CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“HELL!” GROWLED ATKINS in frustration. “We’ll have to go in after them.”
“But they’re not even our mob,” objected Porgy.
Atkins looked at him. “Yes. Yes, they are. They’re British Army, like us. We’re all we have. We’re in a hole, Porgy. If we don’t stick together, if we don’t look out for each other, we’ll end up like those poor old sods we found back there, unknown, unmourned and forgotten, without even a decent grave. That’s not a fate I intend to suffer. I intend to survive and get back home, Gutsy. I made that promise on the Somme and I’m making that promise here and, by God, I’m going to keep it. If Lieutenant Everson says we need that tank, then we need the tank — and that means we need its bloody crew, too. God knows what kind of trouble they’ll get into in there, led by that madman…”
Gutsy nodded his head. “We’re with you, Only.” He turned round to the rest of the section. “You heard the Corporal, lads. Battle order.”
The rest of 1 Section took off their packs, leaving themselves only their webbing with ammo and grenade pouches, and gas mask bags at their chest. They checked their rifle magazines and cycled the bolts so there was one in the spout, ready.
“What about me?” asked Nellie, planting herself obstinately in front of Atkins. “They might get hurt, so I’m not staying here.”
Atkins had learned his lesson where Nellie Abbott was concerned. “No, I didn’t think you would,” he said, with a trace of a smile. He nodded towards the Section’s urman guide, who was cutting lengths of branches with his curved sword and wrapping them with some dried mossy substance to use as torches. “Stick with Napoo.”
Prof and Chalky had started to make their own torches, cutting at a little grove of saplings. Saplings with a black bark with silver-grey veins. Nellie frowned. They were familiar…
“No!” she yelled, lifting her skirt and running towards them as they hacked away at the slender trunks. “No, stop. That’s corpsewood. It’ll kill you!”
Hearing the name, Napoo whirled round and raced across the glade, knocking the cut wood from the Tommies’ hands. “She speaks true. It will drain you of your life to keep its own.”
The men backed away from the saplings as if they’d been bitten — which they very nearly had.
“Ruddy hell, Chalky,” joshed Mercy. “I can’t turn me back on you for five minutes without you getting into some trouble or other.”
Chalky shrugged sheepishly, and smiled gratefully at Nellie.
Prof shuddered. “Corpsewood?” He backed away in horror and stood in the clearing, looking round, like a spooked horse, not daring to move as if everything around might be the death of him.
“Hey, it’s all right, Prof,” said Nellie. “You’re safe now. You scared me, is all. I’d just seen it before, what it can do.”
“I don’t think you’re helping,” said Gazette, looking up from checking his rifle one more time.
“You aren’t, neither,” retorted Nellie. “If I want your opinion, I’ll ask the Corporal.”
The rest of the section laughed and jeered. Nellie ignored them and turned her attention back to Prof. She knew that haunted look. She’d seen it in soldiers’ eyes before.
“Corpsewood,” Prof kept muttering to himself, shaking his head, “corpsewood.”
A GENTLE DRAUGHT blew from the cavernous opening as they approached the main entrance of the edifice. Roots and boughs were woven round and embedded in the wall of the doorway until they formed a jamb, roots thrusting buttress-like into the ground, but the great bark-like doors, that would have sealed the edifice, had long since dried and shrivelled as the door plant itself had died, leaving the cavernous entrance open. Other vegetation had taken advantage of the fact, clinging to the walls and invading the fallow spaces beyond. Great hanging carpets of plum-coloured shrubbery tumbled down from cracks in the edifice wall.
As they stood on the threshold, Atkins paired the men up; one man with their rifle and bayonet at the ready, accompanied by one holding a torch. Gazette walked with Pot Shot, Porgy with Chalky, Mercy with Prof. Gutsy, gun shouldered, held Little Bertha, his meat cleaver, in his hand, the flames of the torches reflecting off its polished surface. Napoo and Nellie Abbott brought up the rear. Atkins kept an eye on Chandar.
The chatt sank down on its legs and moved reluctantly. Atkins had half expected it to make a break for it and run. It could have fled, but something kept it with them; against its better judgement, as far as he could tell.
“So, what is this place,” he asked. “It’s an edifice, right? Made by your people?”
Chandar craned its neck, looked up at the outer wall of the ruined edifice towering above them and hissed. “It is a colony of lost Ones.”
Atkins’ eyes narrowed. “You knew about this place?”
“Not exactly,” rasped Chandar. “Of places like this.”
“So, what is it, some mythical missing colony?”
“No, you misunderstand. It happens that once every so often a new queen hatches, while one still rules. It is a time of great regret. Usually the colony’s current queen and her nursery entourage kill them, but some survive to attract followers from among the Dhuyumirrii, scentirrii and Djamirrii. We have had such divisions at Khungarr, though many generations ago. If they are strong enough they can replace the old queen, but more often than not, they are killed or driven from the colony and must attempt to start a new one if they are to survive. The difficulty lies in where they can do this, for the ancient scent texts tell us that GarSuleth divided the world between all his children. The world is spoken for. Judging from the size of this edifice it was a small one and could not sustain itself. It also sits within the Zohtakarrii burri.”
“The chatts that attacked us?”
“Yes. Because of this One’s injuries, they thought that this One was outcast from Khungarr. This One let them think that. If they had known that this One was not, then we would have been killed. They seemed to show very great interest in you.”
“As I recall, so did you lot.”
“Agreed.”
“How did you get your injuries?” asked Atkins, his curiosity piqued.
“This One once tried to challenge Sirigar in open ceremonial debate and paid for it, as you can see.” Chandar opened its arms, inviting Atkins to study its body.
Atkins looked at the chatt with its hobbled gait and broken antennae. “Sirigar did this to you?”
“Sirigar’s followers did, before this One had a chance to challenge Sirigar, no doubt under that One’s instructions.”
Atkins let the matter drop, he had more pressing problems right now. “So this place is nothing special.”
“No, it is merely a failed colony.”
Atkins regarded Chandar with suspicion. “So, if this place doesn’t worry you, what does? You mentioned these Zohtakarrii guarding something that isn’t there. It obviously isn’t this because it’s quite clearly here. I can see it. What is it you’re not telling me, Chandar? Do you know what that thing is in there, this evil spirit? Is it Croatoan?”
Chandar hissed at the mention of the name. “No, by GarSuleth’s Breath, this One does not know. This One merely feared what it might be.”
This was getting him nowhere. Atkins waved the others on, and they walked into the cool cavernous gloom of the derelict, rubble-strewn antechamber.
“Here would have been the work area,” Chandar said. “Here the djamirrii, the workers, would have brought and sorted their harvest before taking it to storage chambers or the fungus farms.” The chatt looked around at the desolate place it had become. “All colony life was here.”