As the shaman continued his liturgy, Atkins’ world shrank, the pleached boughs either side of him becoming revetments. He was back in the trenches, waiting for the whistle, listening to the artillery barrage and the sound of machine gun bullets zipping through the air over his head, like invisible insects. He smiled bitterly as he remembered his own personal good luck ritual; if he could still smell the perfume on Flora’s last letter he would survive. His hands were tied behind his back. The letter was in the inside pocket of his tunic in his paybook. He guessed that was that, then. Time to go over the bags. He heard the shouts of the men and the loud boom and wail of an artillery shell. A second later, a plume of fire and dirt and shredded wood exploded up from the jungle below.
The urmen warriors wailed. The shaman turned, a look of puzzlement on his face. A look that transformed into one of fury as the crushing of trees and the clank and whine of heavy armour filled the clearing. The Ivanhoe rumbled out of the jungle and the machine guns spoke, sewing a line of dirt that vanished off over the precipice.
A band of urmen accompanying the tank spilled into the ceremonial clearing, seizing some of the shaman’s warriors as others fled into the trees.
The men of 1 Section let out a rousing cheer at the sight of the landship. Chandar let out a hissing cry and sank down in supplication, fingering its silken tassels and hiding its face at the appearance of one of its gods.
“Keldoth spoke the truth,” the chief bellowed across the clearing. “I had him follow you and your shaman’s party, Jarak, and glad I am that I did.”
The shaman, petulant and defiant, screamed incoherent obscenities at the disturbance of his sacred ritual. “How dare you defile this sacred place? These strangers would have gone straight to the spirits as an offering to rid us of the dulgur.”
“They are under the protection of Skarra,” the chief said. “His priests have ordained it. I am chief. You no longer speak for the clan in these matters. Accept that or be banished.” His voice softened. “You know the law, old friend.”
The shaman shifted warily on the platform. “I know the law, but you have shamed me in front of these outsiders. I have known and nurtured the ways of our clan all my life. My sacrifices to the spirits have kept the dulgur at bay.”
“Until now. It takes more and more. Your magic cannot stop it. Skarra’s magic can. The spirits do not listen to you anymore. I must do what is best for the enclave. ”
“And I have lost face. I have lost everything to these strangers but, as shaman, I tell you now, you will have no cause to thank them!”
He ran up the suspension boughs that supported the platform, vanished into the foliage above, and was gone.
Atkins slumped against the rail of roots and watched as the new urmen freed the section from their bonds. Porgy came running up, bayonet in hand, and cut his friend loose.
“It’s all right, mate. You’re safe. And so, thank God, are the tank crew.”
Atkins cast a sullen glance over at the Ivanhoe. “Until I get my bloody hands on them…”
NELLIE RAN TO the tank, calling Alfie’s name. Alfie, still wearing his symbol-daubed rain cape and his splash mask, stumbled out of the Ivanhoe’s sponson hatch and caught his breath, a clean fresh breath that sluiced away the intoxicating fumes of the compartment.
“Alfie?”
He turned at the sound of his name.
“Nellie?”
He looked at her in astonishment, and then he took her by the wrist and pulled her behind the Ivanhoe, out of sight of the others, and took his helmet off. They embraced each other for a moment, completely uninhibited, before decorum got the better of them, and they stepped back and shuffled uncomfortably at the ease of their intimacy. She shoved him away, a business-like scowl appearing on her face.
“Where the bloomin’ hell have you been?”
“Alfie! Quit your bloody spooning and get back in here. We can’t leave without you!” barked Frank from inside.
Alfie smiled weakly and shrugged. “Better go.”
ATKINS PICKED UP his equipment from the pile where the shaman and his men had dumped it, walked up to the tank and banged on the front with his rifle butt. “Lieutenant Mathers? Lieutenant Mathers, sir?”
“He ain’t here,” said a cockney voice from within.
“What do you mean, he isn’t here? He’s the tank commander. I have orders for him.”
“Oh, he won’t like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Orders. He won’t like ’em. Doesn’t do orders now.” And the visor slammed shut.
Atkins stood looking at the tank, dumbfounded.
“Mathas is at the enclave. We will take you there now,” said the chief.
1 Section walked behind the familiar backside and raised steering tail of the ironclad as it grumbled and slithered its way back along its own path.
Chandar hadn’t said a word since the tank turned up. At first, it averted its eyes from its god, as if hardly daring to accept its presence, but as the journey progressed Atkins caught it sneaking glances at the tank. He wondered how much longer they could maintain the illusion.
Atkins didn’t know whether to be mad at the tank crew or thankful for the rescue. There was something going on here and he didn’t like it. He was sure he’d like it even less once he knew what it was. And why were they so cagey about Mathers?
“What’s their game, then?” Gutsy pondered.
“I don’t know, but I can guess,” said Atkins, darkly. “I just hope I’m wrong.”
When Atkins had caught his first glimpse of the enclave, he still felt frustrated at being unable to breach that metal wall they found. That, at least, had offered the hope of some advanced civilisation. This, as strange and magnificent as it was, with its huge living bark walls, seemed like a step back, a complete lowering of expectations. His heart sank, the way it did when he first spotted the Khungarrii edifice, three months ago. There seemed little hope of finding a way back to Flora here.
They were escorted into the compound by the urmen warriors. Even Napoo seemed impressed by the scale and age of the place.
“I want to speak with Lieutenant Mathers,” demanded Atkins. “Tell him I have an urgent message from Lieutenant Everson.”
The chieftain smiled. “If he sees fit to grant you an audience.”
Porgy leaned over. “An audience? Who the hell does he think he is?”
“A bloody officer,” muttered Atkins.
The chieftain walked over to a semi-cylindrical bark hut on the far side of the compound. Smoke gently coiled up from a hole in the hut roof. It was more ornate that the other huts around the perimeter. Outside, it had torch posts decorated with some kind of animal skins. It had two small lean-tos, one on either side, constructed of thick branches and covered with overlapping leaves, in which mounds of fruits had been stored under one and meats under the other. Atkins watched as a young girl, wide-eyed and awe-struck, hurried up nervously with slices of a large red fruit and laid them under the lean-to with the other fruits. It was like a small shrine or chapel for offerings, then, thought Atkins. Great flat leaves were laid in bands on either side of the hut’s length. There was something familiar –