‘Another typical Sorean,’ Panzicosta said.
The cat-like creature, which had been covered in a thick coat of brown fur, breathed heavily through its broken muzzle. Four foot tall when standing on its hind legs, it now hung limp on hooks in the corner of the dark cave of a room. The sight sent a warm shiver through General Panzicosta and his scales rippled in delight with each slice of the knife. Casually, he snipped off a section of digit and punctured an exposed organ with one of his many spiked and bladed appendages. A gurgle came in response from the dying creature’s torn throat and, in the opposite corner of the room, a small red-skinned reptile made clicking noises as it recorded Panzicosta’s comments.
‘No adaptations of any worth, alas. Nothing we could use.’ Panzicosta sighed. ‘And I do get terribly bored when they run out of energy.’
He nonchalantly snipped another length off the Sorean’s tail, ignoring the whimpers, and stared out of the solitary, tiny window in the mud-brick wall, watching as a blue-shelled sentinel scuttled into the camp, straight for a water pit, where it flicked muddy liquid onto its protective carapace, which hissed with steam. The sight raised Panzicosta’s spirits. The sentinel eggs had been positioned along the desert border, designed by Doctor Cynigar to hatch when disturbed by foreign army activity, so this arrival meant good news.
Panzicosta watched the other Brakari as they busied themselves, the giant arthropods with shells of midnight blue like his own whipping and zapping creatures carrying loads or constructing rude shelters. The camp buzzed with furred bipeds and limbless pyramids, reptilian worms working alongside twelve-foot-tall robots that lurched and jolted as the controlling braces around their necks and limbs shocked them into action.
The smell of the dying creature pulled Panzicosta back to his work, and he turned to face it.
‘One last time,’ he growled, ‘why do you not fight us?’
The Sorean coughed, sending a spray of bubbled blood down its sliced chest.
‘Why do you hide away?’ Panzicosta asked. ‘You are a martial race – you must fight!’
The Sorean’s eyes widened with something Panzicosta had seen many times before – the final burst of defiant energy.
‘We will…’ the Sorean struggled with each word, but Panzicosta drew strength from its pain, knowing its end was near, ‘…never be defeated.’
Panzicosta had heard it before and glanced through the window again. The sentinel was talking to a guard who gestured in Panzicosta’s direction. It had better be good news, he thought, and faced the Sorean again.
‘You will never be defeated if you don’t fight, you cowardly piece of shit,’ he said as a shadow darkened the room’s doorway.
‘General Panzicosta,’ the stout guard growled.
‘What?’ Panzicosta snarled and snapped his scales.
‘A sentinel has returned.’
‘Bring it to me.’ Panzicosta paused a second, then punched a claw into the bloodied Sorean’s neck, beheading it instantly. He felt a warm shiver run through his body as he strode past the guard.
Outside, on the muddy ground, the blue sentinel cowered before Panzicosta.
‘Report,’ Panzicosta said with feigned lack of interest.
‘Victorio Brakarius, General,’ the sentinel replied. ‘I am the first awakened. Newcomers have arrived. Beyond the lake.’
‘Details?’ Panzicosta barked.
‘The Draytor left the central lake to intercept them. It reports they are bipeds with internal skeletons.’
‘Like these bloody Sorean. Soft-bellied shitbags,’ Panzicosta replied and turned a circle as new thoughts came to him: soft creatures would mean victory… soft creatures were fun to pull apart. ‘What else from our shape-shifter?’ Panzicosta asked.
‘The Draytor has intercepted the group. It killed one soldier and has taken its place.’
‘Good.’ Panzicosta raised himself up on his stout legs. It was always pleasing when his soldiers worked for his glory without any effort from him. ‘Eat to replenish,’ he told the sentinel and gestured to a wooden cage of mangy rat-like creatures.
‘The Draytor reported one soldier was seen flying, General,’ the sentinel continued.
‘Interesting.’ Panzicosta scraped two forearm blades together. ‘What became of it? Is it heading our way?’
‘No, General. It crashed soon after take off.’
‘ Start log . ’ Delta-Six recorded his journal as he strode purposefully through the forest. ‘ Day two in unknown country. No link with recon sats. Net link down. Re sources sixty percent , energy levels seventy-six percent . Ment al state below optimal . No injuries from crash. Unsure of cause. Possible lightning strike. ’
He paused to peer up through the tree canopy at the green-tinged clouds above.
‘ N o word from my team ,’ he continued . His training dictated he must record all thought s so that, e ven if he was killed in action, his observations could be downloaded later and used by intell. ‘C oded messages have been sent on emergency broad-widths , but no response from base. I assume I’m in enemy territory or captured . It’s possible t he Guevarians slipped me hallucinogens or hooked me up to a VR prison . End log,’ he commanded and a quiet beep responded.
Delta-Six resumed his walk, keeping to the high ground where possible.
If he remembered c orrectly from the briefings, his computer system was an array of processors, databases and analytical cores distributed throughout his shield suit and linked to his body through several neural inputs. He hoped none of it had been damaged by his crash.
‘Replay recent events,’ he ordered and scanned back to hi s last mem ories before the hill .
A box appeared in t he top-right corner of his visi on and , as he ducked branches and avoided trees, he watched the playback from his hip camera: shapes appeared through a grey mist as he descended in formation with his squad, clos ing in on a Guevarian cloud base . T he fire teams separate d, t he Guevarian fortress appeared f r om the clouds and then lines of light cut across the screen as Delta-Six open ed fire , followed by a blinding flash.
The next image was of grass.
‘Away,’ Delta-S ix said and the replay box vanished.
The flash of light must have been an anti-air missile, he thought, which suggested he had been captured and the virtual environment hypothesis was most likely .
But it felt so real.
A war ning light flashed on Delta-S ix’s screen.
‘Start log,’ he said . ‘ My power cell s are being sapped . Searching for solar input.’ He looked up and remembered t he mini-sat he had sent up on arrival. ‘ No message from Copan- One since initiation . ’
A new warning light appeared on the screen, followed by the message filters disabled .
What filters? Delta- Six thought. Filters had never been mentioned in any briefing .
He stopped and, as per training, allowed his mind to clear, allowing him to sense any cyber-attack or degradation of his systems. He let his mind wander across his body, from his feet upwards. It fe l t different. It felt… open. But if his systems had filters, w hat was being filter ed out ?
He scanned through his memory videos – nothing new there. The guys from his fire team – all their files l ooked the same as his had before – but his file was larger. Delta-Six opened it up and found a range of new biometric data files dating back to his initial cloning.
Delta-Six woke with a start and reached out to grab the nearest thing… a branch ? He steadied himself, let the remnants of his nightmare fade and took in his surroundings . Thr ee nights he had spent like this , sleeping in trees, listening to the night creatures and wary of any attack.
He unhooked his night hammock, stuffed it back in its pocket and clambered down to the forest floor , where he gave his suit a quick check: feeling with his hands while his diagnost i c systems r an tests through the circuits. T hen he checked his night traps… all empty. With a sigh, he realigned his geographic pointers and resumed his journey.
‘Start log ,’ he spoke as he walked, not wanting to waste time. ‘ M y suit has degraded overnight with t hree sections r educed in size. I t could be a default m ode to conserve energy we weren’t briefed on.’
Lights flashed on his screen as various sensors picked up life in the forest outside his peripheral vision. The night settings were still on, so the move ment and sound detectors were set to maximum.
‘My biodata suggest I’m lacking minerals despite my daily pills and… odd to say, but I have the urge to eat soil. I can’t say wh – ’
A red circle appeared on Delta-Six’s screen and he turned to where his sensors showed a life presence nearby . Nothing was visible through the undergrowth, so he closed in, walking softly across the leafy ground. Sounds were coming through now – voices magnified by his sensors.
‘…the Night Watch would be doing . ’ A voice came through, interspersed with clicks which Delta-Six recognised as a sign of the translation processors working.
‘Sleeping?’ someone replied.
‘You wouldn’t get me travelling at night,’ someone else said and a name popped up on Delta-Six’s screen: John Greene.
Delta-Six stopped behind a stand of bracken , used his visual filters and magnifiers to focus in on the group of soldiers , h i s systems recognising various faces from three days earlier on the hill , flashing images on his screens where names were unk n own . Behind John, who had his gun and arm tied to his body in a sling, the Scythian archer was tend ing to an injured Maori.
‘Your wounds are healing well, ’ she said.
‘And this?’
The Maori point ed to his abdomen.
‘Green… but not an infection,’ she replied. ‘F rom the red root perhaps? How do you feel?’
‘I could use some sun but – ’
A shadow appeared to Delta-Six’s left , and he reacted swiftly: rolling back to a defensive position with his arm laser pointed at the shape. ‘Hold!’ he shouted as the word ‘Althorn’ appeared on one side of his view .
Althorn pulled his hood back and held out a hand . ‘ I didn’t mean to surprise you,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you join us?’
Delta-Six cursed his alarm system for not picking Althorn up and triggered a hormone jab to counteract his adrenaline spike .
‘You could be enemy agents,’ Delta-Six repli ed , holding his arm steady .
As he said the words , he didn’t feel any corresponding emotion . He couldn’t explain why , but it unsettled him.
Althorn shrugged and said, ‘ We are not your enemy. ’ He pointed at Delta-Six’s suit. ‘You are chang ing too, I see . ’
‘The laws seem different here , ’ Delta-Six replied, realising how desperate he was for human contact.
A lthorn nodded. ‘This is a str ange country.’ He looked to the group, then back . ‘ W hen you need us, you can join us.’
‘Yes,’ Delta-Six repli ed and lowered his arm . ‘But my training dictates…’
‘We could use your he lp,’ Althorn said. ‘To guide us.’
Delta-Six felt the urge to join them, to be part of a team again. But his survival instincts were overpowering his logic with reasons not to join them: it could be a trap; they could be Guevarians; he was better on his own; trust nobody.
‘Good luck,’ Delta-Six muttered and walked away.
Isao Yakamori dropped into a mellow state of meditation, internalising and clarifying his thoughts. His mind slipped back to some days earlier when he’d first arrived on the grassy hill, fresh from war. One minute he’d been slicing through a troop of enemy soldiers with his long, flawless sword, about to duel a fellow samurai fighting under his enemy’s banner, the next he was on a grassy hillside, surrounded by strange-looking soldiers. The men had walked towards a ringing bell, but Isao had seen a vivid streak of white, painted by an unseen hand in the green sky, and set off straight away, unaware of where he was headed. He’d raised an eyebrow when he heard distant explosions and a roar of voices, but by then he was well into the forest.
Now, Isao brought himself back to the present, climbed down from his sleeping place and straightened his undergarments. He attached his sword to his belt and set off once more, pondering his task. He travelled light and covered ground quickly, admiring the change in landscape as he progressed.
He had left his mind blank and suppressed his questions so they would resurface answered in his dreams, but one thought kept returning: the flash of light. He knew it was important but, like a cup of water forever out of reach, he remained thirsty.
Then it came to him – Master Takahashi’s tales. The flash! A memory returned from his disciple days, sitting on the monastery floor. If he remembered correctly, there was an ancient tale where a great warrior had been taken from the battlefield by a lightning bolt. Isao had not given the stories the slightest credibility, but now…
A noise in the forest attracted him: a commotion forty paces away. The swish of feet dancing across the leaf litter was common enough, but a peculiar wild growling intrigued him, so Isao skirted round under the cover of scrub, to get a good view. As he neared he could hear the familiar, liquid sound of steel slicing through flesh and a deep-throated scream from the beast. The pounding feet of the large creature sounded frantic.
Isao edged forward, peeking through the undergrowth to see silhouettes circling a large striped beast. A piercing shriek, hauntingly cut off mid-note, sent a shiver through Isao’s body and signalled the end of the fight, followed by the heavy thud of the dead animal. Isao quietly bent a branch back to see the blood-soaked body of a tiger, flanked by two samurai warriors.
‘Start log,’ Delta-Six whispered as he crouched behind a bush, focusing on the t hree men his sensors had picked up.
Each spoke a different dialect of Japanese, which hissystems translated for him. One was armed with a bow and quiver of arrows, while a second carried a sword and a bow. The archer’s clothing was more suitable for riding horses than for infantry warfare. Accessing his database, Delta-Six matched the language and style of armour for each soldier: the earliest samurai was from the Kamakura period, the second from the northern island of Kyushu, from the time of the Mongol nautical attacks, and the third from the later Muromachi period.
They stood around the body of a tiger.
‘Where did this Western beast come from?’ asked the Kyushu samurai.
‘I do not know,’ the Kamakura swordsman answered,while the third shrugged.
They kept their distance from each other , Delta-Six thought.
‘You have come from battle?’ the eldest samurai asked.
‘Yes. You?’
‘We all have.’
‘What about those other soldiers? The foreign ones?’
The tallest samurai shook his head. ‘An invasion?’
‘No . ’ The Kyushu samurai looked stern.
‘Then what is to be done?’
‘We are deserters.’
‘Yes . ’ The eldest nodded. ‘We have abandoned our allies.’
‘Disgraced our daimyo.’
‘Broken our vows.’
‘The shame will be too much to bear.’
They chimed in unison. ‘Seppuku.’
What happened next shocked Delta-Six. He had witnessed the aftermath of some horrific events during his war but this shook him emotionally. His systems suggested the s amurai ’ s act was part of a ri t ualistic code of honour – bushido , or the way of the warrior – but he found it senseless.
He watched the playback on his vid-cam. The three samurai knelt and each drew a short dagger. Without a glance to his neighbour , each man plunged the blade in his belly, dragged it across in a sharp disembowelling movement, pulled it out and stabbed himself in the throat. Each man bled to death with low groans and gargled breaths.
There was little Delta-Six could have done even if he’d wanted to , but that wasn’t why he re-watched the video . S omething strange happened after their deaths. He focused the recording in as a faint mist gather ed around the bodies , moving like a serpent, nestling between limbs and in the folds of their cloaks before forming a distinct cloud over each body. The three patches then rose to form humanoid shapes, which circled onc e before wafting away together. All that was left behind were three piles of clothes and three evaporating trails .
‘Start log,’ Delta-Six spoke as he fixed a skinned rodent on a skewer over a fire of glowing coals. ‘Now I’m past the golden hills, this new forest must be a short distance from the expanse of water I saw during my brief flight.’
He adjusted the skewer , then unfolded a cup from his pack and mix ed powders and liquids.
‘Systems are low on power,’ he continued, ‘with no direct sunlight to recharge , and m y upper back is bruised where the jetpack sits on my spine .’ He paused , wondering whether he should continue with his trail of thought. ‘This journey… I’ve never had so much time. Tim e to think. To think freely. I have to conclude some of the removed filters were a safety net restricting my thought processes . I t w ould explain the mental freedom I’ve experienced these past few days. But why would the generals control our thoughts? They may want us to fight like robots but until they get the glitches fixed in the new fighting units they’ll have to put up with us humans, warts and all. ’
Del ta-Six twist ed the skewer and stared up at the tree canopy. His thoughts drifted back to the Himalayan training camp after his final growth- boo st session in the Mariana labs where he and the other clones were briefed. Delta-Six’s Alpha, Beta and Charlie were grouped there . All sixes like him , so there was no pressure to be the first. They completed the physical tests and stress analysis soon enough, so m oved on to marksmanship, where they met Colonel Johnson.
‘Right you freaks, line up!’ The Colonel looked a pure military man. ‘Produce your weapons and give me five shots on each target .’ They assumed their positions and Delta-Six heard the Colonel mumble, ‘I don’t know why we bother with this.’
‘Sir?’ Delta-Six asked.
‘This whole thing’s a joke . ’ He shook his head and straightened up.
Was he depressed? Why hadn’t the emo tests picked that up? Maybe his posting was a punishment?
‘Delta-Six. Your score will be the same as your… brothers ’ . Identical,’ the Colonel said with a sneer.
There was hatred in his ey es. It wasn’t the first time Delta-Six had seen it – the regular soldiers despised him , but Earth’s manpower had been severely reduced since the exodus. Anyone who had fought in the colonies wouldn’t hack Earth’s gravity again even if they did want to come back.
‘You’re all t he same,’ the Colonel walked the line. ‘Alpha, you’ll get seventy-one percent, Beta sixty-eight percent, Charlie sixty-three percent and Delta fifty-eight percent . ’ He sighed again. ‘Just get on with it.’
Delta-Six pulled the skewer out of the ground and bit into the tough, charred rodent meat. Not tasty, but it would do, he thought.
He remembered the look on the Colonel’s face when his score came back: a mix of confusion and fear. Delta-Six had scored e ighty-three percent .
General Panzicosta strode out of the low, domed building, happy to have room to stretch his six broad legs.
‘If it’s not completed on my return I will feed you to a pack of Skrift.’
‘Yes, General!’ a shrill voice replied from inside the hut.
The collection of Brakari officers waiting in the mud stopped their chatter. Dawn was breathing light into the hazy sky and gave shape to the scattered buildings of their outpost.
‘Is my Lutamek prepared?’ Panzicosta demanded, opening the spiracle holes across his body to sniff the morning air.
‘Yes, General. Oiled and charged,’ replied a broad Brakari with barbed spines lining his shell.
‘And braces? Does it have braces?’ Panzicosta bristled. ‘Two days ago a Lutamek ran amok and killed three officers.’ His mouth-pieces twitched as he loomed over the officer. ‘We don’t need to lose any more, do we?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good. We must find a more suitable restraint for these leviathans.’
A smaller officer stepped forward. ‘General, I triple-braced the mechanoid myself.’
The grey, long-tailed Brakari’s body was sleek as though designed for speed.
‘Good,’ Panzicosta replied and strode to the Lutamek: a five-metre-long metallic box that sparked and shook, revealing its true nature. He gave it a casual flick with a spiked claw and turned back to the officer. ‘What are your tasks here, Bitet?’
‘Sir, I am now known as Millok… after my transformation.’
Panzicosta’s scales flexed and Millok took a step back. Slowly the scales lowered.
‘Yes, Millok.’ Panzicosta wasn’t keen on female soldiers in his army – they only had one use as far as he was concerned. ‘Your tasks?’
Millok’s grey body swayed a little. ‘Guard duties, feeding, Lutamek-bracing…’
‘Are you bored here, Millok?’ Panzicosta asked.
Millok stretched to her full height, still only reaching two-thirds of Panzicosta’s frame. ‘I am a proud Brakari warrior, General. As you know, my clan defended the Gulm Islands for…’
‘Yes. I know Brakari history.’
This was growing tiresome. Panzicosta considered killing the officers around him and taking the female to one of his torture rooms but he remembered his orders. ‘Are you bored here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then it is decided,’ Panzicosta leapt onto the back of the Lutamek. ‘Doctor Cynigar wishes to further his experiments when we reach Abzicrutia.’
‘Again, General?’ Millok asked.
‘Yes. You will accompany me.’ He moved his rump to a depression and looked down at the officer. ‘And if you cease questioning me, you may make it to Abzicrutia alive.’
Millok made a twisting movement with her head then leapt onto the front of the large machine, whose grey and black sections were punctured with crude service panels. Tank tracks had been bolted to each side, transforming the fighting machine into a transporter.
‘You can drive, Millok, and be assured, if it misbehaves I will be picking the remains of your guts from my mandibles with your tail.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Millok tapped a panel in the Lutamek to reveal a set of buttons. ‘Are you ready, General?’
‘Of course I’m ready,’ he snarled. ‘I have been waiting an eternity for this moment. It’s time to prepare for war!’
‘Come on short-ass – wake up!’
John stretched a leg and wrinkled his nose.
Crossley was standing over him.
‘Ten days and counting, Limey – we need to get a move on!’
‘Right,’ John said and raised his good hand.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Images of a dream came back to him… no, it was a memory. He’d been nine, and his parents and grandfather had taken him to Margate for the day: a stick of rock; a donkey ride; Punch and Judy; a race along the sand. John had been in the lead but slipped a few steps from the tape.
‘Stupid boy!’ his grandfather had shouted. ‘Why did you fall over? Stupid boy!’
John breathed deeply and stared at the cave walls of their temporary haven. The sound of water crashing some hundred feet below was dulled by the curtain of water that hid the cave. He strapped his gun-arm across his chest and stood up. ‘I need a wash.’
‘Sure,’ Crossley said and returned to his conversation with a Russian soldier. ‘So the Germans never learnt, seriously, we just walked up and…’
‘We’ll leave as soon as Althorn returns,’ Lavalle called out as John passed.
A Thracian spearman played a game of stones with a Polish swordsman near the mouth of the cave.
‘And I win again! Shall we play another?’
‘I think you may be too good for this game. How about a new game? Let’s play for money,’ the Polish man said.
‘Money? What use is money here? How about that gold ring of yours?’
John stepped onto a ledge that zigzagged down the cliff face. Randeep was further down, practising with his long, curved sword, sending sprays of water across the rocks. Further down, John caught a glimpse of Mata, who had been complaining about the dark cave and stood now in ankle-deep water, basking in the hazy rays of light. His wounds had healed, leaving three parallel scars to accompany his tattoos.
Eventually, John found a secluded shallow pool set into the rock wall and started the laborious process of getting undressed. He let his gun-arm hang loose by his side and slipped his left arm out of his jacket but it snagged when he pulled the right sleeve off, tearing on the metal of his gun.
‘Damn it!’ John cursed and crouched down.
He closed his eyes to summon more energy. He’d have to rip his shirt sleeve too and somehow wash without getting this hand wet – the last time he did that it sunk further into the metal.
After some puffing and panting, John got the rest of his clothes off and slid naked into the cool water with a sharp intake of breath. He held his gun-arm high and studied it: the barrel had shrunk to half its original length, his hand had been completely absorbed into the stock of the gun and a black sheen on his wrist suggested metal was seeping up his arm.
With a sigh, John closed his eyes and allowed the journey of the past few days to wash over him. Two days crossing the golden hills had been eventful. Four soldiers had been injured after a run-in with the poisonous lizard Euryleia had called a basilisk, and there had been skirmishes with a troop of violent baboons and a huge ground python.
John let his mind clear. Too much thinking led to a muddled mind, his father used to say, so he focused on the sounds around him. A distant voice could be heard: a Scottish warrior singing a lament, whose melody soothed John’s thoughts, but the water was too cold to rest in, so he made his wash quick.
On the way back up, he passed Mata’s empty pool and spotted two spiral impressions in the mud, which stayed in his mind as the conversation flowed around him in the main cave.
‘…your song reminded me of home.’
‘I swear I saw soldiers when you sang.’
‘No,’ the Scottish soldier replied, ‘you’re pulling my chain.’
‘One was a big bloke with red hair and a squint like this.’
Mata was still complaining: ‘The waterfall blocks out too much light.’
‘Don’t worry; we’ll be heading out soon.’ John calmed the big Maori and joined Crossley, who was with Randeep and Lavalle.
‘Has anyone else had any… changes?’ Randeep asked.
Lavalle was the first to reply, ‘Apart from John’s arm and Althorn’s speed, no.’
‘How is your arm now, John?’ Randeep asked.
‘Well, I guess I could say it’s better, but it never actually hurt.’ John held his arm up, which looked like a short-muzzled gun had been melted onto his elbow.
‘Still, can’t be much fun, hey buddy?’ Crossley slapped him on the shoulder.
‘What was your last battle like, John?’ Randeep asked.
John swallowed. ‘Well, my war was territorial, fought along lines.’ He spoke with a slight stutter, not used to the attention. ‘We dug trenches – been there for over a year, defending a command station.’ John’s courage grew as he spoke. ‘I looked after the Lewis gun… it’s not like the Vickers, which gets fixed in place – we had to carry it on raids to defend the flanks.’
‘You had a crew though, right?’ Crossley asked.
John nodded. ‘But I could fire and load it myself,’ John said and remembered the crater.
‘So what does this gun do?’ Randeep asked.
‘It fires these,’ Crossley unclipped a round from John’s cache and threw it to the Sikh swordsman, ‘.303 calibre.’
‘Arrowheads?’ Randeep passed it on.
‘Bullets,’ John answered. ‘It fires about five hundred a minute if you can change the magazines quick enough.’
Murmurs spread and a group built around John, eager to see his gun.
‘And it fires how far?’ Randeep asked.
‘Seven hundred paces.’
Some of the soldiers gasped.
‘But now all it does is hinder our friend.’ Lavalle passed the bullet back to its owner.
‘You never know,’ Crossley smiled, ‘it might end up firing fingers instead of bullets!’
John laughed but was horrified by the thought.
A commotion was building behind Crossley, where a whirlwind span through the cave, writing a grey trail of dust up to Lavalle, where the colours caught up and merged into the shape of a man.
‘Althorn,’ Lavalle said. ‘What news?’
‘There is much to tell.’ Althorn leant on his knees and caught his breath. ‘This rainforest ends after the next peak, followed by a pine forest.’
‘And beyond that?’ Lavalle asked.
‘Did you see the silver gates?’ a lancer called out.
‘No gates. There’s a cliff and a descent, then mist.’
‘And beyond the mist?’ Crossley asked.
Althorn sat down. ‘A shore of one of the largest rivers I have ever seen.’
John dropped his head and wondered how much more walking he could take.
‘You are sure this is the way we have to travel?’ Mata asked.
‘Yeah,’ Crossley joined in. ‘Who’s to say we haven’t already missed the silver gates?’
A low hum ran around the group.
‘Althorn has been on many scouting missions,’ Lavalle said. ‘If the silver gates were near, he would have seen them.’
‘But how do we know for sure?’ Crossley asked.
‘A sign is what we need – like the obelisk.’
‘But we’re running out of time!’
‘Listen,’ Althorn held out his palms. ‘I’m sure we’ll know when we’re near the silver gates. As for the river – there is no sign of a ford.’
‘So, we have to cross the damn thing?’ said Crossley. ‘Paddle the Mississippi without a boat?’
‘It seems so,’ Althorn said.
‘Okay, so what do we know about the water?’ Crossley asked.
‘It’s fed by the waterfall and other rivers,’ Althorn replied.
‘Currents? Depth? Salinity? We need to check all these things out.’ Crossley stood, hands on hips.
‘We can organise that when we get to the river.’ Lavalle gave Crossley a look he saved for the American. ‘We must pack and get moving.’
‘This is pointless, goddamit!’ Everyone looked at Crossley. ‘We carry on like good little soldiers – obeying orders that were written on a block of stone, for Christ sake. Why?’
John sighed. ‘Why us?’
The looks on the other soldiers’ faces suggested they were thinking the same thing.
‘Those who stand against you fall in great numbers.’ Lavalle recalled the passage from the obelisk.
‘It’s true.’ A Thracian held his javelin proudly. ‘I am the greatest warrior of my tribe. We are prized by the Macedonians, who pay us well.’
‘I’m the sharpest shot in my battalion,’ a rifleman said.
‘And I am considered one of the finest swordsmen in the Levant,’ Lavalle boasted.
‘Really?’ Crossley asked with sarcasm.
‘Yes.’ He squinted at Crossley. ‘And I’m sure your… skills were equally deadly during your war.’
Crossley nodded. ‘I must have killed a few hundred troops.’
‘I have killed many enemy soldiers.’ Mata nodded.
‘Too many to count.’ Althorn’s eyes hardened.
Images of enemy soldiers’ bodies lining the crater came back to John. ‘I couldn’t say how many I killed. I just aimed and fired. I could have shot that many, I guess.’
‘You are the youngest here,’ Lavalle pointed out, ‘and your weapon was incredibly proficient.’
‘But you couldn’t have killed hundreds of men with your sword,’ John replied.
‘Not just my sword: my lance, my horse, my mace and shield. Have you seen an armoured warhorse run full speed into seven rows of foot soldiers?’
John shook his head and turned to Euryleia. ‘And you?’
She nodded her head solemnly.
These were proud warriors, John thought, but still felt the guilt of taking the lives of others.
An hour’s march on, with the roar of the waterfall now behind them, Crossley and John compared their wars.
‘Yes, well,’ John said. ‘I was pushed into the army, to be honest.’
‘Really?’
‘My grandfather was a decorated soldier – he believed in fighting for your country. He fought in the Crimea.’ John didn’t want to explain on which side his grandfather fought, so he asked, ‘How about you? Why did you sign up?’
‘I’d have been conscripted to fight sooner or later,’ Crossley said. ‘I thought I may as well have some choice in what I wanted to do. I always liked playing with explosives, so…’
‘Did you meet any British troops?’ John asked.
‘Hell, yeah, all over the place! There was this one time your boys helped me out of a fix.’ Crossley launched into a tale of being on Sicily, blowing up watchtowers around some bay, and various other exploits. As Crossley’s tales melted into one another, the group filed out of the thick woodland, dripping with vegetation, and into a pine forest where the ground cover was thinner, giving them a better view around.
‘We have a good chance of finding something to eat in here,’ Lavalle said.
‘A perfect hunting ground,’ Euryleia agreed and stepped off the path, her silent feet leaving no trail.
‘She’d make someone a good wife.’ Crossley nudged John. ‘Even goes hunting for you, eh?’
John smiled but stayed silent, not wanting to tempt the wrath of Lavalle.
A few minutes later, deep in the forest, Mata shouted from the back of the line. ‘Somebody’s running towards us!’
‘Euryleia?’ Lavalle stopped and called out. ‘Euryleia!’
‘Quick, group up!’ Althorn shouted.
The Day Watch moved into a tight formation of blades, primed arrow tips and spears with John at the centre, cradling his gun.
With a yell, Euryleia appeared, bursting through a bush some fifty paces back.
‘Run!’ she shouted.
‘What is it?’ Althorn called out.
‘Wolves!’
Half the group sprinted away immediately.
‘Run, everyone!’ Althorn ushered the remaining troops away.
‘Come on, Mata!’ John shouted to the Maori, who started to jog.
Euryleia overtook John as he heard thumping paws and howls. Althorn was already long gone and John had lost sight of the others as they ran down the bending track.
But the forest remained empty.
John stopped to look back.
‘Come on, Mata. Keep–’
John froze when he saw movement in the ground behind Mata: patches of brown pine needles were rising and falling out of the dry soil and moving at him with speed. On one flank, John saw grey fur appear and sink back down.
‘Keep running!’ John shouted at Mata.
Mata shook his head, slowing down to turn and stand in a defensive pose. The sound of running paws grew louder as a pair of wolves rose up out of the earth as if emerging from a sea of soil. Mata slipped his club from his belt. John looked around, but everyone had gone. Two more wolves rose out of the dirt, their white eyes glaring and mouths foaming, and John stood frozen to the spot, watching helplessly as the wolves closed in on Mata.
Then something bizarre happened.
Mata grew in size. His fingers lengthened, winding around his club. And dark shapes tore through his arms and back.
‘What happened?’ Crossley asked between puffs of his cigarette when John and Mata had finally caught up with the group.
John looked at Mata for an explanation, but the large Maori was busy drinking water.
‘Erm.’ John felt his cheeks redden as the rest of the group turned to him. ‘The wolves are dead,’ he said.
John avoided Crossley’s eyes and took a furtive glance at Mata. He swore he could see a new set of markings on his shoulder.
How could he describe what he’d seen? John thought as Lavalle ushered them on. In his mind’s eye he could still see Mata exploding into a tangle of vines and deadly branches, throwing and tearing the wolves apart like rag dolls.