Night fell over Mothkarak. In its mighty walls, dumb waiters rumbled as tea and biscuits were sent up to the gunners on the battlements. The M’Lak riflemen training in the great hall stopped throwing each other into the butresses long enough to share out the tiffin. After a long day of pouring over maps and shooting no lemming men, Smith called a meeting of his crew.
They met in the main dining hall, on the table near the exit reserved for Games and Recreations, Interplanetary Shipping and other branches of the secret service. The air was full of spice and polite conversation. On the next table down, a row of lancers chatted about something that probably involved decapitation. A hovering wallahbot drifted slowly over the tables, dispensing gravy from integral spigots.
Smith and Rhianna were first to arrive. ‘Well,’ Smith said, ‘I’m afraid it’s hardly the Ritz.’
Rhianna smiled. ‘This is fine. I always like trying unusual food.’
Smith looked around. ‘Well then, you’ll love the army canteen. It’s like eating in a different country. I mean, I’m never quite sure what I’m eating and it’s certainly got a special atmosphere.’ He took a cylinder from the tabletop. ‘Look, they’ve even got novelty salt shakers.’
‘That’s a grenade, Isambard.’
He gave it a shake: no salt came out, but neither did the pin. ‘Good point. Still, it’s rather romantic, just you and I. And all these soldiers.’
Rhianna smiled. ‘Hey, you’re right.’ She reached out and took his hand. ‘Let’s make the most of it.’
At the far end of the room the head chef yelled ‘Alright, lads! Tonight’s special is a subtle blend of curry powder and powdered egg. I call it “The Cleanser”. One dollop or two?’
Suruk appeared at the side of the table. He sat down human-style. ‘Greetings all. Let the gravy flow like the lifeblood of our foes!’
‘Hi Suruk,’ Rhianna said. ‘How are the masters of the hidden temple?’
‘Hiding. So far, I have found one of them, and he is an idiot.’ Suruk’s eyes narrowed as he looked around the room. ‘Wait... Carveth is in terrible danger!’
Smith twisted around. ‘What? What’s up, old chap?’
‘Behold my watch, Mazuran,’ Suruk replied. ‘She is three minutes late for a meal!’
‘Good God!’ Smith said, rising from his chair. ‘You don’t think...’
‘Maybe she got distracted,’ Rhianna said. ‘There are a lot of soldiers here, after all. Wait...’ She frowned and raised a hand. ‘I can sense... a terrible hunger, coming from... from there!’
Rhianna threw her arm out, nearly hitting the wallahbot. Carveth came hurrying between the tables. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘Important diplomatic business.’ She sat down. ‘What’s for dinner?’
A tall M’Lak in dress uniform approached, a white cloth draped over his arm. ‘Ladies, gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘You are our honoured guests.’
‘Great,’ Carveth said, rubbing her hands together. ‘I’m really hungry. Bouncing around on Celeste takes it out of you.’
‘Then tonight’s meal will delight you,’ said the M’Lak. ‘We will be dining on the finest delicacies of old Ravnavar. Goodness me, such luxuries! To start with, the jellied bladder of a Corellian Pangolin, served in the squeezings of a thousand venomous scorpion-bugs. Then, the main course: crushed monkey feet, blended with nutmeg and lightly-chilled crocodile tonsils, force-fed to a giant eel and hacked from its still-living belly before your very eyes!’
The eagerness drained from Carveth’s face. ‘Really?’ she croaked.
The M’Lak grinned. ‘No, I’m just having you on. It’s chicken korma.’
Laughter burst out of the table behind them. One of the M’Lak riflemen, a captain from his stripes, leaned over.
‘Good joke, eh, fellows? We like a good laugh in the rifles. Curry night always makes the chaps a bit lively.’
‘Yes,’ said Smith, ‘I did notice some chuckles from behind.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Take no notice, Carveth. You weren’t to know that they ate British food. Now, then: status update, if you please. Suruk, how are these elders? Have you broken the ice yet?’
‘The ice, three stone dogs and Elder Volgath’s left scapula,’ Suruk replied. ‘Disappointingly, Volgath seems to be the only elder left, but he assures me that he knows the location of Grimdall’s resting place.’
‘Great,’ Carveth said. ‘All you have to do now is bash the truth out of him.’
‘Certainly not,’ Suruk growled. ‘To do so, I must first prove myself in the ancient martial disciplines and defeat Volgath in honourable combat and... wait a minute, that is bashing the truth out of him. Apologies, Piglet.’ Suruk smiled, and held out his arm. ‘Look.’
A metal bracer covered his arm from wrist to elbow: it bulged slightly as if it concealed something. Suruk flicked his hand out, the first and last fingers extended as if to appreciate heavy metal, then clenched his hand into a fist.
A jointed blade shot out of the back of his arm, clicked into place and locked back on itself at an angle, jutting out over his hand. It was a wicked-looking thing, a tool for punching up close. ‘A Zukari arm-blade,’ he said. ‘For unseaming the Yull.’ Carefully, he pushed the weapon back into place.
Robots rolled down the hall, setting out plates. At the far end, there was a minor commotion as a table of humans and M’Lak leaped upright, then sat back down. Smith glimpsed the cause: the small figure of General Young, taking dinner with her troops.
Rhianna spoke to the wallahbot, and it dispensed the vegan option. ‘Vindaloo with tofu fried in gin,’ it said, and Smith felt his eyes start to sting.
‘So, Carveth, how about you? Have you made any progress with the Equ’i?’
Rhianna nodded. ‘Have they accepted you into their culture?’
‘Oh yes!’ Carveth grinned, a spoonful of korma half-raised to her mouth. ‘Ponyland is the best place ever. Celeste and I are really good friends. She’s really clever. She’d be a best-selling novelist by now, except that she can’t really type. Also, she’s really keen on Tallulah Bankhead. Apparently, they’ll show me the ancient art of dressage.’
Smith frowned. ‘Have you actually learned anything useful?’
‘How do you mean, “useful”?’
Smith sighed.
‘Can she stay over?’ Carveth demanded. ‘Can she? She can sleep in my bed.’
‘Where will you sleep?’
‘In my bed.’
Suruk prodded his dinner. ‘When they made you liaison officer, I doubt that was the sort of liaison that they intended. That will not delight Rick Dreckitt, seeing that he is usually there as well. Curious how there is no word “worstiality”, is it not?’
Smith gave him a stern look. Suruk shrugged and continued to eat. Three tables down, a group of Ravnavari Lancers sprang upright and raised their cups. ‘Victor Rex, King and Emperor! Those who are about to dine salute you!’
‘Look,’ Carveth said, ‘I got Celeste a present. We’ll have such fun with this!’ She rooted about in a plastic bag, and dumped a mass of buckles and leather on the tabletop.
‘What the bloody hell is that?’ Smith said.
‘Well, yes,’ Rhianna said. ‘What exactly is that, Polly?’
‘It’s a strap-on unicorn horn,’ Carveth replied.
‘Er, righto,’ Smith said. They continued their meal. The food wasn’t bad, Smith reflected. A group of lancers leaped upright on the next table down, and, for about the third time, cried ‘To the health of King Victor!’ and drank. Given the amount of booze they seemed to consume, Smith would have been more concerned about the health of the lancers than the king.
‘Well,’ Rhianna said, ‘Suruk’s making good progress with the mystic elder, and Polly’s getting on really well with the Equ’i. Great work, guys.’
‘Indeed,’ Suruk said. ‘So you and this horse. Is it bonky time?’
Carveth jolted upright and glared at him. ‘What?’
‘Alas,’ Suruk said. ‘Tiny horse sex. I think it is very important that we get to the bottom of this, for the wellbeing of the little woman here and so I can collect on that wager I made with Major Wainscott.’
Carveth glared at them. ‘That is so unfair!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’d never sleep with a pony, even a talking one! We’ve not even been on a second date!’
* * *
The next morning, Smith and Rhianna resumed their study of the data that Wainscott had acquired. Suruk returned to the hidden temple, and Carveth delivered some documents to King Chestnut. They were something to do with winning the war. Then she hurried into the garden to find Celeste.
The pony stood beside the ornamental stream, gazing into the water pumped up from the Well of Ponyness. She glanced around and whinnied. ‘Hello, Ambassador Polly!’
Carveth waved. ‘Hi! I, er, brought you something.’
‘Oh really? What’s that?’
Fighting down a burst of uncertainty, Carveth took out her gift. ‘This is for you. It’s a strap-on unicorn horn. You said that you wanted to be a unicorn, and I thought that since I’ve got opposable thumbs, I might as well –’
She was drowned out by Celeste’s gasp. ‘For me? Oh Polly, how absolutely wonderful. Will you help me?’
Carveth helped secure the horn. She pulled Celeste’s forelock out and smoothed it down.
‘How do I look?’
‘Great,’ Carveth replied. ‘Just like a unicorn.’
Celeste paused a moment, thinking. ‘Polly,’ she said, flicking her tail, ‘Would you like to see my special place?’
‘Um,’ said Carveth, ‘Okay.’
‘It’s at the bottom of the gardens,’ Celeste explained, ‘far from the roving eyes of the brutish, uncomprehending masses. It is a place of sophistication and beauty that only those attuned to such things can comprehend. Close your eyes,’ said Celeste, ‘and follow me.’
Carveth felt silly holding Celeste’s tail, so she just kept close behind and hoped that Celeste didn’t feel the need to kick anything.
‘This way,’ the Equ’i said. ‘Left a bit... and there. You can open your eyes now.’
Carveth opened her eyes.
She was standing in a small paddock, no larger than fifty yards across, hidden from view by walls of flowers. Banks of rhododendrons curved upwards, flowers bursting from them like falling droplets of water frozen in mid-burst. A pair of statues – rearing unicorns – glinted in the late afternoon sun beside an ornamental stream. At the rear of the paddock, nestled into the greenery, stood a small building somewhere between a stable and a summerhouse, its door rimmed with fairy lights.
Celeste stood in front of her. ‘Welcome, Polly!’ she cried.
A butterfly slightly smaller than a pair of elephant’s ears flapped past, briefly considered landing on Carveth’s head and instead turned to a huge sunflower like a landing-pad. Carveth’s legs carried her forward while her eyes tried to take in her surroundings: flowers… ponies… statues of unicorns… fairy lights…
‘I feel faint,’ she said. ‘It’s so amazing, I feel a bit sick.’
‘Isn’t it?’ cried Celeste. ‘I write my novel in the summer-stable. It’s called Tina, the Warrior Horse.’
The riverbank was clustered with pairs of dragonflies. They shimmered like varnished wood, their wings humming. Celeste watched two dragonflies hover past. They were the size of king prawns. ‘Polly,’ she said, ‘do you have a man friend?’
Carveth shrugged. ‘Kind of. It’s pretty vague.’
‘Best thing for it, if you ask me. If he’s anything like the stallions round here, I can’t blame you. They’re such imbeciles. You can’t turn round in front of them without having one of the buggers trying to flop onto your back.’
‘Men, eh?’
‘Absolutely! Stallions are such useless blighters.’ Celeste peered into the brook, admiring her horn. ‘I’m so terribly glad you came along, Polly. So many people just think ponies are for riding. It’s so rare to meet a human who wants to talk to one.’
‘Of course I’d want to talk to you. I talk to my hamster sometimes, but he doesn’t even reply. But – well, I’ve never really met any horses until now. I’ve never properly learned to ride a horse, you see…’
‘Really? Then I shall teach you!’ Celeste turned side-on to Carveth. ‘Climb onto my back, Polly.’
Carveth looked at Celeste’s back. The curve of her spine looked very daunting. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course!’
Carveth stepped forward and heaved herself onto Celeste’s back. She found herself at right angles to the pony, her face parallel with the ground and her legs kicking uselessly in the air. With a lot of effort, Carveth turned ninety degrees, so that she was at least facing in the right direction. It was not a dignified business.
‘Alright up there?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good.’ Celeste started walking; Carveth found that she was moving too, and tried not to panic. Celeste accelerated, and Carveth was alarmed to discover that the air around her face had turned into wind, as if she’d stuck her head out of a car window. Still, provided that they stuck to trotting, it ought to be manageable.
‘Let’s jump over something!’ Celeste cried. ‘Won’t that be fun?’
A log lay across the path. It was not, by arboreal standards, especially big, but it made Carveth think of the sort of thing used to stop tanks. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ she said.
‘We can do it, Polly,’ Celeste replied. ‘Together.’
‘Alright then.’ Carveth leaned forward, as people did in films, and gritted her teeth. ‘First time for everything.’
‘That’s the spirit – I knew you had it in you!’ cried the pony. Head down, she charged straight at the log, Carveth bouncing uncontrollably on her back. ‘Hold on tightly, Polly!’
Celeste drove up from the ground. Carveth whooped with fear and exhilaration and together they sailed over the log.
Celeste landed, cantered forward and slowed to a trot. She halted a few yards further on. ‘Well, golly!’ she panted.
Carveth slid down and landed uncertainly. Her legs were shaking. ‘That was intense.’
‘You have learned the ancient bond between horse and rider. Truly, you are one of us. Oh Polly! What jolly luck to have met you! I do hope you don’t have to go away soon.’
‘Go away?’ The smile fell off Carveth’s face as if a cliff had collapsed under it. She shuddered. ‘Oh, I’m not going anywhere. I’d never leave Ponyland.’ She gave a nervous little laugh. ‘Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.’
‘Super!’ said Celeste, but the air felt a little colder than before.
* * *
Overnight, Mothkarak seemed to have gained a small, high fort on its western edge. This was in fact the howdah of the ravnaphant Mildred, which had halted next to the curtain wall. A drawbridge flopped down and soldiers of all sorts hurried across, pushing trolleys full of supplies. Uninterested by the whole procedure, the ravnaphant took a bite out of the parapet and stood there chewing.
As Smith and Rhianna stepped into the morning sunshine, Mildred turned her myopic eyes on the castle. She seemed to be trying to decide whether to eat it.
‘Wow!’ Rhianna exclaimed. ‘That’s so big!’
‘Quite so,’ Smith replied. He was carrying a suitcase full of ammunition and sandwiches for the day ahead. Rhianna was wearing a large hat which, for reasons that he couldn’t explain, he found vaguely erotic.
They crossed the drawbridge and were suddenly on the back of the beast. Railings ran around the edge of the howdah, providing cover for soldiers near the edge and ensuring that the ball would not fall out if they decided to play a game of football en route to the battlefield. The main fortress, which held the rocket batteries and howitzers, was in the middle of the ravnaphant’s back, over its hips.
The Deepspace Operations Group waited in the howdah. Clad in a pith helmet and enormous shorts, Major Wainscott was explaining something to his men. ‘… trying to snatch a chap’s mangoes,’ he said. ‘Ah, here’s Smith and Co. Looking forward to bagging a few lemmings, Smith?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Good fellow. And here comes the Brig!’
A huge, barrel-shaped man approached, his hands jammed into the pockets of a battered safari jacket. He had one eye and a thick beard. A pipe protruded from his beard as if to mark out the location of his mouth. Overall, he resembled a gnarly old pirate.
The man removed his pipe and stuck out a massive hand. ‘Brigadier Harthi,’ he announced, shaking Smith’s hand. ‘I run this show. Madam,’ he added, bowing to Rhianna. ‘Welcome aboard Mildred.’
The ravnaphant turned to look back down its spine. It stared at them all for a while, decided there was nothing of interest, and used its tusks to break off another mouthful of the castle wall.
‘Best get cracking,’ Brigadier Harthi said, ‘before the big girl eats half the battlements. Trevor, let’s get moving!’ he bellowed into the air about a foot from Smith’s head. ‘Duty calls,’ he added, and he turned and stomped off, leaving Smith the impression that Brigadier Harthi and Major Wainscott were probably related.
‘Well,’ said Smith, ‘I suppose we ought to get out of the way. Is there a viewing lounge?’
Ropes were cast off, the last boxes of equipment hauled aboard and the gangplank raised. By a process of shouting and prodding, the squad of marhouts occupying the cabin on its head made the ravnaphant start to move.
The deck lurched. Like a ship afloat on the green sea of jungle, the great beast picked up speed, pushing through the forest. A bow wave of panicked birds and terrified quanbeasts preceeded its enormous body. ‘I think we ought to go inside,’ Smith said.
Rhianna paused, fingertips pressed to her forehead.
‘Can you read its mind?’ Smith asked.
‘Yes,’ Rhianna said, ‘I can sense… not much, actually. Normally, I’d think it was kinda cruel to put a building on an animal, but right now I’m not sure it’s noticed it yet. Wait – I think…’ She frowned. ‘The brain in its spine needs the toilet, and the one in its head wants to know whether it’s time for dinner yet.’
Long ago, before the war, the viewing lounge had been used by travellers, and the ceiling fans still turned lazily above wicker armchairs. But the plinth for the robot bartender was empty, and there were sandbags against the French windows.
‘This is incredible,’ Rhianna said, as fifty yards of jungle sped by with every step. Far below, Mildred’s huge feet boomed on the forest floor.
Rhianna kicked off her sandals and stretched out on a chaise longe. The combination of Rhianna recumbent on a wicker chair and the low vibrations coming up through the floor had a disconcerting effect on Smith. It was easy to forget that they were going to fight the Yull.
Rhianna opened her eyes. ‘Isambard, come over here,’ she said.
‘Righto, old girl!’ Smith replied, sensing that romance was on the cards.
The door burst open and Wainscott stomped in, carrying a fishing-rod and looking like an angry gnome. ‘Fruit!’ he declared, and he stepped to the window and lifted his rod. ‘Thought I might get something tasty,’ he added.
‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ Smith muttered, but Wainscott was too busy scouting for mangoes.
‘Remarkable animal, this,’ Wainscott said. ‘The ravnaphant lives off minerals, you know. They can live for thousands of years in the wild. They also must be about the only creature in the British Space Empire that has a brain in its arse.’
Rhianna looked at Smith. Smith discreetly shook his head.
Wainscott hefted his fishing tackle. ‘Mind if I dangle my rod over the edge?’
‘It’s never stopped you before,’ Smith said, and Wainscott gave him a puzzled, quizzical look.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Smith asked, as Wainscott reeled in a mango. ‘Once we’ve found the lemming men, what then?’
Wainscott frowned. ‘The lemmings’ll be dug in deep – they like their warrens. So, we infiltrate the area and hold them down long enough for Harthi to get Mildred on top of their base. Then she jumps up and down and makes lemming squash. Should be simple.’
‘So how do we find the lemmings?’
‘Not my department,’ Wainscott replied.
‘Um, Isambard?’ Rhianna tapped Smith on the arm. He looked around. ‘I think they’ve found us.’
Lights rose from the forest like frightened birds. They arced over the treeline, reaching a peak and swinging down towards the ravnaphant.
‘Bastards’ve spotted us!’ Wainscott snarled.
‘I thought that might happen,’ Smith said. ‘We are riding a dinosaur, after all. Rhianna, can you –’
She threw her arm up, covered her eyes with her hand, and made a humming noise.
From below, someone yelled ‘Brace!’ Two AA guns swung to cover the rockets and suddenly the air was full of streaking bullets. Chaff sailed out from the howdah. One of the rockets went wide, corkscrewing into the forest. The second and third burst in mid-air as if they had hit a wall.
‘Jolly good, old girl!’ Smith exclaimed. He rushed to the edge of the howdah, pulling his rifle into his hands. Something exploded on the far side of the howdah. The deck rippled and shook. Smith fell against the railing: Rhianna fell against him.
With a roar, the forest caught light in front of them. A great stripe of fire rushed across the ground, as if a chasm had opened to Hell. The ravnaphant stopped, shuddered and took a backwards step that set the ceiling fans swaying.
‘The Yull have got a fougasse!’ Wainscott snarled.
‘Like hell they will.’ Smith cocked his rifle. ‘They can fougasse off.’
‘Let’s go,’ Wainscott said. ‘Susan!’ he cried, and he ran out of the room, rod in one hand, mango stashed under his arm.
Smith turned to Rhianna. ‘We’d better go too,’ she said. ‘In case he gets into trouble.’
Outside, men ran across the decking, firing small arms and shoulder-launched plasma guns. The ravnaphant turned, slow as an oil tanker, while the big guns boomed and chattered from its sides.
Brigadier Harthi stood at the railing, brandishing a sabre, shouting orders and looking more like a sea-captain than ever. ‘Prepare to repel boarders!’ he called.
Specks appeared in the air, winged like pterodactyls. ‘Lemmings in flight!’ a M’Lak soldier bellowed, and the gliders swooped down. One of the mounted guns blew the wings off the nearest glider and it dropped into the canopy. The ravnaphant lunged and snatched another out of the air, and started to chew it. The glider blew up, and the great beast roared at the sky.
‘I’m sensing unhappiness,’ Rhianna said. ‘At least, in its front brain. The back one still needs the toilet.’
The Deepspace Operations Group stood at the starboard side of the howdah, providing covering fire. Susan had braced the beam gun on the railing. Now she heaved it down and pointed into the forest. ‘The gliders are coming from over there.’
‘Can we get them?’ Smith demanded.
Susan nodded. ‘We’ll take the lift. This way.’
They hurried to a gap in the rails. A wooden platform hung out over the ravnaphant’s side, rigged to a pulley system. They crowded on: Smith saw a row of levers like those in an old railway signal box. ‘Hang on,’ he called, and he pulled the lever marked ‘Down’.
The platform dropped away. The chains rattled: they plunged down the ravnaphant’s flank as if down a cliff face. Mildred’s scales were the size of medieval shields. Air rushed past them as Smith tried to find the brake.
Something huge crashed into the ground behind them. Trees creaked and splintered.
‘The Yull are dropping bombs!’ Wainscott barked.
‘Actually, that was the ravnaphant,’ Rhianna said.
The chains were a clattering blur. Smith found the brake lever and heaved it upwards. The mechanism squealed and the platform hit the ground.
They stumbled off, slightly dazed. Suddenly, they were in a half-trampled mass of fern-like plants.
‘Get out the way!’ Wainscott shouted, brandishing his mango. They followed him into the foliage. The ravnaphant’s huge leg flattened the ground behind them. Jagged leaves brushed their shoulders. Smith could smell burning, somewhere to the right.
‘Which way?’ he demanded.
Rhianna frowned. ‘This looks familiar,’ she said, pointing at the vegetation.
‘You know where to go?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘But I used to grow plants just like these.’
‘Follow me!’ Wainscott cried, and he struck off to the right. Smith paused, tried to figure it out, and pursued him.
They pressed on over the rough ground, through the greenery. A bank of acrid smoke rolled in, and visibility dropped to twenty yards.
‘The Yull won’t know how few we are in the fog,’ Wainscott growled.
Smith felt slightly light-headed. He strode on, through the reek of burning vegetation. He was fairly sure that he could hear M’Lak voices coming from behind. At his side, Rhianna said, ‘Um, guys, I’ve just thought of something...’
Her voice was drowned out by a wild screech from the left.
‘Lemmings,’ Susan said, and she swung the beam gun. Smith saw figures moving up ahead, dark blurs in the pungent smoke. His head felt wobbly.
Nelson stopped, pulled his Stanford gun up and let off a burst of fire. A lemming man screamed.
They advanced. The smoke cleared slightly and Smith saw a whole pack of Yull. They had rigged an enormous elastic belt between two sturdy trees and now three serfs were pulling it back while an officer with an explosive vest and a pair of leather wings barked commands.
Smith fired. The nearest serf fell back. The belt flicked out and hit the officer in the backside, flinging him head-first into the undergrowth. He exploded.
All hell broke out. Gunfire blazed out of the smoke. Smith grabbed Rhianna and threw her down. Head spinning, he hit the earth beside her, twisted around and fired his rifle prone. A dark shape buckled and executed a strange lurching dance before keeling over.
‘Forwards!’ Wainscott cried. Smith stood up, head swimming, and helped Rhianna to her feet. Which way was forwards?
For his own part, Major Wainscott was feeling somewhat confused. He’d breathed in a load of that bloody smoke; an exploding lemming must have set the foliage alight. His head felt funny and nothing had even hit it yet. He looked down at his hands and saw that the dirt on his arms had started to go blue. Armoured figures yelled and roared ahead of him, waving a banner. The blue warpaint curled around his arms like snakes.
Susan leaned in. Her hair looked wilder and redder than he recalled.
Wainscott dropped his gun and pulled a long knife, almost a short-sword. With a couple of cuts he freed himself from shirt and trousers, and was surprised to see the same blue markings on his chest. The fierce sun blessed his body with strength.
Susan was shouting something behind him; no doubt words of enthusiasm and approval, especially given his lack of attire. ‘Scythe blades,’ she was saying. ‘Weld ’em to the hubcaps!’
Naked apart from his boots and bandolier, Wainscott braced his legs and waved his knife at the Yull. ‘Say hello to my little friend!’ he cried, and he charged.
Smith watched Wainscott’s advance without much surprise. His head throbbed. The world felt distant. People seemed to be underwater. Their voices sank and slowed down. Dimly, he wondered how much smoke he’d inhaled.
The trees slid away from him and suddenly he was standing on a flat rectangle of grass. White lines stretched away and at the edge of his vision, he saw a pavilion. Rhianna stood on the steps in a summery dress.
‘Cricket,’ Smith said. ‘Nice.’
A figure appeared at the far end of the crease. It was covered in pads, almost like a suit of armour. The figure ran towards Smith like a bowler, but it swung the bat up over its head, two-handed.
‘Howzaaaat!’ it screamed. Smith reached for his sword, but his hands were too slow –
The sky tore open like canvas and a gigantic, evil head looked down. Eyes goggling, mandibles open, Suruk grinned down upon the world.
Oh, that’s not good, Smith thought. Suruk’s turned into a god.
Suruk reached down with a spindly bare arm, scooped up a handful of tiny lemming men and dropped them into his jaws. He ate the lemming men, roaring with laughter as he did and sounding a lot like a ravnaphant.
The gigantic Suruk started dancing on the far end of the cricket pitch. Jimmy Horlicks and Grimdall the Rebel sat on his shoulders, performing on ukuleles. Carveth descended from the skies on cherub wings. A squadron of little blue Pegasus circled Suruk’s head like birds around a stunned cartoon character. Smith was pretty sure that he was hallucinating.
Shadows reached in for him. He drew his sword and sliced at them. The blade cut their smoky arms. They screeched and fell away.
‘Isambard!’
He whipped around. A tall, dark-haired woman stood before him, a long skirt flowing around her. ‘I was hallucinating,’ he gasped. ‘Thank God you’re here, Emily Bronte.’
‘It’s me, Rhianna.’ She raised her hands. ‘You know I said I recognised the plants here? Well, they’re on fire, and you’ve inhaled a lot of smoke. You’re having a bit of a bad experience. Just… chill, okay? Everything’s cool. It’s all going to be fine –’
‘Yullai!’
Smith whirled and a huge shape tore out of the mist. He slipped left and an axe swung down like a guillotine blade. Smith rammed his sword into the monster’s chest, up under the breastplate and out the back. The Yullian coughed and gasped. Smith pulled the sword back and the alien fell spluttering at his feet.
‘Except for us being in a battle,’ Rhianna added. She frowned. ‘I’m sure there was something else. Something I’ve forgotten…’
Smith looked round, trying to get his bearings. Dreckitt strode out of the forest, a massive pistol in his hand. ‘Are you okay?’ He peered at Smith. ‘You too, huh? This hop’s got me crazier than two waltzing mice,’ Dreckitt snarled.
Smith said, ‘What? The Yull are dancing?’
‘Figure of speech, pal,’ Dreckitt replied. ‘The warren’s collapsed. They got the ravnaphant on it and it fell to bits.’ He looked at Rhianna. ‘Lady, are you doped out as well?’
‘I’m the same as usual,’ Rhianna replied.
‘Let’s call that a no, for the sake of argument. Come on, let’s go!’
‘Wait,’ she replied. ‘There’s something I’d forgotten.’ Rhianna paused, looked down and pulled her skirt up. ‘That’s it!’ she cried triumphantly. ‘My shoes! I knew I’d forgotten something.’
* * *
It was night. Torches lit the courtyard of the temple.
‘Step and twist and strike and kick and – roll!’ Volgath called.
Suruk slipped left and right, the point of his spear punching the air, his body in constant motion behind it.
‘No, no!’ Volgath cried. ‘Bring your legs up higher. And raise those hands! Remember, you’re a striking cobra. Again. This time with feeling!’
Suruk stopped and drove his spear into the earth. ‘This is irksome.’
Volgath leaned against an arch, sipping a glass of sherry. He had spent the last three days there, criticising Suruk’s fighting-styles for lack of feeling and reminiscing about the time that he had taken on the entire Bolshoi in a drunken brawl.
‘Really?’ Volgath asked. ‘So wise you are already in the ways of the warrior, means it?’
‘That did not even make grammatical sense.’
‘When my age you are, syntax bother about you will not.’
Suruk grimaced. ‘I see. We have spent three days learning your routines. If I have to go through the Stones of the Forbidden Temple again…’
Volgath leaned forward. ‘So? So what? If I tell you to show me your stones, you’ll show me.’
Suruk snorted.
The ancient took a thoughtful sip. ‘Truly, Suruk, what do you seek?’
‘The relics. This know you – I mean, you know this.’
‘And why is that? What do you want from them? Fame? Do you want to live forever? Or is it the skills I can teach you? Do you wish to learn how to fly?’
‘Fly?’
‘Metaphorically.’
‘No, then.’
‘If you want the relics, you must prove yourself worthy. And that means learning from me. I have demonstrated my fighting skills to the crowned heads of the galaxy – and sliced off a few of them, as well. And, once you have faced the final test, you will be ready to take them. If you are not dead.’ He paused and bent down. When he stood, he held the sherry bottle. ‘Drink?’
‘Gladly.’
Volgath poured out two substantial measures. ‘To victory.’
‘To victory.’
Volgath sipped. ‘You know, even if we are victorious, this planet will never be the same.’
‘Indeed. It will be covered in dead lemmings.’
‘I meant that the Space Empire will be sorely weakened. Saving mankind from tyranny takes it out of one.’
‘True. But my comrades will fight to the end. My old friend Isambard Smith may have a mild exterior, but under it is a mild interior, and under that, the heart of a warrior. Similarly, the mystic Rhianna is deceptive. She sees much – coloured swirls and someone called Lucy in the sky, mainly, but she is so wise that she is welcomed whenever she comes round.’
‘She visits you rarely, then?’
‘Oh no – she’s always there, just unconscious most of the time. Sometimes I even wonder about the little woman. Small and portly she may be, but there is a look of ferocity to her, especially when I have taken the last chocolate biscuit...’
‘Your trust in humans is your weakness, Suruk. Think of the Edenites and their foul customs. Never underestimate mankind’s capacity for bigotry, even to their own kind.’
Suruk nodded. ‘True. I never understood prejudice. After all, humans all look the same to me. Squat and ugly, with funny little mouths.’
‘If you think their faces are weird, you should see what goes on at the end of their legs,’ Volgath added, pulling a face. ‘And those noses! I don’t see how anyone could have finished evolving and still have a nose. We M’Lak are thankfully free of prejudice,’ he added, ‘largely because we’re a bit better than everyone else. Which is why you should think carefully about the relics. They belong to Ravnavar, Suruk.’
‘I see.’
‘I hope you do. Grimdall was from Ravnavar: the relics are his, not the property of the Space Empire. The relics could never be transported to the British Museum and left there. For one thing, they belong elsewhere. For another, they would kill the guards and escape.’
Suruk lowered his glass. ‘Escape?’
‘Of course.’ Volgath chuckled. Firelight flickered around his mandibles. ‘Grimdall is dead, but his mighty steed, the Mechanical Maneater, lives on. And the Maneater will slay anyone unworthy who claims Grimdall’s heritage. The custodian of the relics must prove himself to them.’
Suruk said, ‘I see now why your task is such a burden, and an honour. And why you get so few applicants.’
‘Oh, there have been many applicants, Suruk. But the final interview proved difficult. Terminal, to be precise.’
Suruk was silent. He gazed into the dark.
‘You look troubled,’ Volgath said. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘That we should get marshmallows and roast them on a stick, like boy scouts.’
‘How many boy scouts can you fit on one stick?’ Volgath sighed. ‘Truly, Suruk, we think alike. Perhaps you are ready to prove yourself worth of the relics.’
Suruk finished his sherry. ‘I was spawned ready.’
Volgath said, ‘This is no mere battle I refer to. If you wish to find the relics, you must face your worst fears – and survive.’
‘My worst fears?’
‘Indeed. What do you dread? From what do you recoil?’
‘Losing the war. The lemming scum enslaving my people. Of dying before the Greater Galactic Happiness and Friendship Collective is rendered into a lifeless heap of skulls.’
‘That is every warrior’s fear. But what about you?’
‘Hmm. Well, I have never liked dishonour much. Or yogurt. Or bees. I am not overly fond of tarantulas, either. They give me indigestion.’
Volgath smiled. ‘Those are your darkest fears?’
Suruk shrugged.
‘Then you must gird your mandibles, Suruk the Slayer. I have tested your body. Now I shall test your soul. I will take you into your darkest places. In the Cavern of Dread, you will face… er… a giant dishonourable bee, covered in yogurt. Or something like that.’
Suruk took a deep breath. ‘I am ready.’
‘Good. Then follow me.’
Volgath crossed the courtyard and stepped under an arch. ‘Come, warrior.’
Suruk looked up at the trees, certain that he was being watched. He saw nothing. Then he picked up his spear, stretched his neck, and followed.
They walked into a stone tunnel. Amber light seeped out from translucent panels in the roof. The floor sloped down, winding deep into the earth. On the walls, ancient carvings depicted monsters, ghosts and demons. Stories from the old legends.
‘Hold!’ Volgath cried.
Suruk looked round. ‘What is it?’
‘Atmosphere,’ Volgath said. He reached into an alcove and pulled a lever. War-drums rose up around them, a frantic jungle clatter. Beasts screeched and howled. The drumming grew quicker, swelled around them like a heart about to burst.
‘Splendid,’ Suruk said. ‘Mood music.’
At the end stood a door. Carved on it was a single figure, a leaping caricature of a M’Lak warrior in silhouette, dancing across a landscape. Suruk would have known that shape and its bright eyes anywhere. It was the Dark One, the guardian of Ethrethar, lord of the dead.
‘Beyond is his territory,’ Volgath said.
Suruk nodded. ‘I have faced him before.’
The door swung open. ‘Every warrior has a weakness,’ Volgath said, ‘a thing that he cannot defeat. Face it, Suruk, and rise again!’
Something hit Suruk hard in the back. He stumbled forward, and as he realised that it was probably Volgath’s boot, the door slammed behind him.
Suruk stood there in the darkness, half-expecting a rubber spider to drop from the ceiling. He tried to imagine the most fearsome, terrifying thing he had ever encountered, and remembered the time when Smith had kept a large mirror in the hold. He had stumbled upon that thing a few times and given himself quite a scare.
He heard speech. For a moment, he thought it was his own voice. Slowly, the voices rose in conversation – and with them, the tinkle of glass and the glug of wine.
‘It’s been a really good year,’ said a voice at his shoulder. Suruk whipped round, saw nothing. ‘The shop has turned a really nice little profit. You know, I’m thinking that I might join the Chamber of Commerce next year. It’s good for business.’
Suruk listened. Yes, the voice was really there, as well as the background murmur. They were all M’Lak voices, deep and properly croaky. Far off, someone said something about canapés.
Suruk raised his spear and took a step forward. The voices moved around him, swirling through the dank air. He did not know where the door was.
‘Took a holiday to Los Angeles. We picked up some lovely trophies.’
‘And I said to him: “What the Hell are you?” You should have seen his face!’
There was polite laughter. And then, crystal clear, a throaty voice said, ‘So, Agshad: how are the kids?’
Suruk paused. Agshad? Surely not. That was his father’s name.
‘Well, now you ask, not so bad.’
You’re dead, Suruk thought. You died fighting the Yull, father.
‘I’m very proud of him, to tell the truth,’ said Agshad Nine-Swords. ‘My boy’s really gone out there and made something of himself. Taken the bull by the horns, you might say. He’s a real achiever, you know. A credit to the family.’
Thank you, Father, Suruk thought. I am proud to have honoured you with my deeds.
‘Just don’t ask me about Suruk,’ Agshad added.
‘What?’
‘I mean, he’s a bit slow compared to Morgar, I know. But I’m sure he’ll turn out alright in the end.’
Suruk froze.
‘You need to do something with that lad,’ said a voice.
‘The boy’s a late starter, that’s all,’ Suruk’s father replied. ‘He’s, you know, got his own ways. He means well. He’s got a good heart.’
‘Whose chest did he hack it from?’ another voice inquired, and Suruk was surrounded by gurgling laughter. ‘If he takes enough heads, he might end up with a good brain too.’
Suruk raised his spear. ‘Fools!’ he snarled.
‘Look,’ Agshad said, ‘Suruk’s just… old-fashioned.’
The other voice put on an accent. ‘Greetings,’ it exclaimed. ‘Welcome to the house of burgers!’
Suruk snarled. The mocking laughter rose to answer him, spinning around him like a cloud of flies.
‘Do you desire fries with that?’
‘Silence, upstart!’ Suruk barked, but the voices would not stop.
‘Look, father. I devoured a crayon! I built a sandcastle in the litter tray!’
‘Come out!’ Suruk cried. ‘Come out and face me!’
And it was silent.
A dream, Suruk thought. Nothing more than that. And I have banished it.
Light blossomed in front of him. It came from neon strips in the ceiling, and it glinted on beer pumps and rows of glasses. A figure stood at the bar, a tall M’Lak, his back to Suruk.
This is real, Suruk thought. It cannot be, but…
He wished it was bees and yoghurt.
A hand came down on his shoulder. He looked round and saw one of the elders of his house, the most venerable ancients of the line of Urgar the Miffed. ‘We’ve found you an arch-enemy,’ the elder said. ‘From a really good line, too. They’re all real killers. You’ll have loads to talk about.’
A second voice, at his left. ‘Look, he just scowled at you. He doesn’t like you either. Go on, Suruk, go and threaten him.’
‘No,’ Suruk said, but it did not come out as he had wanted it to. In his mind, it was a roar of defiance. It came out sounding like dread. ‘I have nothing against this person.’
‘Oh, don’t be shy,’ another elder crooned. They were around him like jackals, pushing him towards the figure at the bar. ‘Go over and introduce yourself. Spill his pint.’
‘I will choose my own nemesis,’ Suruk said, but his voice was cracked and weak.
‘Look, he’s all alone. Time to make your move, Suruk. Ask him what he’s looking at.’
Suruk took a step towards the bar. ‘I… I cannot. I won’t.’
He felt a slap on the back. He winced. ‘Go on, lad. When I was your age…’
A horrible sense of embarrassment crawled over his body. The words of threat and challenge dried up in his mouth. Shame seemed to shrink him. His mandibles drooped.
Not this, Suruk thought. Not this.
And he tore free of their weak, ushering hands, twisted round and cried, ‘No, I shall not! I will battle who I choose! You cannot make me. I, Suruk, will slay who I please. I will arrange my own carnage. Leave me, damn you, leave me alone!’
And suddenly, he was alone. He stood in a dim-lit, empty cellar. It smelt of dust.
Suruk blinked a couple of times. His family, and his fear of their disapproval, was gone. He found the door easily. It wasn’t locked. The corridor was empty. Suruk climbed up, alone, with the strange but familiar feeling of recovering from mild concussion.
As he reached the exit, he heard the Yull.
‘Dar huphep!’ a lemming man howled, and then a scream followed by a loud, clattering thud.
‘Hup yullai!’ a second rodent shrieked, and a moment later it let out a thin yowl of pain.
Suruk dropped down and crept forward, still in the shadows.
Volgath stood in the courtyard. Around him lay a dozen or so lemming men in various forms of armour: officers, from the look of it. Axes were scattered on the ground.
Single combat, Suruk thought. That would have been surprisingly honourable, if there hadn’t been a queue of about forty other Yullian officers stretching around the corner into the forest, waiting for a go.
Another lemming man let out a battle cry and ran forward. Volgath sidestepped and his fingers flicked up into the rodent’s throat. The lemming squeaked and staggered drunkenly aside, clutching his neck. Volgath’s hand was bloody.
But so was his side, Suruk saw, and his shoulder and hip. There was only a certain amount of lemming warlords that anyone could be expected to defeat in a single afternoon. Volgath will die here, Suruk thought. Or at least, he will without me.
Suruk raised his spear. He had dealt with his own family. Nothing could frighten him now.
And Volgath saw him. It was just a quick glance, but his eyes locked straight onto Suruk’s. Volgath gave a tiny shake of the head. Suruk waited.
‘Hup!’
The lemming men stopped, and the queue jerked to attention. A huge, pale figure lumbered into view, flanked by bodyguards. Suruk did not need to see the creature’s single eye to know that he was looking at General Wikwot.
‘So,’ Wikwot declared. ‘This is your mighty citadel, is it? You are the master of weapons. And yet we simply walked in. This world is ours for the taking, and do you know how we won it?’
Volgath grimaced. ‘By a whisker?’
‘Oh, very funny. Most amusing. The answer is “easily”. Your world is finished, your temple ruined, your wretched people doomed.’ He snorted, amused. ‘And to think that you actually look tough.’
‘And you definitely smell strong.’
Wikwot glanced over his shoulder. ‘This animal does not merit a warrior’s death. Bind him and bring me the power tools. We will soon learn where the Relics of Grimdall are hidden.’
‘Fool,’ Volgath said. ‘You still do not understand what you are spawning with. Strike me and you will regret it.’
‘Silence!’ Wikwot lashed out. His paw hit Volgath’s cheek. Slowly, like a poorly-balanced totem pole, Volgath fell backwards. He hit the ground.
Wikwot looked down at the body. He bent down, checked Volgath’s pulse and stood up. The general took out a cigarette and jammed it into the corner of his chops. ‘Ah, fecinec,’ he muttered. A minion stepped in with a lighter, and Wikwot turned and lumbered away.
The lemming men closed ranks around the general, and followed him into the trees.
* * *
Suruk squatted down beside Volgath. The ancient was quite cold to the touch, definitely more greenish grey than greyish green. ‘They would have made you betray your people,’ Suruk said. ‘So you made yourself die. Truly, a warrior’s death.’
Volgath’s hand grabbed him round the ankle.
Suruk gasped; he drew back, but Volgath clung on, and, very slowly, the elder opened his mouth. ‘Suruk!’ he whispered.
‘Yes, old one?’
‘I do not have long.’
‘Indeed.’
The ancient chuckled; there was blood on his fangs. ‘There is an ancient technique to feigning death.’ He smiled. ‘But this time, I may not have to act much longer.’
‘You did well,’ Suruk replied. ‘Now the fools of Yullia are confounded. But who will take care of the temple?’
‘Forget the temple. Its time has gone. You must know the location of the relics of Grimdall.’
‘Yes. Tell me.’
Volgath grimaced. ‘Lean closer, and I will whisper to you.’
Suruk was not accustomed to being very near anyone. When you bred with yourself, you didn’t tend to need a lot of physical contact with anybody else. He glanced over his shoulder, feeling slightly awkward, and then feeling guilty for feeling awkward. Strange: he had never felt guilty about much at all before.
He put his face close to Volgath’s.
‘It is a secret I have hidden well,’ Volgath whispered. ‘Never have I shared it before.’
‘Tell me. In the name of Ravnavar.’
Volgath’s eyes met those of his protégé. ‘Kiss me quick,’ he gasped.
‘Ah.’ Suruk looked over his shoulder again. He had spent enough time among humans to know that this sort of thing went on, and was perfectly legal. But the M’Lak? Awkward. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you are dying, I suppose…’
‘Not out here!’ Volgath gasped. ‘In my chambers!’
The master threw out his arm, and his hand slapped against the paving stones.
‘I suppose it is more private,’ Suruk said. ‘But Volgath, you must realise… I appreciate that you have had something of a shock… you are a great and fierce warrior, and truly we are comrades in arms… arms as in weapons, that is, not – ugh – hugging… but our people were not meant to kiss. For one thing, our mandibles would stab each other’s faces. Which lacks romance, Volgath. Volgath?’
Volgath was dead. Properly dead.
Suruk shook his head. ‘A great shame. Dreadful, and yet rather fortunate, timing.’ He crouched down beside the corpse. ‘Well, ancient, you wanted to go to your room. I can at least do that.’
He heaved Volgath’s body onto his shoulder. Suruk straightened up and walked towards the arches.
Volgath’s room was small and simple. There were few concessions to luxury. A modest rack held a couple of practice spears. A photograph showed Volgath standing over a dead quanbeast, a sabre in either hand. On the far side of the wall, another photo showed Volgath on holiday, standing at some waterfront in a striped jacket and straw boater. Under it, Suruk found a bench.
Suruk laid him along the bench. ‘You lived well, old one,’ he said. ‘You died well, too. All shall know of your deeds, except, maybe… that bit…’
He straightened up, and stopped.
Suruk leaned towards the photograph of Volgath’s holiday. It was a standard 3D affair, the sort of thing you could buy on any package tour. But it was Volgath’s outfit that struck him: not the straw hat in itself, but the words on the brim.
‘Kiss me quick,’ Suruk said.
He lifted the picture down. What was that place? The terrain looked like Andor. Some sort of lake, it seemed. People jumped into the lake from a charabanc-shuttle hovering overhead. A sign in the background reminded patrons to refrain from petting. A holiday resort.
Suruk turned the picture over. There was a cross on the back. He drew a stiletto and pushed it into the cross. Then he flipped the photograph over again.
A small island rose out of the lake like the hump of a sea monster. It could not have been more than ten feet across. The glittering tip of the stiletto stuck out of the island.
Outside, something rumbled. The Yull were coming back.
* * *
The Yullian camp was so vast that General Wikwot had no idea where it ended. From his tent, he could see thousands of soldiers and, even though many of the trees had been hacked down to make space, it was impossible to tell where the extra treehouses and warrens stopped.
The more the merrier, he thought. The more lemmings who witnessed his victory and the resulting bloodbath, the greater his glory. Then he would return to Yullia, dragging slaves by the million, and the idiots who had written him off would be laughing on the other side of their muzzles.
He swaggered through the rows of tents, past soldiers sharpening their torture implements and rubbing dung onto their bayonets. A ladder stood against a tall tree and, as Wikwot passed, a trooper did penance for some minor disciplinary infringement by rushing up the ladder and throwing himself from the top rung. The general paused to admire the soldier’s descent.
So, the hidden temple was no more and its master was dead. Too bad that the Relics of Grimdall remained out of reach. Soon, Wikwot thought. His army was ready. His soldiers were creeping through the forest, encircling the human citadel. His scouts were closing in on its outposts. His hunters had captured fierce beasts to unleash upon the defenders.
In an open space nearby, a group of officers were indulging in the ancient sport of minion-ball. The minion, having been booted from one end of the field to the other, disgraced himself by staggering upright and trying to run away. ‘Serf’s up!’ an officer cried, and the whole pack leaped on the minion and tore him limb from limb.
‘General Wikwot!’
Wikwot turned, glowering. Colonel Cots of the secret police had appeared behind him. The colonel, being an assassin, had a nasty habit of forming out of the shadows. A couple of nights ago, he had embarrassed Wikwot whilst he was perusing a copy of Dirty Does.
‘What is it?’ Wikwot demanded.
Cots gestured, and one of his acolytes shoved a Yullian soldier forward. The soldier’s eyes had a strange, faraway quality.
‘The enemy have stormed our forward warren,’ Cots said. ‘This serf escaped.’
Wikwot looked the trooper over. His fur was matted with dirt and blood, and his ears were torn. ‘Only just, by the look of it.’
‘Er, no, that was me,’ Cots replied. ‘I beat him up. Just in case he was lying, you know.’
‘Very sensible.’
‘His mind has been addled by toxic smoke. He is –’ Cots grimaced – ‘relaxed. I have found no trace of frenzied rage in him at all. It is very unwholesome.’
‘Quite so. Speak, serf!’
‘Hey,’ the soldier said, ‘chill, General. It was bad out there. Really heavy. The offworlders totally stormed us. We started shooting from the warren, but they must have had a flamethrower, because all these plants started burning, and we breathed in the smoke... lemming man, I haven’t had it this bad since I nibbled catnip.’
‘Catnip is forbidden to lower orders!’ Wikwot snapped. ‘What happened next?’
‘They trashed the place. We had all out defences ready and everything, but they collapsed the warren. There were all dead lemmings everywhere, and I dug my way out, and there was blood and everything...’
Cots snapped, ‘Who did this?’
The soldier trembled. ‘No way. To speak that demon’s name –’
Cots snarled and pulled a set of pliers from his sash.
‘No,’ the soldier gasped. ‘Not him –’
‘Speak!’
‘Aiii! Wesscot, the ghost who walks in shorts! Him and his legion of devils!’
Wikwot swallowed. He remembered. Once, he had commanded a mighty fortress. To amuse himself, he had rounded up the local beetle people and put them under a giant magnifying glass. Somehow, the offworlders had found out about it, and Wesscot and his minions had come calling. They had taken him alive. He shuddered.
Wikwot said, ‘Serf, I thank you. This is most useful. Your service is much appreciated.’
The serf jerked upright and saluted. ‘Thanks, General!’
‘On the other hand, you failed to defend your warren, so climb that tree and jump off the top.’
The soldier deflated somewhat. He turned and trudged towards the ladder.
‘These unrodents he talks about,’ Wikwot said.
Cots nodded. ‘Yes?’
‘Find them and kill them.’
Cots turned to go, and a voice called out to them both. It was the soldier, about to scale the ladder to his doom.
‘Erm, General? One last thing before I seek forgiveness from the war god? They had a really big monster with them. It was like a huge thing, bigger than a building. We might want to look out for that.’
Behind Wikwot, a tree creaked and collapsed. He turned round and peered into the forest. Beyond the trees, their legs bigger than any trunk, two enormous beasts groaned and strained against the ropes and drugs that held them at bay.
‘Oh,’ Wikwot said. ‘Like those, you mean?’