‘I can’t see any bodies,’ John said as a new battlefield appeared on the horizon.
‘Plenty of graves though.’ Crossley pointed to a series of mounds spread out in a random fashion, unlike the previous regimented graves.
‘Some have a stick at one end.’ Euryleia pointed.
‘To mark the head?’ Lavalle tried to catch her eye but she walked away.
‘They were big.’ Crossley coughed. ‘Humanoid.’
‘The others have a stone,’ John said.
Mihran stared at the white obelisk, then spoke to Li: ‘Scan this field as you have the others. I need more data and then–’
‘Halt!’ A deep voice boomed and a silhouette appeared of a tall biped.
‘Friend or foe?’ Bowman was nearest but received no reply.
John held his breath and took a step back. Even in the low light he recognised the figure.
‘What is your name?’ Mihran stepped forward, his scarlet robes flowing in the breeze.
‘I am Peronicus-Rax,’ the tall creature replied.
‘The watcher,’ John whispered and stared at the one large eye in his oval head, just like in the pictures.
Peronicus-Rax stood over eight feet tall, and his body was festooned with a variety of weapons and trinkets, dangling from belts and hooks. He didn’t move, yet the thickness of his limbs suggested great strength.
‘What happened here?’ Mihran asked.
‘Battle, war, death,’ Peronicus-Rax replied.
‘And then?’
‘I buried them where they fell.’ His voice was deep and full of sorrow.
Li stepped forward to get a better view. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Long enough.’ He winced and bent away in pain. ‘Desist your scanning, female.’
‘Sorry, I…’ Li looked away.
‘Your species is new to this land and you have questions.’ He looked from soldier to soldier. ‘I have answers but I doubt you want to hear them.’
‘We would appreciate any information you have,’ Mihran answered.
‘Do you have shelter?’ Lavalle asked.
‘Yes, but be careful not to draw attention.’
Crossley looked at John and mouthed, ‘What does he mean?’
‘There must be other armies about,’ John whispered back.
Peronicus-Rax strode off and John kept an eye on him, wondering what drew this creature to death.
‘This place feels creepier than the other battlefields,’ Crossley whispered. ‘I mean… he buried all of these guys?’
John agreed. ‘Maybe that’s why he brings us here?’ John replied.
‘I don’t know. It’s more like he’s here to clear up, like some kinda priest.’
‘We can’t trust him,’ John said.
‘Why?’ Crossley asked.
‘He’s drawn to death.’ John tried to find the words. ‘He looks for death… he’s dangerous.’
Crossley pointed ahead to the view unfolding in the low light. ‘But we’ve got somewhere to sleep tonight.’
The ground dropped away to reveal what looked like an elephant graveyard. Huge, motionless creatures lay scattered across the dusty valley floor. At first, John thought they were sleeping, but their loose skins flapped in the wind.
They descended the shallow incline and John stared up at the huge creatures, wondering if they’d been warriors or beasts of burden. Each carcase bore no obvious face or limbs, just a bulk of desiccated flesh, and a spicy odour wafted from the bodies.
‘Smells like cinnamon,’ John overheard someone say, and he had to agree it wasn’t a bad smell.
‘Like a pod of beached whales.’ Mata stared up as he walked through the rows of bodies, each of which stood three times taller than him and fifty paces long.
‘They’re long dead by the look of it.’ John pointed to one body where the skin hung in tatters to reveal a rigid, rib-like structure within.
Li was busy scanning a carcase. ‘Their organs were scavenged or wasted away, and the dry air has turned their skins to leather. A perfect tent.’
‘Whale tents in the desert.’ Crossley laughed and shook his head.
‘We just need an entrance,’ Lavalle said, slipped his longsword from its scabbard and slit a diagonal cut between two ribs, ‘and the tent is ours.’
The knight pulled back a flap and John half expected a cloud of bats to stream out. Instead, a gust of sweet odour greeted his nostrils.
‘And maybe a second door for ventilation.’ Lavalle disappeared into the dark cavity and shouted back, ‘The floor is dry!’
‘Right then,’ Crossley stepped in. ‘Time for some shut-eye.’
John followed into the dark cavernous belly. The exhausted soldiers who filed in behind him filled the leathery floor with their slumbering bodies. So, as he’d done for days now, John put his bag down for a pillow, unstrapped his gun-arm and lay on his back.
His mind wandered. He wanted to know more about the watcher – Peronicus-Rax. Was he one of a race of advanced aliens who had brought them here? More importantly, did he have the answer to how John could get back home to England and Joe?
Minutes passed as John’s thoughts wandered and he stared at the ribs above. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the smallest sounds around him grew into larger sounds in his head – a creak here or a swish there. The breathing of the men slowed and they snuffled or snored as they drifted off. Then a rustle outside caught his attention, footsteps… followed by a pair of quiet voices.
John was up straight away and tiptoed over the prostrate soldiers to the tent’s opening, where he hid in the shadows. From this distance he could just make out the deep voice of Peronicus-Rax, but who was he talking to?
‘…fought in many wars, but these were our match,’ Peronicus-Rax said.
‘Why did you bury them?’ It was Mihran.
Typical Mihran, John thought, always asking questions.
‘I was the last survivor,’ Peronicus-Rax replied.
‘And yet, you buried your enemies as well,’ Mihran said.
‘Yes, they deserved that.’
Was Peronicus-Rax just another soldier? John wondered. Another pawn pushed around by whoever was playing this game?
‘How did you survive?’ Mihran asked.
‘I was lucky and–’ Peronicus-Rax shuddered like he had when Li had scanned him. ‘Stop!’
Mihran stumbled backwards and clutched his head. ‘I…’
‘Do not enter a mind without permission!’ Peronicus-Rax kept his voice quiet but sounded more threatening for it.
‘I don’t,’ Mihran panted and John felt an urge to help his leader. It was the first time he’d seen him weakened like this. ‘I’m still learning how to use this… gift.’
Without pity or anger, Peronicus-Rax spoke: ‘Use it wisely. These gifts must be turned to your advantage in war. As leader, you must think of your battalion before yourself.’
Mihran was nodding, although breathing heavily still.
‘You should refine your skills to keep in touch with your warriors. For example, did you know our conversation is being listened to?’
‘No, I…’ Mihran paused, then spun round to look in John’s direction.
John pulled away from the tent flap, quickly tiptoed back and lay down. The sound of his pounding heart filled his ears as he waited for Peronicus-Rax or Mihran to burst in at any moment. John calmed his breathing and wiped his mind of all thoughts in case Mihran used his skills to find him, but all he could think about was Joe.
John woke with a gasp, unaware he’d fallen asleep. The tent was dark and full of the sounds of men breathing. He sat up and looked around, unable to shake the feeling that someone had been calling his name. A faint, high-pitched sound came from outside the tent, and John pictured a cat or puppy. He had to check it out, so crept out over the snoozing warriors, sure he heard a light pattering of feet running from the tent along with – was that a giggle? John stepped outside and, in the low light, caught a glimpse of a shadow disappearing behind the nearest tent. He coughed as a cloud of dust wafted over from the desert and then ran after the shadow.
‘It can’t be.’ John caught sight of a leg and ran off in pursuit, holding his gun-arm against his chest.
He weaved around the tents and chased the little silhouette to where the tents opened up to reveal the open desert. John stopped to catch his breath and shook his head. Twenty paces away, standing on the rise of a hill with a cheeky smirk, stood a young boy no older than four years old.
‘Joe?’ John asked.
The boy’s mouth broke into a full smile as he held John’s gaze.
‘My boy.’ Tears filled John’s eyes. ‘You found me.’
He didn’t question why or how. John just stared: drinking in the sight of his son. This was no picture or faint memory – it was Joe in the flesh! He wiped his eyes and, when he could see again, Joe had run up to the hill’s brow.
‘Wait!’ John called out and started climbing.
Olan shook himself awake with a snort which, according to his wife, he always did when he slept on his back. It took a few seconds to recognise the lines of ribs above him; their bleached white lines glowing in the low dawn light. He licked his dry teeth and, with his trusty double-headed axe in one hand and his gleaming Incan chest plate in the other, stepped over the slumbering soldiers to the door flap. He noticed an empty space along the way but thought nothing of it.
The fresh air outside filled his lungs and cleared his mind. Thoughts of his wife, children and home village came to him just as they did every morning of this voyage. He had counted the days until he returned to his family, rich with plunder. But how long would it be now? Five more days, and then what? Just two more journeys, he had promised his wife, two raids would give him enough money to start trading furs and amber through the Eastern trade routes. Flashes of the butchery of war came to him: burning villages; earth pooled with blood; wailing children; frightened women; the dismembered bodies of fighting men.
He shook his head and made his way through the tents to where a winding line of small bushes scratched a living beside a clear, stone-bottomed brook. He dipped his elbow and splashed a little water onto his lips before drinking and refilling the goat’s bladder – runes sewn into its handle gave him strength: his family name; his wife’s name; and his children’s.
For two generations, Olan’s people had sent their warriors west to steal from the weak Britons and, being the tallest man in his village by the age of fifteen, Olan’s parents had little choice in letting him go ‘a viking’. Years later they said Olan was the strongest axe-man to set foot in a longboat, which was why so many men gambled and fought to be oarsmen in his ship.
His last raid, just a few days ago, had been like the rest: the fleet of twelve shallow-hulled ships had powered up the river with the tide when the clouds hid the moon. The scouts had told of decrepit guards defending a village nestling in the soft grassy hills of this timid and unthreatening country.
Not like this land, Olan thought, keeping one eye on the open desert. After a quick wash, he walked back to the tents to see Mihran and Samas stretching and talking.
‘And you think they’ll fight as one?’ Samas said.
‘We will fight in the next five days, so we need to be ready.’ Mihran gave Olan a look. ‘Our priority is to locate the gates, but we should think about training – manoeuvres and communication.’
Samas nodded and Olan wondered where the animosity between these two had gone.
‘The water’s clean.’ Olan held up the bladder.
‘Good. We breakfast then leave,’ Mihran replied. ‘Wake them.’
Olan smiled.
‘Quietly.’ The huge figure of Peronicus-Rax loomed up from behind.
‘Yes, of course.’ Olan felt like a child next to him and stepped away to the nearest tent.
‘We haven’t found out who decapitated the men at the castle,’ Mihran said. ‘And I’m not sure if it was one of our men.’
Olan felt Mihran staring at him as he walked away but, when he turned back, Mihran was looking elsewhere.
‘There are many forces here who want your army reduced,’ Peronicus-Rax said softly, ‘and it seems your presence attracted unwanted attention – creatures were here in the night.’
‘Who?’ Mihran asked. ‘Our enemy?’
‘A potential enemy if you choose. They didn’t stay for long,’ Peronicus-Rax said.
Olan kept listening as he walked from tent to tent. ‘Wake up, get up!’
‘Which way to the silver gates?’ Samas asked.
‘In that direction,’ Peronicus-Rax pointed.
Crossley was one of the first men Olan had woken. He joined the conversation. ‘You’ve been to the silver gates?’
‘I have seen them,’ Peronicus-Rax replied.
Olan visited tents further away. ‘Come on, time to get up,’ he called and headed back to Mihran as Li gave her morning report.
‘…supplies are low but we have a more pressing issue.’
‘What is it?’ Mihran asked.
‘We have a soldier missing – John Greene.’
Olan looked at Li. Was she telling the truth or was she the killer? Olan had grown fond of the little Englishman.
‘The short man with the arm-gun?’ Mihran asked and Li nodded. ‘Any sign of where he went?’
‘I found two sets of footsteps leading out of the camp and over the dunes.’
‘Listen.’ Mihran raised his voice to get everyone’s attention. ‘We need to keep walking, but it appears John Greene left the camp last night.’
‘What?’ Crossley jumped up. ‘He can’t survive out there. Why the hell did he run off?’
Li shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He’s taken his bags, so–’
‘John needs to be with us.’ Euryleia spoke out. ‘He has no weapon and he’s injured.’
‘We’ve got to go get him.’ Crossley was staring at Mihran. ‘Come on!’
‘No,’ Mihran said firmly. ‘We need you to find water in this desert – Mata too.’
‘I will find him.’ Lavalle stepped forward. ‘Point me in his direction and I will track him down.’
Olan smiled. Did Lavalle really think finding John would restore Euryleia’s faith in him?
‘Yes.’ Mihran stroked his beard. ‘Anyone else?’
Randeep stepped forward. ‘I will go.’
Olan shifted from foot to foot. It would be good to stretch his legs and get away from this monotonous march, but it could be dangerous and…
‘Olan and Samas,’ Mihran said, ‘you will join Randeep and Lavalle.’
Olan caught a glimpse of Samas’ face and recognised the old resentment rise in his eyes.
‘Li will give you directions and instructions on how to locate us,’ Mihran continued. ‘Good luck.’
Olan grabbed his rations and strapped his chest plate to his back, with an extra leash for his axe. ‘We’ll be back in no time.’ He patted Lavalle on the shoulder and tried to hide his smile.
As the four men jogged across the dry plain, Olan’s first raid came back to him. He had been the youngest on his ship, wearing his father’s armour and an iron amulet of Thor’s hammer, which his mother had tied around his neck. When they hit land, Olan had held back while the other men charged the Saxon village and, by the time he walked through the broken wooden palisades and over the dead guards, the defeat was complete. But not the victory. Olan had watched in horror as his comrades hacked at defenceless people, burnt houses sheltering families and raped young women in the street. They tortured old men for their hidden silver and left the younger men writhing in agony, their wounds bleeding them dry.
His comrades had changed; Olan could see it in their eyes.
Shocked by the barbarity of his people and harassed by the sounds of torture and the stench of burning flesh, Olan had looked to the skies, asked Odin for answers. Was this how he was to act too? Attack the rich churches and monasteries, fight the men with swords? Olan had thought. Not this. Anything but this. He couldn’t be like them… surely there was another way. But what could he do? He would never fight his own men and, looking at them, they enjoyed it too much to be talked out of it.
Solemn and confused, Olan had toured the village, wincing at the screams and moans. Out of desperation, and to shut him up, Olan lashed out at an elderly man who lay screaming in the mud. With an angry chop he beheaded the man. Shocked at his actions, but content he had ended the man’s pain, Olan did the same with a young man dying from a stab wound. Then again and again. He couldn’t understand their words but carried on, putting the people out of their misery. His countrymen looked on and laughed, soon naming him ‘the beheader’ but, with each hack, Olan felt another soul had been released. He couldn’t protect them so he vowed next time he would kill the weak people before his comrades got to them. He would have to be fast and many would die but, standing in that burning village, he made his naive oath to the gods.
Over the years, Olan had kept his vow: cleanly killing as many villagers as possible before the rapists and sadists got to them. They had called him ‘berserkir’, but he wasn’t. He felt every cut and bruise deeper than any man sharing his battlefield.
As Lavalle, Randeep and Samas paused for a water break, Olan’s countless raids ran through his mind. Right up to his last battle. The flotilla had silently cruised up to the pontoons of the village and, as soon as his boat brushed the bank, Olan leapt onto land, his axe held high. Crashing through the barricade, Olan had been surprised to see soldiers drafted in by the villagers but he’d left them to his men. He scared the women and children out of the village with a yell and glare, and any men foolish enough to face him were hacked down. By the time the Viking vanguard had caught up, Olan had already saved a dozen lives.
Then the flash had taken him.
‘We must keep moving,’ Randeep said. The group of four stood now by a clump of shrubs a hundred paces from the forest Peronicus-Rax had warned them about.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Samas. Always a calming influence, Olan thought. ‘We’ll find John soon enough and have him back with the others before night.’ The Babylonian stared at the forest for a few long seconds. ‘Plus if Peronicus is wary of this forest, we should be too.’
Randeep huffed and adjusted his blue turban. ‘He’s weak and these creatures will be nothing to worry about. Let’s go – come on!’ The swordsman was off.
Lavalle raised an eyebrow at Olan.
‘Come on then.’ Olan loosened the strap holding his axe.
They found Randeep crouched behind a tree. He beckoned them over and put a finger to his lips. Olan saw the issue.
‘A village?’ Lavalle whispered. ‘How on earth is that here?’
Some fifty paces away through the open woodland, Olan could see several timber houses and a few upturned boats. ‘It doesn’t look defended.’
Samas was rubbing his chin. ‘Do we just walk in and ask if anyone’s seen John?’
Randeep looked tense. ‘No, we must attack. They have him captive.’
‘That would be unwise.’ A voice made them turn and aim their weapons. Four shining blades pointed at a black and brown furred creature who stood no higher than Olan’s elbow.
‘Who are you?’ Olan asked.
The cat-like humanoid wrinkled its muzzle and tilted its head inquisitively. ‘I am Captain Jakan-tar of the Sorean and if you cross that fence you will be in great danger.’
John was still smiling. He couldn’t believe that, after everything he’d been through – the trenches; the charges across no-man’s-land; the crater; the bizarre events of the past ten days – Joe had found him. It didn’t matter how. All John had wanted to do was hug his son and talk to him, but Joe kept running off.
When the morning light brought colour to the desert, Joe led him to a strip of green on the horizon. John had ignored his thirst and his stomach was too excited to be hungry. When they finally made it to the woodland, Joe pointed into the trees then disappeared into the darkness with a cheeky smile. John hadn’t seen him since, although he’d called for him several times.
Not far from the wood’s edge, John found a picket fence surrounding rows of wooden buildings, which looked oddly familiar.
Like a training camp, he thought, but spotted a flag. Was this a hospital?
He found the gate and was walking through the compound when a voice made him turn.
‘What are you doing there, soldier?’ As soon as he heard the clipped tones, John’s back straightened and he turned on his heels.
‘I, err… I’m looking for an officer, sir.’ John could see by the crown on his shoulder he was being addressed by a major.
‘Well you’ve found him.’ The Major wore a thick, trim moustache and had piercing blue eyes which John couldn’t hold for more than a second. ‘Now, what are your orders and what in heaven’s name have you done to your weapon?’ The Major pointed a gloved hand at John’s gun-arm.
‘I lost my regiment, sir.’
A hundred thoughts whirled in John’s head as he tried to make sense of what had had happened to him: the bizarre creatures; the wasps; the obelisks; the robot’s castle. They had to be real, just like Crossley, Mata, Lavalle and the others, but how did that fit with… this place?
‘And?’ the Major barked.
John struggled to make sense of it. He saw a red cross on the nearest hut and it started to make sense. ‘I was injured, sir.’
‘Injured? Yes.’ The Major sounded like Mihran, John thought. ‘Rest and recuperation are the order of the day, what?’ He nodded at the huts. ‘It looks like you’ve bought your Blighty ticket, eh? Just head through and the nurses will help you out.’
John could hear laughter on the other side of the huts and caught a glimpse of someone wearing white.
‘Yes, sir.’ John started to walk off then remembered Joe. ‘And my son, sir?’
The Major squinted and John avoided his stare. ‘He’ll be along shortly,’ he replied and marched off.
John walked through the gap between the huts and saw nurses in their blue dresses and white pinafores attending to men in lounge chairs while, on the short grass beyond, men were running about and playing cricket. John had never really taken to the game but smiled all the same. He looked up at the hazy sky. Strange how it could be cloudy on such a sunny day, he thought.
A nurse raised a hand to shade her eyes and caught sight of him. ‘Hello.’ Her voice reminded John of Rosie’s and his stomach fluttered. ‘Have you just arrived?’
‘Yes, I… the Major said to come through.’
‘Right. Well, follow me and we’ll have a look at you – it’s your arm, isn’t it?’ The nurse’s perfume wafted on the soft wind as she walked over and rested a hand on his shoulder.
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll have you right as rain in no time.’ The nurse led him into a whitewashed hut and picked up his bags. ‘I’ll take these. Have a seat.’
‘Thanks.’ John felt the urge to take off his shoes and thought of Joe. ‘Will my son be here soon?’
‘Oh, yes.’ The nurse gave John a sweet smile. ‘He’s been telling us all about you. He’s a lovely boy. A credit to you.’
‘Well,’ John felt himself blush as the nurse wrapped a bleached-white sling around his gun-arm, ‘my parents have been raising him these past years, what with the war and all.’
‘Yes, so sad about your wife. Here, please take this.’ The nurse handed John a small pill and a glass of water.
‘Rosie,’ John said after swallowing.
‘Yes, Rosie.’ The nurse tied the sling tight. ‘Ah, the doctor’s here. I’ll see you soon, John.’
‘Oh, bye, and thanks.’
‘John Greene?’ A grey-haired man in a white coat was standing at his side, reading from a clipboard. The voice reminded him of Lavalle.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘No “sir” here, John, I’m just a doctor.’ He ran a finger down the clipboard. ‘Now, you were stationed at Ypres, is that right?’
‘Yes, before…’
‘Yes, yes, I don’t need your whole war story, laddie, I just need to check you’re our man. The boys can tell you where we are with the war, but I need you to rest. Get you on the mend.’
‘Yes.’ John turned back to the men outside, relaxing on loungers with a book or newspaper carelessly discarded on their chests.
‘We’re glad you’re safe, John,’ the doctor continued. ‘We heard there was a spot of trouble last week with a breakout from the mental institution.’
John looked up. He felt woozy but something told him this was important, so he tried to focus.
‘Many men escaped – shell-shocked, disillusioned, gassed, you name it – the word is they were terrorising the countryside dressed up as cowboys and Spartans, knights and Romans, if you could picture such a thing!’
‘What?’ John pictured Samas with his shield and Lavalle and his sword… but as each image came, it floated away in a mist.
‘Yes, strange days, although I hear they are being rounded up as we speak.’ He popped his pen back in his coat’s top pocket and gave a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll look after you and I can guarantee you won’t be going back to that God-awful war.’
‘Great.’ John blinked slowly and stared back out at the green grass and smiling faces. His eyelids were so heavy. ‘But what about…’ He saw the doctor leaving. ‘What about Joe?’
Olan turned to Randeep, Lavalle and Samas, who looked as bemused as he felt.
‘You are a captain?’ Lavalle asked the short furred humanoid, whose arms looked too long for its short striped body.
‘Yes.’ Jakan-tar’s muzzle twitched. ‘Captain Jakan-tar of the Sorean, and my soldiers are trapped in that compound.’ Jakan-tar pointed to where Olan saw wooden houses and upturned boats.
‘Why don’t you just break in and save them?’ Randeep asked.
Jakan-tar sniffed before replying, ‘I have no protection.’
‘We believe one of our soldiers is also in the village,’ Samas said.
‘And we intend to save him,’ Lavalle added.
‘Then you will be captured.’ Jakan-tar made a move to walk away. ‘I have warned you.’
‘But there must be a way.’ Olan stepped forward. ‘Please, can you help us?’
Jakan-tar’s head dropped. ‘I have been walking these woods for months. There is no way.’
‘What happened?’ Olan asked.
‘We don’t have time for this!’ Randeep moved forward. ‘Let’s just get John out and be done with it.’
‘We lost our battle.’ Jakan-tar ignored Randeep. ‘And wandered this dead land searching for somewhere to heal our wounded. The first soldier rushed in here and…’
‘And?’ Olan felt like crouching as though talking to a child, but held back.
‘They are trapped. Healed, but trapped all the same,’ Jakan-tar said.
‘Have you been able to contact them?’ Samas asked.
‘I can see them but when I go near the village I feel the pull, my thoughts are changed and…’
‘Can you show us?’ Olan asked.
Jakan-tar led the group to the edge of the village, where they peeked through the vines and low branches. ‘This is as near as I dare go,’ the Captain whispered.
Olan felt his stomach tighten as he stared upon a perfect image of home. Nostalgia rose inside and he felt the urge to run out of the forest.
‘My god.’ Lavalle shook his head. ‘The castle looks impenetrable… and the women and children in the meadow – it’s a veritable Land of Cockayne!’
‘What?’ Olan looked at the knight and then back at the fjord-side village. ‘I can see the women and children but no castle – is it on the shore?’
‘What shore?’ Lavalle frowned. ‘It’s on the hilltop surrounded by gorse and thick woodland.’
‘All I see on the hill is the farmstead,’ Samas said. ‘With vineyards and olive groves lining the slopes, but no forest or shore.’
Olan looked at Randeep but he said nothing.
Jakan-tar had kept back. ‘You all see something different to me. I see the burrow entrances and the smithies smelting in the open. I see my soldiers’ abandoned weapons strung up on signposts and I see the younglings. What are these women you talk of?’
‘The females.’ Lavalle said. ‘The childbearers. Our wives and loved ones…’
Olan suspected Lavalle was thinking about Euryleia.
‘I don’t understand,’ Jakan-tar replied. ‘We Sorean reproduce equally.’
Randeep sighed and whispered, ‘As interesting as this is, we aren’t saving John.’ He made a move to go through the undergrowth.
‘No, don’t go nearer!’ Olan whispered.
The Sikh swordsman gave him a sneer and held his position. ‘Why?’
Jakan-tar’s fur twitched and it pointed a clawed hand. ‘Look!’
Olan saw a newcomer stroll down the shore to where a group of fishermen were hauling in a net, surrounded by women with salt and barrels. They were friendly with the man as he patted them on the back.
‘It’s one of them – one of the Frarex,’ Jakan-tar said.
‘The Frarex?’ Samas asked. ‘Why do I recognise that name?’
‘It was on one of the obelisks,’ Lavalle answered. ‘They lost their battle.’
‘Yes,’ Jakan-tar said. ‘And they renounced violence.’
‘They what? How?’ Olan asked.
‘They destroyed their weapons and set this trap to entice other soldiers: a place where they would forget how to fight and settle down.’
‘Sirens,’ Olan heard Lavalle whisper.
‘Still, there must be a way in,’ Samas said.
‘You will fall for their spell and become trapped, just like them.’ It sounded like Jakan-tar was losing patience.
Olan’s compatriots were fighting the urge to rush forward to free the captive soldiers. It was tempting but he also felt an affinity towards these Frarex, who had suppressed their bloodlust and saved countless lives through their peaceful ways. ‘How would we know who was the enemy and who were innocent?’ he asked.
‘You wouldn’t,’ Jakan-tar replied. ‘The Frarex weave their charm between them – kill one and the others take the strain.’
Olan grunted and shook his head.
Lavalle looked around. ‘Where’s Randeep?’
The others looked around, but the Sikh couldn’t be seen.
‘I’ll get him.’ Olan pushed through the undergrowth.
Back in the open ground of the forest, Olan unclipped his axe and took swings at the low branches. ‘Randeep?’ he called out. ‘Where are you, Randeep?’ He heard a snapping twig and saw a flash of blue turban. ‘Don’t go in!’ Olan jogged and ducked into the thick undergrowth.
Through the twisted branches he saw they were nearer to where the men hauled in their nets. How peaceful it looked, Olan thought. They had a good haul of fish too: mackerel. The smoking coals were ready and the racks stood empty. They could do with an extra pair of hands to pull the catch in and the nets probably needed fixing. When he was a boy, Olan had enjoyed weaving the gaps, sitting by the fjord in the shadow of the mountains, and letting his thoughts float and swirl with the fjord tide.
‘Stop following me!’ Randeep appeared and shoved Olan in the chest.
Something about his eyes looked different, Olan thought.
‘We can’t go in there.’
‘I can,’ Randeep snapped.
‘They’ll trap you–’
‘I’ve had enough of this.’ Randeep reached into the folds of his cloak, pulled out a silver box and aimed it at Olan.
Olan dropped to the ground as a red flash lit the air. He screamed as burning heat pummelled and pushed him into the ground. With a surge of energy, he flipped over. Another red flash lit the forest but missed Olan, and smoke billowed around him where dry leaves had caught fire.
He scrambled away and, when he looked back, Randeep was gone.
Behind the trunk of a red-leaved oak, Olan said a quick prayer. ‘Valhalla be praised.’ He kissed the hammer on his necklace. ‘Thank you for your protection.’
He tugged his chest-plate straps to help him breathe, but instead of leather he felt metal.
‘Olan?’ A voice called from through the trees and Lavalle appeared. ‘What in God’s name happened?’
Olan shook his head, still catching his breath. ‘Randeep fired some… weapon at me. He’s gone.’
‘What happened to your armour?’ Samas pointed at Olan’s chest. ‘Has it melted?’
‘I have no idea.’ Olan looked down to see gold dripping down the straps.
The drips had run across his chest, forming a mesh-like chainmail.
‘The chest plate saved you, but,’ Samas paused, ‘now it writhes like a thing possessed.’
Olan couldn’t hold back the panic. ‘What? Help me get it off!’ He clawed at the straps.
‘Lavalle, help me,’ Samas said.
Lavalle’s hands worked fast but the chest plate was stuck tight. ‘The metal has covered the buckles. It’s stuck.’
‘Cut it off!’ Olan shouted.
Lavalle pulled out his razor-sharp sword and slipped it under a strap but, when it cut into the leather, metal ran down to protect it. ‘It’s no good.’
Samas had a look. ‘The metal is still spreading. Is it hot?’
Olan touched the liquid metal, which had covered half his chest. ‘No, it’s cold.’
‘A living shield?’ Lavalle shook his head.
Olan wondered where it would stop.
Jakan-tar had been standing aloof from the group but watched the expanding chest plate with interest. ‘My people, the Sorean, are renowned blacksmiths.’ Jakan-tar looked in the direction of the village. ‘Our armour was abandoned by my soldiers – a bewildering array of shielding and protection, I can assure you. But I have never seen anything like this.’
Lavalle agreed. ‘It grows but is cold.’ It looked as though a thought came to him. ‘You call yourself an expert?’ Lavalle squinted at Jakan-tar. ‘Yet you wear no armour.’
‘You think so?’ Jakan-tar’s mouth wrinkled to reveal pointed teeth. ‘Then try to cut me.’
Lavalle shook his head. ‘I cannot. It would be–’
‘Go on.’
Lavalle cricked his neck, lifted his longsword and made a half-hearted swipe.
‘Attack me, don’t tickle me!’ Jakan-tar shouted at the knight.
Lavalle huffed and swung again, aiming for the chest. This time a green light flashed across Jakan-tar’s fur where the blade had neared it.
‘And again,’ Jakan-tar ordered.
Lavalle lunged and swiped, aiming for the Sorean’s flank. But this time his sword was parried by a green barrier and Jakan-tar was instantly covered in a full body suit of armour.
Olan laughed as Lavalle struggled to keep his balance with the rebounding sword. ‘Now that’s impressive!’
‘How is it done?’ Samas asked.
‘I wear it here.’ Jakan-tar pointed to a red marble pinned to its chest.
‘Just that?’ Samas asked. ‘Is it heavy?’
‘No, we are masters of this construction. It’s very light.’
‘Enough of this. Impressive as it may be,’ Lavalle’s cheeks were flushed, ‘we must find Randeep and save John Greene.’
‘Right then.’ Samas shook his head and smiled at Olan.
The group sauntered back to the undergrowth surrounding the village, past where Randeep’s second shot had set the leaves aflame.
‘I’m sure we can work together,’ Olan said to Jakan-tar, ‘to save John and your soldiers.’
‘If we can get in, we will save all the trapped soldiers,’ Samas added.
Jakan-tar replied. ‘I only care for my soldiers.’
‘Maybe a trade would be in order?’ Olan looked ahead to Lavalle. ‘I’m sure some armour would come in useful.’
Lavalle ignored the comment and crouched down by a bush at the town’s perimeter.
After a wary glance at his golden chest plate, which had grown to cover his back and abdomen, Olan peered through. ‘It’s changed!’ he whispered.
‘No, the castle is still there,’ Lavalle gestured.
Samas shrugged. ‘I see more people in the fields.’
‘The burrows look the same,’ Jakan-tar added.
Olan swallowed and rubbed his forehead, ‘But the fishing village has gone.’
Am I already trapped and fooled by this ruse? Olan asked himself. Is this Loki’s work?
‘What do you see?’ Jakan-tar’s eyes grew large.
‘I see,’ Olan looked around, finding the best way to explain it, ‘nothing special.’
‘Explain.’
‘It’s just a clearing in the forest. A few ramshackle huts over there.’ He pointed. ‘And a strip of grass where creatures of different shapes and sizes are miming out tasks… a hunchbacked ogre is casting a net, a large blue-shelled lobster is digging a hole next to a group of small black squirrels who are lying stretched out.’
‘You must be seeing it in its true form,’ Jakan-tar said.
‘Can you see John?’ Samas asked.
‘No. There are so many people, I… there are the Sorean!’
‘Where?’ Jakan-tar was by Olan’s side.
‘A group are lying together behind that tall white creature.’
‘All I see is the hill of the barrow.’
‘They must think they are underground.’ Olan watched as the thin white humanoid sprinkled dust over the sleeping Sorean with its elongated fingers. ‘And I think I know which ones are the Frarex.’
‘So we know who to attack?’ said Lavalle.
‘But we will still be trapped,’ Samas replied.
‘Over there.’ Olan pointed. ‘Randeep. He’s walking to one of the huts. He’s too quick.’ As Olan stared, Randeep’s clothes changed. ‘Odin’s eye! He just changed into Mihran… and now he’s you, Lavalle.’
‘What?’ Lavalle squinted.
‘I thought he smelt peculiar,’ Jakan-tar said with a shrug. ‘But you all do.’
‘What do you mean?’ Samas asked as Olan kept his eyes on Randeep as he finally fixed his shape and entered the hut.
‘He is a shape-shifter,’ Jakan-tar answered.
‘And he’s had us all fooled?’ Lavalle whispered.
Olan felt his heart sink as he watched on, unable to do anything. ‘Not just us.’
The shape of Crossley left the hut and with him, smiling and chatting, walked John Greene.
Olan edged forward tentatively.
‘How do you feel now?’ Jakan-tar whispered from ten strides behind, hidden in the undergrowth.
How do I feel? Olan asked himself. Scared would be one word. He kept his gaze fixed on the open grassland ahead, where a wide variety of alien soldiers slept or carried baskets of food. Interspersed among them, the tall ghostly shapes of the Frarex wove their enslaving magic.
‘I’m fine,’ Olan replied. ‘It still looks the same.’
He had grown fond of the shore-side fishing village, and seeing the encampment in its true form made him feel sick. All these deluded creatures playing in mud.
‘I’ll take it five steps at a time.’
What he saw now had to be influenced by the chest plate, Olan thought, even though he couldn’t see how such a thing was possible. More magic of the gods, he supposed. When Randeep – or the shape-shifter who had taken his place – shot that red flame at him, the energy must have been absorbed by the chest plate. Like the lightning in Thor’s hammer.
Olan heard a soft padding sound and turned to see Jakan-tar running up to him with bounding strides.
‘What are you doing?’
Jakan-tar swayed with a paw on its head as the effects of the charmed village grew strong. ‘They left… cut Randeep off… had an idea.’ The Sorean held out a short dagger and stumbled.
Olan leapt to catch the cat-like Captain and held it in his arms. Both its eyes were closed and its head rolled like one of his dogs back home.
‘Wake up!’ He shook Jakan-tar and the knife-bearing arm swung over, tapping against Olan’s chest plate and sticking as though magnetised.
Jakan-tar woke instantly and looked at Olan, then at the village and gave a low sigh. ‘My poor soldiers. This is the truth?’ Olan watched Jakan-tar’s large eyes quiver. ‘This is how they have lived all these months.’
‘Yes,’ Olan whispered.
Jakan-tar looked up. ‘Put me down – I want to walk… but I must be connected to you.’
‘How does this work?’ Olan asked.
‘My theory is your armour has shielded your heart and, more importantly, your stomach from the Frarex weapon.’
‘My stomach?’ Olan asked.
‘You remember the feeling you had when you first saw the village – the tightening… the nostalgia?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was their drug. Somehow your armour gives you immunity,’ Jakan-tar said.
‘And it shares it with you through the metal?’ Olan asked, hoping he was understanding correctly.
‘Most likely it’s connected to my armour and… let’s keep walking, I have another theory I want to test.’
Olan followed the small, furred Sorean, who walked, with its dagger, at Olan’s side. If he wasn’t carrying his war axe, anyone would think Jakan-tar held him captive.
‘Where are we going?’ Olan whispered.
‘Silence,’ Jakan-tar replied.
Olan grumbled and slung his axe over his shoulder. They walked past a group of green-skinned, dolphin-like aliens patting each other with their stumpy appendages. The creatures didn’t react as they passed. Next came three long red worms playing a game with a cube of wood. Jakan-tar avoided the Sorean soldiers and headed straight for the centre of the settlement, where six white Frarex rested in a ramshackle wooden lodge.
‘No!’ Olan whispered, but Jakan-tar pushed on.
Only when they were a few strides from the Frarex did they stop. Olan waited and calmed his breathing. Were these aliens blind? Or asleep? He had to be cautious – one false move could mean spending the rest of his life writhing in the mud.
‘Kar!’ Jakan-tar coughed loudly.
The Frarex didn’t move. Olan spun around to see if anyone else had heard, but the enslaved soldiers frolicked and rolled as before. The furred Sorean were still huddled in their make-believe burrow and the white Frarex scattered their dust as before, like tall wandering monks. In the distance, Olan caught a glimpse of a human in a grey suit he recognised from the obelisk hill.
‘They can’t hear us,’ Jakan-tar said.
‘Or see us,’ Olan added.
Jakan-tar pulled out a new blade. ‘And now we break their spell.’
Olan winced. Could he really do this? Could he kill these peaceful beasts while they slept? Their intentions had been good after all – they only wanted peace.
Jakan-tar looked up at him. ‘Why do you wait? I can’t attack if you don’t move.’
‘I…’ Olan tried to find the words but failed.
‘They are using these soldiers for their own needs.’ The Sorean pointed at the nearest group of sleeping aliens and ghostly Frarex. ‘They farm their energy in return for dreams.’
It was all about power. Images of the men Olan had fought with came back to him: violent men who raped, killed and tortured the weak and unarmed. It was always about power – the power they held over others. These Frarex were no different, Olan thought. An anger rose in his chest but he fought to control it. No, he thought, this is not my fight.
‘My blade will not be bloodied today,’ he said to Jakan-tar, who stared up but dared not break away from its magnetic link. ‘But justice will be served.’
‘We need more!’ Jakan-tar hissed, urging Olan on.
‘There’s another group over here,’ Olan replied and strode around a tiny pond to where a host of Sorean snuggled in a pile, while a ghostly Frarex stood nearby, farming their energy.
Following Olan’s plan, the duo had woken individual Sorean from each group by joining them to their magnetic shield using whatever metal weapon or object they could find. The Frarex hadn’t noticed individual soldiers waking from each spell but, as more soldiers disappeared from their grasp, they grew agitated, sensing the loss of energy. As the web of interconnected soldiers grew around Olan and Jakan-tar though, so did the anger of the freed slaves as they saw how they had been tricked and abused by the Frarex.
Now Olan could hold them no longer, the web broke and the Sorean unleashed their bloody revenge.
Olan watched in awe and fear as a bizarre mix of fighting species released their wrath on their enslavers. Caught by surprise, wallowing in their self-indulgence, the Frarex were cut down before they could weave new spells and, with each dead Frarex, a new group of enslaved soldiers rose from their slumber to join in. A small rebellion would have been quashed, Olan had no doubt, but the scores of freed soldiers were systematically isolating the Frarex. And annihilating them.
Olan kept his own axe sheathed. The Frarex might not be innocent, but Olan felt no need to fight them when he had other priorities. As the liberated soldiers swept through the Frarex camp, Olan rushed to the hut where he had seen the shape-shifter who, in Crossley’s form, had led John Greene away into the forest. The crude wooden hut was empty and Olan couldn’t see any sign that John had been there. He ran through the mud, searching for footprints, but was too late. His only hope was that Lavalle and Samas had cut them off on the other side of the forest.
Olan returned to the battle to see the last few Frarex fighting with clouds of invisibility and poisonous gases, but they were vastly outnumbered, and the Sorean fought with a manic intensity that would surely soon overwhelm them.
‘Three Frarex escaped.’ Jakan-tar was panting hard when Olan found it, flanked by two equally tired Sorean soldiers.
‘It’s not worth chasing them down,’ Olan replied and sat on a fallen tree.
Jakan-tar’s fur wrinkled in a way that Olan assumed to be a shrug. ‘Perhaps we should save our energy.’
‘The battle is won,’ Olan answered.
Across the muddy glade, groups of other alien soldiers gravitated to their own and rested in groups. Freed slaves stared into the flames of the burning stack of Frarex bodies with a mix of anger and loss. From what Olan had been told by the survivors, they had been living a life of bliss. The shock of being torn back into the real, dirty world had been severe, and Olan wondered how many could deal with returning to their real lives.
Jakan-tar looked at Olan’s clean blade. ‘I would have enjoyed fighting alongside you, Olan Baardsson.’
‘And I would have been honoured to fight alongside you, Captain Jakan-tar,’ Olan replied.
‘My soldiers wish to repay you for your help,’ Jakan-tar said. ‘Without you, I would still be wandering the perimeter and my army would be in the mud.’ Jakan-tar gestured for the Sorean soldiers to leave them in peace.
‘Thank you but–’
‘All we can offer is armour, but seeing as you have armour enough,’ Jakan-tar gestured at the enchanted chest plate, ‘we offer our assistance in defeating your enemy.’
Olan looked into Jakan-tar’s eyes. ‘Really?’ He had seen the Sorean in battle and knew Mihran would be impressed: they fought like tiny berserkers, with animal ferocity and unending stamina.
Jakan-tar looked out on the Sorean army, who Olan guessed numbered over eighty. ‘We are a proud people and, like you, wish to leave this land. I believe we will make good allies.’
Olan took the offer in. Jakan-tar had respected him for his decision not to fight. But how would these creatures fit into the human army? Olan sighed. Sometimes you just know when it’s the right thing to do.
‘Your enemies are our enemies,’ Olan replied. ‘And we will make good allies.’