by Toby Frost
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?’
They Shoot Ponies, Don’t They?
‘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!’
‘Ah, our beloved allies. Well, we can’t have that. Discipline has to be maintained.’ He grinned.
‘I did it,’ Celeste said. ‘It’s mine, not hers.’
Prem looked at her. ‘Is it now? Well, we’ll have to have words, little horse.’
‘No,’ Carveth said. ‘You can’t.’
Prem turned. ‘Run along now, human. I think it is time for the British Space Empire to have its cocoa. Don’t worry about the ponies. We Yull know how to look after unrodents. We’ll take good care of them.’
An aide stepped forward. He held up a propaganda picture: it showed a smiling lemming on a throne, being supported by
a range of other species, some of which were probably extinct by now. ‘Colonel, have we any nails with which to put the posters up?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Prem said. ‘I’ve got a deal going with the glue factory.’ He peered at Carveth. ‘Are you still here? I tell you what. Two minutes and then I’ll let the squol off their leads. Tell me, liaison officer: have you ever seen a squol leap through the air?’
‘Oh God,’ Carveth said. ‘No.’
‘Run, Polly,’ said Celeste. ‘Run as fast as your two small legs can carry you.’
* * *
Smith sat in the lounge on the howdah, feeling hungry and peculiar. The rocking of the ravnaphant’s back brought back memories thirty years suppressed: the Midwich Grammar School trip to Dieppe, where he had eaten a bad crepe and become convinced that he had contracted dysentery. He could almost hear the other schoolchildren, crowding round with a mixture of horror and glee, gabbling about his accident in the Pompidou Centre. He had never forgiven them, or France, for that.
‘It’s okay,’ Rhianna said, as she picked through the medikit. ‘Just take a few more of these pills…’
By the time they reached base camp, the fear had dissipated and been replaced with an urgent need to eat chocolate and sleep with his face in Rhianna’s cleavage. Somewhat warily, Smith joined the others at the railing.
‘I hear you tore it up back there,’ Susan said, as they manoeuvred parallel with the curtain wall. ‘Dead lemmings everywhere.’
‘Did I?’ His head still felt very hazy.
Susan was too professional to have been much affected by the smoke. ‘You went a bit mental, to be honest. You and Wainscott. He thinks he’s protecting Boadicea.’
The ramp dropped, and the Deepspace Operations Group disembarked from the howdah onto the walls of Mothkarak. Supply teams waited for them, medics and strategic advisors. A crane swung out and dropped a block of stone in front of the ravnaphant, which it began to eat. Brigadier Harthi appeared at the crow’s nest, shouting instructions to his crew. Wainscott wandered onto the drawbridge.
‘Mission accomplished!’ the major yelled at the guards. ‘The Britons attacked the camp of the enemy with slings and arrows. Next stop, Londinium!’
‘For God’s sake, he’s got his todger out,’ Susan muttered. ‘Someone fetch me that picnic rug! They don’t pay me enough for this.’
Rhianna helped Smith down the gangplank. ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.
‘Relaxed, thanks. Hello clouds. Hello sky.’
‘I was afraid of that,’ she said.
Two slim figures slipped through the soldiers on the wall: one was Suruk, as sleek and graceful as he was deadly; the other was W, grim-faced and lanky, a roll-up smouldering between his thin lips.
‘Mazuran,’ Suruk said, ‘Welcome back. I heard your assault on the Yull was successful.’
Smith nodded. ‘It was good. The lemmings have got real issues, though. They tried to give us hassle.’
‘I bring grave news. The temple of the hidden masters is overrun. Volgath the elder is dead.’
‘Crikey,’ Smith said, focussing on him with a little difficulty. ‘That’s bad.’
‘This man should muster our defences,’ Suruk added, gesturing at W. ‘He has told me of how he once slew a ravnaphant single-handed.’
Rhianna scowled. ‘And I suppose you’re proud of that?’
‘I had no choice,’ W replied. ‘It had gone berserk and was threatening the Colonial Club. And we were hungry.’
‘But there is more,’ Suruk said. ‘I know the location of the relics. As soon as Piglet returns from her equine frolics, we should fly off and seize them for our army.’
‘Um, righto,’ Smith replied. ‘You’ve not got any biscuits, have you? I’m really quite peckish.’
Rhianna said, ‘He inhaled a lot of smoke.’
W looked at Suruk. The spy frowned. ‘This man needs tea. Lots of tea.’
They led Smith indoors, to an elevenses vending machine. Behind the glass screen, freeze-dried tiffin turned on a three-tiered rotating cake tray. Suruk and W pooled their change, while Rhianna pressed her hand to Smith’s forehead. ‘He’s a bit, you know, confused.’
W stared out of the window at the battlements and the trees beyond them. ‘General Young will want to stand and fight,’ he said. ‘She’ll use our mobile units as the hammer, and leave the castle as the anvil.’
‘Mobile units?’ Suruk said. A cup dropped in the machine, and brown liquid poured into it from a brass spigot. ‘My brother rides with the Ravnavari Lancers.’
‘Will he be safe?’ Rhianna asked. ‘I mean, the lancers have a reputation for being pretty tough.’
‘No doubt he will inspire them to deeds of great violence. He has that effect on me.’
‘Here, Isambard,’ Rhianna said. ‘Tea.’
‘Tea,’ Smith replied drowsily. ‘Dig it, man.’ He took a sip. ‘Hmm.’ He took another. ‘Ah, that’s better. Right then, chaps, let’s get cracking.’
‘The lemmings approach,’ Suruk said.
‘Then, damn it, let’s give the blighters a damned good thrashing. I say, Rhianna, are you alright, old girl?’
‘Slightly disappointed,’ she replied, ‘but okay.’
A black spec appeared at the window, no larger than a fly. It turned, sank lower in the glass and grew as it did, taking on the familiar, dented lines of the John Pym. Ground crew hurried over, accompanied by refuelling wallahbots and two chefs from the catering corps, who seemed very interested in something that had smacked into the windscreen.
‘Ah,’ said Smith, ‘and here’s our pilot now.’ The ship touched down and, as the legs bent under its weight, the airlock dropped open and Carveth scrambled out. ‘And here she comes now: no doubt with important information in our fight against tyranny. Carveth!’ he called, striding forward.
Carveth rushed down the battlement, through the door, past Smith and, with a loud yowling sound, straight into Rhianna. For the next few seconds they all stood still, except Carveth, who was crying helplessly, and Rhianna, who put her arms around Carveth but continued to look slightly dazed.
‘I’m sensing some negativity here,’ Rhianna said.
‘They’ve got the ponies!’ Carveth cried. ‘We were riding round and they came out of the forest and crept up on us and made me run away and now they’ve got all the little horses and they’re going to murder them!’
‘Now wait a moment,’ Smith said. ‘There’s no need to think that the ponies are in danger. Just slow down and tell us what happened. First, who took the ponies?’
‘The lemming men!’
‘Yep, they’re in danger,’ Smith said, and Carveth howled into Rhianna’s chest.
Suruk croaked politely. ‘I have a suggestion. Friends, this is clearly a sensitive moment, ideal for the wisdom of the Slayer. Might I propose that we gather our allies and do battle with the lemming men, until their blood flows like water and the air is filled with the screams of the dying? It will make everyone feel much better. Except the lemming men.’
‘You’re right,’ Smith replied. ‘Suruk, that’s an excellent idea. Come on, chaps. We’ll collect the relics, then we’ll get a task force together, and give the Yull what for.’
Carveth looked round. ‘There’s no time for the relics! They’ll kill them!’
Smith put his hands on Carveth’s shoulders, which had the effect of reassuring her. Then he crouched down so that he could look her directly in the eye, which had the effect of making her seem like a nine-year-old. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I promise that as soon as we’ve found the relics we’ll get the Equ’i back. And then we’ll get the lemmings back, too.’
‘That’s not good enough!’ she cried. ‘Don’t you know what they could do to the ponies before then?’
‘Murder them all, I suppose,’ and as she let out a despairing howl Smith added, ‘Damn, I didn’t mean to say that. I know this is a difficult and emotional time for you,’ he added, reaching into his pocket. ‘It’s
emotional for me as well, and therefore very difficult too. But Carveth, seriously, would you like a mint?’
‘Stick your mints up your bum!’ Carveth cried.
‘Anyone?’
Rhianna gave Smith a sharp look and came over to assist. ‘Polly doesn’t need a mint, Isambard. She just needs to rest while we figure out what to do.’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Carveth demanded. ‘Doesn’t it occur to you people that we need to get every weapon we’ve got and kill all the bloody lemming men?’
‘That occurs to me too,’ Suruk replied. ‘Every six minutes, in fact. When I’m awake, every three minutes.’
‘Stuff you all!’ Carveth cried. ‘I’m going and you can’t stop me!’
She turned and ran for the door. They watched her run down the battlement, towards the landing pad.
‘Oh, God,’ Smith said. His head suddenly seemed to be about to burst. The feeling of paranoid confusion caused by the burning weeds had returned, along with none of the sense of wellbeing. ‘Suruk, could you stop her, please?’ he said.
The alien leaned over to the mantelpiece and took down a small ornament. He walked to the door, weighing it up in his hand. ‘At this range? Easy.’
‘No! Just go and talk to her, alright? Tell her to have tea and get some sleep.’ He sighed. ‘I need to think.’
* * *
Suruk returned a few minutes later. ‘Piglet is in her cabin,’ he announced. ‘She said that she would rest.’
Smith said, ‘Thanks, old chap. I’m sure she’ll feel better if she goes to sleep. It always works for me.’
‘Me too,’ Suruk said. ‘Then I don’t have to listen to her.’
Rhianna sighed. ‘Did you give her any medicine?’
‘Indeed. She said she needed some tablets,’ Suruk said. ‘The white ones... it begins with A.’
‘Aspirin?’
‘Amphetamine. And Benzedrine. And about three pints of cherryade. She can really consume that stuff.’
For a moment, the room was silent. ‘She asked for those?’ Smith said.