by Andy Remic
The corpse lay on the floor, one leg twisted where he had been dumped. His face was yellow, speckled with black drops of dried blood. Blood stained his shirt near the ribs, and his breastplate was twisted and scored with deep grooves.
“You realise our own men might shoot you,” said Jorian, his eyes filled with kindness.
“It is a possibility,” agreed Jones, and gave a sour grin.
Jones undressed, and Jorian stripped the corpse, handing items to Jones and finally showing him how to buckle on the dull metal plate. The Naravelle full-face helmet was too big, but Jorian wound cloth around Jones’s head and then wedged the helm in place.
“It’s too tight now,” came Jones’s metallic voice.
Jorian lifted the beaver and smiled. “Rather too tight than too loose. It’ll do, laddie. Now try on his boots and I’ll show you how to operate the Naravelle rifle; it has a strange bolt action. Took me bloody years to work it smoothly!”
Jones dragged on the boots, mastered the weapon, and, feeling like an intruder deep down to the core of his soul, was led from the dugout by Jorian and towards the front-line trench and the noise of war and battle and death.
They moved through the trench, avoiding skirmishes and stepping over bodies; when they reached the far right, Jorian explained to the men posted there what was happening, and not to shoot this Naravelle running in the opposite direction to the trenches. Finally, Jorian turned and shook Jones’s hand.
“I hope it works, lad.”
“So do I,” said Jones, feeling suddenly desolate.
“Be careful. I can still arrange a group of men to go with you, if . . .”
“No. Trust me. I’ll be faster alone.”
“Go, then. And may the Holy Mother watch over you.”
Jones turned, climbed the ladder, and went over the wire alone.
The Naravelle Offensive: Battle of Ra’eth Ke Larn. 19th. November 1917 (evening).
REX STAGGERED ON, reaching the first barricade— heavy old carts which had been dragged out and overturned—and ordered the men into a frontal assault, much to the worried glances of all soldiers present. Then all became chaos as the battle intensified and Rex, at the head of the charging soldiers, gathering more men to him as the charge widened and rifles boomed and men screamed and the Femors came clambering out of their trench lines, formed a phalanx, and the two units charged and clashed together with screams and shouts and Rex shot a man in the legs and ignored him as he fell screaming, and still Rex sprinted on with blood and drugs pounding in his mind and he was powerful, he was unbeatable and his gun was holy and his bullet destroyed a man’s face and Rex stepped on the corpse as he ran on, his men now cheering and screaming and dying, but they advanced towards the trench, sweeping Femor soldiers aside, so great was their onslaught, and Rex, out of bullets now, fought on with two large shuriks, slicing flesh and muscle open and he stabbed a man through the belly, left him struggling on the ground, but his head was beginning to throb and he could feel blood seeping through the tight bandages and he was growling, screaming not yet not yet not YET! and suddenly a bullet sliced across his thigh and he stumbled, looking at the thin line of parted cloth and flesh which—suddenly opened wide and blood poured out but the pain failed to penetrate his drug-infused mind and with gritted teeth and muscle hanging from torn skin he staggered on, leaving behind most of his men who were caught up in tiny pockets of enclosed combat, and he was there THERE!—and turning, to the fifteen men who were still with him, he screamed, “Take no ——ing prisoners!” and they leapt into the trench and Rex landed hard, staggered, found his feet and stabbed a defender through the shoulder, then backhanded another across the throat, spraying blood against the earthen wall. Other soldiers were with him and the pain and blood pounded but Rex pushed on feeling victory in his blood and his veins and he could hear the songs, the prayers in honour of his mighty deed and he would sit beside the Gods and they would honour him and he would ——ing murder, slaughter every single ——ing villager who had stood against him, made his advance ——ing hard . . . the cunts . . .
Suddenly, the giant man was there before him, and Rex struck out with his knife but it was batted aside with contempt and Rex was staring into steel-hard cold eyes and the man was bearded, wore long brown hair streaked with grey, and he was old and Rex could see the wrinkles in his dark face and old meant weak and he struck again but the knife was deflected by the heavy blade Steel Eyes carried and Rex suddenly faltered . . . and he could see the eyes of God hidden inside the eyes before him, and a surge of panic welled in his throat and breast for he had cut down so many with infinite ease and now this One stood before him, this Evil God this Bad God this Defiler, and the man snarled and Rex was trying to turn but his limbs would not operate properly and the blood was seeping down his face from his head wound, but there was no pain no pain! and the man lifted the heavy blade and Rex saw the blow coming but could not twist, could not move and it felt like a hammer blow to his chest and the man heaved, heaved again, driving the weapon deep through Rex’s breast plate and deep deep down and twisting hot slicing into the lungs beyond . . . the tearing of metal reached Rex’s ears as the blade was wrenched free and the man turned and Rex fell to his knees, coughing up blood and crying great tears and he could see the man’s back—his ——ing back! the arrogant whore bastard cunt—and Rex heaved and vomit and blood splashed the boards and he was choking and falling and reeling and he pitched to the side and he could hear the sounds of battle all around and it sounded sweet, sweet metal to his ears, and he was going to die but he would be rewarded and he would sit beside the Old Gods and Blood Gods and Grey Gods and they would honour him for he had led the offensive and was a hero and—suddenly the pain washed over him like a million oceans of fire and he screamed and screamed hard but his throat was full and it was full with blood and it ran down his chin, bubbling, and he tried to reach up, to stop the blood from leaking out of his mouth but it would not stop and he could not move and it hurt so much and he closed his eyes, twitched, and General Randaska Rex was still.
The Forest of Bone. “Towards the Stoneway.” 19th. November 1917 (night).
JONES MOVED SLOWLY, keeping to the sloping wall of boulders that merged with bone trees and a steep cliff towards the west mountains; the stabs in his stomach were causing him agony, and two soldiers ran past him bearing rifles. They were Naravelle and barely gave him a glance as they clattered by. He continued back towards the original front line and the trenches so recently lost to the enemy.
He climbed down into the trench and paused, listening. The darkness was almost complete and a crescent moon cast ambient ghost-light over the scene. Jones strode carefully and confidently over duckboards which squelched and rocked, and moved down a supply trench and reached the ladder. Troops had thinned out here now, due to nightfall. The Naravelle had been repulsed time and time again and morale was low within the attacking force; Jones could feel it, like a velvet shroud covering everybody. Their arrogance had led them to believe in an easy victory. Their slaughter and repulsion had come as a shock.
Jones climbed the ladder and moved out into open ground, keeping right towards the wall of rock and stepping carefully over smashed shards of the Forest of Bone . . .
But hell, at least here I don’t have to worry about mines, he thought.
He travelled for a while in silence, the pain in his belly troubling him and his thoughts remaining with Orana. Bainbridge and Webb were silent but he could feel their spirits close by.
He stopped several times to check his map, and felt like he had been walking for hours . . . not just all night, but for a whole ——ing week in complete darkness. Nobody challenged him. In truth, he saw few Naravelle soldiers. All their forces were concentrated on the enemy. On the attack.
It was like Jones had been given a wide-open invitation . . .
Yeah. To a place which had been locked down for a thousand years.
It could have been an hour, a day, a week—or a millio
n years.
Time slowed. Merged. Blended into one huge whole.
Jones stopped, and stared up at the glittering stars. A billion glittering sparkles of hydrogen and fire. He was in awe at the infinity of the galaxy.
He levelled his head.
And saw the Stoneway up ahead. A circle of rocks glowing grey in the moonlight. He moved cautiously forward, boots crunching on frozen mud, his hands frozen to his Naravelle rifle, and a voice suddenly came from the darkness:
“Tella? Ka tella?”
“Kill him,” urged Bainbridge, his words like ice.
Jones spread his hands and gave a deep cough, as if announcing his presence. He could see other figures beyond the stones, within the circle of the Stoneway. He narrowed his eyes. Guards? Enemy?
Somebody stepped forward, foregrounding themselves against the gloom.
“Ka tella?” repeated the voice, the man’s face showing a strange expression—and Jones realised what it was . . . confusion, and lifted his rifle and blasted the man in the throat. The boom echoed out across the valley and split the fragile shell of silence as the man was punched backwards, his windpipe opened in flapping tendrils, his eyes wide in horror as blood sprayed out in a fountain.
Return shots spat from within the Stoneway and Jones leapt over the corpse and crouched behind some rocks. The Naravelle were protecting it from enemies . . . from anybody. Maybe they realised what it contained.
Three more figures ran into view and Jones opened fire, heard the thump thump thump of bullets striking home and watched with rising sadness as the three soldiers fell, twitched, and lay still.
Cautiously, Jones left his cover and moved towards the enemy. Their eyes were open, faces serene under the glow of the stars.
We’re all made of stars, he thought.
Suddenly, one moved and a rifle boomed and Jones’ own weapon fired, disintegrating the Naravelle soldier’s face.
Silence fell like star beams.
Jones looked away—and realised he had been hit. He moved away from the figures, towards the Stoneway, and leaning against one of the large pillars he reached down and touched his thigh. His fingers came away wet, but there was no pain . . . the bullet had not entered his leg, merely cut a deep line through his flesh. He wiped his hand on his coat and, struggling, removed the heavy Naravelle helmet. He wiped sweat from his brow and removed Jorian’s padding.
“I hate this ——ing shit,” he muttered, allowing the helmet to find the earth with a dull clunk. He stepped out into the circle of light and looked up and around; to one side the mountain reared above him, and in the distance, beneath the howling wind, he could see campfires flickering wildly. It was a scene from a painting, an image of war, and the beauty was not lost on Jones.
“So, I’m here.” He glanced around at the stone pillars. “What now?”
He could hear distant shouts and realised that the rifle fire had alerted guards, or soldiers—somebody. The question was, how much time did he have until they found him?
Jones started to sweat again, and the chill wind made him shiver. He glanced up at the circle of towering stones, each as tall as two men. But what could he do? What was he looking for? How the hell was he the key?
He took a deep breath and moved towards one of the stones. Nothing was obvious; there were no markings, no etchings of any kind. He moved to another stone and it was identical, devoid of marking, devoid of meaning. Slowly, he walked around the circle until he stood, cold, and with a growing sense of unease between two stones, black and damp under silver moonlight.
“More soldiers will be here soon,” said Webb.
“Thanks for telling me what I already know,” growled Jones.
“Sorry. Just trying to help.”
“Have you any ideas?” asked Jones. “And you, Bainbridge? Any ideas how to access this Stoneway? Or is it just a pile of horse shit?”
“It’s a pile of horse shit,” rumbled Bainbridge.
“Thanks. That makes me feel a whole lot better.”
“No worries,” said Bainbridge.
Jones looked around, then peered out into the darkness. He could see a group of infantry, spread out, without light. They were advancing cautiously on his position—he had maybe a minute, two at most . . .
“What now?” he muttered, turned, and sudden realisation flooded his senses, opened up before him, God revealing the light.
The Stoneway led through to a path, the giant stones, although forming a circle, also stretched to describe a linear path which led directly through their gathered centre and ended at the solid wall of mountain rock. In the gloom, Jones could just make out the faint markings of an arch against the mountain wall . . . and with haste he strode across the ground between the stones and stopped dead at the wall.
He could hear voices now. Somebody shouted. He heard the bolt actions operated on many rifles. He felt fear rising through him and it mixed with the pain in his belly to make him truly miserable—
and Bainbridge had gone, Webb had gone, and he was alone in a burnt forest of darkened, stink-filled trees twisted with gore and with upper branches cradling torn limbs and sections of carcass; suddenly the world became noise and heat and inferno and stink as planes roared overhead with machine guns blazing and more BE2cs became Fokker fodder to roaring EIIs that swept like giant birds in the gloom, propellers whirring and the flash of bullets tracing stars across Jones’s eyes. He ran and dived for cover as bullets smashed along the ground kicking up damp and wood and he covered his head and prayed a prayer taught by his mother—then silence—all quiet—he looked up, suffered a serious distortion of view as the blackened trees swayed before him and he thought, I have been hit, and he thought, the bullets got me, and he tried to check his body but he was too weak and he fell to his knees and stared about, confused, and watched as walriders advanced, followed by belching Mors armoured cars and he thought, whose side are they on? and he thought, where am I? and what am I doing here? but there were no answers and he turned away from the dancing walriders and stared into the night, towards the hill, towards Hunter’s Hill, that had filled his childhood dreams and—reality? was it reality?
what drives you, Jones?
why are you here?
At first it had been a game, a game of exploration as he’d played at soldiers and unicorns beneath the trees and then had found and named the Clearwood, and a strangeness overtook him, a strangeness sensed by his parents who had forbidden him to play in the woods. And he was riding a creature of wood, its cumbersome legs powerful as it churned through mud and leaves and he was astride the beast, could feel the heavy thump of its heart between his legs, could see steam snorted from its great bark nostrils as he rode, he could see dancing creatures moving within the depths, their grey eyes peering from the dense green darkness, their snouts hissing and snorting at this intrusion into their world, their land, their place of worship, and he was an intruder, violator, a reaper of the land and he was not welcome, their eyes gleamed, he saw them dancing through the trees and the walriders were behind him and before him and they were forcing him on, he was being carried on the creature of snorting bark and he was being carried towards Hunter’s Hill and his destiny.
Jones opened his eyes, swayed for a moment, and calmed himself. The pain in his belly had gone. He could still hear voices, their accent strange—Shouldn’t they be German? he thought. And with shaking hands he reached out, touched the cold wall, and felt his hand pass through with the same blindness, the same hazy distortion of senses that had taken him through the castle gates days earlier, the same distortion that had accepted him as if he wasn’t completely real. As if he were a ghost.
He doesn’t have the key, she said.
He is the key, she said.
Closing his eyes, he pushed his way into the wall and through the wall, and darkness surrounded him, enveloped him, swallowed him whole. He could hear nothing. Sound became a detached thing, a creature of extinction. In panic, he realised he couldn’t even hear his o
wn breathing, or feel the thump of his heart in his breast.
Woodland Dreams. “Cold Dreams.” December 1903.
ALL WAS CONFUSION. Whirled in his mind like a million falling snowflakes. White, perfect, and each one unique. And he shivered, was terribly cold, and he coughed and coughed up phlegm and spat it out on the ground.
Then he looked up, and realised with a sudden start that he knelt in a trench in the mud and the water. He reached out, touched the rough-hewn earth walls. There was a distant explosion. The ground shook, a gentle tremor. He started to crawl forward on his hands and knees, afraid to stand up, afraid to cry out, and suddenly there was a mammoth sound and explosions and gunfire, and the earth shook, and above, against a terrible black sky, flares lit up the darkness like bright stars, and cast down eerie white light.
And the boy was amongst men, and he dragged himself to his feet and stood in silence and confusion as all around him came action, and the men were talking, laughing nervously, swapping tales, and then whistles blew and the men who did not notice the boy were climbing ladders and were quiet now and they were going over the bags and over the wire and, not knowing what else to do, the boy climbed up the nearest ladder, over a damp sandbag and out into the mud and insane panic of No Man’s Land.
The soldiers were advancing, their fear a terrible thing to behold, and the boy followed. He jumped, as bullets slapped the mud close to his right, splashing his face with obscenity. Men were suddenly cut down before him, screaming, writhing, and he watched with terror as one man squirmed in the mud, clutching his belly, his eyes tight shut in pain and his rifle forgotten.
The boy approached, nervous now, and spluttered, “Can I help, mister?”
But with a convulsion, the man was dead.
The boy crawled on, keeping to his hands and knees because bullets were flying everywhere and crumps whistled overhead and sent shrapnel flying hot and mad in all directions.