‘How far to the golden hills, Althorn?’ Sir William asked as they walked through the forest.
Althorn sighed, not wanting to be labelled as the group’s guide when he knew as little about this land as everyone else. On the positive side, he’d learnt a lot about his companions thanks to their desire to talk to him.
‘We should reach them tomorrow evening,’ he said and pulled up his hood.
‘If we had horses, we’d be at the gates in no time,’ the knight replied.
‘You’re not used to all this walking then?’ Crossley called over.
Sir William lifted his head as though considering a response, but remained silent.
‘I suppose, being high-born,’ Crossley continued, ‘you’re used to having servants and a squire and–’
Sir William rushed at Crossley, too fast for him to react, and pinned him against a tree trunk with a knife at his ear.
‘You know nothing of the hardships I have endured, A-merry-can,’ Sir William growled.
Althorn held back, not wanting to get involved. He noticed John was nervously shifting from foot to foot as Crossley fought for breath, wide-eyed and grasping at the knight’s arm.
‘Taunt me again and I will tear out your tongue,’ Sir William whispered clearly.
‘Enough!’ Euryleia shouted.
Sir William blinked and let Crossley fall to the ground, choking. Euryleia helped Crossley up and gave him a sip of water.
‘We must keep moving!’ Sir William shouted and stomped off with his determined, long stride.
Althorn gave a wry smile. He didn’t like bullies and felt sorry for Crossley, but for some reason his respect for Sir William had just gone up a notch.
Crossley remained silent afterwards, clearly nursing a bruised ego, while Althorn’s thoughts returned to finding food. He had found edible roots, leaves and nuts, but a group this size needed more – and they needed meat. Creatures had been seen scuttling through the undergrowth and small animals attracted larger beasts, so Althorn scanned the patches of bare earth for paw prints or marks.
Further on, the forest opened to reveal a glade with ankle-high yellow grass with a small pond at its centre where a cloud of brightly coloured butterflies – sunset red and lemon yellow – flittered and swarmed around a broad tree covered in tiny black flowers.
‘Wait!’ Althorn whispered.
He had seen movement by a cluster of brown rocks some thirty paces away, so stepped to one side to see a wild boar rooting through the earth.
A figure moved on Althorn’s left: Mata, who stealthily ran into the pig’s blind spot. Althorn watched the Maori creep forward, holding his club high, closing in without a sound. Fifteen paces. Ten. He stopped and crouched low. The boar tentatively raised his head and Mata froze. A second later, a black-maned lion leapt out of a bush and pounced on the boar with a flurry of fur and incisors, mauling it to the ground.
Mata stood motionless, staring at the predator. Blood dripped from the lion’s mouth as it looked up from its kill. Its eyes fixed on Mata and it dropped the dead boar, stretched to its full height and, with a muscular judder, released a deep, wild roar.
‘Tane-Mahuta!’ Mata’s shout could be heard across the glade.
Silence fell across the forest like a blanket, and time seemed to slow down as Althorn watched the lion tense its muscular back and legs. A snarl wrinkled its nose and it released another threatening roar. Althorn wanted to rush in and help, but what could they do against such a beast? Beside him, John fiddled with his gun and let out a whimper. Then Althorn saw the bejewelled Thai spearman and the Sikh swordsman creeping through the grass. An archer to Althorn’s right fitted an arrow to his bow, and spearmen were raising their weapons.
With another roar and a flash of claws, the lion shot forward at Mata. The Maori twisted away from the beast and cracked it on the shoulder with his patu club, deflecting the lion’s charge, but was hit by a wild paw and crashed to the ground. Full of momentum, the lion turned and leapt at the next threat – the Thai spearman. An arrow thumped into the lion’s flank, but it barely flinched as it swiped away the Thai’s pike and grabbed him in his strong jaws. More arrows thumped into the beast’s side as the near-dead Thai desperately lashed out with his knife. In response, the lion gave him a violent, neck-breaking shake and nonchalantly disembowelled him with a swipe of a clawed paw, sending jewels and guts across the forest floor.
The turbaned, Sikh swordsman – who Althorn assumed had been holding back for fear of catching the Thai – jumped in and hacked into the lion’s neck, paralysing him instantly. With a second stroke he cleaved the lion’s head from its body.
The whole incident had lasted less than thirty seconds, leaving Althorn’s heart pounding. He ran to Mata, past the Sikh who stood motionless, as dark blood ran and dripped down his sword.
‘My God – what happened?’ Sir William had returned with the soldiers in the vanguard.
‘I was tracking a pig when that appeared.’ Mata pointed at the lion’s body.
Sir William stared at the slashes across Mata’s chest. ‘You were lucky.’
Mata clenched his teeth. ‘What if there are more demons like that out there?’
‘That was no demon, it was a lion,’ Althorn said.
Mata’s face looked blank.
‘Where on Earth are you from? Never seen a lion?’ Sir William asked with a chuckle.
Mata gave Sir William a stare that could de-feather a chicken. ‘No, I have never seen a lion before.’ He grimaced, controlling his pain.
Euryleia joined them. ‘Can I help?’ She squinted at the cuts. ‘We must stop the bleeding.’
‘You need to clean the wounds first.’ Sir William turned. ‘I’ll leave you to it…’
Euryleia poured water over Mata’s chest, who could do little to resist.
‘I found this plant.’ She held a segment of flat, red root in her palm. ‘It’s similar to one we use in my land to draw poisons. I could make a poultice for the cuts.’
Mata nodded and stared into the branches above.
Althorn stepped away to look at the headless lion and the remains of the Thai spearman. The Sikh swordsman was explaining what had happened to those who hadn’t seen: ‘…threw him to the ground and I made my move.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s over now,’ Althorn said.
The swordsman shook his head. ‘I have fought man-killers before… but the spearman. His death was avoidable.’
‘His armour probably helped him survive longer than I would have done,’ Crossley said, fingering the debris of precious jewels scattered around the dead man.
‘For all the good it did him,’ John said.
Even after witnessing countless deaths, Althorn still found it a numbing experience. ‘There was nothing you could have done,’ Althorn told John, who cradled his gun against his chest. ‘Strange things are happening here which are beyond our understanding.’
John nodded.
‘You with the, err… gun?’ Euryleia called out to John. ‘He’s asking for you!’
Althorn followed John to Mata, who was lying at the base of a tree with an improvised bandage across his chest.
‘Mata – I’m so sorry I couldn’t help.’ John crouched beside the Maori.
Mata smiled. ‘Next time I’ll set a trap instead, eh?’
Althorn cast a glance at the lifeless boar. ‘Looks like you had to earn your meat.’
‘Maybe I’ll take a slice of lion too. To give me extra strength.’
Althorn smiled and remembered how Mata had deflected the lion’s charge. ‘I don’t think you have to worry about that, Mata.’
‘You know this man’s name?’ The Sikh joined them.
‘Yes,’ John said.
‘Did you know his name?’ He pointed at the torn body of the Thai spearman.
‘No. Why?’
‘Why?’ The swordsman frowned. ‘We have lost men and we didn’t know their names. If I die in this land, I want you to know my name, my traditions… and burn my body on a pyre.’
‘I don’t know what this man’s rites would be,’ Althorn replied. ‘But we should bury him to keep his body from scavengers.’
‘Agreed.’
‘But what about names?’ The Sikh looked from soldier to soldier. ‘We must introduce ourselves properly. I will start… my name is Randeep Bhangu.’
‘Right then,’ Althorn said. ‘You all know I am Althorn.’
‘Yes.’ Randeep turned to Sir William.
‘Yes, well, I am Sir William Lavalle.’ The knight looked at Crossley. ‘But seeing as titles are of little use in this country, you may call me Lavalle.’
Each person took their turn, throwing their name to the wind, in what looked like some bizarre ritual for the dead Thai spearman.
‘Euryleia of Scythia…’
‘I thought you were an Amazon?’ Lavalle looked perplexed.
‘Amazon?’
‘The Greeks’ name for your people.’ Crossley helped out. ‘You know, those guys your ancestors fought with at Ilium?’
Euryleia squinted a little and raised her chin, suggesting she thought Crossley was making a joke.
‘Anyways… I’m David Michael Crossley. US Marine Corps. Sapper. Just call me Crossley.’
‘Sapper?’
‘An engineer. Construction, tunnels and… I blow things up.’
The Day Watch continued to name themselves, giving their rank and the name of their country or tribe.
‘I am Tobar Secundius, centurion of the glorious Roman army of Emperor Septimius Severus.’
‘I am Mata Tiri Nui of the Ngati Rahiri tribe of Aotearoa.’ The Maori was sitting up now.
John stepped forward sheepishly. ‘My name’s John Greene – Royal Fusiliers, Thirty-second Battalion. Machine gunner.’
After burying the Thai warrior in the glade, the Day Watch abandoned the lion’s body and used the Thai’s pike to spear and carry the dead hog. They travelled without speaking, which John soon realised was because these great warriors were afraid: afraid of what other horrors this land had in store for them. Back in Flanders, John knew who the enemy was and what weapons they used, but this land was as unsettling as it was dangerous.
A couple of hours after the glade, Tobar, the Roman, shouted down the line, ‘Whose turn is it to carry the pig?’
No one replied.
‘How about you?’ the centurion bellowed at John. ‘The short man with the gun.’
John looked up at Mata beside him, then back at Tobar. ‘I…’
‘You’re what?’ The Roman laid the boar down, blocking the path. ‘We should share the burden… unless you don’t want to eat tonight?’
‘No, it’s not that, I…’
Mata stepped forward, eyes glaring.
John winced. ‘Look, we don’t need any trouble, it’s just…’
‘He’s injured,’ Euryleia stepped in.
‘He doesn’t look injured to me,’ Randeep said, ‘and if he can carry that gun he can carry the pig.’
‘Show him,’ Mata said, without taking his eyes off the Roman.
Euryleia laid a hand on his arm, ‘You don’t have to, John.’
John shivered and held his arm tight, fearing he would be rejected if they saw what had happened to him.
‘Show him,’ Mata repeated and turned to him. ‘There is no shame.’
With a sigh, John unhooked the straps of his webbing and lowered his gun to reveal his merged hand and gun.
The warriors grouped around gasped.
‘Step back!’ Mata shouted.
‘He’s cursed!’ Tobar said.
‘His hand is stuck, that’s all,’ Euryleia said.
‘It’s more than stuck,’ the Roman said, ‘it’s being eaten by the metal!’
John recognised the sympathetic looks he’d seen when visiting friends in field hospitals: the looks of pity. He pulled his arm back. ‘Well, whatever’s happened I can’t go bloody lifting any pigs now, can I?’
The Roman shrugged. ‘No, but we all have to earn our place in the group,’ he said and walked off, leaving the boar on the ground.
John unstrapped his arm and checked his hand in the light of their evening fire. His fingers had sunk deeper into the black metal body of the gun, which was now moulding over his tingling fingertips. God knows what will happen when my hand gets inside, he thought.
It was strange how detached he’d become about it, but John knew war had a power to disconnect soldiers from aspects of life. The noise, death and destruction gave you a different perspective on what was important and, as far as John was concerned, he was alive and wasn’t in pain, so he’d nothing to complain about.
He cast an eye around the camp. The surreal grouping of soldiers and warriors was still a sight to behold. Relaxing around the main fire, Lavalle reclined beside Euryleia, while the intimidating, tattooed face of John’s friend Mata glimmered in the firelight near the hooded figure of Althorn and the blue turban of Randeep, who was walking over to join him. John could see how, in ages past, these warriors were worshipped for their prowess and skill. War was an art to them and death was glorious. So, if he was surrounded by great – if not the greatest – warriors on Earth, why was he among them? He was no skilled swordsman like the Sikh or veteran of countless battles and sieges like Lavalle. The only thing that connected John to everyone else was the number of men he’d killed. Was that all it came down to?
Althorn turned the boar on its spit and clear fat bubbled and dripped out of the cooking flesh, exploding on the hot logs below. It was the best food John had smelt for months.
‘I can take over for a bit, Althorn,’ John said.
‘No, you rest.’ Althorn glanced at John’s arm and gave a fatherly smile.
John blinked and turned from the fire to Mata. Even though he was injured, Mata had stood up for him against Tobar. John smiled: a proper warrior was on his side! He had to return the favour.
Crossley returned from the perimeter, grinning. ‘I’ve set a few traps… for food, not enemies.’
‘Sounds like an easier way to get food,’ Mata said.
‘The lion could have been a one-off, you know.’ Crossley tried to lighten the mood. ‘An escapee from a zoo or an old pet someone had forgotten about.’
‘He looked wild enough to me.’ Randeep’s eyes stayed transfixed on the fire.
Crossley shrugged.
There was no point in hiding his gun now, so John looked at his fused hand again. A small nodule of metal had appeared where the tip of his little finger had been absorbed, and the gun had changed elsewhere: the barrel was shorter and the trigger had moved. He nonchalantly poked the logs with the muzzle and stared into the hypnotic flames while he watched Euryleia preserving morsels of food in the wood smoke as she talked to Lavalle.
‘I was on my horse. We’d been tracking a group of bandits who had attacked an outlying village some days before.’
Lavalle was silent, staring into the flames.
‘They had burnt the houses, taken women, children and food,’ Euryleia paused, ‘so when we found them crossing the plain, we ambushed them. I fired three, maybe four arrows – two kills, one maimed – then they started firing back. But we had them surrounded. We started picking them off one by one. I hit one in the chest and the sound of my horse’s hooves faded away… like I was riding on sand.’
‘And the light changed?’ Lavalle asked.
‘Yes,’ Euryleia turned to Lavalle but he looked away.
‘The last thing I saw were the children taking off their bonds.’ Euryleia looked at Lavalle and waited.
Euryleia wanted to hear about Lavalle’s last battle, but the knight remained silent. John felt ashamed for listening and looked away.
‘Strange Lavalle doesn’t share his story, hey?’ Crossley whispered, having listened in too.
John shrugged.
‘He’s odd.’ Crossley shook his head. ‘I mean, he’s a Knight Hospitaller right? So why didn’t he see to Mata’s wounds? And where’s his armour?’
‘I don’t know.’ John looked back at Lavalle, wondering what his story was. His arm twitched. ‘This whole place is messed up.’
‘True,’ Crossley said. ‘It wasn’t chance those mushrooms were growing by the obelisk.’
‘So who put them there then?’ Randeep asked.
‘Whoever brought us here I guess.’
‘What do you think, Lavalle?’ Randeep asked. ‘Who has brought us here?’
Lavalle tensed before answering. ‘A greater mind is at work here. Surely only God would be so great?’
‘Wait a minute,’ Crossley said. ‘You aren’t saying God has brought us here?’
‘Who else would have that power?’ Lavalle stood up, wearing the same annoyed look as before, and Crossley shifted to keep the fire between him and the tall knight.
‘Listen.’ Crossley held out a hand. ‘I may have been wrong about what sort of life you’ve had, okay, but you can’t go saying stuff about God as if you own him.’
John felt his cheeks warm and looked around for Althorn, but he couldn’t be seen. He was usually the one to calm things down.
Lavalle didn’t move, but his furrowed brow showed his mind was racing. ‘I would never presume to… own God, but no other power is strong enough to bring us here.’
His tone was reserved, thought John. Did he feel bad about threatening Crossley earlier?
Lavalle continued, ‘God has taken me to some inhospitable places. Who am I to know his plan?’
Crossley was about to reply when John let out a yell. He leapt up with his gun-arm in the air.
‘My arm’s on bloody fire!’ he shouted.
Everyone stared, open-mouthed. John grabbed the nearest canteen and poured it over the hot muzzle, sending a thin trail of steam into the canopy. Then he looked at the firelit faces. A smile appeared on one, then another, followed by sniggers of laughter which grew contagious until someone burst out laughing.
‘You’re supposed to look after your weapon, remember?’ Crossley’s laugh was the loudest.
‘And your weapon will look after you!’ someone shouted back.
John hung his head sheepishly.
‘Alright, alright… stop laughing,’ he said, but couldn’t help but join in.
Mihran was up before dusk, using the last hour of daylight to check on those injured by the raging elephant. He was desperate to make up ground and worried they would slow them down.
Two days gone, twelve left.
Silently stepping over bodies, he checked those with broken bones, hoping their makeshift splints would allow them to travel, and listened to those with internal injuries. Two soldiers had died in their sleep: a Hebrew swordsman and a French rifleman.
He was barely conscious of it, but Mihran had created a collage of the group in the back of his mind. It was a subtle mesh of each soldier’s abilities and prowesses: how they balanced and complemented one another, both as a travelling group and as a fighting unit. With the dead men removed from the collage, it reshaped accordingly.
A silhouette and a faint green light caught his attention.
‘Good evening,’ Li whispered, scanning the dead bodies.
‘These two are–’
‘Yes. A shame. I’ve scanned everyone else and nobody should slow us down.’
Mihran smiled. ‘Wounds heal quick here,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Li agreed and looked up at the dwindling light. ‘We should wake everyone and pack before sundown.’
Samas stepped forward and gestured at the strips of elephant meat they had left smoking during the day. ‘And pack the rest of the meat.’
It seems I’m not the only one who can’t sleep, Mihran thought and turned to Samas. ‘My children often had trouble sleeping after a nightmare.’
Samas sniffed sharply.
‘How shall we carry such a quantity of meat?’ Mihran goaded him again.
Samas stared at him. ‘We’ll wrap it,’ he looked around, ‘in leaves or in the clothes of the dead, for all I care.’
‘You would show disrespect for our fallen allies?’ Mihran was enjoying this. It felt good to taunt him and get such a quick response.
‘No.’ Samas was squirming. ‘But food is scarce.’
Mihran took a step forward. ‘You risk our safety by weighing us down and–’
‘Stop!’ Li stepped between the men.
Samas raised a finger. ‘Do not tell me to–’
‘Or what?’ Li cut the Babylonian off. ‘And you?’ Li faced Mihran. ‘You’re both wise enough to know I could cut you down in a second.’
The argument woke the rest of the group, who stirred.
‘You are both from the same land for God’s sake… Damascus, Herat and Byzantium… same cities – different names maybe, but you both fought for the same land.’ Li looked at each one in turn. ‘Surely you can find some common ground?’
‘Yes.’ Mihran looked down his nose at Samas, remembering his history lessons. ‘I am fully aware of how the Persian Empire crumbled under Alexander’s heel.’
Samas narrowed his eyes. ‘It would have been a different story if I hadn’t been taken from my battle, believe me!’
‘Ha!’ Mihran turned and walked off.
An hour later, as the Night Watch moved through the forest at a fast pace, Mihran remained silent, preoccupied by Li’s words. The cities had just been dots on a map to him: trophies to be fought and won; nothing more than a list of victories; weak armies and soft citizens lucky to be taken under the wing of the Arab expansion. Mihran pictured the cities and the sieges, and his last battle came back to him as he walked.
General Khalid ibn al-Walid’s outnumbered army had been fighting the Byzantine army for six solid days in the August heat of Yarmouk, east of the Sea of Galilee. The Arab army had been wearing the enemy down with day after day of infantry manoeuvres and hammer-and-anvil tactics, raiding the enemy flanks with light cavalry. On this last day, General Khalid had victory in his sights.
Days of fighting on horseback had taken their toll on Mihran, yet he daren’t show it. He was high-born, from the Quraish tribe, with the honour of becoming a great warrior bestowed upon him from birth. He had been trained in martial arts, on horseback and on foot, and was a master of them all. He excelled with the lance, sword or bow and had switched between all three as he and his team of horsemen had repeatedly wheeled from one section of the battle to another, crashing into enemy lines with sharp blades swinging.
It was on a raid, as his unit of armoured horses smashed into the exposed flank of Byzantine centurions and Mihran’s lance sheared through shield and breastplate at a terrifying speed, that he sensed the noise of battle slip away, replaced by an echoing ticking sound, and then a surge of energy radiating from his body until – flash – the blood, the dust and the sun had disappeared.
Mihran looked back at the silhouettes of the gaggle of soldiers he now commanded and wrinkled his nose. These were just low-born fighters pretending to be soldiers. Poor imitations of himself, they faked the virtues of a great hero: honesty, strength and courage.
‘Your battle speed is impressive.’ He heard Li speaking to the tall Zulu warrior.
‘I am battle-ready in seconds,’ the Zulu explained. ‘In my land there are many night raids on villages.’
‘I see,’ Li replied. ‘You are one of Shaka’s men?’
‘Yes.’ The Zulu sounded surprised. ‘Ndleleni is my given name.’
‘On the road,’ Li replied, seemingly translating. ‘You use the assegai?’
‘Yes.’ Mihran heard a blade slip free. ‘Our greatest weapon. It lets us get close for the kill.’
Mihran added the mental image of the blade and attack manoeuvre to the picture of Ndleleni in his mind.
The Assyrian archer and the Aztec warrior could be heard too. ‘I wear it for protection.’
Mihran assumed the Aztec was talking about his jaguar-skin coat and headpiece.
‘I only need my bow for protection,’ Marodeen, the Assyrian archer, replied. ‘I heard some birds earlier – we could shoot a few?’
‘We don’t need any more meat,’ the Aztec replied. ‘The feast last night gave me my strength back!’
‘It couldn’t harm to practise though. Come on!’ Marodeen said.
‘I guess.’
‘We’re heading off for a detour!’ Marodeen shouted.
‘Don’t stray far,’ Samas shouted back.
‘Where in the heavens are they?’ Mihran asked as the Night Watch took a water break and sat around a large fruiting tree.
‘I swear I can smell roast pig.’ Sakarbaal stood up for a sniff.
Mihran ignored him, pacing on the edge of the circle. ‘We don’t have time for this. I don’t know why you let them go.’ Mihran taunted Samas again. ‘We may have lost another two men.’
‘There’s one of them!’ Sakarbaal called out.
‘Where?’ Olan asked. ‘Oh, the bearded archer. What’s his name?’
‘Marodeen,’ Li replied.
‘Marodeen!’ Samas called out. ‘What’s wrong? Where’s–’
‘Dead,’ the Assyrian shouted. ‘We need to leave!’ He was clearly panicked.
Mihran was already up and walking away. ‘Tell me what you saw.’ He beckoned Marodeen.
Marodeen’s eyes were wide with fright. ‘Killed by some…’ he fought for breath, ‘…huge… monster from Gilgamesh!’
‘Did it follow you?’ Mihran asked.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
Mihran didn’t wait to hear any more. ‘Fast pace!’
As he ran, he felt the mental image of his men becoming clearer as he sensed their vulnerabilities along with their skills. Although he wouldn’t admit it, he now knew they shouldn’t be travelling at night, and if they were to survive they needed to find the Day Watch.
John woke. The fires had died to glowing coals, peeping through blackened logs like demon eyes, while the grey haze through the leaves above whispered dawn.
‘I dreamt of drums,’ he told Randeep, who stood over him after waking him for guard duty.
‘Crossley said there was a commotion earlier,’ Randeep replied. ‘Distant rumbles, like thunder, he said.’
‘That could have been it,’ John said.
He sat up and checked his gun. His hand was deeper in the metal now and the gun had changed: the barrel was shorter and the wooden sections had fallen out, so he shoved them in his satchel. He strapped the gun to his chest and walked to the camp barrier of broken branches and scanned the undergrowth as he walked the perimeter. The forest was coming to life. A distant whistle sounded like no bird he’d ever heard, then he saw a family of rabbit-eared hedgehogs walking in line and he smiled. Keeping his eyes on the uneven forest floor, John noticed a line of large red ants scurrying through the dried leaves.
‘Hello…’ he bent down for a closer look.
Every other ant was carrying an object: a red berry, a blue flower or a white stone. Vibrant colours – no browns or greys.
John made a quick 360-degree check for danger then followed the line, careful not to stand on the busy creatures. The line converged with another then another, until the streams of ants became rivers, five-thick, flowing with brightly coloured objects, which John followed around an enormous, white-barked tree.
‘Wow!’ He stood, hands on hips, watching thousands of ants carrying their loads to a giant ant structure.
On its back sat a large queen ant surrounded by guards. For some reason, the ants bringing tributes reminded John of Christmas – of presents and the Three Wise Men.
Have they found religion? he wondered.
When he strolled back to camp, the group were rousing themselves and John heard Althorn and Lavalle as they kicked dirt onto the main fire.
‘I should scout ahead,’ Althorn told Lavalle. ‘Check our route and make sure we’re heading in the right direction.’
Lavalle frowned. ‘You should take someone with you.’
‘No, I’ll be faster on my own.’ Althorn’s hand touched his stomach.
‘How will you find us if we change direction?’ Lavalle asked.
‘Don’t worry.’ Althorn smiled and looked at John and the rest of the group. ‘I’ll be able to track you.’
Lavalle nodded. ‘Godspeed.’
The rest of the group breakfasted on wild pork and the roots Euryleia had foraged, and any spare meat smoked overnight was wrapped in leaves and distributed evenly.
Mata stood up with a groan. ‘I can’t wait to get out of this forest,’ he grimaced, ‘and get some sun on my skin!’
‘Sure is gloomy under these trees,’ Crossley agreed.
Two hours later, bird song filled the forest they walked through. Crossley pointed at a conifer-like tree with black, flat needles that snapped shut with a clap when the wind tickled it.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ John shook his head and smiled. ‘Whatever next?’
‘How about a tree covered in lollipops?’ Crossley said. ‘Any chance of that?’
‘Well it looks like the golden hills are near,’ John said, pointing to where the woodland thinned out.
‘Wait!’ Randeep shouted and the line stopped. ‘Did you hear that?’
John held his breath.
‘A rustling sound… listen.’
‘It’s just the wind!’ Crossley replied.
‘No, I heard it too,’ Lavalle said, ‘a brushing sound, like sand on wood.’
The warriors started to bunch up, with the twenty or so with spears keeping to the outside, next to those with shields. Apart from the rush of blood in his head, John couldn’t hear a thing.
‘There!’ Mata pointed into the canopy of a stand of trees. ‘Something grey up there.’
More shouts came, and John could see they were being circled by a beast nobody could describe. Black eyes, white teeth, grey tail. John heard swords being unsheathed and cradled his gun-arm, feeling useless.
A clap sounded behind them and all eyes shifted to a black-needled conifer where a dark shadow pulled itself from the depths of the forest. The shadow lengthened and swayed like a fish through water. All eyes fixed on the shape as it revealed itself: a seven-metre-long great white shark. With frightening speed, the shark flew at them. Lances and swords glanced off its tough skin as it sped past and a Cossack soldier fell to the ground as a fin sliced through his leg muscles. Then the shark darted off with an Incan warrior in its jaws.
‘Regroup! Regroup!’ Lavalle yelled.
‘Form a circle!’ Mata shouted.
‘Shields in the centre above our heads, spears on the edge,’ Euryleia added.
Weapons and shields clashed then, when they reached formation, a cold silence fell.
‘It swam through the air.’ John heard Crossley talking to himself.
‘Give the javelin throwers room to manoeuvre,’ Lavalle said calmly. ‘And then–’
The sight of the shark cut him off. The beast dashed in, as if it were in the thick atmosphere of the ocean. A sword jabbed out to nick a fin and a spear lodged itself in the shark’s flank, but nothing slowed it down. In a flash it had snapped its jaws around Tobar, the Roman.
‘Help!’ the centurion screamed as the giant jaws crushed his rectangular shield around him and dragged him away, leaving a trail of armour and blood behind.
‘There’s nothing we can do!’ John shouted above the yells, as Lavalle tried to organise the group.
‘We can’t defend against that!’ Crossley shouted.
‘Of course we can.’ Lavalle was defiant.
‘Lavalle, we’ve lost two men already.’ Euryleia looked panicked. ‘We should go before we lose more!’
‘We have to decide quick!’ Lavalle said and, before he could ask for a show of hands, the group scattered out of the forest and up the open hillside of orange and yellow cacti.
John joined the rush and only looked back to stop to catch his breath halfway up the hill. Trees were shaking on the edge of the forest, giving the shark’s position away. Then it burst out, charging at the soldiers at the rear, who defended in vain against the large predator. Archers attacked from all sides but no arrow stuck.
John spotted a blur of movement rushing through the trees from the right. It cut in between the shark and the soldiers and was followed by a series of small explosions. Shocked and showered with dirt, the shark swerved and dodged, snapping its enormous mouth at the air.
‘Woo-hoo!’ Crossley shouted.
Confused by the attack, the shark flicked its powerful tail and flew back into the trees, followed by more explosions. The warriors on the hillside stood in silence as the blur slowed to form the figure of a laughing Celt holding a catapult.
‘Althorn!’ John shouted and the crowd erupted with a cheer.
‘I really need to get some of those toadstools,’ Crossley said.
But their joy was short-lived.
‘What’s that noise?’ Mata asked.
John could hear a low rumbling sound.
Mata looked up. ‘It’s coming from over there.’ He pointed across the forest, back to the obelisk hill from where they had started their journey.
John ran uphill to Lavalle and Euryleia to get a better view.
‘Is it an earthquake?’ Euryleia asked.
Crossley shook his head. ‘Not if we can’t feel it here.’
‘Then what is happening?’ Lavalle squinted.
The rumbling stopped and, in the distance, the entire obelisk hill dropped from view as though falling into a huge hole, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of dust.