Chronicles of Isambard Smith 05 - End of Empires (27 page)

But so was his side, Suruk saw, and his shoulder and hip. There was only a certain amount of lemming warlords that anyone could be expected to defeat in a single afternoon. Volgath will die here, Suruk thought. Or at least, he will without me.

Suruk raised his spear. He had dealt with his own family. Nothing could frighten him now.

And Volgath saw him. It was just a quick glance, but his eyes locked straight onto Suruk’s. Volgath gave a tiny shake of the head. Suruk waited.

‘
Hup!
’

The lemming men stopped, and the queue jerked to attention. A huge, pale figure lumbered into view, flanked by bodyguards. Suruk did not need to see the creature’s single eye to know that he was looking at General Wikwot.

‘So,’ Wikwot declared. ‘This is your mighty citadel, is it? You are the master of weapons. And yet we simply walked in. This world is ours for the taking, and do you know how we won it?’

Volgath grimaced. ‘By a whisker?’

‘Oh, very funny. Most amusing. The answer is “easily”. Your world is finished, your temple ruined, your wretched people doomed.’ He snorted, amused. ‘And to think that you actually look tough.’

‘And you definitely smell strong.’

Wikwot glanced over his shoulder. ‘This animal does not merit a warrior’s death. Bind him and bring me the power tools. We will soon learn where the Relics of Grimdall are hidden.’

‘Fool,’ Volgath said. ‘You still do not understand what you are spawning with. Strike me and you will regret it.’

‘Silence!’ Wikwot lashed out. His paw hit Volgath’s cheek. Slowly, like a poorly-balanced totem pole, Volgath fell backwards. He hit the ground.

Wikwot looked down at the body. He bent down, checked Volgath’s pulse and stood up. The general took out a cigarette and jammed it into the corner of his chops. ‘Ah,
fecinec
,’ he muttered. A minion stepped in with a lighter, and Wikwot turned and lumbered away.

The lemming men closed ranks around the general, and followed him into the trees.

* * *

Suruk squatted down beside Volgath. The ancient was quite cold to the touch, definitely more greenish grey than greyish green. ‘They would have made you betray your people,’ Suruk said. ‘So you made yourself die. Truly, a warrior’s death.’

Volgath’s hand grabbed him round the ankle.

Suruk gasped; he drew back, but Volgath clung on, and, very slowly, the elder opened his mouth. ‘Suruk!’ he whispered.

‘Yes, old one?’

‘I do not have long.’

‘Indeed.’

The ancient chuckled; there was blood on his fangs. ‘There is an ancient technique to feigning death.’ He smiled. ‘But this time, I may not have to act much longer.’

‘You did well,’ Suruk replied. ‘Now the fools of Yullia are confounded. But who will take care of the temple?’

‘Forget the temple. Its time has gone. You must know the location of the relics of Grimdall.’

‘Yes. Tell me.’

Volgath grimaced. ‘Lean closer, and I will whisper to you.’

Suruk was not accustomed to being very near anyone. When you bred with yourself, you didn’t tend to need a lot of physical contact with anybody else. He glanced over his shoulder, feeling slightly awkward, and then feeling guilty for feeling awkward. Strange: he had never felt guilty about much at all before.

He put his face close to Volgath’s.

‘It is a secret I have hidden well,’ Volgath whispered. ‘Never have I shared it before.’

‘Tell me. In the name of Ravnavar.’

Volgath’s eyes met those of his protégé. ‘Kiss me quick,’ he gasped.

‘Ah.’ Suruk looked over his shoulder again. He had spent enough time among humans to know that this sort of thing went on, and was perfectly legal. But the M’Lak? Awkward. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you are dying, I suppose…’

‘Not out here!’ Volgath gasped. ‘In my chambers!’

The master threw out his arm, and his hand slapped against the paving stones.

‘I suppose it is more private,’ Suruk said. ‘But Volgath, you must realise… I appreciate that you have had something of a shock… you are a great and fierce warrior, and truly we are comrades in arms… arms as in weapons, that is, not – ugh – hugging… but our people were not meant to kiss. For one thing, our mandibles would stab each other’s faces. Which lacks romance, Volgath. Volgath?’

Volgath was dead. Properly dead.

Suruk shook his head. ‘A great shame. Dreadful, and yet rather fortunate, timing.’ He crouched down beside the corpse. ‘Well, ancient, you wanted to go to your room. I can at least do that.’

He heaved Volgath’s body onto his shoulder. Suruk straightened up and walked towards the arches.

Volgath’s room was small and simple. There were few concessions to luxury. A modest rack held a couple of practice spears. A photograph showed Volgath standing over a dead quanbeast, a sabre in either hand. On the far side of the wall, another photo showed Volgath on holiday, standing at some waterfront in a striped jacket and straw boater. Under it, Suruk found a bench.

Suruk laid him along the bench. ‘You lived well, old one,’ he said. ‘You died well, too. All shall know of your deeds, except, maybe… that bit…’

He straightened up, and stopped.

Suruk leaned towards the photograph of Volgath’s holiday. It was a standard 3D affair, the sort of thing you could buy on any package tour. But it was Volgath’s outfit that struck him: not the straw hat in itself, but the words on the brim.

‘
Kiss me quick
,’ Suruk said.

He lifted the picture down. What was that place? The terrain looked like Andor. Some sort of lake, it seemed. People jumped into the lake from a charabanc-shuttle hovering overhead. A sign in the background reminded patrons to refrain from petting. A holiday resort.

Suruk turned the picture over. There was a cross on the back. He drew a stiletto and pushed it into the cross. Then he flipped the photograph over again.

A small island rose out of the lake like the hump of a sea monster. It could not have been more than ten feet across. The glittering tip of the stiletto stuck out of the island.

Outside, something rumbled. The Yull were coming back.

* * *

The Yullian camp was so vast that General Wikwot had no idea where it ended. From his tent, he could see thousands of soldiers and, even though many of the trees had been hacked down to make space, it was impossible to tell where the extra treehouses and warrens stopped.

The more the merrier, he thought. The more lemmings who witnessed his victory and the resulting bloodbath, the greater his glory. Then he would return to Yullia, dragging slaves by the million, and the idiots who had written him off would be laughing on the other side of their muzzles.

He swaggered through the rows of tents, past soldiers sharpening their torture implements and rubbing dung onto their bayonets. A ladder stood against a tall tree and, as Wikwot passed, a trooper did penance for some minor disciplinary infringement by rushing up the ladder and throwing himself from the top rung. The general paused to admire the soldier’s descent.

So, the hidden temple was no more and its master was dead. Too bad that the Relics of Grimdall remained out of reach. Soon, Wikwot thought. His army was ready. His soldiers were creeping through the forest, encircling the human citadel. His scouts were closing in on its outposts. His hunters had captured fierce beasts to unleash upon the defenders.

In an open space nearby, a group of officers were indulging in the ancient sport of minion-ball. The minion, having been booted from one end of the field to the other, disgraced himself by staggering upright and trying to run away. ‘Serf’s up!’ an officer cried, and the whole pack leaped on the minion and tore him limb from limb.

‘General Wikwot!’

Wikwot turned, glowering. Colonel Cots of the secret police had appeared behind him. The colonel, being an assassin, had a nasty habit of forming out of the shadows. A couple of nights ago, he had embarrassed Wikwot whilst he was perusing a copy of
Dirty Does
.

‘What is it?’ Wikwot demanded.

Cots gestured, and one of his acolytes shoved a Yullian soldier forward. The soldier’s eyes had a strange, faraway quality.

‘The enemy have stormed our forward warren,’ Cots said. ‘This serf escaped.’

Wikwot looked the trooper over. His fur was matted with dirt and blood, and his ears were torn. ‘Only just, by the look of it.’

‘Er, no, that was me,’ Cots replied. ‘I beat him up. Just in case he was lying, you know.’

‘Very sensible.’

‘His mind has been addled by toxic smoke. He is –’ Cots grimaced – ‘relaxed. I have found no trace of frenzied rage in him at all. It is very unwholesome.’

‘Quite so. Speak, serf!’

‘Hey,’ the soldier said, ‘chill, General. It was bad out there. Really heavy. The offworlders totally stormed us. We started shooting from the warren, but they must have had a flamethrower, because all these plants started burning, and we breathed in the smoke... lemming man, I haven’t had it this bad since I nibbled catnip.’

‘Catnip is forbidden to lower orders!’ Wikwot snapped. ‘What happened next?’

‘They trashed the place. We had all out defences ready and everything, but they collapsed the warren. There were all dead lemmings everywhere, and I dug my way out, and there was blood and everything...’

Cots snapped, ‘Who did this?’

The soldier trembled. ‘No way. To speak that demon’s name –’

Cots snarled and pulled a set of pliers from his sash.

‘No,’ the soldier gasped. ‘Not him –’

‘Speak!’

‘
Aiii!
Wesscot, the ghost who walks in shorts! Him and his legion of devils!’

Wikwot swallowed. He remembered. Once, he had commanded a mighty fortress. To amuse himself, he had rounded up the local beetle people and put them under a giant magnifying glass. Somehow, the offworlders had found out about it, and Wesscot and his minions had come calling. They had taken him alive. He shuddered.

Wikwot said, ‘Serf, I thank you. This is most useful. Your service is much appreciated.’

The serf jerked upright and saluted. ‘Thanks, General!’

‘On the other hand, you failed to defend your warren, so climb that tree and jump off the top.’

The soldier deflated somewhat. He turned and trudged towards the ladder.

‘These unrodents he talks about,’ Wikwot said.

Cots nodded. ‘Yes?’

‘Find them and kill them.’

Cots turned to go, and a voice called out to them both. It was the soldier, about to scale the ladder to his doom.

‘Erm, General? One last thing before I seek forgiveness from the war god? They had a really big monster with them. It was like a huge thing, bigger than a building. We might want to look out for that.’

Behind Wikwot, a tree creaked and collapsed. He turned round and peered into the forest. Beyond the trees, their legs bigger than any trunk, two enormous beasts groaned and strained against the ropes and drugs that held them at bay.

‘Oh,’ Wikwot said. ‘Like those, you mean?’

‘Forward, noble steed!’ cried Carveth.

‘To battle, good sir knight!’ Celeste called.

They bounced across the rear lawn, over the ornamental bridge, towards the forest.

‘Our foe approaches!’ Celeste called.

Twenty yards ahead, a cardboard cutout of a Ghast drone awaited them. Carveth had borrowed it from a mouldering stash of shooting gear she had found in one of Mothkarak’s storerooms, probably not touched since the early 2500s. Now propped up with sticks, the caricatured face grimaced at the croquet mallet tucked under Carveth’s arm.

‘Attack!’ Celeste cried, and she cantered forward. Carveth swung the mallet into the head of the Ghast. The cardboard cutout fell backwards, and they both cheered.

‘A dolorous blow,’ Celeste said, slowing to a halt. ‘Come, noble sir, let us stop for tea and sugar lumps.’

Carveth swung herself down. The Equ’i was wearing the artificial unicorn horn and looked rather smart in it. Together they set off towards the pavilion.

‘It’s a bloody awful nuisance that there’s a war on,’ Celeste said. ‘I’ve been having the most super time with you.’

Carveth looked across the trees, at the great green expanse of the lawn and the house at the far end like the castle of a fairy kingdom. A dragonfly weaved through the air before them, its wings buzzing.

‘I suppose we’ve got to fight the lemming men, though,’ Celeste said. ‘Daddy thinks they’re awful. He says that they’ve nothing to offer the galaxy except fleas.’

‘Lies!’

Carveth whipped around. The bushes shook. A huge figure stepped out: filthy, hulking, covered in plate armour. Celeste gasped. For a moment it seemed impossible, a trick of the light that such a creature should be here. Then Carveth realised that she was looking at an officer of the Divine Amicable Army of Yullia.

‘Offworlder, you tell dirty lies.’

The lemming man swaggered out of the bushes, bits of shrubbery snagging on his armour. Others emerged around him, as if spawning from the forest itself. Branches seemed to turn to rifles and bayonets, moss to fur.

‘Oh bloody bugger,’ Celeste whispered.

The lemming stopped five yards away. He smiled. ‘
Darhep
, lesser mammals. My name is Colonel Prem. You are now under the protection of the Greater Galactic Happiness and Friendship Collective. Congratulations.’

Fear hit Carveth like sickness. It ran down her limbs, weakening them. It turned her stomach.

The officer pointed at the mallet dangling from Carveth’s hand. ‘Playing at war, eh? Yes, your species does that. When I was young, my brother and I used to dress up in cardboard boxes and pretend to be warriors. Then my father beheaded him. Happy days.’

‘I’m – I’m a British citizen,’ Carveth said. ‘I’m the liaison officer here.’

‘That figures,’ said Colonel Prem. ‘I thought I could smell gin.’

His soldiers giggled. For a moment, fury rushed through Carveth. She was ready to leap forward, to swing the mallet and knock the smirk off his snout – and then it was gone, and she was nothing but afraid.

‘Colonel.’ One of the lemming men pointed to the cardboard cutout. ‘They have an insulting picture of a Ghast!’