ed, Benissimo and Mr Fox emerged on the other side of the mountain at the top of a steep hill and away from the protective antlers of the herd. The sun had fully risen and as Ned laid Whiskers on the ground, his wind-up rodent let out a squeak.
“Oh, so you do have a tongue, do you?”
The Debussy Mark Twelve ignored Ned and peered down at the forest beneath them. Its little head bobbed one way and then the other. When he turned around, the rodent’s eyes were blinking like furious bulbs and in frantic Morse code. Just as worrying were the telltale rumblings from the Tinker’s perometer, and for maybe the first time Ned wondered if the little device did more harm than good.
“What is it, boy? What have you seen?”
Ned and Mr Fox deciphered the message together.
A long blink: “T”. A dot, a dash and another dot: “R”. By the time Whiskers had finished, “TROUBLE” had been clearly spelt, but not nearly as clearly as the sound of the ground trembling at the foot of their side of the mountain.
“Ground thumping and blinking mice, not an agreeable mix,” said Benissimo. “Mr Fox, binoculars are standard issue with your lot, aren’t they?”
Mr Fox already had them pressed up to his eyes.
“They’re still in the forest’s cover but I can make out Darklings, and what would appear to be … oh dear. I think they have the metal Guardians that Tinks told us about with them.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere, Mr B.”
“No obvious exit then?”
“No, nothing obvious,” said Mr Fox.
Benissimo’s whip unfurled itself and the Ringmaster’s face hardened.
“Pup, I’m not sure that this will end well. Fox and I will carve you a way out of here. After that, head west and don’t look back. May Odin protect you.”
Ned gulped before cursing his ring. If only he could still use it, harness its power somehow, he could help them at least.
Down below, the forest seemed to grow up the foot of the mountain, moving slowly at first, then faster and faster.
“Gorrn, I think I’m going to need you – rather urgently. Whiskers, old chum, stick with me, would you?”
Whiskers turned his head to one side. It was the turn of his little metal gears thinking. Finally he bobbed it in a “yes” and sidled up to Ned.
Down below the creeping shadow of forest became more detailed. It had arms and legs and teeth and claws. A row of yellow-eyed gor-balins walked slowly up the hill and at their front: a Demon. It was not disguised in human form like Sur-jan had been in Mavis’s. It had deep-set eyes like firepits, a great set of horns as wide as its shoulders, and grey-black skin to match its grey-black teeth. Black armour covered its bulky muscles and it carried two curved scimitars, one in each hand. On its left and right were a pair of the Central Intelligence’s Guardians. The Tinker’s intel was right. The two machines marched in ordered silence, quite like the one that had almost flattened the troupe back at the Circus of Marvels all those months ago, though these ones were newer in design. Their frames were of burnished steel and chrome, more rounded than the angular scrapheap he’d fought before. It was like looking at an updated car design. These were faster, lighter and built for improved combat. They had no need of weapons – their arms were serrated and each of their metal hands ended with blade-like fingers worse than any claw Ned had seen. The one identical feature of the Guardians was their faces, moulded to look like protective angels, and all the more unsettling on their deadly frames.
Mr Fox put away his binoculars and started to grin.
“Why in Zeus’s name are you smirking, Mr Fox?”
“Fox will do, Mr B.”
In the air behind them there came the sound of distant thrumming.
“No first name, Fox?”
“Not that I know of, and I’m smirking because of Ned’s mouse.”
“Whiskers?! Hell’s teeth, man, I really don’t think now’s the time to be marvelled by a wind-up pet!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that, Mr B. We jossers have our own magic though, and you might be interested to know that some of it was put into Whiskers by the Tinker before we left. Nanites, they’re called, and they’re more than enough for our friends in the sky to find us.”
Above them, well over a dozen twin-bladed helicopters loomed out of the night, their powerful blades roaring.
Mr Fox looked up. “CH-47s – Chinooks, and I imagine with quite a useful payload.”
Benissimo’s moustache rippled as he broke into part of a grin. “Mr Fox, I have absolutely no doubt now that my brother will know of your involvement and that we are in alliance.”
“Unavoidable, Mr B.”
“Do you know, as much as it pains me to admit it, I’m rather glad you came along after all.”
Seconds later, they were hammered by the beating wind of Mr Fox’s cavalry, hanging over them in a controlled hover. When the first hatch was flung open, it was not a grey-suited operative of the BBB that Ned saw, but a focused wall of fur and muscle, and one that he dearly loved.
“George!” he yelped, and a second later, “Lucy!” as, next to the great ape, he spotted the golden hair of his friend and Medic.
From the sides of the swarming Chinooks came men, women and fair-folk, some suited in heavy grey armour, others with no need. Two trolls as large as granite rhinos pounded down the hill and hot on their heels came three dryads. As they ran, the ground at their feet erupted in green-vined chaos. Jossers and fair-folk ran together as one, and Mr Fox and Benissimo’s strange alliance was about to be tested for the first time.
Two members of the cavalry held back: a bright-eyed Lucy and her hulking sidekick, George.
“Hello, old bean. Did you miss us?”