There was a loud click as Sergeant Hobson cocked a Webley revolver and pointed it at the back of the chatt’s head.
“I’ve read the reports,” said Everson. “Attempt to spray anything — acid, a soporific mist — and Sergeant Hobson here will shoot you. Is that understood?”
The creature lowered its head, relaxed its mouthparts and sank down on its legs in a submissive posture. “This One intended no threat.”
Everson offered it a seat. The Khungarrii looked at the wooden chair incomprehensibly. He shrugged, then sat down behind his desk. “I suppose a cup of tea is out of the question, then?” He gave a nod of dismissal in the Lance Corporal’s direction. “Thank you, Atkins.”
Atkins looked at the Sergeant for confirmation.
“Off you go, lad.”
“Sir.” Atkins saluted and snapped his heels together.
There was a strangled gasp as the chatt abandoned its half-hearted attempt to sit, and regurgitated air. Its mouth palps seemed to knit the human words laboriously. “This urman stays.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Everson.
“The urman stays,” insisted Chandar, rearing up.
Recognising the aggressive stance, Napoo drew his short sword and took a step towards the chatt. Everson held up a palm to stop him. Napoo relented, but remained tensed, ready to spring.
“Why?” asked Everson of the creature. “Why him?”
“That urman saved this One from the mandibles of Skarra when your Jeffries would have me wrapped in clay and rolled into the underworld. This spinning, this same urman spared this One again. These acts are of significance to this One. They are acts of Kurda, a basic tenet of colonyhood.”
If it made the damn thing more predisposed to talk, then that was fine with him. “Very well,” said Everson. He waved his hand and indicated that Atkins should stay. “At ease, Lance Corporal.”
“Sir.” Atkins looked uncomfortable as he stood at rest. He glanced at Hobson, who just shrugged.
Its request acceded to, Chandar relaxed its stance.
“Now, see here,” Everson began. “We will not surrender to you. You will not take us prisoners to be mesmerised as slaves in your colony. We will not bow to any tyrant’s yoke.”
“It is too late for that,” said Chandar. “Not since the days of Wuljungur has Khungarr been invaded. Now, in retribution, Sirigar has chemically decreed that you and any wild urmen caught within our sovereign burri are to be expelled. Failing that, you are to be culled to preserve the sanctity and safety of Khungarr. Those are your choices.”
There was no choice at all and Everson knew it. They could not leave this stronghold, this circle of the Somme earth that came with them. It was all they had left of Earth. It seemed they had their backs against the wall.
“We forewarned your emissary Jeffries of these eventualities,” continued the chatt.
Everson shifted forward in his chair. Atkins, too, stared at the chatt. Only Hobson remained unperturbed.
“Jeffries?”
“He promised to deliver the Tohmii, your herd, to us. You would have been accepted into our colony, given food, shelter, purpose, treated as our own. It is Kurda.”
“He had no damn right to speak on our behalf,” replied Everson with measured fury. “No damn right at all. Man was a snake in our midst. He’s not one of us. He’s—” he searched for a word the arthropod might understand.
“Outcast,” offered Napoo gruffly.
“Outcast,” repeated Everson, with a degree of satisfaction at the sound of the word.
“Nonetheless, an agreement was made and breached,” said Chandar.
“But at what price? What was it that Jeffries wanted from you? What was worth so much to him that he was willing to sell the rest of us into slavery?”
The chatt’s posture seemed to slump. “An old heresy thought long forgotten,” it wheezed.
“Croatoan,” suggested Everson.
“Yes.”
He put his elbows on his desk and leant forward, hands clasped. “Tell me about this Croatoan.”
The chatt’s mandible parted as it hissed, its mouth palps flapping like windsocks in the brief rush of air. “The urman Jeffries asked the same thing before committing the most unforgivable transgression in destroying our sacred repository. Therein lay the basis of our laws, our beliefs. Ancient aromas that bottled the wisdom of generations. Tunnels can be rebuilt, chambers repaired, but the Tohmii have left us dispossessed. Robbed. The Redolence of Spiras gone forever.”
The chatt ran out of air, its human vocabulary tumbling into the incoherent chittering of its own tongue. It seemed to Everson that the thing was cursing.
“That’s right. Jeffries. Not us. Jeffries tried to kill us, too. You were there in that chamber. You saw.”
“Yes. The fact that this One owes its life to this urman is one of the few mitigating circumstances in your favour.”
“Yes, Kurda. You said.” Everson looked to Atkins standing beside the creature. Their eyes met briefly. Atkins’ face flushed and he shuffled uncomfortably. Everson felt a glimmer of almost paternal pride. He had been right about Atkins. But to think that their salvation might hinge on that single act of altruism, well, that was a very slender thread indeed.
Chandar took another hoarse breath. “There is yet another reason Sirigar wants you wiped out. Khungarr is mired in tradition. The coming of the Tohmii has ignited an old debate, long feared and unsought by some. The Unguent of Huyurarr warns against the coming of a Great Corruption. When you made your camp on our burri, the Breath of GarSuleth heralded your arrival with the stench of death and putrescence. Sirigar feared that this was the fulfilment of the long-held prophecy.We sought to discover your intentions. You resisted the will of the Ones unlike any other urman herd we had encountered. Then by your actions you declared yourself a threat to Khungarr and your fate was sealed. Now, through your own actions, we are compelled to seek your destruction. This is regrettable.”
“We won’t surrender, you know. This is our land and we will defend it to the last man.”
“You cannot hope to defeat the massed army of Khungarr,” said Chandar.
Scraping his chair back, Everson stood now. “You’re not up against savages here. You’re up against a battalion of His Majesty King George’s army. We’ve faced the worst that Kaiser Bill could throw at us and survived. And you forget,” he added. “We are protected by Skarra, your god of the dead.” That the Khungarrii had mistaken the appearance of His Majesty’s Land Ship Ivanhoe as their god of the underworld was a work of providence and one he had been quite willing to take advantage of at the time, but how long could they keep up the pretence?
“Then where is he?” said Chandar looking around and gesturing to the empty air. “Why does Skarra not come to your aid? The army of Khungarr has retreated. They are waiting to see if he appears. If he does not then they will attack again and carry out the will of GarSuleth as set forth by Sirigar.”
“Thank you, Chandar. You’ve been quite candid. Sergeant, take the prisoner to the guardhouse. Keep to the trenches. Make sure it doesn’t see more than it has to.”
He watched as Hobson, Atkins and Napoo marshalled the prisoner and escorted it from the dugout. He was surprised to see the Padre shaking, as if the chatt had stirred deep, unwelcome memories of his incarceration.
“Padre, go. We’ll talk later.”
The Padre smiled thankfully with an anxious nod, not trusting himself to speak, and hurried from the post.
So it was war, then. And where was that bloody tank? It seemed to Everson that Chandar was not entirely convinced of their claim regarding the tank but was unwilling to question the sanctity of Skarra without further proof. If only he had it. The Ivanhoe should have been back days ago. He pulled out a packet of Woodbines from his pocket and was dismayed to see only two battered cigarettes left. Once they were gone, they were gone. He had no more left. He doubted the men did either, except the hoarders. Evans, his platoon’s best scrounger, could probably lay his hands on some. Maybe he should ask. He pulled one out, tamped it on the desk, lit it and took a long luxurious drag before exhaling, staring absently at the haze of blue smoke, momentarily lost in thought.