Althorn sat by the coals of a dying fire, keeping watch and rubbing his engorged leg muscles, which ached from the previous day’s running. Around him, soldiers slept within a perimeter circle of small fires, outside which the huge Lutamek rested and recharged. He’d been awake half the night, tending to the injured and dying who lay scattered across their desert camp. Now, a glow on the edge of the featureless plain signalled the start of his eleventh day in this land of war and death.
In the morning light it was like seeing his sleeping comrades for the first time: their faces, weapons and clothing were as bizarre to him as some of the aliens they had encountered, yet he wasn’t fazed by the differences – they only increased his thirst to learn more. When he scouted ahead he discovered so many things of wonder: landscapes; bodies; forts; creatures; and plants. It made him feel alive. That was why he volunteered to scout. The years had been creeping up on him, pouring sorrow into his bones and sapping the strength from his muscles, but now he had the energy of a man half his age – no, he had more energy than ever before! He could run for hours on end, faster than an avalanche or so fast nothing could see him. The only problem was the amount of food and water he had to consume.
The thought made his belly rumble.
‘Going for a break,’ he whispered to an Assyrian soldier sharpening his spear blade.
The man gave a nod, and Althorn tiptoed through the wispy fires and past the large silhouettes of the Lutamek. He kept an eye on their lights, which flickered along their back ridges and legs. One of them was on watch, but he couldn’t tell which. They could all be awake and have eyes all over their body for all he could tell.
He sped off, leaving a tiny whirlwind of dust in his wake.
The Lutamek were an odd fit in Althorn’s mind. They weren’t what he considered true allies – or true creatures for that matter. When they had attacked he had been fast enough to dodge the laser fire and divert some of their metallic missiles, but his attacks with his blade had barely dented their shells.
‘I don’t want them to touch me.’ Euryleia had flatly refused when the Lutamek offered medical assistance.
‘But you’re seriously injured,’ Althorn had argued.
‘No help,’ she snapped and coated her blackened stump with a green paste from her bag and tied a tight strip of cloth around her wrist.
Others took the aid: gels to heal burns, beams of red light to fix broken bones. Some even accepted metal limbs to replace those lost in the fight.
‘They’re turning us into them!’ Althorn had protested to Mihran but he would have none of it.
‘We are stronger when healed,’ he had replied. ‘And we are stronger together.’
Althorn travelled far in a few minutes and paused to light a fire in a protected hollow before speeding off again to a watering hole half a day’s march back. As he neared he saw movement: dark shapes slipping around the edge of the depression Mata had created with his root-like arms. Without slowing, Althorn circled silently and watched the silhouettes in the dawn light. Were they dangerous? You could never be sure in this land. He closed in to see three deer sipping from the puddle. They looked harmless enough, so he circled once more before leaping in at a ferocious speed, grabbing the largest deer by its hind leg and whipping it away. He snapped the neck as he ran and held back his desire to bite into the fresh flesh.
A few minutes later he was back by his fire, gutting and roasting the dead animal.
‘Typical.’ Crossley shook his head as Althorn rejoined the group. ‘You turn up just when we finish packing.’
‘Sorry, I…’ Althorn held back a burp, ‘…I needed to scout ahead and check the traps.’ He held up the two small deer he had gone back for after his breakfast.
Crossley nodded with a smile. ‘That’ll do for lunch!’
‘Gut, quarter and distribute them among the provisions,’ Li said as she walked past.
Althorn handed the deer over and spotted Euryleia, who stared across the desert with her arm cradled against her chest. ‘How is it?’ he asked as he would a daughter.
Euryleia looked up with vacant eyes and Althorn could see her loss. She needed Lavalle.
She gave a smile. ‘It tingles,’ she said.
‘Everyone heals fast here, Euryleia.’
‘But I’ll never fire my bow again.’ Her brow was heavy. ‘What use will I be in battle?’ Tears were forming in her eyes.
‘Let me take a look.’ Althorn crouched next to her and held out his palm.
Euryleia looked away for a second then offered her wrist, keeping her head turned away. Resting her elbow on his leg, Althorn tenderly unwrapped the bandages, wary of what he would find beneath: redness or pus would indicate an infection and any protruding bone or weeping flesh would mean more pain in order to heal the wound.
‘Has Li looked at it?’ he asked as the layers peeled away.
Euryleia shook her head.
The last few layers were moist with a green liquid.
‘And this is your paste?’
‘Yes.’
Althorn took extra care not to tear any healing flesh but, as the last layer came free, he wasn’t prepared for what he would see. ‘Oh, I–’
‘What?’ Euryleia looked.
This land offered plenty to scare and frighten Althorn, but it never held back from amazing him. They stared at the blackened wrist in amazement and then at each other. Euryleia laughed.
‘It’s…’
‘Growing back,’ Althorn said in disbelief.
At the end of Euryleia’s scorched wrist grew a tiny baby-like hand.
‘Maybe you will fire your bow again.’ Althorn smiled.
‘Yes.’ Tears ran from Euryleia’s eyes and she wrapped the bandage back over then raised her head, distracted by something behind him. ‘Look.’
‘Althorn?’ Mihran called out and Althorn turned to see the red silhouette of their commander beckoning him.
Althorn patted Euryleia on the shoulder. ‘See you later.’
‘Follow me.’ Mihran walked Althorn away from the camp.
Away from human ears and Lutamek sensors, Althorn thought.
‘The way forward,’ Mihran stared into Althorn’s eyes, ‘how does it look?’
Althorn looked out at the horizon to avoid Mihran’s gaze: there was something about his eyes he could never quite trust. ‘Ahead is the same barren land, scattered with the dead. A few dips.’ He pointed to the horizon. ‘But mostly flat. We can reach the far hills by nightfall.’
‘It might be best to take our time,’ Mihran said.
‘Why?’ Althorn asked.
The Commander squinted. ‘What if our location is known?’
‘A trap?’
‘Maybe.’ Mihran turned away, as he always did when anyone asked him too many questions, and gestured to where Euryleia was sitting. ‘You look after her well.’
Althorn nodded.
‘As though she were a daughter to you… or sister.’ He let the comment hang.
Althorn didn’t know what to say. Did Mihran know? He kept his eyes fixed on Euryleia for fear of betraying his true emotions. The image of his sister, which had haunted him for days, came to him: her pained face; the recognition in her eyes; a slight smile on her lips; the line across her throat. It had been ten years since he had seen her taken by the men who had destroyed his clan.
‘Yes,’ Althorn replied, ‘she needs to be looked after.’
Through the pain of grief and the acidic burn of shame that had eaten at him since his blade had taken her life, Althorn felt a new emotion rising like a sun in the winter months: he felt proud of his sister. She had done well for a slave with no family – she had married a king no less! And the crying child must have been his nephew or niece. A future king or queen.
‘Good,’ Mihran replied. ‘Your skills are essential in our army, Althorn, not just your speed but in keeping us together.’
‘Thank you, I–’ Althorn started but the shaking ground silenced him.
The huge shape of Two-zero-three, the Lutamek leader, came close. ‘Humans.’
‘Yes,’ Mihran replied.
‘You offer us a distraction, yet you plan a delay – are you going back on your word?’
Had Two-zero-three been listening to their conversation? Althorn saw Mihran’s nostrils flare.
‘My men have been walking for ten days. We are preparing for battle, but your attack set us back.’
‘Our scans show your soldiers are in good physical condition. Why do you delay?’
Mihran looked around to see who was listening, then replied in a hushed voice. ‘It is psychological strength we are building not just the physical. What would you know of biological strength?’
‘We have organic components,’ Two-zero-three replied without apparent emotion. ‘Our ancestors were organic, multilimbed bipeds similar to yourselves. They developed implants, metallic limbs and ionic neural pathways… until the mechanical replaced ninety-eight percent of the biological.’
Mihran nodded. ‘Then you should appreciate our need for rest.’
The robot took a second before responding. ‘We will proceed ahead of you to clear the path of Brakari scouts.’
‘We appreciate the offer,’ Mihran replied. ‘It would be most helpful.’ He turned. ‘Althorn?’
‘Yes.’
‘A change to our plans – if our path is cleared we need every soldier back before tomorrow’s dawn. I need you to find the rescue party and, if they have him, John Greene.’
The day after the battle with the blue creatures, Gal-qadan’s band of warriors entered a forest of tall trees and thick undergrowth. Gal-qadan felt uneasy: this was easy ambush territory and the crunch of hooves on dry twigs broadcast their presence for miles.
When a clearing appeared, the leading soldiers rushed forward to catch a glimpse of the hazy sky and feel the wind on their faces.
‘No!’ Gal-qadan barked. ‘We go around!’ He had learnt that death lurked in every glade.
Some men ignored him, desperate for a release from the claustrophobic forest, but it was too late: they had already alerted a new enemy who closed in on them. Gal-qadan felt the muscles in his tocka’s back tense. He looked to Kastor, whose tocka was making low noises to call the herd together, and out of the shadows a faint red glow appeared. The unearthly light neared and formed shapes, growing in definition as they drew closer.
‘What are they?’ Dakaniha whispered to Gal-qadan, who responded by slipping the bow off his shoulder.
Gal-qadan’s eyes grew accustomed to the blood-red shade emanating from each creature to see long arms and thick legs. They were no bigger than an average man, carrying an array of unrecognisable weapons in their oversized hands. The sound of swords unsheathing and stretched bow strings filled the glade as the red enemy neared.
Gal-qadan gave sharp orders to his men. ‘Archers.’
Around him, Dakaniha, Tode and other bowmen drew their taut bowstrings to their ears. He looked at Ethan, with his long rifle primed and aimed.
Gal-qadan loaded his own bow. ‘Release!’ he yelled.
A volley of arrows whipped through the air, following the whistling bullet from Ethan’s gun, but Gal-qadan watched in confusion as the missiles passed through the red aliens and smashed into the trees beyond. Kastor and Osayimwese’s spears met the same end.
‘Release!’ Gal-qadan shouted again, not believing his eyes. The second volley fared the same. How could he defeat an enemy he couldn’t touch?
The red enemy broke into an attacking run. At fifty paces away each red beast threw, launched or spat some kind of missile. Explosions rocked the ground around Gal-qadan’s men as the tocka were sent into disarray.
Gal-qadan turned to retreat and caught sight of a white mist curling through the trees, but ignored it. ‘We’re surrounded!’ he shouted. ‘Divide and retreat!’
Those who could command their tocka drove them left or right, with the remaining tocka obediently following. The sound of exploding trees rang in Gal-qadan’s ears as the red army’s missiles grew more destructive. He cast a look back and saw the mist again. It had drifted into the clearing, mingling with the smoke from the explosions. Something about the way it twisted and twirled kept Gal-qadan’s attention, so he slowed his tocka and the others joined suit.
Three shapes formed from the mist: legs, arms and heads became clear. Layer upon layer of detail built until three robed samurai warriors could be seen, holding glinting swords above their heads. The red army was distracted and turned to fire but the swordsmen were already on them. High-pitched yells echoed through the air as the samurai leapt in at the enemy, slicing them to pieces with power and deft accuracy.
‘Our allies,’ Gal-qadan spoke to no one in particular.
‘What shall we do, Khan?’ Tode asked.
What could they do? Their weapons were useless and the samurai looked unharmed and full of energy as they fought. What Gal-qadan would give to have those men in his army! He had to give them a sign, he thought, to show they were on the same side.
‘We must assist!’ He kicked at his tocka and it leapt forward. ‘Attack! Everyone attack!’
Gal-qadan wandered amongst the dismembered alien corpses, staring at the strange forms and marvelling at the ferocity and skill with which they had been despatched.
‘No sign of the swordsmen,’ Tode reported.
Gal-qadan nodded. ‘Spirit warriors,’ he whispered.
‘Khan?’
Gal-qadan shook his head and mounted his tocka. ‘We move on.’
His men looked tired and weren’t talking as much as earlier, which was a relief. Dakaniha, with his ridiculous four eyes, looked pleased with himself, while Ethan, the rifleman, looked greyer than before, but only when fatigue set in would Gal-qadan be concerned.
‘So why did our weapons pass through them if the swordsmen could kill them?’ Dakaniha asked what Gal-qadan had been unable to answer. Only when the samurai had injured a red creature could Gal-qadan’s troops physically attack them.
‘My guess is shielding,’ Tode answered.
‘No,’ Dakaniha replied. ‘They had no shields.’
‘None we could see,’ Tode replied. ‘But what if their shields did the opposite to ours – let the arrows through?’
‘Weapons of the gods?’ Kastor joined the conversation.
‘Something like that,’ Tode said.
And yet the samurai were able to bring down those shields, Gal-qadan thought. He had to have them in his army. A cold shiver ran across his shoulders and he looked back into the hazy forest. Never ignore a cold feeling, he thought, but only saw damp trees.
‘So why didn’t we take one of their shields?’ Dakaniha asked.
‘Did you see any?’ Kastor responded. ‘Because I didn’t.’
‘He’s right, it was just flesh and armour,’ Tode said.
As they left the forest, Gal-qadan saw grass hummocks, suggesting they were on the fringes of a great plain: his kind of territory. But when he reached the edge, his men had stopped in a huddle.
‘What is it this time?’ Gal-qadan asked.
Was this another argument? Gal-qadan half hoped so. He would be obliged to kill someone to restore his authority. But who would he kill? He needed control of the tocka but doubted they would let him ride if he killed Kastor. Dakaniha maybe? He had been of little practical use and, for some reason, his extra eyes offended him.
Dakaniha sat proud on his tocka. ‘I have found a trail, Great Leader.’
‘Made by whom?’ Gal-qadan snapped back.
Dakaniha straightened his back. ‘Made by another group of humans, Great Leader.’
John opened his eyes. His head was dizzy and his body ached but from what, he couldn’t remember. Maybe he’d been drugged? His last memory was of the huge creature interrogating him… threatening him. John could picture his ugly, fish-like face covered in eyes and mouthparts, but couldn’t remember anything else. John’s body shuddered and his breathing sped up as panic seeped into his muscles. He pulled against his restraints and looked around. What if that thing came back?
He heard his father’s voice. ‘Take your time, son.’
He always said that when he learnt something new and John had used the same phrase when Joe took his first steps. The thought calmed him down, but tears filled his eyes: Rosie should have been with him to share those moments. Their son had needed his mother. Why did she have to die? The same question over and over. Anger rushed through John and he stretched, rattling the metal restraints.
‘Damn it,’ he gasped.
With a resigned sigh, he blinked away his tears. His bed was raised, giving him a good view of the room, and he could see a few trophy-like body parts nailed to the wall near a set of lethal-looking metal implements. John shivered and felt his left leg twitch. He had to get out of here.
A noise made him turn. They were back. He could hear the telltale scraping sound and pictured them: the large angry one; the tiny one with flashing sides who hid in the corner; the thickset one with the scarred face. Panic was rising again and John pulled on his chains.
He could hear a voice, ‘…still alive?’
‘–gave him some Penchack to take the memories away.’
‘Good.’
John relaxed a little. Maybe he could reason with these two and ask them to let him out? All he wanted to do was get back to his army so he could get to the silver gates and back to Joe. He strained his neck, looking for anything he could reach to prise the metal clasps off his wrists. There was nothing within reach on the tables and all he saw on the walls were more body parts… John stopped and stared. His throat dried, his eyes widened and, without meaning to, he made a whimpering sound.
Nailed to the mud-brick wall hung the bottom half of his left leg.
John’s eyesight blurred.
He didn’t feel pain, but instinctively looked to his feet and shook his legs. He didn’t care who heard him. One leg rattled its fixings while the other felt stuck. Stretching and peering down, he could just make out the tip of his right boot. Not his left.
John stared back at the leg on the wall.
First his arm got swallowed by his machine gun and now he’d lost a leg? How could he go home like this? What would his parents say? His grandfather would just have more reasons to put him down. More importantly, what would Joe think of him? Would he be scared? How could he hug his son like this, or run with him?
John’s left hand formed a fist as he strained against his bonds again. The mechanisms in his gun-arm clicked and he felt warmth grow inside the gun. Light flooded the room and John closed his eyes. He heard claws scraping across the ground and wheezing sounds.
‘It’s awake.’
‘Yes.’
‘How long until Panzicosta returns?’
‘Hours. Probably after sundown,’ replied the distorted voice of the scarred beast. ‘He likes to leave them to regain energy. It delays their death.’
‘And you’re sure you’ll be fine, Krotank?’
Krotank coughed. ‘My fighting days are numbered and I grow tired of this world. As soon as you are free of the walls I’ll head into the plains.’
‘Are you certain?’
Krotank replied, ‘There’s much to explore here. That’s all I ever wanted, you know? To explore. Then I was called up in the army and, well, we ended up here.’
‘Your time was one of our bloodiest.’
‘The expansionists and the eradication of the Crarl, yes, but when was our history ever peaceful?’ Krotank replied.
As John listened, he realised these Brakari weren’t natives of this land – they were fighting for their survival too! Which meant they must have lost their battle or they wouldn’t still be here. The thought gave him strength. The Brakari had lost, which meant his people could beat them.
John opened his eyes. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Yes?’ A sleek grey head appeared by his side. It wasn’t as hideous as the large creature who had tortured him, but its numerous eyes and mouth pincers weren’t pretty either.
‘What have you done to me? To my leg?’
‘General Panzicosta…’
‘I don’t care about the bloody General,’ John bellowed, feeling his anger grow. Once again, he acted as he thought Mihran or Lavalle would. ‘I demand my freedom.’
‘Well that’s interesting because…’
‘Release me now!’
The small Brakari tilted its head to one side. ‘Are you fit enough to travel?’
‘I–’ John cast a look at the wall where his amputated leg hung. ‘I don’t know. No.’ John tried to control his panic. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘You misunderstand me, John Greene.’ The creature moved and the metal clasps snapped open. ‘I have come to free you.’
John took his time to slide off the bed and stared at the creatures. Then he stretched to retrieve his amputated leg, leaning over a table with the stump of his right leg sticking out impotently.
‘You won’t be able to use it,’ Krotank said. ‘It’s been embalmed.’
John stopped and rested on a table.
‘Drained of all liquids, then pumped full of–’
‘Yes, I get the picture.’ John had never felt like this before. It was beyond anger. He felt infiltrated and abused… dirty and less than an animal. ‘What else did you bastards do to me?’
‘It wasn’t us,’ the feminine creature replied.
‘But you let that thing cut my leg off and God knows what else…’ John slipped his good hand down his trousers to check everything was in place. ‘Oh, thank God.’ His shoulders relaxed.
‘General Panzicosta is very…’ The female paused. ‘It would be best to start from the beginning.’
John turned to look at her. Although smaller than his torturer, at four foot tall and six foot long, she still intimidated John in the small room.
‘I am Millok and we,’ she turned to Krotank, ‘have given you drugs to remove all pain and memories of your time with the General.’
John was ready for an argument but the words sunk in and his head dropped a notch. ‘Thank you.’
‘We are…’ Millok started.
‘Rebelling against our leader’s cause,’ Krotank finished the sentence.
‘Rebels?’ John whispered. Could he trust them? What if it was another trap, like when he followed Joe to the hospital and then Crossley? This time he would be prepared, he told himself. Or ready to escape at the first chance.
‘We can take you back to your army,’ Millok said.
‘Why can’t you just let me go.’ John looked at the doorway that stood ajar. ‘I can make it on my own, thanks.’
With a hop, John moved towards the exit, but the weight of his gun-arm pulled him into a table, knocking off the marbles he’d seen earlier. Weren’t these some kind of shield? John thought and grabbed a few. If he could get back to his army, maybe Mihran or Li would find a way to use them.
‘Where are my bags?’ he asked and shoved the marbles in his pocket.
‘Here.’ Krotank swung the satchels onto the table.
‘I’ve got everything I need.’ John scooped up more marbles.
‘You cannot travel alone. Do you even know where you are?’ Millok asked.
John peered through the tiny window, where a slither of the hazy sky could be seen. All he needed was a crutch and he could make a good go of it, he was sure.
‘You are in a city, John Greene,’ Millok said.
‘A city?’ John stared at the Brakari soldier.
How could he escape from a city full of creatures like the one who had tortured him? He pictured his father but couldn’t remember any advice that would be useful now… his mother? Nothing. An image of the armchair by the fire came to John, and one of his grandfather. ‘You’re a useless boy, John,’ he grumbled. ‘You never take your time and you never ask for help – you just blunder on through without a care…’
He was right. Maybe now was the time to accept some help?
‘Your name is Millok?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘You can call me John… I would appreciate your help.’
‘Good,’ Millok replied. ‘We must make the most of the time before the general returns.’
John leant in the shadow of the uneven mud-brick wall that surrounded the city of Abzicrutia. He’d never seen such a place. Beside him, her eyes constantly scanning, Millok explained how the Brakari army had marched out to confront the humans, leaving behind only the slave soldiers too weak to fight.
‘Can’t we free them too?’ John asked.
‘Just keep moving,’ she snapped.
Keeping close to the wall, they kept out of sight of the watchtowers where the last few Brakari soldiers stood guard.
‘Stand back.’
John hopped away as Millok pulled up a section of ground, spilling debris, and rested a metal grate against the wall. ‘Climb down,’ she ordered.
John paused for a second.
Stay strong, he told himself, and descended foot first into the hole. A muddy and dark hole. Probably the sewers, going by the smell. It was preferable to the torture rack, he reminded himself, and, with his gun-arm strapped tight, he slipped along the tube.
‘Back in the trenches again,’ he muttered but Millok ignored him as she pulled back the grate.
‘Out that way.’ She gestured towards a dim grey light.
It took John a while to get a good rhythm going, crouching with one good hand and one foot. He slipped a few times, covering himself in whatever it was the Brakari defecated, but after ten minutes they reached the clean air and John could see leaves fluttering.
‘Don’t worry,’ Millok said, urging John on, ‘we can’t be spotted from here.’
Tentatively, John stepped out and hopped to the nearest tree.
‘Never again,’ he grunted and sat on the ground to stretch his leg. Although the outlet was in the centre of a small copse of trees, the walls of the city were just a stone’s throw away. ‘And now what do we do?’ he asked.
‘There’s a blind spot all the way to the trees.’ Millok pointed towards the fringes of a forest some fifty paces away.
‘After you then.’ John pulled his straps tighter.
‘We go together,’ Millok said, looking around.
John noticed two new protrusions on her head, wafting.
‘We must be quick.’ She turned to John. ‘Let me help you up.’
‘No!’ John cringed from the Brakari’s touch. ‘I’m fine,’ he lied.
He reached for a low branch to get up. His left arm was getting stronger but the weight of his gun and bags and the lack of a left leg made it impossible to get up. ‘Just do it, John!’ he growled and pictured his grandfather. With a surge of anger, he pulled himself upright.
‘You can lean on me.’ Millok had been watching him. ‘It would be quicker.’
It would, John thought, but that would be a sign of weakness. He spotted a forked branch and reached for it. ‘No thanks, I’ll use this.’
The branch snapped off.
‘Quiet!’ Millok hissed.
John tore off the loose twigs and wedged a stick under his armpit. ‘Come on then!’
Millok scuttled ahead and John swung into action behind her, determined not to fall over. He took it easy to start with: footstep, crutch step. It would be easier if he had two, he thought, but how would he grip it with his gun-arm? His steps picked up as the ground sloped away from the city, faster and faster until the trees were around him.
‘What’s that thing?’ John asked when he caught up with Millok and stared at the long metal vehicle she stood beside. A hum could be heard coming from an open panel where Millok tinkered.
‘It’s a machine,’ Millok replied. ‘It will take us to your army.’
The smell was familiar to John. Of course! Crossley had taken him on one of these when he left the hospital. ‘I’ve seen it before,’ John almost whispered.
Millok turned to him. ‘Yes. The Draytor brought you here.’
‘The what?’ John asked.
‘The shape-shifter. It brought you to General Panzicosta.’
A shape-shifter? That made sense. He knew it couldn’t have been Crossley, but had never worked out how he had been tricked. His memory may have been wiped since the field hospital but, deep down, he knew it had all been make-believe and trickery. Anger stirred deep in John’s chest again, but he had to control it – he needed to get clear from Abzicrutia and then worry about getting away from Millok.
‘Right then,’ John rested a hand on the metal behemoth and felt its warmth, ‘where shall I–’
‘Shh!’ Millok hissed and crouched. Her feelers waved through the air with a noise that sounded like sniffing.
John stared into the forest, blood pounding through his ears, as he listened to every branch creak and leaf brush. Then he saw the unmistakable shape of General Panzicosta.