“I have never seen such a sight,” said Napoo. The spectacle of the edifice, a symbol of the urman’s oppressors’ might and skill, lying shattered and dashed to the ground, must have been a profound sight; an intimation of his oppressor’s mortality, of their fallibility.
Pot Shot stood beside him and nodded, seeing in it the symbols of his own political beliefs. “And so shall tumble the ivory towers of all tyrants,” he muttered.
There was an abrupt silence as the tank engine cut out. The silence immediately struck Atkins. The trees and the undergrowth were still and quiet. There were calls and whoops, but only far off, in the distance, as if even the jungle creatures avoided this place.
Gazette sized up the ruined edifice. “Well, if I were a man-eating evil spirit, that’s where I’d set up shop, all right.”
Chandar clicked and chattered and, making its sign of deference, began to back away. It seemed to know, or at least suspect something.
Gutsy clapped a heavy hand on its shoulder. “Oh, no, you don’t.”
Atkins rounded on it. “What is this place?”
For a moment, Chandar gabbled in its own language, its mandibles and mouth palps moving rapidly in a torrent of clicks and tuts before it remembered, caught its breath, and translated the words into something they could understand.
“It is forbidden!”
A loud clang shattered the silence as a hatch swung open on the tank and the crew emerged, blinking and disorientated in the light, coughing and wheezing.
Nellie, looking for Alfie, saw Mathers stumble out and clutch his stomach. She pointed it out to Atkins with a nudge. They watched as Mathers pulled his hip flask from under his rain cape, lifted the splash mask chainmail aside and took a slug. He straightened up. A breeze blew across the clearing and he turned into the wind for a moment, as if wistfully looking for something, half-remembered.
“Ah, here come our land navy privateers,” said Prof, nudging Chalky.
“What did you say?” said Cecil, his blotchy face clouding over as he rounded on the Fusilier. “Nobody calls the crew of the Ivanhoe mutineers, least of all mud-sucking infantry!”
“No, what I said was—”
Prof staggered back under the lad’s tackle, trying to block Cecil’s furious punches.
“Oi!” shouted Jack, striding towards the pair and pulling them apart. He grabbed Cecil and yanked him back by the collar of his coveralls. “This isn’t the time or place.”
“But he was bad-mouthing our mob!” insisted Cecil.
1 Section gathered protectively round a stunned and shaken Prof and the two groups regarded each other with animosity.
“That’s enough!” yelled Atkins. “Christ knows there are enough things out here that want to kill us without bloody doing it ourselves!”
THE ALTERCATION BARELY registered with Mathers as he strode between the two groups, scarcely acknowledging the Fusiliers. “Nesbit, that’s enough. We haven’t time. They are inconsequential,” he said. He had other, higher matters to attend to, matters that did not require their presence. This was Hush Hush business. “Our evil spirit dwells within. So let’s make it quick. I don’t like being outside the tank any longer than necessary. The pain is worse out here. Grab your revolvers and weapons and follow me.”
With derisive mutters and black glances at the Fusiliers, the tank crew fell in behind their commander as he strode towards the ruined edifice. He didn’t need to look back at the Ivanhoe for reassurance, for Skarra was with him. He could hear the god’s insistent ever-present whispers in his mind, directing him, encouraging him.
A SUDDEN FLUSH of fear washed over Alfie. He turned and looked back at Nellie, taking comfort in the calming, yellow glow she gave off. By comparison, the rest of the tank crew around him radiated ugly, bruised hues of suspicion and paranoia. He knew which he preferred.
Frank gave him a shove. “What are you going to do, run after your long-haired chum or stay with us?”
“Nellie can look after herself,” Alfie said.
“The right choice, Alfie boy,” said Frank, leaning in close. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
MATHERS’ SUDDEN DEPARTURE caught Atkins off guard. Why the hell should he have expected anything less from a madman? “Lieutenant, wait! Where the hell are you going? Come back, sir!”
Driven on by his own rationale, Mathers didn’t even break his stride, but continued towards the ruins. “You forget, Corporal, I have a spirit to kill and when I do so, I shall become even greater than I am now. I shall add its power to my own. Skarra has promised me!”
At the mention of Skarra, Chandar hissed gently and made a sign of reverence towards the tank. Could it be that Mad Mathers was actually convincing Chandar of their deception, Atkins wondered? After all, if Mathers had started to believe it…
The tank commander had reached the overgrown, cavernous entrance and led his men into the ruined edifice.
A low, continuous moan issued from its depths.
Atkins hoped it was just the wind through the tunnels.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
OUT ON THE veldt, the ominous low rumble that accompanied the line of leaden grey clouds in the distance continued long past the point where it should have died away.
Everson made his way from the fire trench, along the sap. The disappearance of the Khungarrii was weighing heavily on his mind. What the hell were they up to? He didn’t know and he didn’t like it. This damn planet was full of unknowns. He seemed to spend too much time just reacting to things and trying to keep their heads above water. So far, he’d been lucky. This latest manoeuvre by the Khungarrii, vanishing like that, had unsettled him. All he could do was keep the men stood to in expectation of — of God knew what, frankly. However, they could only do that for so long and they were reaching the end of their tether already. He felt himself floundering, not knowing what to expect next.
The sap came out by the old Poulet farmhouse. Lieutenant Baxter and his machine gun section occupied the ground floor. They had set the Lewis machine gun up in a window bay, the walls reinforced by sandbags.
Baxter took him aside and, in a low voice, proceeded to question him. “Everson, any idea what the hell is going on out there? Where have the damned chatts gone to?”
“I don’t know, Baxter. They seem to have abandoned the field, but whether it’s a feint or not, I just don’t know. Keep your eyes peeled. I’ve only come here for a look-see myself. The Hill OP will keep us informed. As soon as I know anything, you will, Bernard.”
He patted the officer on the shoulder and, with a shrug and apologetic smile, started up the stairs to the observation platform.
The whole of the upper level had been roughly refloored with wooden boards, and the old roof, which had been in danger of collapsing, had been removed. Most of the upper walls had been saved. Loose bricks had tumbled down and the rubble still lay scattered around the farmhouse walls. It was open to the elements but for a large tarpaulin that flapped and snapped over his head in the strengthening breeze. He stopped and sniffed. There was a pungent odour on the wind. Damp. Acrid. Rank. Animal.
“Sir!” The Corporal and two privates on watch snapped to attention as Everson arrived up the stairs. Everson found the RFC Lieutenant, Tulliver, there too, checking the weather. A makeshift windsock billowed in the breeze.
“Anything to report?” asked Everson, walking up to the empty window frame and looking out over the now desolate veldt. The heavy grey clouds sailed towards them with the threat of rain. Beyond, the rumbling persisted. “What the hell is that?” he muttered, half to himself.