‘So you could tell it wasn’t human?’ Althorn asked Jakan-tar as he led the company of Sorean, human and other freed soldiers across the open grassy plain to meet Mihran and the rest of the army.
‘Yes.’ The cat-like captain blinked, which Olan translated as a shrug. ‘You humans have a… distinctive aroma.’
‘Oh, thanks!’ Olan laughed.
Olan had told Althorn about the events of the Frarex village in the woods and he needed to know more about the shape-shifter that had masqueraded as Randeep. ‘You will tell us if we have more in our ranks?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ The Sorean’s large eyes stared up at Althorn, unnerving him a little. ‘We are allies.’
‘Thank you.’ Althorn faked a smile. He was unsure of these creatures. The army needed help but how deadly were these short fighters compared with the might of the Lutamek robots? And who was to say they would stay loyal?
Althorn stared back down the line of soldiers following him: Samas was discussing tactics with one of Jakan-tar’s fighters, while Lavalle was way back, wearing his new, black armour. The Sorean had offered Lavalle one of their hidden shields, but the knight would only accept a true metal suit of armour. Olan said the Sorean were natural blacksmiths and had built a bespoke suit in half a day using a strange metal held in each Sorean shield. If Lavalle was to be believed, the resulting armour was lighter than his undergarments.
A pang of guilt tightened Althorn’s stomach as he remembered he hadn’t told Lavalle about Euryleia’s injury.
When he had first seen the group, traipsing out of the forest and onto the plain, Althorn had circled, unsure whether Olan and the others had been taken hostage by the Sorean, who outnumbered them. He had sped in, triggering a dozen of the Sorean shields as he passed, which had impressed him, then lobbed explosives at the fringes and watched as Samas, Lavalle and Olan each drew their weapons alongside the strange cats.
This was war, he told them, so he had to be sure.
Jakan-tar spoke, pulling Althorn out of his thoughts. ‘You understand it’s likely the shape-shifter killed your comrade to get his sword?’
‘Yes.’ Althorn wondered if it had been the real Randeep who had killed the lion, then imagined Randeep’s broken body in a distant forest. ‘He was also Crossley, yet I know he lives.’
Jakan-tar tilted its head. ‘They can replicate bodies, faces and voices but nothing that can be separated from their body.’
‘How much further?’ Olan changed the subject. He had admitted regretting not chasing after John when he had had the chance and was clearly disturbed by the conversation.
‘Two ridges,’ Althorn said. He waited a moment before saying, ‘We all failed them, you know, John and Randeep.’
‘And you will be more vigilant in future,’ Jakan-tar said.
‘Yes and I hope–’ Althorn felt an odd sensation brush his mind. It felt like his head was underwater. He held a hand up and slowed his pace. ‘One moment.’ He knew what came next.
Althorn, can you hear me? It was Mihran’s voice. Unlike his call-to-arms broadcast, this one-to-one communication made Althorn feel dizzy. He closed his eyes to concentrate.
I hear you. Althorn spoke in his head and pushed the words out as Mihran had explained.
What is your position? Mihran asked.
We will be with you before midday. Althorn kept his sentences short to save the emotional energy it took to form and project the words.
And the new soldiers?
Althorn fixed an image of Jakan-tar in his mind and pushed it towards Mihran with the words: Small,but good weapons.
Good, Mihran replied and Althorn’s wave of nausea melted away.
He opened his eyes and saw Olan watching him with a look of concern. ‘Are you sick? Do you need water?’
‘Sorry. Water, yes.’ Althorn stretched his neck. ‘Mihran was talking to me and I find it difficult to talk back.’
‘How is that possible?’ Olan asked.
‘He uses his call-to-arms voice,’ Althorn explained.
‘And he can talk to us one at a time?’ Olan asked.
Althorn nodded and drank from a canteen. ‘Maybe he’ll speak to you next.’ He smiled, hoping the big Viking would feel as sick as he did.
‘Hey!’ Crossley was the first to greet them when they wound their way into the shallow valley where the human army hid. Li and Mihran were some steps behind. ‘Good to see you. Where’s John?’
‘We didn’t find him,’ Althorn said quietly.
Crossley peered at the Sorean warriors who waited patiently. ‘But you found some pets, I see.’
Jakan-tar’s eyes widened. ‘Pets?’ It walked up to Crossley and looked him up and down. ‘No weapon I see. Shall we duel?’
Crossley ignored him and looked at Olan. ‘They talk too? That’s cute.’
Althorn shook his head.
Samas and Lavalle arrived from the back of the line, catching Crossley’s attention. ‘Hey, Euryleia!’ he called out. ‘Your knight in shining armour’s back.’
Lavalle cricked his neck, avoiding Crossley’s taunt, and walked straight to Mihran. ‘Commander.’
‘Lavalle.’
The broad knight stared across the encampment. ‘There are fewer here than I expected.’
Mihran shrugged. ‘This land is wide. Are you expecting anyone in particular?’
‘Prester John.’ Lavalle cut to the chase, as was his way, Althorn thought. ‘We heard rumours of his army in the Levant but it never came. I assumed it had been brought here, with us.’
Li overheard. ‘I don’t think we can expect this army any time soon, Lavalle. I’m sorry.’ She turned to Mihran. ‘According to my records, Prester John and his army were mythical – probably created by a tenth-century European monarch frustrated by the power of the Pope.’
Mihran nodded and held Lavalle’s stare for a moment. ‘I think you should visit Euryleia.’ He gestured to where the Amazon slept.
Althorn stepped away to keep his distance, as was his way, and watched Samas update Li on their mission’s successes and failures. Then Olan introduced the Sorean.
‘May I introduce Captain Jakan-tar of the Sorean.’ Olan looked proud in his gleaming armour.
Jakan-tar stepped forward, staring Mihran in the eyes. ‘Commander, I am grateful to your men for the release of my soldiers. The Sorean offer our weapons in alliance to secure victory and exit from this land.’
Althorn noticed Mihran held back a smile as he was being addressed: if ever there was a man who enjoyed the power of a ritual, it was him.
‘Your offer humbles me and is welcome. Do you have any intelligence on our enemy, the Brakari?’ Mihran asked.
Jakan-tar blinked. ‘We had an encounter with the scouts of a shelled species…’
Althorn left the conversation to wander around the camp. The army had grown – maybe fifty more soldiers swelled their numbers. Some stayed in groups: a red-coated troop kept to themselves, as did ten or eleven Asian soldiers, whom he assumed from what he had learnt these past days were Chinese. Near a fire, Lavalle crouched with his arm around Euryleia and, near the centre, Li was showing Samas a silver box that had all the hallmarks of Lutamek design. A spout of dust shot out of the centre, rising to three times their height, and paused for a second before dropping with an audible patter.
‘Damn it!’ she cursed before trying again.
‘Maybe start with a smaller amount,’ Samas suggested as Althorn walked away.
Althorn had found it difficult to walk at his slow pace today and his stomach reminded him how long it had been since he last ate. Maybe he could dash away for a short spell and find another deer to roast?
Raised voices made him turn and Althorn saw Sakarbaal turning visible beside Mihran, leaving a line of irate warriors behind him. He had heard rumours the gladiator’s tattoos were merging to form patterns but had no idea of their camouflage abilities.
Althorn sped over to listen.
‘One Brakari coming this way – probably a scout,’ Sakarbaal said, out of breath. ‘What shall we do?’
Mihran replied with an open face, ‘Why, capture it of course.’
The anticipation of finishing his work with the human soldier made General Panzicosta’s shell vibrate. The soft-bellied vertebrate had squealed under his every slice and had even experienced pain through his metallic arm. Panzicosta pictured ripping the metal out of the human’s body and felt another tremble. Such nervous creatures, these humans, he thought.
If he had any sense of remorse, he would have felt sorry for the species who would be the Brakari’s final enemy, but he didn’t feel pity – he relished the power he would have over them.
‘Victorio Brakarius, General.’ A freshly hatched guard bowed low as Panzicosta left through the gatehouse’s inner gates.
Panzicosta resisted the urge to ram his bludgeoning claw through the youngling’s head carapace for slowing him down.
‘Victorio Brakarius,’ he growled back.
The holding cells were just a few minutes’ walk away and Panzicosta pictured his victim, chained up and bleeding. The vision cheered him up. The information John had given him had been useless as far as he could tell, but he had passed it on all the same. The last Brakari had left the city and would carry word of the humans’ weaknesses to Belsang, but Panzicosta decided he would wait until morning to leave.
If these humans were as weak as their bodies and adaptations suggested, Panzicosta wouldn’t have to use his adaptation after all. Simple physical violence would suffice. His mouth-pieces gnashed against each other. They would be victorious and Belsang would have no further use for Doctor Cynigar, who could be disposed of, or Millok, who would be forced to submit to him.
The holes across his dark shell exhaled at the sight of the holding cells. As he breathed in he sensed blood. Sorean blood, he was sure. He sped up and spotted a ragged body on the path ahead.
‘How did you get here?’ Panzicosta loomed over the half-burnt cat-like creature pulling itself along the dirt floor with its remaining arm.
It didn’t have the strength to look up, let alone fight back, as Panzicosta scooped up the broken body with a wide claw and pressed its belly into his mouthparts. As he fed, small red spikes struck out of the dying body, but the enhancement was too weak to even scratch Panzicosta’s shell.
‘Better than Skrift meat,’ he mumbled, sucked up the last of the intestines and tossed the drained carcase to one side.
Drunk on the impending torture and the taste of Sorean flesh, Panzicosta caught a glimpse of another injured warrior cowering in a waste pile and looked up to see the broken shell of a mollusc soldier making its way up the city wall.
‘What is happening here?’ he yelled, seeing the first cell’s door hanging open. ‘Krotank?’
Pincers scratched at the doors as he stalked from cell to cell, finding only dead and paralysed soldiers. Had the injured soldiers overpowered Krotank and escaped? An unseen adaptation perhaps? Panzicosta puffed out moist air as his anger grew. He reached the main building and rushed into the darkness: all eyes and claws open.
‘Krotank?’ he hissed, as he pushed through to the back room where John Greene had been held captive. ‘Where is the human?’ He punched a hole through the door with his claw.
He scanned the room: the leg was on the wall but the human’s bags had gone. Anything else missing? The Lutamek box remained on the table, but the Sorean shields were missing. Panzicosta almost laughed: the shields were useless. Doctor Cynigar had isolated their weakness days ago and his blocking technology had been taken to the battlefield when Belsang left.
‘So now,’ General Panzicosta weighed up the likely scenarios of what had happened in his building: no signs of a struggle and no blood trail, ‘I will find who betrayed me.’
‘I can help you with that.’
Panzicosta swung round to see Krotank in the doorway, wearing his spiked battle armour. Panzicosta closed down his eyes pair by pair until only his fighting eyes remained open. This was the traitor? The throwback with his extra claw and scarred shell? The urge to inflict pain rose and shook the General’s body with hormones.
‘There’s a lot you could learn from your ancestors, Panzicosta.’ Krotank backed out of the doorway to the mud path outside. ‘Humility, patience… selflessness.’
‘Don’t give me that crap.’ Panzicosta sped forward to get his large body clear of the building. ‘Our species left that behind with you half-breeds centuries ago.’ He lunged forward to jab five of his sharpest pincers at Krotank, but each point was deflected. ‘You will die for betraying me.’
‘Perhaps,’ Krotank replied as they circled. ‘But in death there is life.’
‘I didn’t realise how much shit you talk.’ Panzicosta feigned an attack to the left then jumped in with a hammering smash to Krotank’s carapace. The spikes on the black armour bent but Krotank simply groaned and stabbed back with a razor claw, cutting a thin line down Panzicosta’s shoulder shell.
Panzicosta leapt back. ‘What happened to Millok?’ he asked, assuming Krotank had killed her.
‘You can find out for yourself.’ Krotank circled, unwilling to be drawn in to an attack.
‘Cryptic as well? Another thing I could learn from my ancestors?’
‘No, but you could learn to do things for yourself rather than relying on others,’ Krotank replied.
Panzicosta snorted. ‘I’ll take care of this problem myself, don’t you worry.’
He struck out with every appendage: hammering, slicing and spearing at the tenacious fighter. A warm feeling spread through his claws as a yellow light spread across Krotank, who seemed uninjured by the blows and cuts. ‘What is this?’ Panzicosta tried to pull back but was stuck.
‘Another lesson.’ Krotank sounded out of breath. ‘This time in concealment.’
The yellow light turned orange. Had Krotank hidden an adaptation? Panzicosta felt a pang of admiration for the old soldier as he was thrown back in a ball of flame and pain.
General Panzicosta opened an extra pair of eyes to make sense of the shapes in the poor light of the medical dome. His shell creaked as he walked and, as he passed an overturned metal table, he caught a glimpse of the brilliant yellow scars running across his carapace, glowing like a cracked egg containing fire. With slow precision, the large Brakari limped past empty mud craters and sulphur baths to a low table and picked through an array of open bottles. Each contained different quantities of liquid which varied in colour and viscosity. None were labelled but Panzicosta knew what he was looking for. He selected a jar of electric-blue water and threw the contents over his damaged shell, flinching as a hissing sound echoed around the low dome. The yellow fractures sealed, leaving the dark natural armour unblemished.
A noise from one of the shadowed alcoves made him turn. ‘Who’s there?’ Panzicosta expected Doctor Cynigar to float out of the darkness and deliver some poisonous remark.
‘General,’ a weak voice replied, ‘it is I…’
Panzicosta recognised the tones of the Draytor in its natural form. ‘You are injured?’ It was an odd prospect for a shape-shifter.
‘Yes.’ It was fighting for breath. ‘Millok and the human, they–’
‘I know they escaped.’ Panzicosta opened a set of his most sensitive eyes and focused on a quivering silhouette slumped in a hollow set in the dome’s thick walls. He sighed at the sight. He could have fun tearing this creature apart… so many unknown qualities and challenges.
‘I had them fooled,’ the Draytor continued, ‘but they had a Lutamek and–’
Panzicosta edged forward, looming over the injured creature, wondering how he could shackle such a gelatinous beast. ‘You know, there is nothing here that can heal you,’ he lied, sowing the seeds of torture.
‘I will heal in time,’ the Draytor responded with defiance. Panzicosta liked that. The stronger they were, the longer it took to break them, which prolonged the ecstasy. ‘What are your orders, General?’
‘My orders?’ It still believed it would live. ‘My orders are–’ a sharp jab spiked Panzicosta’s mind.
Panzicosta. The word echoed around his head.
The General closed all but one set of eyes and concentrated to reply. Yes, Dominus.
War is upon us. Why are you still in Abzicrutia?
Panzicosta fought to control his thoughts and reactions. Despite the distance, there was a chance Belsang could read every nuance of his psyche. I have been dealing with traitors, Dominus, he replied.
Who?
Krotank and Millok.
Millok? After all we have done for her? A pause. It’s no loss. The plan moves forward – the humans will meet us at the predestined destination.
General Panzicosta waited. What was it Belsang wanted? The usual, he suspected: a good soldier who followed orders and never questioned his authority.
He needed to reply. I will leave within the hour, Dominus.
Good. Have you seen Doctor Cynigar?
No, Panzicosta replied.
The Draytor? I cannot commune with it directly.
Panzicosta stared at the vulnerable creature before him. He couldn’t lie to his leader. This had to be another sacrifice for the Brakari cause.
It is here with me. Injured by the traitors. His shell slumped: he would have enjoyed a little pre-battle warm-up with the changeling.
Order it to round up the remaining Brak ari. It can use whatever shape necessary. I need an attack group to enter the battle at my signal.
I can lead the group, Dominus, Panzicosta replied, fighting to control his annoyance.
No. I need you here. Now.
Yes, Dominus, Panzicosta replied and waited. Was the conversation over? Belsang’s messages always began with a stabbing pain but didn’t end with any obvious sensation. Worried his thoughts were being read, he thought about war and about dusting off his spiked, thermantium armour, which had saved his shell countless times.
‘General?’ the squirming Draytor asked, ‘are you injured?’
Panzicosta realised how long he had been standing over the creature and intimidating it without muttering a word. ‘It’s time to move.’
‘Where?’ the Draytor asked.
Panzicosta ignored it and scuttled back to the table of bottles. He found a tall vial of green liquid, returned to the Draytor and threw it over its gelatinous body. The creature hissed and fizzed as the liquid took effect, causing convulsions and growth spurts. It visibly grew before Panzicosta, who stepped back with a sneer.
‘Heal,’ Panzicosta growled. ‘Then you will fight to your death.’
‘Wait!’
Millok froze as John’s whisper cut through the crisp night air.
What had he seen that she couldn’t? His two eyes were limited to a tiny range of visual frequencies compared to her own numerous eyes, and when she scanned the land she saw no movement or body heat. Her antennae didn’t sense any telltale humidity changes either. Maybe it was a noise? His species’ evolutionary path had led to developing a high level of aural sensitivity. Prey tended to have sharper hearing.
John was huddled on the tree-bark sled behind her and caught her glance. ‘Go,’ he whispered, and Millok scuttled onwards through the tall grass, keeping her body low. The swish of the sled hid other sounds as she ran. The sound and the wide trail they left in their wake were two giveaways she needed to avoid. This was Brakari war territory and she was a traitor. Her shell pieces creaked as she remembered what had happened to the last suspected traitor.
‘We will find your army once we pass the crater lands,’ she’d told John before they set off. ‘But there is one battlefield you must see first.’
‘Why?’ John had asked.
‘You will understand when you see it.’
‘But Mihran’s message was clear.’ John’s voice had risen. ‘We have to meet my army at the location before sundown tomorrow or we will lose them.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s on the way there. It will be worth it.’ Even if it is a risk, Millok had thought.
Now they covered ground quickly despite the sled, which bumped and jolted across the long grass, and Millok recognised landmarks from the maps she had seen in Abzicrutia. Any intelligence she picked up before joining the human army would be crucial for the humans to accept her.
‘How much further?’ John asked.
‘Not far. We can rest soon.’
The ground levelled off and the valley beyond came into view.
‘What are they?’ John shouted and pointed to an irregular series of hummocks which filled one end of the shallow valley, near woodland.
‘Graves,’ Millok replied, and images of violence, fire and death flickered through her mind.
A serpentine river marked the other end of the valley but disappeared from view as Millok ran downhill to the white obelisk, where John rolled off the sled and propped himself up with his crutch to read the script.
‘Here the allied forces of the Ladrof and Scarpinelloss defeated the Brakari.’
Millok watched the young human and tried to read his emotions through his body language. He straightened a little then turned. ‘Who were the Ladrof and Scarpinelloss?’
‘It doesn’t matter who they were.’ Millok sensed a metallic tang in her mouth. She needed water. ‘They were victorious and left through the gates. It’s the land that is important.’
John hobbled in a small circle to take in the surroundings. ‘Why?’
‘Because this is where Belsang will lead your army, John. This is where he intends to destroy your species.’
‘How do you know?’ he asked.
‘I’ve seen the plans.’ Millok had never been part of the discussions but had heard Panzicosta’s grumbles and found discarded maps in his torture rooms.
‘But,’ John’s knee wobbled and he sat down, ‘how can your commander be sure we will come here?’
‘He has his methods,’ Millok replied and felt sorry for the poor tortured creature. ‘We have to go,’ she said, ‘I can’t tell if the Lutamek followed us, but we have left a clear trail.’
The Brakari army had war rituals and wouldn’t taint the battlefield until the day of war, but what if Belsang’s scouts were watching? Millok thought. John stared at her and she wondered if it was a look of tiredness or revulsion on his face as he dragged his body back onto the makeshift sled.
Off they went again, uphill and across the flat grassy plains, keeping to the low ridges. A thought came to Millok as she ran: what if the other humans were weak like John? He had spirit, but physically he was vulnerable. His vital organs were open to attack and severing his brain from his body would be easy. If all the human soldiers had the same weaknesses they were sure to lose to the Brakari army. Even the enslaved troops were tougher than these soft bipeds.
‘We need to head in that direction,’ John shouted, pointing to the left.
Millok adjusted her course accordingly. Apparently, John had been able to sense a beacon since hearing his commander’s message. It was a good sign the humans had a communications system but it was nothing compared with what Belsang was capable of. The humans had only been in this world for a number of days after all, so why should she expect more?
‘We should see them soon.’ John was sitting upright, eagerly scanning the horizon.
Millok slowed as they passed over a ridge and the land beyond opened up before them: a vast skyline and everything in between tinged brown. No landmarks. No signs of life or an army.
‘Are you sure this–’ Millok skidded to a halt and raised her fighting claws. Something had been close: she had felt the swish of grass. She raised her antennae and tasted moisture.
John rolled off his sled and pulled himself up with his crutch.
‘I heard him.’ John laughed.
‘Him?’ Millok scanned the nearest clumps of dry grass for signs of movement. ‘Can you see your army?’
‘No, but they’re here.’ John was still smiling.
A new scent came to Millok: a forest odour of leaves and earth.
John was next to her now. ‘It’s alright. Just stay still and don’t fight. I’ll vouch for you.’
What could he see that she couldn’t? Her spiracles gasped for air as she fought her instinct to run. What was that creaking sound? And why was the grass turning dark? Stay calm and trust him – you saved his life, Millok told herself, he will save yours.
Moving quicker than she could react, scores of green plant shoots leapt out from the swaying grass. Tendrils gripped her limbs and claws, rendering her immobile in a flash.
‘John?’ She had to control the urge to fight back.
‘It’s okay,’ he replied as a mass of bark and green leaves rolled up the hill, tearing strips out of the ground with spiked roots.
‘Hello, Mata, how are you?’ John said.
A rush of wind tore a line through the grass. ‘Althorn? Where are you?’
Millok watched a blur appear beside John and turn into a hooded human. ‘John! We thought we’d lost you. Did you receive Mihran’s message?’
‘Yes. I managed to escape and followed the beacon.’
‘What have they done to you?’ Althorn pointed at his knotted trouser leg and turned to Millok. ‘Is this creature responsible?’
‘No,’ John said. ‘There’s a lot to explain, but you can trust her.’ He turned to the huge ball of tree and grass. ‘Mata, please let her go – she is an ally.’
Althorn stared at Millok, who decided staying silent was her best option. ‘Are you sure? She’s one of them, isn’t she? A Brakari.’
‘Yes, but she helped me escape.’ John looked at her. ‘In fact, without her I doubt I’d still be alive.’
Althorn rubbed his bearded face. ‘I believe you, John, but we have to be safe.’ He turned. ‘Mata, hold her but don’t harm her. Let’s get back to Mihran.’
The vines gripping Millok lifted her into the air and carried her downhill. The grassland ahead was a continuous band of dry prairie. Had they built tunnels? Millok wondered. But as they descended further, a distorted region became apparent. Maybe the humans didn’t see it, but one pair of Millok’s eyes saw a dome-like structure. They walked through a brown mist and the human army was revealed. Millok prepared herself for a hostile welcome. Scores of soldiers, who had been eating or cleaning weapons, turned to stare at her. The army wasn’t large and the humans weren’t well equipped or individually much bigger than John.
‘…and it’s a female, you say?’ A tall human in red clothing was talking to John.
‘Yes. Talk to her, but treat her well.’
The Commander walked to Millok and she remained calm. A pressure built in her head shell. Was he probing her neural pathways? It was a crude method but she opened up her recent memories to him.
‘How is it you could see our protective dome?’ he asked.
A crowd was growing around them. Millok knew she had to put on a show if she was to survive. ‘No introductions, Commander?’ she asked.
‘What need is there? You are Millok. And I am known as Mihran. You are an enemy soldier. Our captive. Answer my question.’
Millok tensed but felt the tendrils tighten: this plant was stronger than it looked. ‘I am a Brakari rebel. I have saved John Greene from certain death and I wish to join your army.’
‘How do we know you are not a spy?’ a short human in a brown uniform shouted.
‘He has read my memories. What did you see, Commander?’ Millok asked.
Mihran raised his chin. ‘Answer my question and I shall tell you.’
Millok had to give him something. Not everything at once or she would no longer be useful. ‘Your camouflage – the dome of dust surrounding your camp – uses a modulating frequency. Each time it shifts, the particles lose momentum for a split second. Brakari eyes spot this easily.’
Mihran whispered to a soldier, whose face was obscured by a reflective plate, and then returned his gaze. ‘And this battlefield you showed John, you fought there?’
‘Yes, I was present and I–’
Mihran turned and Millok focused on a blurred shape advancing on them. A human appeared next to him and she stayed silent.
‘What is it, Sakarbaal?’ Mihran asked. ‘What news?’
‘The Lutamek,’ – he flicked his head – ‘they’ve returned.’
‘It’s good to be back.’ John bit another strip of venison from the chunk Euryleia had handed him.
‘Well, it’s good to have you back.’ Crossley looked genuinely happy. ‘Although you’ll probably want to join the redcoats now they’re here, right?’ He gestured to where a dozen British soldiers camped round a fire using their maroon coats as blankets and tending their wounds with what John recognised as sphagnum moss.
‘I doubt they’d have me.’ John lifted his gun-arm. Why would they? he thought.
‘That’s their loss, my friend,’ Crossley replied.
John felt a pang of guilt in his stomach. How could he have believed the Draytor who had taken him from the Frarex village was Crossley?
‘What is it, John?’ Euryleia asked when he found himself staring into the flames.
‘I…’ John didn’t know where to begin. He hadn’t told anyone his story yet.
Lavalle laid a hand on Euryleia’s shoulder. ‘He’ll tell us in his own time.’ The knight glanced at the knot in John’s trouser leg.
‘Sure.’ Crossley sat with the fire between him and Lavalle. ‘But there’s no point bottling it all up, hey?’ He looked at John. ‘You’re with friends now, so you can say what you want.’
John wrinkled his nose as he felt his eyes water. Crossley was right – these were his friends. He felt like he’d been through more with these men and women these past two weeks than during any battle in Belgium.
‘I…’ John’s voice broke, so he coughed and started again. ‘I thought I saw my son, Joe and–’ A thought came to him. ‘You know, when I first arrived here I thought my wife would be here – I thought we were all dead.’ He paused and breathed in deeply. ‘But it’s just a trick. One big trick. I mean, what are we here for?’
‘To fight,’ Lavalle said.
Crossley shrugged. ‘Probably.’
John took a sip of water. ‘I thought I saw Joe, then I thought I saw you.’ He looked at Crossley. ‘Then the bastards who tricked me tied me up, stuck pins in me and cut off my leg.’
Silence. The faces said it all. John saw the trail of a tear run down Euryleia’s cheek.
‘It’s not the pain,’ John said. ‘It’s the loss. The emptiness.’
Lavalle stared into the fire and said, ‘But there are always moments of hope.’
‘True.’ John nodded and looked to where Millok was guarded by Li, Samas and Sakarbaal. She looked uncomfortable as she floated in a prison of light: a gift from the Lutamek.
Behind them, Mihran and Althorn walked with the Lutamek robots. He tried to remember the names Crossley had told him. The leader was Two-zero-three and their doctor was Ten-ten and… was that Millok’s robot?
‘Give me a minute.’ John pushed himself up. ‘No, I’m fine.’ He waved away helping hands, leant on his crutch and hopped towards the commanders, trying to cut them off before they reached Millok.
‘…torturing my soldiers in the Brakari city,’ Two-zero-three was talking, ‘and we demand retribution.’
‘And you shall have it,’ Mihran replied. ‘Just not today. Ah, John.’
‘Commander.’ John nodded and glanced at the Lutamek leader then back to Mihran. ‘Millok saved me. You can’t kill her.’
‘John.’ Mihran held a palm up. ‘Nobody is talking about killing prisoners.’
‘But we demand retribution,’ Two-zero-three repeated. ‘Your commander tells me the Brakari crippled you, and Two-eight-four tells me you do not desire revenge.’
‘Two-eight-four?’ John pictured the markings on the Lutamek they had freed.
‘It was present when you chose not to kill the Draytor – is this a human weakness?’
‘No, I…’ John stuttered.
‘Then you released Two-eight-four from imprisonment. Is this another weakness?’ The Lutamek turned to Mihran. ‘Is your army weak, Commander? Should we break our pact and search for other allies to help free our kin?’
Mihran clenched his teeth before replying, ‘Do not test me. Our alliance will hold because you need us. The Brakari can overpower your systems. You offer us scouts and information. We offer you diversion and victory. We have one day left and will fight tomorrow.’ He pointed at John. ‘One of my men has already freed one of your soldiers. Proof of our intent. Instead of insulting us, please show gratitude.’
John stood dumbstruck. Had they really been here only thirteen days? It felt longer.
‘Your information is correct,’ Two-zero-three replied. ‘The Brakari have the ability to control our components, which is why, despite our martial prowess, we cannot meet them in battle.’
Mihran’s eyes narrowed. ‘What we need is information.’ He looked at Two-zero-three. ‘And gratitude.’
Ten-ten gestured at John. ‘I can construct him a leg.’
John felt his cheeks warm. Could they really give him his leg back? ‘Yes, a leg would be good, but what about this?’ He raised his gun-arm in its sling.
A blue light on Ten-ten’s shoulder pulsed and a criss-cross pattern ran over his body. ‘Interesting,’ the robot said. ‘But this change is irreversible.’
‘Will the gun fire again?’ Mihran asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Ten-ten replied. ‘But not with the original ammunition.’
John sighed. ‘Just the leg then, thank you.’
‘Come. We can fix it now.’
Ten-ten walked away and John limped after him.
‘Sit.’ Ten-ten pointed to a rock. ‘I have the measurements.’
John looked back at Mihran and Two-zero-three as they discussed the new tactics. A new Lutamek joined them and projected a map onto a scrap of bare earth. John recognised the Brakari battlefield Millok had shown him. The Sorean joined the discussions, along with some human soldiers.
A shape loomed over John and he looked up. ‘Here.’ It was Two-eight-four, the robot he had freed. It offered a piece of metal to John. ‘For your leg.’
John shook his head. ‘No, you need this more than me, after what they did to you.’
‘To us both.’ The metal didn’t move. ‘Take it.’
Reluctantly, John raised his good hand and took the warm tube of shiny metal. ‘Thank you.’ He looked in what he assumed were the robot’s eyes.
‘Thank you,’ Two-eight-four replied and walked away.
‘I’ll see to him next.’ Ten-ten took the metal rod with his mammoth hands.
John watched open-mouthed as the Lutamek’s eight fingers twisted, screwed and welded pieces of dark-grey and black metal together and around each other. It was like watching an origami master. Out of the shapes a leg and foot were forming, with rotating ankles and flexible toes.
‘Here.’ Ten-ten held out its creation with a hint of pride in its voice. ‘Please try it.’
John untied his trouser knot and pressed his stump into the warm cup at the top of the false leg. A tingle ran across his skin where it touched, making him shiver.
‘The material is sensitive to organic components,’ Ten-ten explained. ‘It’s how our inert body parts interact with our biological material.’
John nodded, not sure he completely understood. If he closed his eyes he could pretend he had his old leg back. He wiggled the metal toes and flexed the ankle. John lifted his leg and was surprised how light it was. He stepped forward and smiled.
‘Good?’ Ten-ten asked.
Better than good, John thought. ‘Yes, thank you.’
John took a step, then another. He felt a smile creeping across his face. ‘Yes!’ He whispered and walked a circle, then walked to where the soldiers were watching shapes moving on the floor. ‘What is it?’ John asked Crossley and tried to get a better view.
‘Movies of old battles apparently. The Brakari… evil-looking bastards.’
‘Yes, I know.’ John caught a glimpse of three blue-shelled Brakari circling a Lutamek and felt a shiver in his belly.
His hand slipped under his shirt and he remembered he’d lost Joe’s tin soldier back in Panzicosta’s torture hut. He looked at Millok, trussed up like an animal ready for slaughter, and an idea came to him.
He picked out Mihran and walked over to him. ‘Commander, I…’
‘Ah, your leg.’ Mihran gave him the once-over. ‘Good.’
‘No, I wanted to say, I mean… What the Lutamek said about the Brakari controlling them, I think I know how to stop it… I saw a Lutamek box.’ John unhooked his bag and pulled out one of the marbles, which attracted a look from a Sorean. ‘And I found these. The Brakari who tortured me said they are shields.’
Mihran stared at him.
‘Millok can help me get back in and get it,’ John said.
‘No,’ Mihran replied and nodded at the hooded figure at the edge of the group. ‘Althorn will go.’