Norman rolled his eyes. “Oh, listen to Uncle Joe, here.”
Wally leaned forward. “Look, we could live like these fellows, grubbing an existence, of course we could. But that’s no better than living in the trenches, is it? There’s nothing for us back there. Here we’ve got a chance, a real chance to be something better.”
Jack sat, whittling, not saying a word. Cecil kept glancing at him, watching him for cues, eager to jump whatever way Jack did, but Jack for the moment kept his own counsel.
NORMAN SPOKE THROUGH a mouthful of meat. “Look, we’ve extended our travel range a little by bringing extra petrol fruit fuel with us, but if we got each of these enclaves to distil the petrol fruit as, say, an offering to the great Skarra, then what have we got?”
Cecil looked at him blankly, stuck out his lower lip and shook his head.
Alfie could see which way this was going.
Norman waved the meat bone about. “We’ve got ourselves a supply line, Reggie, haven’t we? Fuel dumps. We’d no longer be dependent on the camp. We’d have our own followers, our own army. We could push on and conquer more. We don’t need the poor bloody infantry. They need us more than we need them.”
Cecil nodded eagerly. “That’s right.”
Mathers, who had been silent until now, and content to listen, spoke up. “Why be soldiers, when we can be kings? Why be kings, when we can be gods?”
“Exactly, sir.”
Frank warmed to the theme. “And with an army of urmen we could enslave the chatts. They love digging, can’t get enough of it. But we can channel them, enslave them, and get them to dig for what we want them to dig for. This world is virgin territory, from what I’ve seen. Untapped wealth. We can get them to mine for gold, for silver, for rubies. Anything we want. We’d be rich.”
They sat back and each contemplated, for a moment, their own private fantasy.
Dranethwe made a sign of reverence, approached and cleared his throat. “Jarak, our shaman, he was once strong. He had the sight, but I fear he no longer has the strength to lead us in these matters. We made offerings and sought to invoke the gods. We are truly glad such strong magic has come to our aid. You have come to rid us of this torment.”
The crew exchanged wary glances. This was a new one. No one had asked anything of them before. They looked to Mathers for guidance.
“You sought… aid?” he asked.
“For many radii we have been plagued by an evil. A spirit taunts our enclave and snatches our people, takes our strongest and boldest with impunity. Jarak has cast wards and spoken charms but he cannot stop it. His attempts at banishment prove fruitless. The spirit’s magic is strong. You are the answer to our prayers.” He cast a submissive glance toward the tank.
“This spirit you speak of, how many has it snatched?” asked Mathers.
The tank crew’s gaze switched, as one, to Dranethwe.
“A dozen over the last three radii. Only the bravest of my warriors hunt now, but they cannot bring in enough game. The spirit takes from our hunting grounds, too. We are without the food we need.”
Mathers sat silently, contemplating the information.
The tank crew held their breath.
“The Warrior Priests of Boojum have heard you, and will intercede with Skarra on your behalf.”
Satisfied, Dranethwe backed away, bowing.
Mathers looked at his quizzical crew. “We have a tank. How hard can it be?”
They nodded and muttered in agreement.
Mathers sucked in air through his teeth and his brow furrowed briefly. The cramp in his stomach had returned, sharper and deeper than before. He suppressed a groan and eased himself up. “I’m just going into the tank. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
He walked unsteadily along the ironclad, one hand clutching his gut; he used the other to support himself against the tank’s side as he worked his way round the port sponson, wincing as he ducked under the gun. He clambered into the tank by the hatch at the rear of the sponson and pulled it shut behind him.
Making his way forwards to the driver’s cockpit, he pulled off his helmet and splash mask, took the hip flask from inside his tunic and took a quick slug of the liquid.
He sighed with relief. It was as if a great pressure had been released. It stopped his head from banging and eased the cramps in his stomach. He rested his head back against the shell rack at the front of the sponson and took another slug.
Outside, a long, unearthly shriek cut through the night.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HIGH ABOVE THE encampment, Atkins and 1 Section, accompanied by Napoo, Chandar and Nellie Abbott, proceeded to make their way in Indian file up the valley side above the tree line. They’d make quicker time up here, and it was less dangerous skirting the forest below than going through it. They could easily pick up the tank’s trail at the valley head. It wasn’t going to be hard to find.
As the party climbed the trail across the face of the hillside towards the valley head, slowed by the fact that they were wearing marching order packs, Atkins paused to look back down across the encampment and at the arthropod army beyond. From this distance, they really did look like insects. It seemed hard to believe that he couldn’t just crush them under his foot.
He felt disconcerted, leaving his comrades behind to face the foe. It felt like they had cut and run, leaving the battalion to their fate, but orders were orders. The chatts would run scared when they returned with the tank.
“I just hope we find it in time,” said Pot Shot.
“I just hope we find it in one piece,” replied Mercy.
“Better hope the crew is in one piece as well,” muttered Gazette, “because I don’t know how to drive one of them things.”
“Shh!” said Prof. “That FANY back there is sweet on one of them.”
If Nellie Abbott was sensitive about the issue, she didn’t show it. “He’d better bloomin’ well be alive,” she called forward. “’Cause I’m going to kill ’im if he ain’t.”
Atkins had assigned Gutsy to be Chandar’s guard, especially during this early part of the trip. They had been uneasy about having one of the Khungarrii along, so they tied the chatt’s long three fingered hands in front of its body and placed a gas hood over its head to prevent it sending any scent signals to those out on the veldt.
“The thing makes my skin crawl, Only.”
“Gutsy, this whole place makes my skin crawl.”
Frankly, Atkins thought, he’d rather be facing the Khungarrii than whatever lay out beyond the confines of their valley. At least here, you knew who the enemy was. Out there, it was everything. It took a toll on a man’s nerves, did that.
He wished he hadn’t looked back, though. He felt the familiar lurch in his stomach as his heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t wistfulness that did that. It was cold, gnawing fear. That small circle of Somme mud with its drifting splash of bright red poppies looked so small and insignificant from this height. What if that small circle should vanish now, going back home and leaving them behind? Feeling sick, he forced himself to turn away and carry on walking up the hillside.
Chandar had stopped to look back, too, and hissed beneath its hood. Atkins’ lip curled. It seemed excited at the sight of its army below. “Do you not see it?” Chandar said in a muffled croak through the gas hood.
“See what?”
“There. Do you not see it?” Chandar touched the heels of its hands to its head beneath the mask and thorax as a sign of reverence.
Atkins squinted and stared at the Khungarrii army, frowned and shook his head irritably.
“No. What? Where?”
“There!” said Chandar. It pointed at the valley below them. “The Sky Web of Garsuleth.” At the name of its god, it made the reverent sign again.