Althorn watched the Lutamek’s projection of miniature battles play out on the dusty floor. The squat Brakari soldiers had more weaponry and shielding than the scouts they had fought, which the Lutamek suggested had been clones and not the adapted, hardened warriors they were likely to fight on the battlefield tomorrow.
Tomorrow they would fight, Althorn thought. Would tomorrow be their last day in this land or would it be his last day alive?
Before becoming a paid killer, Althorn had fought many battles but, unlike other soldiers, the thrill of war had never gripped him. Every clash and scrap had been a terrifying fight for survival, not the artful display of sword dancing and heroism the song weavers sang about. He’d feared for his life more times than he could remember and, each time, had taken another’s life in order to survive. That weighed heavy on him… he pictured his sister’s dying eyes and shook his head.
‘Althorn.’ Mihran’s voice made him turn quickly, sending his body into a blur.
‘Commander.’
‘Another mission.’ Mihran flicked his head and Althorn walked with him. ‘As you heard, the Lutamek cannot fight unless we find their shield generator. I want you to go to Abzicrutia and retrieve it.’
‘Yes, Commander.’ Althorn felt his stomach tense: being away meant he would have to communicate through Mihran’s mental net.
‘John can give you the details – question Millok as well. Then go. It’s highly likely you’ll intercept the Brakari army. I need to know everything about them.’ Mihran wore a look that suggested he was expecting questions.
‘Yes, Commander,’ Althorn replied. ‘If the city is abandoned and I know what I’m looking for, it will be fine.’
‘Good.’ Mihran nodded. ‘And if you see anything else of interest…’
‘Such as?’ Althorn asked.
‘The silver gates. Also, I have a theory there are more human soldiers out there. Other fighting species too – losers who are too few to fight a battle. If you find any…’
‘Yes.’ Althorn wasn’t sure how he would be able to convince anyone to join their fight, but Olan had managed it with the Sorean. ‘I’ll try.’
Althorn was soon speeding across the grassy plain, following a memorised map. To his left he saw the deep greys and shadows of a tall ruined fortress. Beyond was the valley where the Brakari wanted to fight, according to John.
Althorn found himself drifting again, as he did when he felt tense, and ran at high speed. He had to loosen his shoulders and work the stress out. There was a lot riding on him. He had to report back on the Brakari army, locate the Lutamek shield and find new allies. All in half a day.
He tried to clear his mind and enjoy the moment: let the rushing wind wash away the weight of expectation. He thrived on the freedom and speed. Here he was. Anonymous. Invisible. Untouchable. He gave a wild howl as he sped through a long valley.
Then he saw a Brakari scout.
It was perched between two rocks at the head of the valley, its blue shell standing out against a world of dull browns. The Lutamek had told him to expect five scouts in each party, so Althorn skirted in a wide arc around the scout and sped to a nook hidden in a scattering of rocks. Here he could see in all directions and keep his back against solid rock. Everything was quiet. Althorn scanned the immense plain below and caught his first sight of the Brakari army. It was the largest army – the largest group of beings – he had ever seen. Hundreds of shadows moved in an arrow-shaped pattern. He squinted but, other than the odd shade of blue, he could only make out some large beasts among the throng. His eyes followed the trail back to where the ground met the hazy horizon and saw the silhouette of a city.
Althorn took a gulp of water and chewed on a lump of dried meat from his satchel. He needed to replenish his energy: it was time to contact Mihran. He sat still, closed his eyes and pictured the map the Lutamek had shown him. He imagined a red dot where he sat and marked a blue dot at the head of the valley where he had seen the scout. On the plain, he marked where Abzicrutia appeared and painted the shape of the Brakari army. He pushed the image back to where the human army waited and followed it up with the words: Enemy moving into position.
Althorn rested his head as the pressure headache came, followed by Mihran’s voice. More detail. Troop numbers. Allies. Weaponry.
The pressure disappeared and Althorn opened his eyes, breathing deeply. Mihran was to the point as ever.
The Brakari army moved slowly across the plain, leaving a low cloud of dust in its wake. Ahead of the main group, isolated pockets of dust belonged to scouting parties, which was odd, because if they were that far ahead surely they would also be… He heard a noise, leapt up and ran away as fast as he could; painting an erratic path down the hill, then back up behind the rocks. He caught a glimpse of blue – that was all he needed – and sped off.
Continuing his unpredictable, snaking path, Althorn sped downhill to where the great Brakari army had trampled the grassland flat. There was less chance of running into scouts here, he thought. Plus he had to get a close look at the army before the scouts raised the alarm.
He closed in. The sheer number of creatures of varying sizes overwhelmed Althorn. He could estimate the numbers: a hundred light-blue scorpion Brakari; two packs of large, humpbacked wolves; scores of sparking Lutamek; a group of furred soldiers; at least fifty dark-blue Brakari and, in the centre, a lumbering mammoth, similar to the corpses they had camped inside with Peronicus-Rax. On its back a small creature gave off a phosphorescent blue light, which pulsed and pulled at Althorn as he sped past. It was a strange colour. Piercing, yet soft.
‘No!’ Althorn veered away, realising he was being drawn like a moth to a flame.
Had he strayed too near? His head started to ache like when Mihran talked to him, but he pushed the feeling away. He had to get to safety. He needed food and water, but had to keep running. If he slowed they would see him. His thoughts came and went as his energy waned. Shelter. He needed shelter. A small grove of trees was nearby, so he pulled in. His head was spinning as he slowed down to a run then a jog and stopped to take a sip from his canteen.
Must contact Mihran, he thought, but his head was so heavy. He just needed to stop and build the energy to talk to Mihran. Just a quick rest, he thought, and stumbled behind a tree where he rested his head on a root and closed his eyes.
Althorn didn’t know how long he had been asleep. He hadn’t dreamt but he felt a presence and looked up to see several pairs of eyes staring at him. He felt groggy and blinked as a wave of nausea ran through his belly.
He forced himself to focus.
‘Escape,’ a voice said.
But the eyes… he could see they were set in an odd-looking face whose features seemed to be in the wrong position. No teeth, but plenty of sharp, moving objects making sounds, surrounded by a glimmering, dark-blue shell.
Slowly, Althorn realised the creature was talking to him.
‘…another human.’ The large Brakari’s mouthparts twisted and snapped. ‘Just what I need after the last one was so rudely taken from me.’
‘Can you see it?’ Dakaniha asked Kastor, who crouched beside him as they peered over a mound of charred metal and bone.
‘No, you say it’s white?’ Kastor asked.
Dakaniha nodded.
‘Hard to see in the morning light.’
Dakaniha didn’t need to turn to see the Spartan squinting. He had all four eyes open, giving him an almost full view of his surroundings. ‘It’s moving again. Long, thin arms and legs.’
‘Ah, yes, I see it.’ Kastor was smiling.
Dakaniha kept his front eyes fixed on the sinuous, bleached creature as a gangly comrade joined it. The creatures were skirting around the battle debris and closing in on where Gal-qadan’s army slept. He had never seen one before but Dakaniha’s people knew of such creatures.
‘Come on.’ Kastor beckoned him over.
They had been on sentry duty but Kastor wanted to search for the ghostly samurai who trailed Gal-qadan’s men. They had seen no sign of the three hazy trails and there hadn’t been a wisp of moist air to be seen when this threat had arrived, skulking and loping across the ground.
Kastor stopped and pointed. ‘They’re throwing something,’ he whispered.
Dakaniha saw clouds of powder drifting on the morning breeze in the direction of the sleeping soldiers.
‘They’re too far away. They’ll move closer,’ Dakaniha whispered.
‘Let’s get in their way then!’ Kastor beamed and unclipped his sword.
The two men kept low and tiptoed across to intercept the white creatures – but Dakaniha had second thoughts. What if these creatures really were the Yunwi-Tsunsdi his tribe knew of? Attacking them would be disastrous! Their army would be hounded every step of the way, through forest, prairie and mire.
They came to a gap and he caught a closer glimpse of them. No, these creatures were too big to be Yunwi-Tsunsdi. And ugly, with their long faces and hollow eyes.
Kastor made a series of quick hand signals and crawled off without looking back, leaving Dakaniha with no way to tell him it was a stupid plan. They needed more men. He threw a glance at the sleeping soldiers, less than twenty paces away. Should he wake them and scare off the white creatures? No, he and Kastor could take care of these two. Keeping his front eyes fixed on the white beings, Dakaniha slipped his bow free. A tickling sensation crept up his neck and he froze – something had moved behind him. Something in his peripheral vision. In one fluid movement, he pulled an arrow from his quiver, rolled onto his right shoulder and, as his back hit the floor, fired an arrow.
Everything slowed down.
He saw a white silhouette and an outstretched hand. His arrow disappeared through a thin cloud of dust and, when he opened his eyes, the arrow had hit home.
His wife’s body lay, twitching, with his arrow in her chest. ‘No!’ Dakaniha shouted and the world sped up again. He scrambled over and pulled her limp body to his. Her eyes were empty, staring up to the clouds. Her head rolled back into the long grass, where flowers tangled with her long hair.
‘Adsila,’ he whispered, ‘what have I done?’
He stroked her hair and stared at her face, absorbing every detail: her forehead; long eyelashes; straight nose; the curve of her lips; the arrow embedded in her chest. It was clear she would die.
He had killed her.
‘What are you doing, you crazy fool?’
Dakaniha looked up and scowled at Kastor, who stood over him. ‘This is my wife!’ he shouted.
Even in his pain, Dakaniha could tell something was different about Kastor. His voice was the same but he wasn’t European any more – he was Aniyunwiya. Even his clothes and weapons were Aniyunwiya.
‘The other one is dead. What are you doing with this one?’ Kastor said.
Dakaniha could feel his wife’s breathing slow and turned to her. She looked so peaceful. Then a spasm took her and she coughed, bringing scarlet bubbles to her lips. ‘No,’ Dakaniha whimpered. So beautiful. How did she get here? He stared at the face he had longed to see for so long, absorbing each tiny detail.
Details that were changing.
Her nose was shrinking. Her hair was falling away.
‘What’s happening?’ Dakaniha gripped her tight. He turned to Kastor, who was frowning, and said nothing. ‘What can I do?’ Dakaniha mumbled and stared at Adsila as her face lengthened and her eyes sunk to become two deep holes. He dropped her on the dusty ground and scrambled back as a white glow emanated through her skin.
‘It’s dead.’ Kastor patted Dakaniha on the shoulder. ‘Come on.’
‘It?’ Dakaniha pushed away Kastor’s hand. ‘That was my wife!’ Even as he said the words, he knew it was wrong. How could it be his wife? He breathed heavily and rubbed his eyes, kneeling in the dust.
Behind them the rest of their army, woken by the shouting, was walking over. Among them, Gal-qadan stared with his harsh, unforgiving eyes. ‘Are they dead?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Kastor replied, cleaning his sword.
‘Yes, Khan,’ Dakaniha replied. He glanced back at his dead wife, but saw only the bleached body of a long-limbed creature with his arrow in its chest.
‘And the samurai?’ Gal-qadan asked.
‘No sign of them,’ Kastor replied.
‘Then we proceed.’ He pointed to the sky. ‘Dawn is upon us.’
After a day spent in silence, this land’s poor excuse for a sun was low behind its hazy blanket, and another night was approaching. New colours merged with the green of the sky and painted the rolling hills with pleasing shades, yet Dakaniha only thought of his wife. Even if it had been a trick, some hallucination, it had still felt like her. It had been her warmth and her scent. Now, Dakaniha just wanted to go home to the real Adsila. But what would he become if he rode off now and found his way back to his tribe? He would be a failed warrior. Someone who ran from war. A coward.
‘We’re nearly there.’ Kastor looked back from his tocka and flashed his customary grin. ‘I can feel it.’
The Spartan had been like that all day, throwing comments over his shoulder or slowing down to make conversation, but Dakaniha had remained silent. Still, he had learnt a thing or two from the information Kastor had gleaned from Gal-qadan and the huge alien who had joined their army for half a day before stomping off on his long, tree-trunk legs.
‘I will watch you and will return for the weapon.’ Those had been the giant’s last words according to Kastor.
Dakaniha had seen the weapon in action. White light shot from the metal tube as though it harnessed the power of lightning.
But it didn’t interest Dakaniha.
‘We can’t get anyone to ride the metal tocka,’ Kastor said in another attempt to get him talking. ‘And I can’t blame them – too sore on your arse, surely?’ He was grinning again. ‘Oh well, if you won’t talk, I’ll do the talking for you…’
Dakaniha wished he could go back to before he could understand the chatty Spartan.
‘…but nobody could work out why the holes would be like that – spaced out neatly. Probably made by water…’
Rather than tell Kastor to be quiet, Dakaniha played with his new eyes, opening their lids a fraction at a time or squinting and blinking. He could see a range of colours. Deep purples through to blue and, when fully open, he could detect a light that gave the tocka and humans warm colours: red in their core and green at their extremities. It was like he could see their souls.
Now, as the day ended, the colours were less vivid. Dakaniha’s eyes were tired and they settled on Gal-qadan, who led the army. Every now and then the leader rubbed his forehead which, through Dakaniha’s new eyes, pulsated red and pink.
They were climbing a long, steady hill with a set of rocks standing proud at its peak.
‘…apparently Peronicus-Rax says our enemy will be an army of creatures with shells. Like the ones we fought in the marsh.’ Kastor was still talking.
Dakaniha ignored him. He wasn’t sure if it was the light, but something about the rocks ahead looked strange to him. He opened all four eyes and tilted his head. He was sure he saw patches of red on the rocks.
‘So I said–’
‘Stop!’ Dakaniha silenced Kastor with an outstretched hand.
Their tocka kept walking but Dakaniha felt his steed’s muscles tense: they sensed it too.
‘We have to stop.’ Dakaniha’s neck tingled.
‘But we’re nearly there,’ Kastor replied, ‘I can feel the–’ His words were cut off and his spear was in his hand.
The rocks on the hilltop had split into three separate shapes. Dakaniha could see legs, arms and heads, but they weren’t human. They weren’t even animal.
‘Halt!’ A voice boomed out from the silhouettes, followed by a blue light that held Dakaniha and his tocka still. He tried to turn his head but he was stuck. Even his tocka stopped mid-stride, as did the tocka ahead of them. The three shapes moved closer and Dakaniha saw movement behind them. Had these creatures been hiding in the ground? Why hadn’t the tocka sensed them?
‘Do not struggle,’ the deep voice continued, ‘you are not in danger.’
‘You will be when you release me,’ Kastor hissed.
Dakaniha focused on the nearest giant and fully opened all four eyes. Nothing. No, maybe a hint of orange, but nothing compared to the colour of humans and tocka. Were these giants made of metal?
‘You will be scanned before entry.’
If these were the guards, Dakaniha thought, this new army was going to be impressive.
One of the metal men swept a blue light over each soldier and tocka and, one by one, they were allowed to pass, over the hilltop and into the valley beyond. Despite a few shouts and protests, the men rode on.
Dakaniha followed the trail and rode open-mouthed into the valley beyond and under a dust dome, which shaded a world teeming with human soldiers, cat-like creatures and metal giants. When every man had passed the metal guards, Gal-qadan led the diamond-shaped formation of tocka downhill to a man who stood proudly with hands on hips. Even in this light, Dakaniha could see the rich colour of the scarlet cloak that flowed about him in the evening breeze. Oddly, his head flashed a purple colour compared with the scores of soldiers who stood behind him, who were red, just like Gal-qadan’s men.
‘Welcome!’ The red-robed man held his arms out.
Dakaniha recognised the voice from the call to arms. He turned to see Gal-qadan, who remained stony faced.
‘Welcome to our army.’ The man even had a red beard, Dakaniha noticed. ‘And,’ the man turned to face the soldiers who had congregated behind him, ‘may I introduce Gal-qadan and his battalion of horsemen.’
Dakaniha gasped. How did he know his name? He turned to Gal-qadan who, for the first time, looked shocked.
‘Gal-qadan,’ the red man continued, ‘is our new cavalry captain.’
John heard Joe’s laughter and his shoes, which tapped an erratic rhythm on the bare floorboards. He pictured the scuffed sky-blue leather and the shiny buckles.
‘Wake up, Daddy!’
John could tell Joe was smiling by the sound of his voice.
‘I’m asleep,’ John said with a smile and kept his eyes closed.
Something told him if he opened them Joe would disappear.
‘But it’s time to get up, Daddy.’ He sounded serious now. ‘It’s time.’
‘Time for what?’ John asked, still smiling. ‘Is it time for breakfast?’
‘No, silly Daddy.’ Joe giggled and swung his legs, knocking the bed. ‘It’s not breakfast time.’ He giggled. ‘It’s time to fight.’
‘What?’ John sat up and opened his eyes. It was dark and he could feel bare earth beneath him.
Crossley was standing over him. ‘Sorry buddy, I know you need your sleep, but we’re outta here.’
‘What? I…’
‘Mihran says we need to leave. Battle day and all that jazz.’ Crossley faked a smile and picked up a box. ‘He wants us on the battle site with food in our bellies before it starts.’ He shifted the box in his arms. ‘Anyway, Samas needs this so…’
John muttered something unintelligible and Crossley walked off. The American’s nervousness made John feel edgy and yet, for the first time in this land, he knew there would be no surprise attack or wild animals leaping out today. Today was their last day and they would fight. They had to fight! Crossley had told him about the burnt bodies: cowards were killed.
Joe was right, John thought, and looked around.
The whole camp was alive with soldiers packing bags, moving boxes and putting out fires. John could see the army had grown while he slept. More humans were dotted around the place, and were those horses? The silhouettes were unmistakable, but he couldn’t hear them neighing.
‘How are you?’ Li walked over, her visor reflecting the light of the nearest fires. ‘Are you good to travel?’
‘Yes.’ John tapped his leg. ‘Good as new.’
‘The injured soldiers are travelling with the Lutamek if you would prefer that?’
‘No, I can walk. It’s not that far anyway.’ John wasn’t in any pain and he didn’t want to be lumped in with the injured men.
‘If you’re sure,’ Li said.
‘You can help me up though.’ John offered his hand and Li pulled him up. ‘One more metal limb and I’ll turn into a Lutamek.’ John lifted his gun-arm and gave a timid smile.
‘What doesn’t kill you…’ Li started.
‘You know that phrase?’ John asked.
‘Sure. My database is filled with historic information.’
‘Right.’ John pulled his strap tight, bringing his gun-arm against his chest, and a thought came to him. ‘Do you think after all this – after we get through the silver gates – do you think we’ll go home and I’ll have my normal arm and leg back?’
‘I…’ Li hesitated.
‘Honestly?’ John looked at her.
Li flipped her visor up. She was more attractive than he’d remembered. ‘Honestly? No. You have been physically injured. It’s permanent.’
‘What about Euryleia’s hand?’ John asked.
‘A one-off.’
John glanced down at his metallic arm and leg. ‘I don’t want Joe to be scared of me.’ He pictured Joe’s frightened face.
‘He won’t be,’ Li answered.
‘How do you know? I mean, he’s just a young boy and you don’t know him. He’s smart and brave but…’
‘No.’ Li’s stare was hard. ‘He won’t see you like this because he won’t ever see you, John.’
‘What?’ John’s good knee felt weak. ‘No, I have to get back to Joe. You don’t understand – his mother died and he needs me.’ His head felt light and, as he took a step forward, his leg wobbled.
Li grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘Come on, take a seat.’ She led him to a box and crouched beside him. ‘Look. I’m not sure how to say this, John.’
The sounds around them disappeared and John looked into Li’s eyes. She didn’t want to hurt him, he could see that.
‘This world is real. Your injuries are permanent.’ She spoke slowly, as though talking to a child.
John nodded.
‘You won’t see your son again because he died a long, long time ago.’
John shook his head and blinked, pushing tears down his cheeks. ‘No,’ he mouthed.
Li continued, ‘The Lutamek and I theorise we were taken from our planet and transported many light years away. That means a lot of time has passed. Do you understand, John?’
John sighed. He looked away, then back at Li and nodded. Of course time had passed. How else could he explain Crossley or Delta-Six being here? Or Li? Time passes and we all die, he knew that. He took a lungful of air. If he was honest, deep down John had already known he would never see Joe again but, as with Rosie, he’d allowed himself the tiniest hope he would. One day, he’d hoped, they would all be reunited as the family they should have been.
‘You understand that decades passed between when you were taken from your war and when I was on Earth?’ Li asked.
‘Yes.’
‘John, in my records I have details of a British soldier. Can I read them to you?’
John frowned. What was she talking about? He nodded.
‘Lieutenant Joseph Viktor Greene.’
John’s eyes widened. ‘But that’s Joe!’
‘Born on the Fifteenth of April, 1912.’
‘The day Rosie died…’ John looked down as Li carried on.
‘Enrolled in the British army 1939 at the outbreak of World War Two.’
Crossley’s war. John looked over to where the American lifted boxes onto a makeshift trailer. Did he know Joe? Had they fought together during one of his battle tales?
‘…Overlord, decorated for Operation…’ Li listed a run of battles and medals John had never heard of.
Was she really talking about little Joe? John’s stomach tingled with pride at what his son had achieved. Then his stomach tensed: his boy had been through what John had seen. He had seen death. Close personal death. He had killed men. Why? John’s war had been the war to end all wars, yet the next generation had been dragged into the same carnage and destruction. His stomach was a tight ball, just like his good hand, which clenched a fist, and his gun-fingers clicked and twisted inside their metal prison.
‘…married and had three children…’
They were the grandchildren John never met. He would have been a good grandfather; not like his own, John thought. Even giving Joe his grandfather’s name as a middle name hadn’t pleased the old whinger.
‘…attended every memorial service at the Cenotaph until his death on the Tenth of October, 1996.’
He’d died.
His little Joe was dead.
Silent tears ran down John’s cheeks.
Everything was empty and void of meaning. He stared at the ground: the colourless, featureless soil. This was how he’d felt when Rosie had died. Empty. Useless.
John had one purpose: Joe.
After Rosie died, everything John had endured had been for Joe: the trenches; the fighting; the killing. He’d stayed strong for Joe.
And now?
Everyone John ever knew or loved was dead and, when they were alive, they’d believed John had died in the war. They’d mourned him and Joe had gone on to live a full life without him. Without him or Rosie.
John had nothing to fight for now.
Li was still speaking. ‘He probably visited the Cenotaph in your memory as much as his comrades’.’
John looked up and stared into Li’s dark eyes. ‘Cenotaph?’
‘A monument for the missing. For those whose bodies were never found.’
John pictured Johnson. His serene face as he climbed out of the trench, never to be seen again. ‘And he went there for me?’ John asked.
Li held his gaze. ‘You were reported as missing in action, John. They never found your body.’
‘Well of course not.’ John looked away and breathed in hard through his nose. He could hear his gun clicking. ‘Of course they didn’t find my…’ He stopped before he swore. ‘…I’m here,’ he whispered.
‘Everyone here has been taken from their loved ones, just like you, John.’ Li looked up at the dark sky and said, ‘And I can barely imagine the effort and technology involved in bringing us all here.’
John couldn’t think of anything capable of transporting them here. He pictured the trains and ships, but anything bigger was too much to think about. His chest felt hot, as though his anger was being held captive behind his ribs. If he wanted to release it, he knew he could. He sensed what he had to do to channel that power, but he pictured Joe and his mind calmed.
‘Do you know anything else about Joe?’ he asked.
‘No, that’s everything I have,’ Li said.
John stood up, feeling the strength return to his legs. ‘Thank you, Li. I appreciate your honesty.’ His arms felt stronger too. The toes on his false leg gripped the soil.
‘Are you okay?’ Li asked.
‘Yes, I…’ John looked around. ‘I’m okay.’ He spoke without thinking. He didn’t know why but he felt like running. Jumping. He saw a box and felt the urge to smash it into pieces. He knew he could.
Li was still looking at John. ‘It’s just… without a purpose, I was worried you would…’
‘No purpose?’ John blinked. He tensed his shoulders and felt the strength of his gun-arm. ‘Oh, I have a purpose.’
Li tilted her head.
‘I will kill whoever brought me here.’ He looked up into the dark clouds and clenched his jaw. ‘They have nothing else they can take from me… and I will make them pay for taking me away from my son.’
John walked with his eyes fixed on his feet. A brown boot, a silver foot, a brown boot, a silver foot. His feet swung through the dry grass with different sounds: the boot swished through, while the metal of his Lutamek foot tinkled against the grass stems.
John looked up and saw Mata’s large frame bobbing with each step. His back was covered in thick grass blades that nodded with brown seed cases. The Maori had gone missing yesterday morning and had been found curled up in a hollow, covered in bees. Nobody had seen the flowers but, like John, Mata didn’t want to talk about it.
Ahead of Mata, the Sorean skipped and loped through the grass with Olan and Jakan-tar in the lead, while, out of sight in the vanguard, the huge Lutamek robots scouted for trouble.
To John’s left, the group of soldiers that had arrived in the night trotted on their steeds. Crossley had been talking to a Spartan who said the horses were called ‘tocka’, but John thought they looked like starved racehorses. The group’s leader, a sour-faced Mongolian, had given five tocka to Mihran as a tribute. Some wore a metal coat, or was it their skin? Lavalle rode one of them, looking splendid in his pitch-black armour.
To John’s right, Mihran rode his tocka at the head of a group of soldiers, with Millok floating above Li in her energy-field prison. John had tried to talk to the Brakari, but she’d only twitched in response, and John felt a twinge of regret when he saw her trapped body.
John recognised the shape of the hills ahead. ‘Not much further,’ he said to no one.
‘What’s that?’ Crossley was behind him.
‘Not much further to the battlefield,’ John said.
‘Right.’ The American’s face turned dark. ‘Just when I was getting used to all this walking.’ Crossley’s face lightened. ‘Hey, did I tell you about the robot I spoke to yesterday? Five-seven?’
John shook his head.
‘So, I was walking the perimeter when I found him, I guess it’s a him? Anyway… I found him drawing.’ He paused for effect. ‘He was the one who drew the pictures in the ruined castle.’
John glanced at Crossley.
‘He was drawing Brakari soldiers and humans, just scratches in the soil, but they looked good. So, I asked him about the castle and, eventually, he got to telling me how the Platae beat them. You know? Those flatworms?’
John nodded.
‘There were too many of them. They bred right in front of them and, if you shot one, you got two! They kept coming and when they landed on a Lutamek, they got in them.’ Crossley’s eyes were wide. ‘They wriggled inside and ate their organs… the organic parts. Without those, the Lutamek were just machines. Nothing controlling the mechanical parts and nothing making decisions.’
John winced. That was how he felt right now. He was becoming more machine by the day. He glanced at Millok, trapped in her floating prison. She’d been good to him: saved him from a painful death. He should save her. He owed her that.
‘I need to speak to Mihran,’ John said and sped off across the grass.
‘Wait!’ Crossley shouted but didn’t follow.
John focused on Mihran, riding his steed, as he quickstepped through the grass with alternating swishes and tinkles. He would change Mihran’s mind. They needed Millok to fight on their side. They needed all the help they could get!
‘Mihran!’ John shouted. ‘Commander!’
Scores of eyes turned to John and Mihran brought his tocka to a standstill. John blocked out the staring faces. He would never have done this during his war but a fire in his chest powered him now. ‘Mihran, I need to speak to you.’
Mihran waved a finger and the line carried on past them. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s about Millok.’ They both watched her grey body float past. ‘Something she told me… I think it’s a trap.’
‘A trap?’ Mihran scowled at John for a moment then said, ‘Walk with me.’ He patted his tocka and it moved on.
‘Millok told me about what the Brakari leader can do. Belsang,’ John said. ‘He’ll push us where he wants us to go.’
Mihran replied, ‘Belsang, yes, the Lutamek told me about him. I will not underestimate him. You have nothing to worry about. I have received word from Althorn.’ Mihran tapped his temple. ‘He has shown me the Brakari army and they are weaker than the Lutamek said. Fewer troops, less well armed. They are slower too, so,’ Mihran pointed beyond the grey smudge on the horizon, ‘we will be beyond your valley and onto the plain before they reach us.’
‘Althorn told you that?’
‘Yes, he thought-cast the images to me.’
Maybe it was true? They would make it past the valley and fight the Brakari on their own terms. But why did John’s stomach still feel tight?
Ahead, a set of grey shapes loomed up.
‘The Lutamek say it’s an abandoned fort,’ Mihran said. ‘Stone pillars mostly.’
That’s where we should fight them, John thought. Somewhere with shelter. Not out in the open.
‘What about Millok?’ John asked. ‘We need every soldier we can get.’
‘No.’ Mihran looked away. ‘I have plans for your Brakari friend.’