‘And they won?’ Mihran asked Li, marvelling at the details of yet another battle she held in her database.
‘Against all the odds,’ Li replied, walking beside him. ‘One in three killed, yet the English only lost five percent.’
Mihran remained silent. He felt comfortable being quiet with Li. She didn’t expect him to reply to every question like the others. But still, he had questions. ‘And it was down to one weapon: this longbow?’
‘The range and sheer number of archers overwhelmed the French,’ Li replied.
‘But the hill was a factor too,’ Mihran was speaking to himself now, ‘and the arrogance of the leaders.’
Li knew when to stay silent too.
They had been walking for two hours, by Mihran’s reckoning. The Lutamek robots had skilfully disappeared from sight and were scouring the land for potential enemies. The army was safer than it had ever been in this land, yet Mihran couldn’t relax. Each step drew them closer to battle. He glanced at the ragtag group of soldiers. Heads were down and the injured were limping or being carried by their comrades. They needed to be stronger. They needed more firepower. They needed… an idea came to him.
‘When we first arrived here, did you take notes on every soldier you saw?’ Mihran asked.
‘Yes,’ Li replied, as ever without emotion.
‘And you have logged every adaptation – every death?’
‘Yes.’
While the group took a water break in the lee of a low hill, Mihran obtained all the information he needed and, in return, allowed Li to bounce her theories off him.
‘So although the mutations appear random in nature, there is always a root cause or trigger and, as Ten-ten pointed out, these changes can be traced to biological enhancements.’
‘Yes.’ Mihran tried not to think about the fungal growth in his brain. Unlike the rest of the group, for whom only the language and aural areas were affected, his brain was riddled with mycelium, providing direct connections to distant cerebral regions. All the fungus wanted in return was a small amount of energy.
‘I suggest we try an experiment to kick-start…’ Li was still talking, he noticed, ‘…and measure the effects.’
Mihran took a moment to recall what she had been saying. Purposefully injure some of the troops to see if it triggers an adaptation? Mihran couldn’t allow anything to weaken his army. He saw them as a frail web of connected parts: some weak, some strong, but all intertwined. Take some out and the balance would be warped.
‘Not this close to battle – we can’t risk any more injuries.’
‘But the potential adaptations would outweigh the losses,’ Li argued.
‘If your theory is correct,’ Mihran said.
‘Yes, but–’
‘We have been weakened.’ Mihran stood, ready to resume their walk. ‘But I have a plan. We’re not desperate enough for your experiments yet, Li.’
It was another hour before they found anything of interest, after skirting more battle sites and obelisks that grew thin this side of the plain.
‘I found another battlefield – looks a bit different to the others,’ Bowman reported to Mihran. ‘Only one set of bodies. No graves either.’
Mihran was intrigued. ‘Let’s detour to visit it.’
Bowman wasn’t wrong. The obligatory white obelisk with its sharp, black script stood proud, with a ring of burnt bodies splayed out around it like a giant, dark flower.
‘I suggest we walk around the bodies,’ Li said.
‘Can you read the obelisk from here?’ Mihran asked.
Li tapped some buttons on her sleeve and started reading. ‘Here the Stobardorian army was erased. They dishonoured the true warrior and refused to fight within the chosen time period.’
Mihran sighed. It was as he had predicted. He needed to turn this into an advantage.
‘We knew we had to fight and now we know the consequences of not going to war,’ he said to the whole group. ‘We are fighters.’ He let the words sink in. ‘Now we know we must fight for our honour.’
Mumbles could be heard around the group. What did they fear? Mihran had resisted using his mind skills since his run-in with Peronicus-Rax, which had left him bruised, but Mihran had to try something. Gently, he pushed his mind out to feel his way around the group.
‘Don’t worry.’ Mihran kept his eyes open as he talked and tentatively touched the minds of the men and women. He imagined a wide net reaching out, which was blue for some reason. He could sense emotions through it. They were scared: not of death, but of losing. ‘Any army we meet has already lost a battle.’ His mind net was spread thin but he could feel the emotions quicker than by delving into each person’s mind. ‘Our enemy will be weakened after losing. They will be demoralised,’ he could feel the mood lighten, ‘and they will lose again!’ He saw heads rising and pulled back his mind. ‘War is near. Victory is near!’
‘Yeah!’ Crossley was nodding with other soldiers who grunted in agreement.
Some didn’t look convinced and Mihran had to work on them. ‘But rather than wait for them to attack us,’ Mihran pointed to the burnt remains, ‘this reminds us we need to take the battle to them.’
He smiled as he walked away. The mind net, as he pictured it, felt easy to control and would give him new insight into the army as a whole. These people were parts in a bigger machine: a machine that he controlled.
‘Wait!’ Someone shouted and Mihran froze. ‘Don’t move a muscle.’ It was Crossley, who was coughing now.
What was he doing? Was he challenging his authority? Mihran stayed still and pushed his mind out behind him to where he felt the American stood. He was excited and a touch scared.
‘What is it?’ Mihran asked.
‘One step ahead of you, a finger’s length under the ground,’ Crossley coughed again, ‘is a mine – an explosive.’
Mihran’s breathing grew heavy. He was no longer in control. Worse, he was relying on one of his men to help him. Mihran spoke quietly so few people could hear him. ‘What shall I do?’
‘Step backwards, but very carefully,’ Crossley was almost whispering, ‘softly.’
Mihran waited a second to show he was in control of his own actions, then slowly lifted his right foot and stepped half a pace back. It was the slightest of movements, yet the shift in weight triggered something in the ground ahead of him: he was sure he had seen movement.
Crossley coughed. ‘Wait!’ He coughed again. ‘One of the sensor arms moved… slower this time.’
Mihran clenched his fists. With controlled effort, he lifted his left foot with such a slow movement he was unsure how high he had lifted it before he swept it back half a step.
‘And again,’ Crossley said before coughing. ‘But watch your robes!’
Mihran raised his long coat then stepped back with his right foot and again with his left until he saw Crossley in his peripheral vision.
‘You did it – thank God for that!’ Crossley was laughing.
Mihran gave a little smile of thanks. It was good to know his men cared about his safety.
‘I thought you were going to blow up all the explosives!’ Crossley was on his knees now. ‘Just give me some room and I’ll dig it up.’
Mihran’s eyes narrowed.
‘Actually,’ Crossley stared up at Mihran, ‘can I use your sword?’
Mihran’s teeth hurt as his jaws clamped together.
Crossley got the message. ‘No? Okay. I’ll use this stick but–’
‘I can help you.’ Li tapped buttons on her wrist. ‘I can remove the sand, one layer at a time, and then…’
Mihran exhaled and unclenched his teeth. What if the rest of the land was littered with these devices? And why hadn’t the Lutamek or Althorn set them off when they passed? He watched as Li used an unseen force to lift thin discs of sand from the ground. This would take some time.
Dusk was upon them by the time Bowman spotted the Lutamek fighters, huddled on an incline. They had reached the gentle hills as Althorn had predicted.
‘Are they walking?’ Crossley asked. Mihran noticed the American had become more vocal since he and Li had managed to safely remove the explosives from the swathe of mines he had discovered.
‘No,’ Mihran answered, remembering the books he had studied with Li: dust low and spreading was the sign of infantry approaching.
‘Right, so what are they doing?’ Crossley asked.
‘Resting by the look of it,’ Li replied.
To Mihran they looked like nothing more than a series of low-lying buildings.
As they neared, a burning aroma came to them in wafts on the slow wind.
‘Smells bad,’ Crossley winced.
Mihran opened his mind net and pushed it forwards to feel for any conscious thoughts from the Lutamek. He had been developing the skill as the group walked, spreading it thinly across the land around the army in an attempt to pick up living creatures other than his troops.
Nothing. Not even a creature scuttling about – wait, he could feel something. It was different to his men. There were shapes pulsing… yellow. Peronicus-Rax had been orange and then blinding white when he attacked him. He would tread carefully and feel around each shape. Yes, it was them! He could see the waves of communication between them and feel the warmth of their organic parts. He could feel emotion too: they were tired and lonely. They pined for their lost comrades.
Mihran reeled in his mental net and whispered to the wind. ‘I know what I have to do.’
Isao stood still and breathed in deeply. He didn’t need to breathe but he missed the simple act, just like he missed eating and drinking. He soaked up the view: the light; the colours; the sounds; the smells. These were the few glorious minutes he and his comrades fought for: the space between the end of the battle and the inevitable return of the muffled veil that cursed them.
Around them lay the bodies of their red foes, shattered and broken. As ever, Isao and his companions were unscathed. They stood in a triangle with their weapons pointing to the earth. Hori was smiling but Masaharu’s face wore a shadow of a frown.
The mist was returning.
Isao could feel it, like hearing the footsteps of the jailer returning with his key.
‘Time to go,’ Isao whispered to the other two, who nodded.
Their bushido code of honour had decreed they commit seppuku. If not, they could have fallen into enemy hands and been tortured for information. But had they known the true cost of their sacrifice, would they have carried it through? Isao shook his head to remove the thought. They were samurai: this was their burden.
As they slipped back into the shadow world, Isao took one last breath, savouring the pine forest. Then the colours of the real world disappeared.
‘Did you see them?’ Hori asked as they floated together through the clouded landscape, peppered with shadows of the real world.
‘Yes,’ Isao replied.
‘They tried to help us,’ Masaharu said, ‘at the end.’
‘They did help,’ Hori said. ‘They killed the injured.’
‘But finished the battle too soon.’ Isao already missed the colours: the scarlet of the enemy; the ochre of the earth; the jade of the leaves. This world lacked definition. Even Hori and Masaharu were poorly formed smudges of their true selves.
‘We were given longer this time.’ Hori sounded cheerful.
It was true. This had been their third battle and they had enjoyed more time in the real world.
‘But only a few minutes,’ Isao said.
‘We are being rewarded,’ Hori stated.
‘And if we win more, will we be able to return?’ Masaharu asked.
‘You want to return?’ Isao snapped at the wispy image, whose body flowed about him like robes in a storm.
‘Yes.’ Masaharu’s eyes were sharp. ‘If returning means I have regained my honour.’
Isao looked towards the shadows of Gal-qadan’s troops riding their tocka. Was it possible to wash away one’s wrongs with blood? It seemed wrong. And would they be able to return to their homeland after regaining corporeal form? Isao didn’t know if he wanted to, not after the things he had seen. He had attained everything his family had wished for: a high position in the army; land; a beautiful wife. His status was envied by many yet, if he was honest, he wanted more. He had to be honest with himself. Life was short. His old life had ended and if he had a chance to live it again he would do things differently. He couldn’t say how, but it would be different.
‘Their steeds didn’t fight.’ Hori was talking to Masaharu and Isao focused on them to make sure they didn’t get separated.
The tide that had pulled the three samurai since their deaths still tugged at them and could easily pull them in different directions.
‘They are more intelligent than horses,’ Masaharu replied.
‘You think they knew not to attack?’ Isao asked.
‘Maybe,’ Masaharu answered. ‘But they didn’t attack the injured either.’
‘They have honour too,’ Hori said.
Isao focused on the tocka at the rear of the line carrying the Mongol leader. He didn’t trust the man: he had killed two soldiers in cold blood: one to raise the tocka and another during the battle who could have been saved.
‘Will we fight again?’ Hori asked.
‘Of course!’ Masaharu answered quickly.
‘The tide grows strong,’ Isao noted. ‘And our enemies grow thick.’
‘So we will be tested.’
‘Yes,’ Isao said.
‘And we will have longer in the real world,’ Masaharu said.
‘Wait.’ Isao could hear a voice.
‘Up ahead,’ Hori said, ‘a beacon.’
An orange light pulsed in the sky.
Gal-qadan and his men had stopped and wore strained expressions. Some held their hands over their ears.
‘Hold on to something. We need to focus,’ Isao told his comrades. ‘Focus and listen.’
Isao anchored his body to the shadow of a hazy tree. Then he heard the words: the call to arms.
John’s good hand slipped under his shirt for Joe’s tin soldier as he kept his eyes on the Brakari monster. Although he had no memory of the torture or pain, John’s anger was still raw. A simple blast from his gun would give him some retribution, he thought, as the creature sniffed and loped through the long undergrowth to where Millok had tied down the large robot transporter. John’s gun clicked and he imagined bullet shapes as Millok held up a foreleg, with a gesture that he assumed meant either ‘stay silent’ or ‘don’t move’. John decided to do both and groped for the cord around his neck. Where was it? He unbuttoned his shirt and found nothing. Had he lost it? And what were those marks on his stomach? Lines and circles around his belly button. He rubbed them but didn’t feel any pain.
That bastard must have taken Joe’s soldier!
‘I know you are here,’ Panzicosta’s voice boomed, sending a shiver through John. ‘You have braced the Lutamek well. Give me the human and you will be released, Millok.’
John looked at Millok. Surely she wouldn’t give him up after everything she’d risked? Watching her gently vibrating carapace and shiny sets of eyes, there was no way to tell. She was waving her mouthparts, sniffing the air, and now her head shell was swelling. What was that sound? Like a distant rumble of artillery fire.
John swivelled to look at Panzicosta, who was holding his head low. Then the large shelled beast raised his head and roared. ‘Bring him to me!’
Millok whispered, ‘Trust me.’
‘No,’ John whispered back. ‘What are you doing?’
She couldn’t fight him, he was far too big. Was she going to give John up in exchange for her freedom?
Panzicosta’s eyes fixed on her as she crawled out of the undergrowth, keeping the robot between them.
Maybe he should run while Panzicosta was distracted? John thought. But how far could he get on one leg? No, he had to stay here. Maybe his gun would fire? He tried to wriggle and flex what felt like his fingers deep inside the shortened Lewis gun. He felt for a trigger or firing mechanism, visualising the schematics and stripped-down pieces, but the gun had warped too much. All he could feel was a metal tube where he formed the shapes.
John looked up as Millok spoke.
‘I will give you the human,’ she was leaning up against the vibrating robot with her forelegs gripping a metal ridge, ‘but you must give me complete freedom from the army. No more fighting.’ She paused as though thinking. ‘And give me access through the silver gates when you defeat the humans.’
Panzicosta huffed with derision. ‘I will guarantee your safety and you can flee, but you will never have access through the silver gates unless you fight alongside the victorious.’
‘Belsang would know a way,’ Millok replied.
Panzicosta huffed again. ‘Maybe, but…’
John fought every urge to crawl away. Why was he listening to these creatures discuss him like an unwanted pet? Why didn’t he escape while he had the chance? He looked at Millok and knew the answer: he trusted her. She’d helped him escape when she could have fled on her own. True, she may have done it to annoy Panzicosta, but she’d also wiped John’s memory of pain. She’d shown compassion.
‘The human must come with me to finish the interrogation. Where is he?’ Panzicosta growled.
John moved to one side, careful not to give away his position. Millok was balanced gracefully on two of her rear appendages while, unseen by Panzicosta, the other two poked at a section of the robot.
‘He’s over there.’ Millok nodded in John’s direction. ‘John, it’s safe to come out!’
Panzicosta made a step forward towards John.
‘John!’ Millok called again. ‘Stand up.’
‘I’m not bloody standing up!’ John shouted and Panzicosta took a step towards Millok and the Lutamek.
‘Come to me, human!’ Panzicosta shouted.
Without warning, a blue flash leapt out of the robot and struck Panzicosta in the head, sending him flying backwards. John was up on his good knee, watching him writhe on the ground. Another blue shock ripped into him and his shape changed from a large blue scorpion to a wolf-like creature, and then to human form. Was that Crossley? Then Randeep. How could it be? Another bolt struck it and the creature changed three more times, finally finishing in what John assumed was its true form.
‘It’s the Draytor?’ John hobbled forward on his stump and knee and stared at the multilimbed, wet-skinned animal that lay pulsing in a pool of slime.
‘This is the creature that fooled you and brought you here,’ Millok said.
John could feel his cheeks warm as his anger grew. His gun-arm clicked and warmed as he pictured twisting torpedoes of fire, ready to burn the quivering mess.
‘I will kill it.’ John focused on the jellied mass.
This creature was to blame for everything: Joe’s tin soldier; his leg; the war; Rosie dying. He raised his arm, aimed the muzzle and fired, but a sound similar to a horse’s fart erupted, followed by a weak puff of smoke.
‘Damn it!’ John fumed.
‘Your weapon is faulty?’ Millok asked.
‘No, I…’ John had no answer and felt his anger twist inside him. Did a soldier always have to kill? he wondered and took a deep breath.
‘I will let it live,’ he said, feeling a weight lift off him.
‘Are you sure?’ Millok asked.
‘Yes.’ John raised his eyebrows. ‘Just give him another zap from that thing and we can go.’
Millok had fine-tuned the sound of the thundering Lutamek robot to a low rumble, allowing her and John to talk as they fled across the grassland plain. Although the bolted-on wheels were rudimentary, this was the fastest John had travelled since the train to Dover.
‘How did you know it was the Draytor?’ he asked Millok.
‘I didn’t.’ She sat in front of John, claws gripping metal ridges while her pincers controlled the robot through exposed panels. ‘I tested it with a sound weapon – any Brakari would have exhaled water, even Panzicosta.’
John stayed silent as hazy memories of riding the Lutamek with Crossley came back to him. He’d been drugged and fooled by that creature, yet he’d let it live.
‘I had to attack it to know if it was a Draytor or Panzicosta,’ Millok continued, ‘so I overloaded the Lutamek systems, knowing it would release energy and…’
John couldn’t hear any more. The vibrations beneath his leg and buttocks increased as the Lutamek jolted. Millok poked and twisted metal components inside the panels and the rumbling died down again.
John’s head hurt. He was clinging on with his left arm and had his gun-arm wedged under a strap like on the raft. He was grateful to Millok for taking him away from the stinking city and for being alive, so why did he feel down?
He looked at the metal beneath him.
‘Did it feel pain?’ John asked.
‘What? Yes – you saw it squirming on the ground.’ Millok raised her voice.
‘No. Did the Lutamek feel pain?’ John asked. ‘When you overloaded it?’
Millok turned her head to one side and three of her eyes focused on John’s face. ‘I don’t know.’
‘But it reacts,’ John said and pictured Panzicosta leaning over him with his spikes. Strapped to the table, John had been vulnerable, just like the robot they were riding on.
‘Millok, stop!’ he shouted. ‘This machine feels pain. You have to stop!’
He saw lines of small holes across her blue-shelled body open and close, then Millok brought the machine to a standstill.
‘Yes, it feels pain. They have biological components connected to every major component and wired up to their power system. Every Lutamek I have ever braced has felt pain. I try to reduce it as much as I can but–’
‘Why do it at all?’ John asked, still gripping the handrail. ‘Why torture and maim? Why fight?’
‘For information and for victory. That’s what we do.’ Millok answered slowly and John sensed she didn’t believe a word of it.
‘And what happens afterwards?’ John asked the question that had haunted him ever since he had first set eyes on the poisoned farmland and wrecked towns of Belgium. A lifetime to build. A day to destroy.
‘That’s for leaders to discuss, not the soldiers,’ Millok replied.
John looked at markings on the huge robot and ran his fingers over a series of bumps: two, then eight, then four. Black pockmarks ran along one side of the shiny surface, like miniature craters, and the open panels looked like raw wounds with wires and dials hanging out.
‘We’re free now.’ John looked up at Millok. ‘Why can’t this robot be free as well?’
Millok looked around before answering. ‘Are you sure we’re near your army? I promised to get you to safety, not abandon you.’
John shook his head. ‘We’ll walk.’ He looked at his stump. ‘I’ll build a crutch. But this… soldier needs to be free.’
Millok’s head dropped a notch. ‘I’ll use a time-delay brace so we’re clear when it breaks free.’
‘Good idea.’ John guessed the first thing the Lutamek would do would be to try to find its kin, but who knew what its priorities would be: revenge was probably a close second. ‘I’ll just–’ a wave of dizziness washed over him and his vision blurred, then an image came to him: a blue sphere, tinged white, green and brown. Was it a map?
‘Are you okay?’ Millok asked.
‘Yes, I…’ John focused on the image pushed into his mind and the word ‘home’ came to him. It wasn’t spoken or seen but came with a warm comforting feeling.
He didn’t expect the words that came next but instantly recognised the voice. He turned in the direction they came from and listened.
Since the day he’d taken his first life and become a man, Gal-qadan had only been surprised once. A man he had taken for dead had sprung up from a pile of bodies and stabbed him in the forearm. Gal-qadan had sliced the man’s throat in a flash, but the rush of heartbeats that followed had made him feel truly alive.
The voice speaking in Gal-qadan’s head now surprised him. Mihran’s words boomed, and Gal-qadan felt the same rush of euphoria: his body jolted, then filled with a delayed pulse of energy. He closed his eyes and, when the rush faded, listened to the words.
‘…all soldiers of Earth to join forces. We will be victorious together.’ There was a pause before the words started again. ‘Listen. Listen carefully. This is a call to arms. All human soldiers must travel towards the beacon and…’
Gal-qadan opened his eyes. His men had stopped and the tocka stood patiently in a line. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted.
Tode turned. ‘Do you not hear it, Khan?’
‘Yes, of course I hear it.’ He dug his heels in to spur his tocka on. ‘But why have we stopped? We must keep moving.’
‘Towards the beacon?’ Tode asked.
Gal-qadan breathed sharply. Why was he constantly tested like this? Didn’t any of his men realise how difficult it was for him to control his anger? If he was a weaker man he would have killed half of them by now.
‘No. Not to the beacon.’ He chose a new direction. ‘That way.’
Kastor turned to face him. ‘The trail we’re following leads to the beacon. Why change direction now?’
The other soldiers turned too, bringing their tocka round to form a semicircle around Gal-qadan. All eyes were on him and his tocka nervously shifted its weight from hoof to hoof.
He was in charge, not them, Gal-qadan told himself. He needed to show leadership and strength. But what could he do faced with this?
‘Why change our course?’ Kastor asked again.
Gal-qadan fought the urge to draw his bow and shoot the Spartan. He pictured the long-haired swordsman falling off his tocka, and finishing him off with his short sword. He blinked to remove the thought. He had to maintain power. If the war the voice talked of was inevitable and they joined a larger army, what would he have control of? He had allies in his group, but Gal-qadan knew the majority of his men would not stay loyal. He needed something else.
‘Khan?’ Tode asked.
‘Yes, I am Khan,’ Gal-qadan spoke slowly as he worked out what he had to do, ‘yet you question me.’
‘We do because–’ Kastor started but Gal-qadan cut him off.
‘I haven’t finished.’ He counted to five before starting again. ‘I have led you towards the silver gates. This is our mission.’ He calmly looked from man to man, holding each gaze. ‘Yet we are being distracted. How do we know this call to arms isn’t a trap?’
‘Why would they do that?’ Kastor asked.
‘Because they want the gates for themselves,’ Gal-qadan replied quickly. ‘You run towards the water like a young deer. Where are the wolves?’
Gal-qadan had their attention but had to make more ground. He slid off his tocka, giving it a friendly pat as he dismounted. ‘We shall head to the beacon, but not this way.’ He walked towards Kastor and stroked his tocka’s muzzle as he had done a thousand times with his horses. He had seen what these beasts’ teeth could do, but felt no fear. ‘We head this way.’ He nodded to the right again. ‘So we can see for ourselves who calls us.’
‘That sounds wise,’ Dakaniha said.
Gal-qadan felt the momentum swinging back his way. ‘But I ask one thing.’
‘What?’ Kastor’s hand had moved to his sword handle.
Gal-qadan stared Kastor in the eye. ‘That I ride your tocka and you ride mine.’
‘What? No, I…’
‘As the leader, I should ride the lead horse.’ Gal-qadan kept stroking the tocka’s muzzle.
‘No, we’ve–’
‘He is the Khan, Kastor,’ Tode said, ‘and he will lead us into battle.’
‘Yes, but–’ Kastor protested.
‘He released the tocka,’ Dakaniha added.
‘Yes,’ Gal-qadan looked in the lead tocka’s eyes, ‘it was I who freed you.’
‘And you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t followed me.’ Dakaniha faced Kastor.
Osayimwese moved forward. ‘Do you not have commanders in your army, Kastor? I thought you were a real soldier.’
Kastor raised a finger. ‘Don’t goad me, you know who the real soldier is here. And, yes, we have commanders, but they lead after earning the soldiers’ respect.’ He looked Gal-qadan in the eye.
Gal-qadan pictured his sword slipping through Kastor’s wide mouth and out the back of his head.
Ethan leant over to Kastor and whispered something but Gal-qadan only caught the end, ‘…because they are your blood.’
Kastor nodded but remained seated. Gal-qadan knew the Spartan was a proud man. He had to give him a way to accept his order but save face. He smiled as he remembered an old trick.
‘You have grown attached to your steed,’ Gal-qadan said. ‘But if I lead on mine, will the tocka follow? No. So I suggest we leave it to fate.’ He picked a thumbnail-sized silver coin from a concealed pocket.
Kastor huffed but studied the coin all the same. ‘You will pay me for my tocka?’
‘No.’ He turned the coin to show Arabic writing on one side and a symmetrical shape on the other. ‘Choose a face.’
‘Ah.’ Kastor’s grin returned. ‘A bet!’
Gal-qadan rode the lead tocka at the head of his posse and Kastor took the rear. They had crossed a tract of open grassland and ventured into what looked like the remnants of a forest fire. A war had been fought here. Craters and bodies littered the ground and they passed a white obelisk surrounded by concentric circles of dark corpses, whose shining bones mimicked the obelisk.
Gal-qadan had allowed himself a smile for tricking Kastor, but now he had to focus on any present danger. ‘Split into two units,’ he ordered. ‘I will take east; Tode, you take west.’
He gave his steed a subtle nudge with his heels, playing it safe with the tocka leader: one false move and the whole troop could abandon him. Gal-qadan had played his hand well but he needed something else to maintain his leadership. As the tocka walked sure-footedly through the metal and organic debris, Gal-qadan’s eyes wandered. He caught glimpses of foreign weapons. That was what he needed – something so destructive that just having it in his possession ensured loyalty. He scoured the mess and stroked his tocka’s mane to slow him down. He could see how the charred soldiers had met their deaths: the agony and the humiliation. But there were no weapons he could use here. Gal-qadan ushered his battalion on. Back to the flat grasslands: along their roundabout route to the beacon. The arrogant man would pay for assuming Gal-qadan could be summoned like this. This weapon he dreamt of would be the answer – something which, with the tocka, would give him negotiating power.
An hour later, another battlefield appeared on the horizon.
‘Just like the last one, Khan,’ Tode reported after scouting ahead. ‘Shall we go around it?’
‘No,’ Gal-qadan snapped.
He needed a weapon.
‘But the fields beyond lie thick with battle debris. Surely it will become impassable?’ Tode said.
Gal-qadan felt his shoulders relax. There was so much possibility here. He looked ahead and saw the size of the next debris plain – he would need help.
‘We go through, but everyone must look for anything of use.’ He paused, wondering how much detail to give. ‘We need supplies.’
‘Food and water?’ Tode asked.
Gal-qadan nodded. ‘And arrows… missiles for each soldier.’
The pattern was repeated over and over: a new battlefield raised the chance of finding the weapon of Gal-qadan’s desires. He had no time to stare at the bizarre alien physiologies of the dead: he only had eyes for their weapons. He picked up the odd blade or gun but in his mind he pictured a hand-held gun, like the rifles Dakaniha and Ethan carried but deadlier. His frustrations grew with each empty battlefield, while his battalion grew rich in trinkets and shields.
Gal-qadan reluctantly joined Tode after another fruitless search.
‘Two more changes to report, Khan.’
Gal-qadan sighed, growing tired of his men’s successes.
‘Three tocka wandered off path and–’
Gal-qadan cut Tode off. ‘Was that the explosion I heard?’
‘Yes, Khan.’
‘Are they dead?’
‘No, Khan.’ Tode’s eyes lit up. ‘They survived and now wear a coat of metal. Most fortunate.’
‘Fortunate?’ Gal-qadan looked away. It would make the tocka more of a threat. Useful when negotiating with the army leader.
He turned away. Maybe the next field would have what he was looking for? He had struggled enough, leading this band of complaining men through war, hunger and thirst. He deserved something in return.
Five battlefields later, when the green clouds above had turned a shade of peach, signalling the start of another long dusk, Gal-qadan found scores of squat bodies lying in a semicircle. Their feet pointed in the same direction, which told Gal-qadan they had been killed by the same weapon, belonging to their metallic, ball-shaped enemy. This was what he had been looking for! Gal-qadan’s pulse raced and he turned his tocka to follow an invisible line from the set of dead feet to a patch of bare earth. He leapt down and kicked one of the spherical bodies, which rolled away with a tinny echo.
‘There is nothing here,’ he growled and looked across the field of debris.
Dakaniha and Tode were silently riding their tocka through a patch of bones, while Ethan rode atop a shallow ridge. Beyond him, Kastor was inspecting something of interest.
Anger built and Gal-qadan kicked another dead spheroid, wincing as his toe hit a hard object beneath. His tocka stepped away. Gal-qadan looked around but nobody had been watching. Still, he felt a tingle in his neck. He rolled the offending corpse away and spotted a dark line in the ground. He brushed away soil to reveal a ridge of metal and followed it, pushing more spheres out of the way. Had they died protecting this? Something nobody else had found? Breathing heavily, Gal-qadan cleared three corners and stepped back to stare at the triangle of metal embedded in the ground. He pounded it with his fists and forced his short sword under a corner, desperate to prise it free. He jabbed and poked at the corner – then stopped. A shape had appeared by his side. He turned to see his tocka, who gently tapped a hoof on the edge of the triangle and, with a hiss, a door hinged up, revealing a dark recess where two spherical creatures, as dead as those above ground, sat either side of a metal tube the length of his arm.
‘At last.’ Gal-qadan reached in to pick up the weapon.
He froze again. He could hear footsteps. He spun round with his sword aimed at the newcomer.
‘That is not yours to take, human,’ the deep voice spoke slowly.
Gal-qadan stared at the tall, thickset humanoid. The wind jingled trinkets hanging across its body and its one large eye stared down darkly.
Gal-qadan’s head throbbed as he fought to control his anger. He may have been called rash or quick-tempered in the past, but he knew when he was outmuscled.
‘I forbid you to take that weapon,’ the tall warrior’s voice boomed again.
Gal-qadan heard no malice in the voice but it implied great strength, so he placed the tubular weapon back beside its dead owners and faced the newcomer. He was too far away for a sword lunge and too near to string and fire an arrow.
‘What authority do you have, stranger?’ he asked.
‘I protect the belongings of the dead,’ it replied.
Gal-qadan glanced at the array of objects hooked on its armour: sharp implements hung alongside metal trinkets with winking lights, which jostled with colourful discs and tubes.
‘Yet you take them yourself.’ He gestured at a sphere dangling on a chain. ‘What do you do with them?’
‘I protect them.’
‘From what?’ Gal-qadan asked.
‘Not what, whom,’ the deep voice boomed. ‘Anyone wishing to destroy them.’
Gal-qadan refrained from asking why.
‘You have no authority in this land or any other. I, Gal-qadan, lead my army to war and we require provision and armaments.’ Gal-qadan paused to stare into the large, unblinking eye, searching for a sign of anger or understanding. He pointed to a longsword hanging on its side. ‘You have taken weapons from my people, yet you demand I leave this weapon here?’
‘Yes.’ It remained motionless.
Gal-qadan thought about his armoured skin and was weighing up how he would fare in a fight with the giant, when an idea came to him.
‘If you wish to collect… protect this weapon,’ Gal-qadan pointed to the tube in the vault by his feet, ‘you may accompany us to our battle.’
The eye darkened.
‘On victory, or death, I will bequeath it to you,’ Gal-qadan said.
The eye lightened again.
‘If not,’ Gal-qadan said, ‘my men will destroy you and the weapons you carry.’ He swung his arm out to gesture at the soldiers on their tocka. ‘No matter how powerful your weapons may be, we outnumber you.’
The tall soldier remained silent but took half a step back.
‘My offer remains. I bequeath you the weapon on one condition.’
‘Name it,’ the tall being replied.
‘Show me how to use it.’
Silence.
The dangling trinkets tinkled in the soft breeze and Gal-qadan stood tense, waiting for a physical attack.
The humanoid seemed to shrug. ‘I will show you, human.’
‘Good,’ Gal-qadan replied.
The tall soldier shifted its footing to walk away. ‘I wish to observe humans in battle. Who do you fight?’
Gal-qadan kept his stony face rigid. It was a good question. Who would they fight? Giants like him? Or bizarre enemies like the red aliens that could only be defeated by the samurai ghosts?
‘They are unknown but will be defeated.’
‘The unknown enemy is never defeated.’
‘They will be with this weapon.’ Gal-qadan pointed down into the pit. ‘And then it will be yours.’
‘It shall.’
Even though he had the weapon, Gal-qadan couldn’t shake the feeling he had lost out.