. Nellie frowned. They were familiar...

“No!” she yelled, lifting her skirt and running towards them as they hacked away at the slender trunks. “No, stop. That’s corpsewood. It’ll kill you!”

Hearing the name, Napoo whirled round and raced across the glade, knocking the cut wood from the Tommies’ hands. “She speaks true. It will drain you of your life to keep its own.”

The men backed away from the saplings as if they’d been bitten – which they very nearly had.

“Ruddy hell, Chalky,” joshed Mercy. “I can’t turn me back on you for five minutes without you getting into some trouble or other.”

Chalky shrugged sheepishly, and smiled gratefully at Nellie.

Prof shuddered. “Corpsewood?” He backed away in horror and stood in the clearing, looking round, like a spooked horse, not daring to move as if everything around might be the death of him.

“Hey, it’s all right, Prof,” said Nellie. “You’re safe now. You scared me, is all. I’d just seen it before, what it can do.”

“I don’t think you’re helping,” said Gazette, looking up from checking his rifle one more time.

“You aren’t, neither,” retorted Nellie. “If I want your opinion, I’ll ask the Corporal.”

The rest of the section laughed and jeered. Nellie ignored them and turned her attention back to Prof. She knew that haunted look. She’d seen it in soldiers’ eyes before.

“Corpsewood,” Prof kept muttering to himself, shaking his head, “corpsewood.”

A
GENTLE DRAUGHT
blew from the cavernous opening as they approached the main entrance of the edifice. Roots and boughs were woven round and embedded in the wall of the doorway until they formed a jamb, roots thrusting buttress-like into the ground, but the great bark-like doors, that would have sealed the edifice, had long since dried and shrivelled as the door plant itself had died, leaving the cavernous entrance open. Other vegetation had taken advantage of the fact, clinging to the walls and invading the fallow spaces beyond. Great hanging carpets of plum-coloured shrubbery tumbled down from cracks in the edifice wall.

As they stood on the threshold, Atkins paired the men up; one man with their rifle and bayonet at the ready, accompanied by one holding a torch. Gazette walked with Pot Shot, Porgy with Chalky, Mercy with Prof. Gutsy, gun shouldered, held Little Bertha, his meat cleaver, in his hand, the flames of the torches reflecting off its polished surface. Napoo and Nellie Abbott brought up the rear. Atkins kept an eye on Chandar.

The chatt sank down on its legs and moved reluctantly. Atkins had half expected it to make a break for it and run. It could have fled, but something kept it with them; against its better judgement, as far as he could tell.

“So, what is this place,” he asked. “It’s an edifice, right? Made by your people?”

Chandar craned its neck, looked up at the outer wall of the ruined edifice towering above them and hissed. “It is a colony of lost Ones.”

Atkins’ eyes narrowed. “You knew about this place?”

“Not exactly,” rasped Chandar. “Of places like this.”

“So, what is it, some mythical missing colony?”

“No, you misunderstand. It happens that once every so often a new queen hatches, while one still rules. It is a time of great regret. Usually the colony’s current queen and her nursery entourage kill them, but some survive to attract followers from among the Dhuyumirrii, scentirrii and Djamirrii. We have had such divisions at Khungarr, though many generations ago. If they are strong enough they can replace the old queen, but more often than not, they are killed or driven from the colony and must attempt to start a new one if they are to survive. The difficulty lies in where they can do this, for the ancient scent texts tell us that GarSuleth divided the world between all his children. The world is spoken for. Judging from the size of this edifice it was a small one and could not sustain itself. It also sits within the Zohtakarrii burri.”

“The chatts that attacked us?”

“Yes. Because of this One’s injuries, they thought that this One was outcast from Khungarr. This One let them think that. If they had known that this One was not, then we would have been killed. They seemed to show very great interest in you.”

“As I recall, so did you lot.”

“Agreed.”

“How
did
you get your injuries?” asked Atkins, his curiosity piqued.

“This One once tried to challenge Sirigar in open ceremonial debate and paid for it, as you can see.” Chandar opened its arms, inviting Atkins to study its body.

Atkins looked at the chatt with its hobbled gait and broken antennae. “Sirigar did this to you?”

“Sirigar’s followers did, before this One had a chance to challenge Sirigar, no doubt under that One’s instructions.”

Atkins let the matter drop, he had more pressing problems right now. “So this place is nothing special.”

“No, it is merely a failed colony.”

Atkins regarded Chandar with suspicion. “So, if this place doesn’t worry you, what does? You mentioned these Zohtakarrii guarding something that isn’t there. It obviously isn’t this because it’s quite clearly here. I can see it. What is it you’re not telling me, Chandar? Do you know what that thing is in there, this evil spirit? Is it Croatoan?”

Chandar hissed at the mention of the name. “No, by GarSuleth’s Breath, this One does not know. This One merely feared what it
might
be.”

This was getting him nowhere. Atkins waved the others on, and they walked into the cool cavernous gloom of the derelict, rubble-strewn antechamber.

“Here would have been the work area,” Chandar said. “Here the djamirrii, the workers, would have brought and sorted their harvest before taking it to storage chambers or the fungus farms.” The chatt looked around at the desolate place it had become. “All colony life was here.”

Their feet stirred the dust and debris that had fallen from the chamber roof. The once smooth walls were now home to invasive creepers that poured in round the opening. A shaft of sunlight falling inside the main door cast a suffuse reflective glow across the rest of the chamber. Here and there, they saw the brittle, dried up husks of long dead chatt bodies, their outlines softened by decades of drifting dust, as if overcome by some long-forgotten catastrophe.

Atkins pushed on into the gloom beyond the penumbra of sunlight, at least knowing that the end of this mission was in sight. All they had to do was kill the creature that had gone to ground here and they could return to the encampment. They had rifles, Mills bombs; they even had a couple of flares. If that lot failed, they had the tank. They could blow this entire ruin sky high if they had to. Either way, it ended today. After that, Mathers was Lieutenant Everson’s problem.

There were several tunnels leading off the antechamber. Napoo knelt and examined the dust on the floor, while Nellie held the torch for him. It was easy to spot the footprints left by the tank crew. “This way,” he said, leading them across the dusty floor. The party fell in behind him, bayonets at the ready. Atkins looked back at the bright entrance, the hard outlines softened by translucent hanging fronds and back-lit by the sun, and turned back to face the dark. He shuddered. He hated these places.

The tunnel they entered sloped up perceptibly. Roots and creepers had slithered on in advance of them long ago, affixing themselves to the floor and walls, and they had to watch their footing. Eventually the tunnel began to level out. Their torch flames guttered in a soft breeze.

In places, the luminescent lichen, that Chandar told them used to sit in niches lighting the passages, had grown wild and unkempt, giving an opalescent glow to the tunnels.

Here though, the trail was lost. Something had swept along these tunnels so frequently there was no dust trail left to follow. It must be the creature, Atkins realised. There was a hardened black sheen to the walls here, as if the oily residue it left behind had dried. There was no way of telling which of the branching passages the tank crew had taken.

They moved cautiously along a passage. The further they went without incident, the more anxious Atkins became.

Openings yawned in the passage walls. They all had to be checked out. Some were adjoining tunnels, others chambers, empty and bare.

Porgy thrust his torch into another room as they passed, while Chalky lunged forwards in an “on guard” stance with his bayonet. Holding the torch high, lighting the gloom with a flickering orange glow, Porgy cast a glance around the small chamber. There was another passage exiting on the far side. He edged across the room and along the short passage beyond, holding out his torch to illuminate a second chamber.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Only, you’d better come and take a look at this!”

T
HE TANK CREW
had no idea where they were, but they followed Mathers, who seemed to know which way he was going. They didn’t need torches. They could see well enough, thanks to the synesthetic petrol fruit fumes that now flooded their bloodstreams. Their footsteps produced colours and flavours that rippled down the chatt-made circular tunnels.

Mathers led them deeper into the labyrinthine tunnels of the ruin, taking switches and junctions without a second’s pause until, deep in the ruined edifice, they came to an empty chamber. Alfie could not see anything remarkable about the chamber, there was nothing to indicate why they might have stopped here.

“This will do,” said Mathers. “We don’t want any interruptions.”

The crew turned to Alfie. Their looks were not pleasant.

Alfie edged back towards the chamber entrance, but the others surrounded him. “What’s all this in aid of?” he croaked. “I thought we were going to kill this evil spirit, this devil.”

“We are, but first we have some business to attend to,” said Mathers. “You.”

“Me, sir?”

Alfie felt a surge of fear drive into his limbs, ready for flight. Too late. Frank and Norman seized him by the arms and held them out at his sides, as if he were being crucified. He struggled but they held him fast.

“Sorry, old bean,” said Reggie, with a weak, apologetic smile. “It’s for the best.”

“I don’t understand, sir. What have I done? What have I done to any of you? I’ve followed your orders, sir. I’ve helped keep the tank running. I’ve kept your secrets.”

Mathers shook his head in disappointment. His voice was calm. “True. You are with us, as you have been since Elveden. Your mind, however, is... elsewhere.”

Without effort, Alfie’s thoughts turned to Nellie. Was that it? Was that what all this was about?

Mathers stepped towards him. Bruise-coloured auras rose from his mates on the convection currents of their own body heat, and collected gently in the dome of the chamber above their heads.

He looked up at Mathers, who now stood over him in his rain cape, the leather and chainmail mask inscrutable. “Sir, what’re you doing?”

Mathers nodded. Frank and Norman forced Alfie to his knees, still holding his arms out straight at his sides. “I’m offering you a chance to recant, Perkins, a chance to rejoin the fold, as it were.”

“But I never left, sir.”

“You’re forgetting, Perkins. I can
see
you. You’re confused, afraid. You have to let go.”

Mathers nodded at Wally.

The cockney stood behind Alfie and pulled his head back with a hand on his forehead.

Alfie continue to struggle, but to no avail. “No! Whatever you’re doing, sir... don’t!”

Mathers reached under his rain cape and retrieved his hip flask. He took the top off. Alfie felt Wally’s calloused fingers on his nose and briefly smelled the cigarette-stained tips before they pinched his nostrils shut. Alfie struggled, refusing to open his mouth. Mathers stood and waited patiently. The moment Alfie opened his mouth to gasp for air he poured the petrol fruit down his throat.

“Receive the Sacrament of Skarra,” he said, in reverent tones.

Alfie coughed and spluttered, but Wally clamped his hand over his mouth until he swallowed. He felt the spirit burn down the back of his throat, bringing tears to his eyes.

Then his world exploded.

Frank and Norman let go of Alfie, and the gearsman slumped back on his heels. Briefly, the world was afire, all his senses screaming. The chamber was a shifting kaleidoscope of unnameable colours, bringing vertigo and nausea. Unfathomable shapes of sound danced at the periphery of his vision. He paused, dry-retching. He took deep breaths, one hand braced against the floor, until the vertigo passed. Like a newly struck Lucifer, the initial flare of sensation died down and the world settled, more or less, but brighter and keener than before, as the undiluted petrol fruit coursed through his system.

“You
see
the world the way I do,” he heard Mathers say, or was that smell? “Transubstantiated by the grace of Skarra.”

He looked towards the taste of Mathers’ voice as he stood over him holding out a hand. Alfie reached out, took it, and found himself hauled to his feet through a dizzying wave of vertigo. It took a moment for his new world to reorient itself.