by Toby Frost
‘The four great masters,’ Smith read. ‘Leonardo, Donatello –’
‘This guy really got around,’ Rhianna said.
The trophies became more recent. They passed armour looted from Mongols, mughals and samurai; skulls in berets, pickelhaubers and fur hats; then a heap of what looked like Ghast helmets, shrunken to be worn by humans. Suruk peered at a row of skulls above a six-barrelled rotary gun. ‘These were collected in the Venezuelan jungle,’ he said, studying the notice beside them. ‘And this one here is Dutch.’
‘It’s amazing,’ Rhianna said, ‘even if it is kind of gross. But why aren’t there any British things? I mean, Grimdall rebelled against the British Space Empire, right?’
‘He clearly realised that we were honourable enemies,’ Smith replied. ‘Grimdall must have regarded us with too much respect to put our skulls on display like balloons at Carveth’s birthday party.’
At the far end of the hall, a great pair of doors awaited them. The metal looked like brass, but where the light caught it, it shimmered with a strange, purplish glow, as if reflecting a fire that was not there. Rows of symbols ran down each door, interlaced with embossed carvings depicting a range of decapitations.
‘This looks dangerous,’ Carveth asked. ‘What does it say?’
Suruk pointed to the lintel. ‘Only warriors of great honour may enter.’
‘Well, there’s a thing. I’ll have to wait in the gift shop.’
‘And their underlings,’ Suruk added.
‘Bum.’
Suruk pressed the button.
‘Ruddy hell,’ Smith whispered.
It looked like Coronation Day in Hell. The Union Jack hung everywhere: tattered campaign banners, some hundreds of years old, covered the ceiling and the walls. Skulls gazed out from niches wearing pith helmets, commando caps, slouch hats, bearskins, tricorns and space helmets. A dozen types of red coat stood in glass cabinets. Sabres and dirks were mounted next to longbows, claymores and laser rifles.
‘He… er… obviously respected the British an awful lot,’ Smith said.
‘Yep, he really respected us alright,’ Carveth replied. ‘He gave us our own separate gloating-room.’
Three steps led up to a throne set against the far wall. A M’Lak sat on the throne, a white crown on his head. He was almost a skeleton.
In front of the throne, lay an enormous steel beast. Part chameleon, part tiger and part dinosaur, the metal shadar stretched out like a sphinx. It was almost the size of a shire horse.
‘The mechanical maneater,’ Smith said.
‘So, Grimdall,’ Suruk croaked. His voice was hushed, lowered to a menacing purr. ‘This is where you came to die.’ He looked around. ‘There are worse places to expire.’
‘Absolutely,’ Smith replied. ‘It’s got a lot of flags.’
Carveth took a step forward. ‘Isambard, he collected these flags because he didn’t like the space empire. They’re trophies.’
‘Of course,’ Smith said. ‘But nobody else has to know that, do they?’
There was a moment’s pause. Rhianna spoke. ‘Er, what?’
‘Well, no one else need know that. We found Grimdall, he was wrapped in the Union Jack because he’d had a change of heart and decided that he liked the Empire more than he wanted his own planet back, and now everyone can work together and give the lemming men a bloody good thrashing. Super.’
Rhianna shook her head. ‘Isambard, that is wrong, and you know it.’
‘Of course it’s not wrong. It’s for the good of the Space Empire, Rhianna.’
‘No.’ She turned, and there was a hardness in her voice that he had never heard before. She reached up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘Ghasts rewrite history. The Yull lie about all the bad things they’ve done. We’re better than that. We will go back and tell the truth about this place.’
‘But,’ Smith replied, ‘what about – I mean to say – the Empire, for goodness’ sake... oh, bollocks to it, I suppose you’re right.’
‘Please,’ Carveth said, ‘if I could just interrupt the Oxford Union Debating Society for a moment, let’s just grab these relics and get the hell out of here before the Yull show up.’
‘Right.’ Smith took a step towards the throne. ‘So… er… what do we take? We can’t carry this maneater thing, and all the stuff in here is British anyway.’
‘Anything. Nick his hat. Just do it quickly.’
Rhianna frowned. ‘This is Grimdall’s last resting place. Isn’t it disrespectful to take his crown away?’
‘True,’ Suruk said. ‘We should at least take his head as well.’ He stepped up beside the throne. ‘I should be able to twist it off. At least, that is how I would remove it if he was alive…’ He reached out. ‘If I just turn it ninety degrees –’
Grimdall’s head dropped off his shoulders. It landed in his lap, bounced, rolled to the edge of the throne, dropped onto the floor and shattered into pieces.
There was a moment of silence: less in respect of the ancient warrior than in horror at having burst his skull.
‘Oh,’ Suruk said. ‘Unexpected.’
Grimdall’s body fell apart in a cascade of bones.
‘You dropped his head,’ Carveth whispered. ‘Bloody hell, Suruk, you broke his head! We came all the way across space, we fought robots and gangsters and lemming men, we went up a river to kidnap a lunatic, I rescued an entire species on my own, we went on an epic quest to find the greatest warrior in history and now you’ve gone and broken him! Suruk, you absolute knob!’
Shock made Smith’s voice sound slightly distant. ‘This is a bit of a problem, chaps.’
Carveth’s eyes seemed to be growing wider by the second. ‘Problem? Problem? God almighty, what are we going to do? “Hello, people of Ravnavar, we found the tomb of your sacred hero but then we smashed him into pieces. Now please give your lives for beloved Mother Earth!” Well, that’s us bollocksed, isn’t it? We’re going to be remembered as the people who dropped the Space Empire on the floor!’
Suruk said, ‘Why don’t I tell people that his head just fell off while I happened to be standing nearby? It worked at the Old Bailey.’
‘Oh God.’ Carveth made a loud heaving noise and began to shake. ‘We broke the Space Empire!’
Smith crossed the room and slapped her across the face. ‘Snap out of it!’ He turned. ‘We need to be reasonable about this.’
‘How?’ she cried. ‘Nobody will ever like us again!’
‘Carveth, we’re British. Nobody likes us anyway. Now, has anyone got any suggestions?’
Suruk raised a hand.
‘Yes?’
‘Can I slap her too?’
Rhianna put her hand up. ‘Guys?’
‘Yes?’
‘Two things. Firstly, let’s just chill out and try not to panic. Let’s visualise positive energy flowing out of us. Secondly, we’ve got some sellotape in the spaceship. Maybe if we collect all the bits of his head…’
‘It’s a good idea,’ Smith replied, ‘but we don’t have time. And I think I’ve just trodden on part of it. Maybe we could swap his skull for one of the ones in the museum.’
‘What an awfully good idea,’ said the mechanical maneater.
Smith drew his pistol. Suruk whipped his spear up, ready to throw. Carveth yelped, fumbled her shotgun and accidentally shot the ceiling. Rhianna blinked.
With a soft whine of hydraulics, the maneater got to its feet, flexed its tail and twisted its head. Gears crackled in its neck. It was built like a bull.
‘Whoa,’ Rhianna said.
‘Quite so,’ the maneater replied. It had a deep voice, at once suave and menacing. ‘Now, given that you’re here, am I right to assume that you’re trying to loot the relics of Grimdall? A simple yes or no will suffice.’
‘What are you?’ Carveth gasped.
‘I’m an artificial intelligence, programmed to protect Grimdall’s tomb, and Ravnavar in general, from invaders. Invaders like you, my good fellow,’ i
t added. Its heavy head swung towards Smith: the massive lower jaw opened, revealing a mouthful of blades. ‘Oh, and lower your pistol. Your small arms are no match for my large paws. I do like those red jackets you British wear, by the way. The blood never shows.’
‘Enough.’ Suruk took a step forward. ‘These humans are mine. Together, we fight the lemming men of Yullia, who have waged savage war upon all honourable peoples. They must be destroyed.’
‘The Yull? Those little furry things? Oh no, I don’t think I’d be interested in that sort of nonsense. Can’t you call in pest control?’
‘That,’ Suruk said, ‘is what our warlords and generals believed. The Yull are large and well-armed. Their rage is matched only by their cruelty. Cities burned down on the day of their surrender, populations worked to death in the foul mines of Scorvin, entire species cast into dismal slavery. We need the help of Grimdall to rally our troops against them.’
‘Well, I doubt Grimdall will be able to help you much. Especially now you’ve knocked his head off.’ The maneater sat down, its metal hindquarters thumping against the rubber floor. ‘Besides, it does sound like a load of nonsense: lemming people and all that.’
‘Yeah? Well, you’re a talking robot tiger-chamelion thing,’ Carveth replied. ‘So there.’
‘No. Sorry, not interested.’
‘We’ll fight you for it,’ said Smith.
‘Oh really?’ the machine drawled. ‘A fight, eh? Now you’re talking my language.’ The maneater raised a paw. Five Zukari blades snapped out like enormous claws and locked back on themselves. The maneater scrutinised its reflection in the polished steel. ‘That’s what I like,’ it said thoughtfully. ‘Carnage. Sheer carnage.’
* * *
There was a passage behind the throne. Suruk took the chance to ‘borrow’ a couple of spare sabres, and then they walked up the corridor, the maneater loping along beside them. The passage was steep and Smith could feel himself becoming short of breath. That did not bode well: it would be embarrassing to be disembowelled while having a little rest.
‘Isambard,’ Rhianna said quietly, ‘what’s the plan?’
‘Well,’ Smith said, ‘it’s in a bit of a fluid state, at the moment.’
‘Is it likely to, er, become solid soon?’
‘It’s still rather runny, I’m afraid.’
The maneater yawned. ‘This way, everyone. Oh – when you’re all dead, would you mind terribly if I put your skulls in the trophy room?’ It nudged a control with its muzzle.
A hatch swung open. Orange light flooded the passage. Smith winced and stepped out into the warm dusk.
He was on the edge of the lake, in the undergrowth. He clambered out, midges buzzing around his head. The maneater slipped easily between the fronds: Suruk and Smith hacked a path behind it.
‘So, where shall we fight?’ the maneater inquired.
‘The car park,’ Smith replied.
‘How sophisticated,’ the maneater said. ‘I could spill your pint first, if it helps.’
They walked along the waterfront. The dying light gave the buildings a sad, ghostly quality.
Figures detached themselves from the shadows.
‘Boss,’ Carveth said.
Smith nodded. ‘I see them.’
The maneater stopped and swung its metal head. ‘Well, well,’ it observed. ‘Spectators.’
Blackcoats, Smith thought, Yullian secret police. Their fur was dyed jet black, and most wore armour, a privilege only extended to the knight class. A few had no armour at all, just dark feed-bags over their muzzles, the lemming equivalent of balaclavas.
Smith pulled his rifle up.
‘Offworlders!’ one of the lemmings called. He was plump, broad-shouldered, almost ball-shaped. ‘Nice night, is it not?’ He swaggered forwards, thumbs hooked in his sash, next to a pair of battleaxes.
‘Stay back,’ Smith called. ‘Keep back or by God, I’ll bag you.’
‘You have located the resting place of the hero Grimdall,’ the officer said. ‘Xiploc Cots thanks you. Now, throw down your weapons and we can get on with the impaling. Robot animal thing, you come with us.’
‘Do I, now?’ said the maneater.
Suruk shook his head. ‘You seek the impossible, rodent. The steel beast has promised to battle us.’
Cots snorted. ‘Silence, frog-thing. I address your human masters.’
Suruk’s face slowly opened. With a small, wet sound, his mandibles parted and his mouth split into an enormous smile. Carveth drew back: even Smith could not remember when he had seen his friend so pleased. ‘Foolish words,’ the alien replied. ‘For I am Suruk the Slayer, pupil of Volgath, child of Urgar the Miffed, of the line of Brehan the Blessed. I have no masters. I do not even have any equals.’
Suruk drew himself up, pleased to have an audience.
‘Lemming men, you have disgraced the noble art of combat. You have murdered, pillaged and rampaged across space, without mercy or style. You threaten my people, as well as all others, and now you lay claim to the relics of our champion. Your crimes are many, but there is only one punishment: community service.’ He grinned. ‘Just joking. It’s death.’ Suruk turned to the others. ‘Depart, and take the maneater with you. I have business with these fools.’
‘Ooh,’ said the maneater. ‘A fight.’
Smith shook his head. ‘No, Suruk. I’m staying with you.’
‘Me too,’ Rhianna said. ‘We stand together.’
They looked at Carveth.
‘Oh, all right,’ she said.
Smith turned to Rhianna. ‘I’m sorry about what I said back there, in Grimdall’s tomb,’ he said. ‘About pretending that Grimdall had changed his mind about the Space Empire. I just wish – I just wish everywhere was British. It would be so much nicer that way. People wouldn’t kill each other so much. All this silly bloody nonsense about gods and races and all the rest of it that makes them murder each other just wouldn’t happen then.’
‘I know,’ Rhianna replied, and she leaned in and kissed him.
Suruk whirled round and brought the end of his spear down across their heads, knocking them out. They fell together.
‘Enough piffle,’ he snarled. ‘Piglet, maneater: load Mazuran and Rhianna into the spaceship. Lemmings: battle time.’
Cots smiled and stepped forward. ‘Good. This is as it should be: two noble warriors, face to face.’
‘Strange,’ Suruk replied, ‘for I see only one noble warrior here. Perhaps you are seeing double. You should ease off the dandelion wine, fatty.’
‘That is not fat! My pelt is unusually fluffy! Brothers, kill him!’
The Dark Lantern Collective drew their weapons. Axes, knives and tridents glittered in the dusk. One of the lemming men began to swing a weapon like a bladed anchor over his head. Two enormous tame scorpions scuttled down another soldier’s arms, perching on the backs of his hands. A third, huge, brute merely brushed his palms together and cracked his knuckles.
Suruk took a step backwards.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Yull, please do not attack –’
‘He surrenders!’ Cots screamed. Beside him, a wiry-looking lemming tugged a whip from his belt: hooks and razors twinkled in the leather. ‘Now the fun begins!’
The whip cracked. Suruk threw his arm up, and the thong wrapped around the metal bracer on his forearm quicker than a striking snake. Suruk gave the whip one good yank, and pulled Cots’ adjutant off his feet.
He stumbled straight into Suruk’s spear.
Suruk impaled the rodent with a single thrust and yanked the spear free. The lemming man staggered aside, clutching himself.
Gently, Suruk pushed him into the lake. He reached up and tugged down the brim of his hat.
‘– until I have adjusted my headgear,’ he said.
And then they leaped at him. At the edge of his vision, Suruk saw Carveth and the maneater hauling Rhianna into the bushes – then an axe swung down and Suruk sidestepped at the last moment. He felt the air slip
past him, threw his spear underarm into a Yullian knight’s throat and drove the heel of his hand into another’s muzzle, crumpling it like the front of an old camera.
They were deadly fighters, far better than any he had dispatched before. Suruk weaved and cut, blocked and dodged, using their numbers against them, making them get in the way of one another. They tried to shepherd him to the water’s edge, and he sprang forward, booted one lemming man in the snout and jumped over his head.
The huge unarmed thug barrelled forward – Suruk darted aside and it crashed through a beach hut. His blades were at its throat before it could rise. A noble in full plate armour darted in from the side and chopped at Suruk’s legs.
He jumped over the axe-blade and threw himself forward. Volgath’s teachings flowed into his mind. Suruk slapped his open hand against the lemming’s breastplate. ‘Stones of the Forbidden Temple!’ he snarled, focussing his energy into its chest. Suruk felt warmth against his palm, and something pounded wildly behind the armour. The lemming man screamed, and its heart popped. It toppled back, dead.
One of Cots’ soldiers swung an axe overhead, like an executioner. Suruk countered with the Prodigal Hands: he darted forward and hit the inside of its elbows with the edges of his palms. ‘The shark!’ He chopped down, breaking its shoulder-blades. ‘The piranha! The greater box!’ Suruk cried, his hands disorientating his enemy, and he delivered the death-blow. ‘The lesser box!’ Its head sailed into the undergrowth.
To the west, lights rose, bright against the darkening sky. Suruk glanced back as the John Pym rose. Searing pain flashed down his arm and he spun around. The bladed anchor whirled up in a lethal arc. It crashed down and Suruk rolled aside, wood splintering behind him. The assassin whipped the chain down again, beating the ground as if threshing corn, while Suruk dodged and bounced, half a second before the sharpened hooks.
The assassin laughed and whirled the chain, aiming for Suruk’s eyes. Frog-like, Suruk jumped up, drawing a sabre as he leaped, and as the chain whipped around he hit it just before the mid-point. Sparks flew. The chain flicked around Suruk’s blade and the anchor swung back past its owner’s head.