Olan was daydreaming when the lump of entrails smashed into a tower and showered him with some unfortunate soul’s partially digested last meal. Four new shapes tumbled through the sky. Were they limbs? Or bodies? The shapes increased in size and crashed into the men around him before many could raise a shield. Screams could be heard where bones and armour injured the unprepared. Most just wrinkled their noses and started picturing what they would do to the Brakari who had disrespected their dead friends.
On a distant hill, Olan caught a glimpse of a familiar silhouette: the tall shape of Peronicus-Rax. Then he saw movement on the left wing: the titanic catapult bearers had started firing. Warning shouts came through, but there was little they could do as the first white boulder hit a grey tower and splintered into knife-sharp shards of white and grey stone that stabbed at the army below, dodging and sheltering where they could. Another boom signalled a new boulder, followed by another, and soon everyone felt the rain of stone. And so the music of war began: deep echoes, splintering destruction and yells of pain.
Olan looked back to the raised platform where Mihran sat on his tocka. He had finished with his captains, who walked down to their respective troops. The Commander’s head turned from left to right and back again in the rhythmic motion Olan had seen on the first battlefield. When would they charge? Sitting here was going to be suicide.
‘They’re approaching.’ Dakaniha pointed to the Brakari army.
‘Good!’ Kastor replied. ‘We need to meet them on the field!’
‘Are you ready?’ Samas shouted as he pushed through to the front, wearing his gleaming armour.
‘Yes!’ the warriors replied as a new shower of stones pattered against shields and helmets.
‘Have the enemy learnt their lesson?’ Samas stepped up onto a broken boulder and faced the bulk of the foot soldiers, who craned their necks to see him.
‘No!’ they answered in unison.
‘They come back for more!’ Samas gestured at the army of giant blue-shelled arthropods and alien slave warriors, just two hundred paces away now, with Crossley’s trenches and yellow markers sitting halfway between them.
‘We need to teach them again!’ a soldier cried out.
‘Yes.’ Samas smiled. Olan relaxed as he watched him and felt eager to fight. ‘They learn slowly these Brakari… and the best way to learn is through practice.’
‘Yes!’
‘They’ve lost once before, so let’s show them how to lose again!’ Samas shouted.
‘Yes!’ The army surged forward a step.
‘But first,’ Samas held up a palm for quiet, ‘first we need to let others have their moment.’
Samas was stalling, Olan realised.
‘Not the archers again?’ Kastor said and the men around him laughed.
‘No, not the archers.’ Samas turned to face the Brakari horde who were close but, Olan could see, had stopped a distance from the trenches, which looked different from this angle. Samas cast a glance back to Mihran on the platform and gave a quick nod. ‘This time!’ Samas raised his great stone fist. ‘There will be no retreat. No defeat. Victory will be ours!’
As Samas finished, a deep cracking sound erupted and Olan felt vibrations through his feet. Moments later, far away on the battlefield, a mountain of dust blasted out of the ground, but not between the armies, as it had done at the first battle. This time the explosions ripped a line behind the Brakari army, encircling them.
‘Now we have the bastards trapped!’ Samas shouted over the roar of the army, which mingled with the echoes of the vast explosion. ‘Let’s kill them all!’
Olan was pushed forward with the army as they ran to fight. He stared wide-eyed as the Brakari army surged forward to meet them, moving away from what he imagined was a semicircle cut at their backs.
‘Attack!’ Samas shouted and led them full speed towards the trenches. ‘Fear nothing!’
The Babylonian didn’t slow down. Was he going to leap over the trenches? Olan slowed his pace, as did others around him, but watched as Samas ran straight across the open holes, his sandalled feet throwing up dust as he crossed the dark lines.
‘It’s paint!’ Kastor shouted.
Another trick. And one Olan’s chest plate was powerless to reveal.
Olan kicked on, gripped his battleaxe tight and looked for his first target. Pushed by their panicking rear lines, the Brakari had spread out. The front line must have assumed the humans would jump into the safety of the trenches, so were standing in casual stances.
‘Bring them down!’ Samas shouted.
New explosions ripped the ground apart around Olan, scooping holes out of the battlefield. Then came the erratic energy beams and wild missiles Olan remembered from the battle a few hours earlier and he recognised their smell. He kept focused and picked out a large, dark-blue Brakari with an orange claw and long, scorpion-like tail. No puppets now and no diggers – these were the real warriors. Olan raised his axe high and dodged right as the armoured beast stabbed with its tail. Olan swung low and swiped it as he passed, but the tail spike hadn’t been aimed at him: Osayimwese was right behind him and parried the blow with his shield. On the other side, Kastor had leapt high and struck his long spear into the soft section between the leg and body shells, sending the Brakari leaping back with a roar.
‘You’ll pay for that, human!’ it shouted.
Olan skidded and ran back, determined to slice off the tail. Dakaniha was there as well, with all four eyes open, firing arrows at weaknesses in the shell that only he could see. Olan was about to rush in when Dakaniha fired an arrow straight past his head. Olan threw a glance back and saw the arrow bounce off a huge, hammer-clawed Brakari covered in arm-length spikes. It was distracted long enough for Olan to roll away as the hammer crashed into the ground and he was back on his feet in a second. Olan didn’t think now: he fought. Down came his axe, biting into the nearest claw arm, and out, followed by a turn and a burst of pace, then another powerful swing at a leg. He saw Osayimwese at the broad beast’s tail, stabbing with his spear. With a violent flick of its thick tail, Osayimwese was sent flying back, and behind him a hammer-claw swung low to take out an armoured swordsman who had joined the fight. The beast rounded on Olan, foaming at the mouth, shuddering and twitching, reminding Olan of the real, drugged berserkers he had fought alongside.
‘Kill all humans!’ it screamed. ‘Victorio Brakarius!’
Olan sidestepped into a crater, but the Brakari was faster than it looked and reared up to more than three times his height, ready to pummel him with its many, heavy-headed claws. Olan tensed, ready to dodge and run, but the huge creature paused. Olan heard a deep crunch, followed by a crack and the Brakari’s forelegs scratched at its belly. Another crack and a bulge pushed out of its chest. Another crunch and the front shell splintered with a shower of blue liquid and Samas stepped through with his rock-arm glowing orange.
‘Thanks,’ Olan said. ‘I owe you one.’
Out of breath, Samas simply nodded.
Olan ran back to the scorpion Brakari whose tail had been sheared off. Dakaniha and Osayimwese were either side of it and Kastor had returned from another kill. Dakaniha leapt in with a spear and skidded away to avoid a bladed arm.
Then something strange happened.
The Brakari flinched for no apparent reason and slowly raised off the ground. It rocked back and forth in the air, swiping at its side while Dakaniha kneeled beneath, staring in confusion. Then it fell limp.
Kastor walked forward, patted Dakaniha on the shoulder and pointed to three holes in the dead Brakari’s body. ‘Good fighting, Sakarbaal,’ he said and smiled.
‘Sakarbaal?’ Dakaniha stood up slowly.
Olan caught a glimpse of a grin beneath the Brakari and dark blood poured from the holes to form the shape of a trident. The Brakari body fell onto the grass and the trident disappeared with a laugh, lost in the sounds of battle.
Kastor jogged away, swinging his spear and searching for his next opponent.
‘Come on!’ he shouted back with his typical smile. ‘The next one’s mine!’
As he turned around though, a large Brakari covered in spiked armour rose from a deep crater and leapt at him with frightening speed. Kastor stood no chance, and Olan could only watch as the Spartan was sliced in half with one powerful blow.
Panzicosta released a wild roar that shook his armour and sent the scrawny humans around him into panic. He picked up the top half of the soldier he had killed and pushed its torn guts into his mouth. It tasted better than Sorean. Panzicosta’s enjoyment was short-lived though, as the creature attacked his face; before he could rip its head off, it had sliced one of Panzicosta’s main eyes and disabled a mouth pincer. Still, a new eye would grow back, he thought, as he cast the human’s remains aside.
The other humans attacked him: blunting their spears and wasting their flimsy arrows on his armour. They tried to surround him: one with four eyes, another with armour that shone with odd light frequencies and the last with an orange appendage Panzicosta didn’t trust. With the crater just behind him, Panzicosta had to make some room to fight.
‘I’m going to tear you apart!’ he shouted at the four-eyed human and slashed with his longest fore-blade.
The human was nimble and rolled away, giving Panzicosta’s blade nothing but thin air.
‘And then I’ll eat you headfirst, you little shit!’ Panzicosta slammed a hammer-claw down but it met dry ground.
A sharp pain in his right side made him turn and lash out, striking the human who had been stupid enough to come close. He took a step forward and felt the pain again. A quick feel with a lower leg revealed the issue – his side armour had been dented and was cutting into his carapace. He knew he couldn’t trust that human’s fist. What material could dent Brakari cold armour? Panzicosta turned as another warrior joined them, armed with a spear and a short, white blade. He needed to kill before he was completely surrounded, so he charged up the pulse rifle embedded in his thick belly armour: an old weapon but useful in a scrape like this.
Now the human with the shining armour attacked, hacking at his legs, and here came another spear thrust, and where was the human with the fist? Panzicosta turned and swiped with his longest hammer-claw, cursing his armour for restricting his movement. Still, he had knocked two humans down. A quick lunge sent another one scuttling back and he had his moment: he blasted three energy bolts into the ground, sending dirt flying, then ran as fast as his large bulk could take him through the opening.
But he didn’t make it far. Something was stopping him – a green tendril coiled around one of his hammer-claws.
‘No!’ He turned to see a writhing green shape on the other side of the crater throwing more barbed vines at him.
Panzicosta slashed at the thick tendrils as they wrapped around his limbs. He had seen the creature in action and knew what it was capable of. The creepers were coming too quick. There was only one option if he was going to survive. He strained against the vines, hit a red button on his armour and shouted, ‘Brakarius armis redux!’ His spiked armour released instantly and General Panzicosta leapt out, smashing through the nearest humans and away to open ground.
Once he was clear, Panzicosta turned a pair of eyes back, saw the humans’ despair and released a bitter laugh. He had lost his armour but he was alive. Now he needed a victory he could brag about if he was to replace Belsang as leader.
He paused in an open space to take stock of the battle around him. The Brakari army was trapped. Well played, humans. But in their haste they had trapped themselves and, for all their tactical gambles and victories, the human–Sorean alliance was still outnumbered by the Brakari’s slave army. Victory was still possible despite Belsang’s ineptitude.
Panzicosta scanned the nearest enemy troops and focused on a pack of tocka attacking the left wing. He had witnessed them tear apart some of his finest officers, so wanted to avoid those bloodthirsty creatures. He turned to the broken fort and there, alone on his tocka with his red robes waving in the prairie breeze, Panzicosta spied his prize.
Delta-Six flew fast from the silver gates, keeping to an altitude below the lightning strikes, and took a second to study the battle valley when he passed. The evidence, combined with his min-sat’s data, gave him all the detail he needed.
By the time he reached the live battle, he knew he had to concentrate on the enemy leader, so set his suit to camouflage and weaved through the slave soldiers and Lutamek. The instant he saw the Brakari leader he fired a trio of tiny missiles from his wrist launcher and hovered to watch them explode impotently against a white shield bubble.
Numbers flashed up in Delta-Six’s vision and he prepared a new volley of missiles, designed to disrupt the wavelengths of the shield. He fired two, but he didn’t get to see if they had worked. An explosion to his right sent him crashing to the ground, where he drew the attention of a large Brakari with smouldering claws.
‘You’re a long way from your army, human,’ it growled and leapt in to attack.
Althorn retched and spat out what little liquid had come up from his stomach. He lay on his side, dribbling onto the compacted earth and willing himself to sit up.
Several hairy creatures with short limbs were mixing a cocktail of chemicals twenty paces away and the gaseous products were wafting in Althorn’s direction. Was this how he would die? he thought. Were they preparing his sacrifice? The lack of food and water was making him delirious and images of dead kings and his sister washed through his mind. Her eyes had smiled at him as she died, he was sure.
A wind cleared the air and his head. He had to escape. Break free of this trap. He felt his wrists: no ropes. Had they left him untied?
A sound behind him made him freeze. Something was near. Althorn felt a tug on his hair, yanking his head back, and a tiny hand popped something in his mouth.
‘Swallow,’ said a familiar voice.
Althorn tried to shake his head. A bottle appeared and he drank.
‘That’ll fix the lungs and shield your mind. Brother, the other one.’
Althorn saw the soft brown scales of the creatures who had untied him in the cart.
The hand brought a new pill. ‘This is for energy.’
Althorn swallowed it and asked for more water. His head felt clearer already. The giant legs of Belsang’s creature were near and, beyond it, he saw the blue shells of the Brakari. He raised his head and saw a cracked white sphere around Belsang.
‘Good, One-eye.’ Both creatures moved into his line of vision.
‘Thank you,’ Althorn’s voice was husky. He coughed.
‘It is our pleasure.’ One of the scaled creatures nodded. ‘Now you can complete your mission.’
‘Mission?’ Althorn said.
‘To kill the enemy commander.’ The other brother gestured at Belsang. ‘Good luck.’
Althorn nodded and his tiny helpers scuttled off on all fours. He blinked and stared around. He felt good now – really good! What was in those pills? Colours were more vivid and his leg muscles itched. He stretched and stood up. Humans, Sorean and Brakari were everywhere, fighting tooth and claw. He heard the shriek of tocka in the distance and swore he saw a Lutamek fighting. Deep in the centre, Althorn recognised Mata. The Maori’s natural defences had been kicking in and he had turned into a mass of rough bark and barbed thorns.
A line of red light erupted from Althorn’s left and he looked up in time to see the laser blast catch Belsang on his shoulder. He was weakening, he thought. If he was going to kill him he would have to do something different to last time. But what? He ignored the spiked armour on the Vaalori and thought about how to get Belsang off the giant.
His answer came when the brothers returned. The two armadillo-like mammals had popped up directly in front of the Vaalori.
‘Dominus!’ they called out in unison. ‘We want to say how much we enjoyed your battle, but it’s time for us to move on now. You gave it a good try – better than the last time but–’
Althorn saw Belsang’s blue colour glow a little brighter but he stayed silent.
‘Oh.’ One of the brothers tilted his head to one side. ‘No, your mental abilities won’t work on us and, to be honest, I’m finding this body a bit cramped.’ He looked at his brother. ‘Shall we?’
‘Yes, please!’ the other replied.
‘Whatever you are planning will fail.’ Belsang’s deep voice made Althorn step back. ‘I’m aware of the human’s recovery and your aid, but you will fail, he will be sacrificed and we will be victorious.’
Althorn felt a cold shiver run down his neck. Had he wasted the chance to get to Belsang? The brothers’ distraction had been his last chance and he was just standing here, watching.
‘No, sorry,’ one of the brothers replied, ‘this really is the end.’
A blue bolt of lightning leapt from Belsang’s arm and smashed into the brother on the right, throwing him back twenty paces. His brother watched casually then turned to Belsang with his arms wide open. ‘I really have enjoyed every–’
A second flash of electricity cracked and sent him flying back in a shower of sparks. This was Althorn’s moment! He dashed forward as fast as he could, picked up the two prostrate animals and sped away. He was fast again – and getting faster! The thrill was back. His one eye was wide open as he dodged and jumped a wide circle around Belsang.
‘What are you doing?’ One of the brothers looked up.
‘Throw us,’ said the other.
‘Throw you?’ Althorn was weaving in and out of craters and avoiding the fighting soldiers. ‘Where?’
‘At Belsang!’ they cried.
Althorn could see they were serious. He cut back and lobbed them through the air towards Belsang’s Vaalori.
Then, and not for the first time in this land, Althorn was amazed. He skidded to a halt and watched as the small mammals ballooned in size in mid-air. Legs popped out, arms swelled and their heads mushroomed. By the time they hit the ground, they had transformed into two thickset, brown-scaled giants, bigger than any Lutamek. They barged into Belsang’s five-legged steed with a double, shoulder-barging attack.
Belsang floated higher, seemingly unaffected by the charge, and zapped the brothers with more energy. But the power was weaker this time and they barely flinched. One leapt up and grabbed Belsang.
‘Come here!’ he shouted, as though playing a game. He squeezed the wriggling Brakari and breathed a red gas over him. ‘Here you go, One-eye!’ He threw Belsang at Althorn as though feeding a dog.
‘Quick, One-eye!’ the other brother shouted.
Althorn snapped to attention. He ran to where Belsang had landed and drew his knife. He could feel Belsang trying to slow him down with his mind but whatever the brothers had given him created a barrier. With Belsang’s energy drained and no mental powers, Althorn could fight Belsang hand to hand, so he stabbed with his blade.
A blue claw slashed out, cutting Althorn’s arm, but he sped up, circling and stabbing. Each turn, attack and parry took less than a split second as the Celt and Brakari fought at a speed few witnesses could follow. All Althorn could do was get nearer and go faster. A series of fists struck out at him, thumping him in the head or body, but Althorn’s momentum was too great. Lightning flashes blinded him but he carried on spinning round, getting closer like a comet drawn to a star. All he saw was the blur of Belsang’s blue body and his eyes. Althorn felt the pain in his empty eye socket and lunged with his blade: in and out. Tightening the circle and slicing fast.
It felt like he had cut Belsang a hundred new wounds but had no way to tell.
Then a burning flash took his energy and Althorn spun away in pain.
Mihran felt the draw of victory. His feet twitched as he resisted the urge to spur the tocka into action. No. He had to control his mind and keep calm. He had moved out of the ruined fort and onto the open grass for a clearer view of the battle, but needed to direct the troops to where they were most effective. The models had swung in their favour but the Brakari still outnumbered them and who knew what tricks they still held up their sleeves?
Speed is the essence of war, he thought. Take an unexpected route.
He had followed Li’s advice and turned the tables on the Brakari: trapping them and quickly coming out to fight when Belsang had expected them to cower in the ruined fort. Now, the mass of human and Sorean soldiers fought hand to claw, while the archers and riflemen grouped in clumps as he had ordered, covering the foot soldiers. The British contingent of redcoats held their own on the left wing, combining their forces with Jakan-tar’s fleet-footed fighters. Mata was rooted to the spot, attacking any Brakari who dared approach him, and Lavalle’s cavalry had regrouped after driving into the wing of the army. Gal-qadan’s tocka were doing the same on the other side. Which reminded Mihran of Gal-qadan’s weapon. He looked for Crossley. Shoot fast and move, he had said, or risk sharing Li’s fate. But he had yet to see the lightning snake across the battlefield.
Crossley, Mihran thought-cast. Have you fired the weapon?
Either the goddam thing’s broke or it’s a phoney, Crossley replied.
High-pitched shrieks drew Mihran’s attention to the right where Gal-qadan’s tocka leapt into action again: teeth bared and claws unleashed. Had Gal-qadan tricked him? He only had to wait a second to find out as an oscillating wave of energy ripped into the Brakari army, frying and splintering the soldiers in its path.
Gal-qadan was never going to give up his power.
Abandon it, Mihran ordered Crossley. Use whatever weapon you find.
Mihran ignored Crossley’s swearing thought-cast response, which had been sent to all captains, and focused on his primary model: they could force a victory.
Commander. Samas’ voice entered Mihran’s head. Gas attack!
Mihran picked out Samas and saw a yellow mist flowing from a swarm of hairy beasts near Belsang. Movement in the sky caught Mihran’s attention and a huge rock smashed next to a group of spearmen, sending them flying. He looked to the left flank – the surviving titans were still crawling with red worms which worked the last few catapults. Everyone was desperate for victory.
Push left, Mihran ordered Samas.
The yellow gas would divide the army if he wasn’t careful. Why had he allowed himself to think about victory?
Come on! He willed Samas and his men to move faster.
Gal-qadan, Mihran thought-cast, cut through and hold your side.
If Gal-qadan’s cavalry could push from the right, they could reverse the effect of the gas and corral the Brakari into a tight circle.
Commander, I see the Draytor. Olan’s comment surprised Mihran.
Where? Mihran replied.
Near Samas’ troops, Olan thought-cast. In disguise but I see its true form.
Mihran scanned the mass of human soldiers pushing away from the gas. Samas led his troops across a barren patch of grassland to join Sorean and the redcoats, while injured soldiers limped at the rear, away from the Brakari, who advanced with the mist, unaffected by the gas.
Where were Gal-qadan and the tocka? They needed to drive in before the foot soldiers were surrounded. Mihran saw one Brakari slashing and stomping at thin air. It winced as though struck and lashed out again. It had to be Sakarbaal, and there was Samas, ready to fight with his rock-fist and spear. How did he get there so fast?
Samas, Mihran thought-cast Olan. The Draytor is Samas.
Nobody will know which is which, Olan replied. I will attack the Draytor.
Good luck.
Mihran glanced at the second Samas but he had gone. On the ground he saw Sakarbaal’s discarded trident next to his broken body. Mihran altered his model accordingly. The Carthaginian had been tricked and now the Draytor had disappeared.
More movement caught Mihran’s eye – laser fire this time. Was that Bowman with Li’s rifle or… Delta-Six? Had he returned or was it the shape-shifter? Nearby, three shapes were attacking a Brakari: taking it apart with sharp, speedy movements. The three ghost samurai Gal-qadan had bragged about. Here came Gal-qadan now with his tocka. Had the Draytor changed into a riderless tocka? Mihran rubbed his brow. He couldn’t answer every question – he had to concentrate on the big picture.
Commander, a new voice thought-cast.
Mihran recognised it but immediately threw up a mental shield. That was the voice Belsang had used when he had given false information: Althorn’s voice.
Mission accomplished.
The voice was followed by an image of a powder-blue body on the ground with a fixed look of shock on its face. Was this more trickery? Mihran looked to the centre of the battlefield and saw two monstrous, brown beasts pushing the giant Vaalori to one another like boys bullying a sheep. In front of them, Mihran could make out a short figure with a brown hood standing beside a tiny blue body.
Is it true? Mihran asked Althorn.
‘I’m the Brakari leader now.’ A deep voice made Mihran turn and miss Althorn’s reply.
Mihran recognised the large, dark-blue Brakari from John’s description. ‘General Panzicosta,’ Mihran said and remained motionless on his tocka.
‘Dominus Panzicosta now, Commander.’ His reply was accompanied by a snapping sound. ‘Who will be your replacement after you die?’
Mihran’s models shifted to accept the death of Belsang. ‘When I die?’ Mihran smiled as the thought sunk in. All the pieces he had meticulously positioned and manoeuvred like in a game of chess had played their part but one piece had been missing: himself. ‘Many could replace me.’ He knew it. All the men and women of his army had qualities he had never credited them for until he took the time to understand each individual.
Now it was his turn to fight.
‘But tell me,’ Mihran stared at his enemy, ‘how did your leader die so easily?’
‘Pah! Belsang?’ Panzicosta moved forward slowly. ‘He was a strong warrior once but came from an age of martial weakness. His doctor plied him with chemicals… once they had been removed and his mind tricks neutralised, he was running out of time. When he used the last of his energy he was little more than seven pairs of eyes stuck on a bag of shit.’
Mihran raised his eyebrows but shouldn’t have been shocked by such contempt. He had assumed the Brakari army had underperformed because so many were enslaved, but now he could see the other half had followed through fear.
‘And so he died, like so many others,’ Mihran said.
He heard the snapping sound again and Panzicosta reared up on his back legs, causing Mihran’s tocka to stir. ‘Enough of your delays, human. It’s time for you to die and for the victory I deserve.’ He scuttled forward and raised his front claws.
Mihran’s tocka pawed at the ground and its back muscles rippled, ready to pounce.
‘No,’ Mihran whispered. ‘You need to sit this fight out, my friend.’
Mihran dismounted and released his long, maroon cloak to reveal his sabre. ‘So be it.’ He whispered a prayer to the clouds as he unsheathed the blade and took up a defensive pose.
As the huge shape of Panzicosta loomed closer with his large fore-claws raised, Mihran pushed his mind out to feel his thoughts. He winced, feeling their strength: fuelled by bitterness. Once he filtered the emotion away, Mihran could read Panzicosta’s intentions.
Panzicosta leapt forward and smashed with both fore-claws, but they only met dry ground: Mihran had been quick and now stood to his side. His sword flashed and drew a white line across the Brakari’s shell. Reading the next move, Mihran ran in the opposite direction, then rolled and sliced again, this time clipping one of Panzicosta’s trailing legs.
The fight carried on with Mihran closing his mind off to his army and the battle around them. He focused on Panzicosta and avoided every blow, but his sword only scratched his enemy’s shell. The Brakari didn’t seem to be losing energy either, Mihran thought, as he paused to catch his breath. The next move was quicker than he anticipated and he took a glancing blow from Panzicosta’s hammer-claw, bruising his side.
He had to concentrate and find a weak spot.
The tocka were clear of the explosions when the ground ripped apart. The rift was so large John had to take Lavalle’s word that it cut around the ruined fort from flank to flank.
‘I didn’t know Crossley was capable of such endeavours.’ Lavalle shook his head as they let their tocka rest.
‘Well, he said he knew explosives,’ John replied with a smile.
‘Better than the first lot anyway,’ Bowman added. ‘At least these went off at the right time.’
‘The only question is,’ Euryleia jumped off the tocka to stretch her legs, ‘how do we get over the trench to fight the Brakari?’
John had always found it hard not to stare at Euryleia, but now her four arms made it impossible.
‘We’ll use the bridges,’ Lavalle replied. ‘They left three bridges in the design – wide enough for the tocka, but too narrow for Brakari.’
‘Do we have to go back in?’ John asked. ‘Can’t we just fire at them from this side?’
Lavalle shook his head. ‘They’re too far away.’
He was right. Even from here, John could see the few titans that hadn’t fallen in the chasm were fifty paces in and the rest of the Brakari army had pushed even closer to the fort. John’s bullets would be useless from the edge of Crossley’s rift.
‘Do we spilt up or cross as one?’ Euryleia asked as she stroked a riderless tocka. ‘What?’ she said when Lavalle stared at her.
‘Is there something wrong with my tocka?’ he asked.
Euryleia shrugged. ‘Apart from its metal skin? No, but I can ride and shoot now.’ She raised her arms and smiled. ‘So do we split up or are we one army?’
‘One.’ Lavalle tore his gaze away. ‘We’ll take the central bridge and–’ he stopped and closed his eyes.
Everyone waited while he thought-cast.
John checked the Lutamek cube and noticed some of the lights had changed.
‘New orders.’ Lavalle was back with them. ‘We take the right bridge. Gal-qadan’s horsemen will take the left bridge.’ He pointed to the left flank, where John saw a host of tocka coming from the fort.
‘And the central bridge?’ John asked.
Lavalle gave a half smile. ‘Let’s just call that Crossley’s bridge.’
‘Oh.’ John looked away and nodded.
Lavalle turned his tocka a full circle. ‘Every soldier take a tocka. There are plenty. If you can’t ride, sit behind a rider. Leave the injured here – we don’t have time to get them to safety.’ Euryleia shot Lavalle a look but the knight shook his head. ‘This is a battle we have to win and time is running out.’
‘Right then,’ John unhitched the cart and spoke to the Sorean who had been riding it, ‘looks like I’m with you. I might need a hand though.’
The Sorean pointed to its throat and offered him a hand. Must be a mute, John thought. The Sorean was stronger than he had expected and pulled him up with ease.
‘It’s quite comfortable,’ John said and remembered Jess, his old carthorse. The others were following suit, with Bowman sitting nervously behind another Sorean as they headed off.
The bridge was only two paces wide and John kept his eyes to the sky as they crossed: one slip and they would fall into the rift, but the tocka was more nimble than John had realised and, by the time he opened his eyes, they were on the battlefield, approaching the enemy from the rear once again.
‘Arrow formation!’ Lavalle bellowed from the front. ‘Drive in a wedge and split their forces!’
John looked to the left flank, where Gal-qadan’s larger force was forming a similar triangular shape, and gripped the tocka with his knees. He started forming bullets in his gun-arm. What he really wanted to do was ride a wide curve and shoot from a distance like before.
‘Aim for the light-blue enemy,’ Lavalle shouted as the herd sped up in unison. ‘They have softer shells!’
To John’s right, a group of light-blue Brakari were retreating. John squinted and caught a glimpse of Millok’s orange flashes. Were they her children? John felt a sensation of calm wash over him as he watched her retreat to safety. She would be happy, he thought, and smiled.
‘Weapons raised!’ Lavalle’s voice rose above the rushing wind, shaking John.
The thrill of the speed sent waves of adrenaline through John’s body. This was amazing! It reminded him of his grandfather’s stories and John was a part of the action now. The tocka’s muscles tightened like steel rope as it sped up and John imagined it baring its hideous teeth.
‘Attack!’ Lavalle shouted, and a barrage of fire was unleashed by the riders. The flash of Li’s rifle in Bowman’s hands lit the air and John fired, keeping the bullets coming. It was just like breathing now: he could do it without thinking. In and out. Build and fire.
The ground was uneven and scattered with deep holes from Crossley’s explosions but, without the cart, John’s tocka was fast and nimble and soon had a Brakari in its sights. John stopped firing and leant forward to grip the Sorean, who was hanging on the tocka’s neck. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, John thought, with his eyes clenched tight. He felt the tocka leap and release a wild shriek. Teeth gnashed and claws snapped and John felt his grip loosen. He saw the tocka bite the Brakari. He saw blue shell, green sky and burnt earth, teeth and claws. Then he was falling.
Time slowed as John spun through the air and manoeuvred to land on his back. The ground loomed up and past him… he was still falling. Swallowed by the earth.
Down.
Darker.
Until he hit the ground.
John rubbed his head with his good hand. His back had absorbed the fall but he was still dazed. He looked up to see the sky framed by a ring of broken earth.
‘A crater?’
John sat up slowly. His head felt woozy but, if he strained his neck, he could see over the crater’s edge. It was just like the crater from his war. His heart started racing. Wherever he looked he saw Brakari. They must have swarmed back to defend the rear lines and he was surrounded. He lay down and rolled to the safety of the crater’s edge. Explosions sent tremors through the ground and the earth smelt of faeces. He heard a scratching sound and kicked his feet.
‘Bloody rats.’
He clenched his eyes shut but all he could see were the eyes coming for him – always getting closer. Was he really here again? Mud had formed a crust on his gun-arm, which clicked nervously. What was he going to do?
‘Get a grip, boy!’ His grandfather’s voice sent a chill through him.
John’s eyes snapped open. All he saw was death. Broken bodies lay everywhere. Soldiers were pushing their bodies to their physical limits: straining every muscle and shell; twisting; stabbing; leaping; smashing.
Unpredictable, animal power.
John was panting, close to hyperventilating. The sound of his own rasping lungs was lost in the barrage of war surrounding him. The sound distorted and he mistook it for giggling. He turned, looking for the source of the noise.
‘Joe?’
The giggling continued.
Was it another trick? Were the Frarex here to make a fool of him again?
‘Silly…’
John turned. ‘Who said that?’
The crater was empty.
‘Silly Daddy.’
It was Joe’s voice.
‘Joe?’ John closed his eyes and felt tears run down his cheeks.
The sounds around him faded away and he pictured his son running up to him with his beaming smile and his arms outstretched for a hug. Rosie was kneeling behind, smiling.
‘Gotcha!’ John caught Joe and picked him up in a bear hug.
Joe looked straight into his eyes. ‘Daddy?’
‘Yes, Joe?’
‘It’s time to fight now, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ John took a second. If he couldn’t be honest with his son, when could he? ‘The trouble is I don’t want to.’
‘Silly Daddy!’ Joe giggled. ‘If I can do it, you can do it.’
‘What?’
Joe climbed off John’s lap and ran away. The sounds of battle came back as the vision faded.
‘It’s time to fight, Daddy!’ Joe voice echoed away.
A pulsing vibration by John’s arm distracted him. He opened his eyes. Explosions rocked his senses and he could see a yellow haze spreading across the battlefield. Gas mask! In a well-drilled manoeuvre, John swung his satchel round, grabbed his cloth gas mask and pulled it over his head. He looked up as a large silhouette stomped out of the yellow mist and fired a bolt of energy at an unseen enemy.
The Lutamek were free.
Mihran lay broken and bleeding into the grass. His breathing was laboured and pain flashed across his body when he moved. Beside him lay a severed claw. His last view of Panzicosta had been watching him limp away.
He looked up at the immense towers of the ruined fort pointing to the sky like giant fingers. His tocka had left to join its herd so he was alone. Mihran pushed his mind out one last time: less than half the humans survived but they still had a chance.
The Lutamek are free. A voice came to him. He didn’t know who.
Mihran smiled. His job was complete. Belsang was dead and the Lutamek would fight on their side. The Brakari would lose. Victory was theirs. He didn’t need a model to tell him that. He had served his purpose. If he had been part of someone else’s plan then he had done well.
God is great, he thought, and closed his eyes.