Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires (26 page)

Smith looked round, trying to get his bearings. Dreckitt strode out of the forest, a massive pistol in his hand. ‘Are you okay?’ He peered at Smith. ‘You too, huh? This hop’s got me crazier than two waltzing mice,’ Dreckitt snarled.

Smith said, ‘What? The Yull are dancing?’

‘Figure of speech, pal,’ Dreckitt replied. ‘The warren’s collapsed. They got the ravnaphant on it and it fell to bits.’ He looked at Rhianna. ‘Lady, are you doped out as well?’

‘I’m the same as usual,’ Rhianna replied.

‘Let’s call that a no, for the sake of argument. Come on, let’s go!’

‘Wait,’ she replied. ‘There’s something I’d forgotten.’ Rhianna paused, looked down and pulled her skirt up. ‘That’s it!’ she cried triumphantly. ‘My shoes! I knew I’d forgotten something.’

* * *

It was night. Torches lit the courtyard of the temple.

‘Step and twist and strike and kick and – roll!’ Volgath called.

Suruk slipped left and right, the point of his spear punching the air, his body in constant motion behind it.

‘No, no!’ Volgath cried. ‘Bring your legs up higher. And raise those hands! Remember, you’re a striking cobra. Again. This time with feeling!’

Suruk stopped and drove his spear into the earth. ‘This is irksome.’

Volgath leaned against an arch, sipping a glass of sherry. He had spent the last three days there, criticising Suruk’s fighting-styles for lack of feeling and reminiscing about the time that he had taken on the entire Bolshoi in a drunken brawl.

‘Really?’ Volgath asked. ‘So wise you are already in the ways of the warrior, means it?’

‘That did not even make grammatical sense.’

‘When my age you are, syntax bother about you will not.’

Suruk grimaced. ‘I see. We have spent three days learning your routines. If I have to go through the Stones of the Forbidden Temple again…’

Volgath leaned forward. ‘So? So what? If I tell you to show me your stones, you’ll show me.’

Suruk snorted.

The ancient took a thoughtful sip. ‘Truly, Suruk, what do you seek?’

‘The relics. This know you – I mean, you know this.’

‘And why is that? What do you want from them? Fame? Do you want to live forever? Or is it the skills I can teach you? Do you wish to learn how to fly?’

‘Fly?’

‘Metaphorically.’

‘No, then.’

‘If you want the relics, you must prove yourself worthy. And that means learning from me. I have demonstrated my fighting skills to the crowned heads of the galaxy – and sliced off a few of them, as well. And, once you have faced the final test, you will be ready to take them. If you are not dead.’ He paused and bent down. When he stood, he held the sherry bottle. ‘Drink?’

‘Gladly.’

Volgath poured out two substantial measures. ‘To victory.’

‘To victory.’

Volgath sipped. ‘You know, even if we are victorious, this planet will never be the same.’

‘Indeed. It will be covered in dead lemmings.’

‘I meant that the Space Empire will be sorely weakened. Saving mankind from tyranny takes it out of one.’

‘True. But my comrades will fight to the end. My old friend Isambard Smith may have a mild exterior, but under it is a mild interior, and under
that
, the heart of a warrior. Similarly, the mystic Rhianna is deceptive. She sees much – coloured swirls and someone called Lucy in the sky, mainly, but she is so wise that she is welcomed whenever she comes round.’

‘She visits you rarely, then?’

‘Oh no – she’s always there, just unconscious most of the time. Sometimes I even wonder about the little woman. Small and portly she may be, but there is a look of ferocity to her, especially when I have taken the last chocolate biscuit...’

‘Your trust in humans is your weakness, Suruk. Think of the Edenites and their foul customs. Never underestimate mankind’s capacity for bigotry, even to their own kind.’

Suruk nodded. ‘True. I never understood prejudice. After all, humans all look the same to me. Squat and ugly, with funny little mouths.’

‘If you think their faces are weird, you should see what goes on at the end of their legs,’ Volgath added, pulling a face. ‘And those noses! I don’t see how anyone could have finished evolving and still have a nose. We M’Lak are thankfully free of prejudice,’ he added, ‘largely because we’re a bit better than everyone else. Which is why you should think carefully about the relics. They belong to Ravnavar, Suruk.’

‘I see.’

‘I hope you do. Grimdall was from Ravnavar: the relics are his, not the property of the Space Empire. The relics could never be transported to the British Museum and left there. For one thing, they belong elsewhere. For another, they would kill the guards and escape.’

Suruk lowered his glass. ‘Escape?’

‘Of course.’ Volgath chuckled. Firelight flickered around his mandibles. ‘Grimdall is dead, but his mighty steed, the Mechanical Maneater, lives on. And the Maneater will slay anyone unworthy who claims Grimdall’s heritage. The custodian of the relics must prove himself to them.’

Suruk said, ‘I see now why your task is such a burden, and an honour. And why you get so few applicants.’

‘Oh, there have been many applicants, Suruk. But the final interview proved difficult. Terminal, to be precise.’

Suruk was silent. He gazed into the dark.

‘You look troubled,’ Volgath said. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘That we should get marshmallows and roast them on a stick, like boy scouts.’

‘How many boy scouts can you fit on one stick?’ Volgath sighed. ‘Truly, Suruk, we think alike. Perhaps you are ready to prove yourself worth of the relics.’

Suruk finished his sherry. ‘I was spawned ready.’

Volgath said, ‘This is no mere battle I refer to. If you wish to find the relics, you must face your worst fears – and survive.’

‘My worst fears?’

‘Indeed. What do you dread? From what do you recoil?’

‘Losing the war. The lemming scum enslaving my people. Of dying before the Greater Galactic Happiness and Friendship Collective is rendered into a lifeless heap of skulls.’

‘That is every warrior’s fear. But what about
you?
’

‘Hmm. Well, I have never liked dishonour much. Or yogurt. Or bees. I am not overly fond of tarantulas, either. They give me indigestion.’

Volgath smiled. ‘Those are your darkest fears?’

Suruk shrugged.

‘Then you must gird your mandibles, Suruk the Slayer. I have tested your body. Now I shall test your soul. I will take you into your darkest places. In the Cavern of Dread, you will face… er… a giant dishonourable bee, covered in yogurt. Or something like that.’

Suruk took a deep breath. ‘I am ready.’

‘Good. Then follow me.’

Volgath crossed the courtyard and stepped under an arch. ‘Come, warrior.’

Suruk looked up at the trees, certain that he was being watched. He saw nothing. Then he picked up his spear, stretched his neck, and followed.

They walked into a stone tunnel. Amber light seeped out from translucent panels in the roof. The floor sloped down, winding deep into the earth. On the walls, ancient carvings depicted monsters, ghosts and demons. Stories from the old legends.

‘Hold!’ Volgath cried.

Suruk looked round. ‘What is it?’

‘Atmosphere,’ Volgath said. He reached into an alcove and pulled a lever. War-drums rose up around them, a frantic jungle clatter. Beasts screeched and howled. The drumming grew quicker, swelled around them like a heart about to burst.

‘Splendid,’ Suruk said. ‘Mood music.’

At the end stood a door. Carved on it was a single figure, a leaping caricature of a M’Lak warrior in silhouette, dancing across a landscape. Suruk would have known that shape and its bright eyes anywhere. It was the Dark One, the guardian of Ethrethar, lord of the dead.

‘Beyond is his territory,’ Volgath said.

Suruk nodded. ‘I have faced him before.’

The door swung open. ‘Every warrior has a weakness,’ Volgath said, ‘a thing that he cannot defeat. Face it, Suruk, and rise again!’

Something hit Suruk hard in the back. He stumbled forward, and as he realised that it was probably Volgath’s boot, the door slammed behind him.

Suruk stood there in the darkness, half-expecting a rubber spider to drop from the ceiling. He tried to imagine the most fearsome, terrifying thing he had ever encountered, and remembered the time when Smith had kept a large mirror in the hold. He had stumbled upon that thing a few times and given himself quite a scare.

He heard speech. For a moment, he thought it was his own voice. Slowly, the voices rose in conversation – and with them, the tinkle of glass and the glug of wine.

‘It’s been a really good year,’ said a voice at his shoulder. Suruk whipped round, saw nothing. ‘The shop has turned a really nice little profit. You know, I’m thinking that I might join the Chamber of Commerce next year. It’s good for business.’

Suruk listened. Yes, the voice was really there, as well as the background murmur. They were all M’Lak voices, deep and properly croaky. Far off, someone said something about canapés.

Suruk raised his spear and took a step forward. The voices moved around him, swirling through the dank air. He did not know where the door was.

‘Took a holiday to Los Angeles. We picked up some lovely trophies.’

‘And I said to him: “What the Hell are
you?”
You should have seen his face!’

There was polite laughter. And then, crystal clear, a throaty voice said, ‘So, Agshad: how are the kids?’

Suruk paused. Agshad? Surely not. That was his father’s name.

‘Well, now you ask, not so bad.’

You’re dead, Suruk thought. You died fighting the Yull, father.

‘I’m very proud of him, to tell the truth,’ said Agshad Nine-Swords. ‘My boy’s really gone out there and made something of himself. Taken the bull by the horns, you might say. He’s a real achiever, you know. A credit to the family.’

Thank you, Father, Suruk thought. I am proud to have honoured you with my deeds.

‘Just don’t ask me about Suruk,’ Agshad added.

‘What?’

‘I mean, he’s a bit slow compared to Morgar, I know. But I’m sure he’ll turn out alright in the end.’

Suruk froze.

‘You need to do something with that lad,’ said a voice.

‘The boy’s a late starter, that’s all,’ Suruk’s father replied. ‘He’s, you know, got his own ways. He means well. He’s got a good heart.’

‘Whose chest did he hack it from?’ another voice inquired, and Suruk was surrounded by gurgling laughter. ‘If he takes enough heads, he might end up with a good brain too.’

Suruk raised his spear. ‘Fools!’ he snarled.

‘Look,’ Agshad said, ‘Suruk’s just… old-fashioned.’

The other voice put on an accent. ‘Greetings,’ it exclaimed. ‘Welcome to the house of burgers!’

Suruk snarled. The mocking laughter rose to answer him, spinning around him like a cloud of flies.

‘Do you desire fries with that?’

‘Silence, upstart!’ Suruk barked, but the voices would not stop.

‘Look, father. I devoured a crayon! I built a sandcastle in the litter tray!’

‘Come out!’ Suruk cried. ‘Come out and face me!’

And it was silent.

A dream, Suruk thought. Nothing more than that. And I have banished it.

Light blossomed in front of him. It came from neon strips in the ceiling, and it glinted on beer pumps and rows of glasses. A figure stood at the bar, a tall M’Lak, his back to Suruk.

This is real, Suruk thought. It cannot be, but…

He wished it was bees and yoghurt.

A hand came down on his shoulder. He looked round and saw one of the elders of his house, the most venerable ancients of the line of Urgar the Miffed. ‘We’ve found you an arch-enemy,’ the elder said. ‘From a really good line, too. They’re all real killers. You’ll have loads to talk about.’

A second voice, at his left. ‘Look, he just scowled at you. He doesn’t like you either. Go on, Suruk, go and threaten him.’

‘No,’ Suruk said, but it did not come out as he had wanted it to. In his mind, it was a roar of defiance. It came out sounding like dread. ‘I have nothing against this person.’

‘Oh, don’t be shy,’ another elder crooned. They were around him like jackals, pushing him towards the figure at the bar. ‘Go over and introduce yourself. Spill his pint.’

‘I will choose my own nemesis,’ Suruk said, but his voice was cracked and weak.

‘Look, he’s all alone. Time to make your move, Suruk. Ask him what he’s looking at.’

Suruk took a step towards the bar. ‘I… I cannot. I won’t.’

He felt a slap on the back. He winced. ‘Go on, lad. When I was your age…’

A horrible sense of embarrassment crawled over his body. The words of threat and challenge dried up in his mouth. Shame seemed to shrink him. His mandibles drooped.

Not this, Suruk thought. Not this.

And he tore free of their weak, ushering hands, twisted round and cried, ‘No, I shall not! I will battle who I choose! You cannot make me. I, Suruk, will slay who I please. I will arrange my own carnage. Leave me, damn you, leave me alone!’

And suddenly, he was alone. He stood in a dim-lit, empty cellar. It smelt of dust.

Suruk blinked a couple of times. His family, and his fear of their disapproval, was gone. He found the door easily. It wasn’t locked. The corridor was empty. Suruk climbed up, alone, with the strange but familiar feeling of recovering from mild concussion.

As he reached the exit, he heard the Yull.

‘
Dar huphep!
’ a lemming man howled, and then a scream followed by a loud, clattering thud.

‘
Hup yullai!
’ a second rodent shrieked, and a moment later it let out a thin yowl of pain.

Suruk dropped down and crept forward, still in the shadows.

Volgath stood in the courtyard. Around him lay a dozen or so lemming men in various forms of armour: officers, from the look of it. Axes were scattered on the ground.

Single combat, Suruk thought. That would have been surprisingly honourable, if there hadn’t been a queue of about forty other Yullian officers stretching around the corner into the forest, waiting for a go.

Another lemming man let out a battle cry and ran forward. Volgath sidestepped and his fingers flicked up into the rodent’s throat. The lemming squeaked and staggered drunkenly aside, clutching his neck. Volgath’s hand was bloody.