Cycle of Life, the rise and fall of Tanya Vine

by Hannah Robinson

  Chapter 10

  Mayhem and Mystery

  Marcus Tanto

  David Tanto was an accountant in a publishing house. Well no, actually he was a junior clerk, but to all his acquaintances, he was an accountant. Jemma, his long suffering wife, had left him, taking the seven year old Marcus with her, and gone to live with her parents in Seattle South, about a day away on the speedway. They were pleased that she had left him at last because, in the words of her dad Fred, David was ‘one small step away from Doctor Spritz’, the local psychiatrist.

  By day, he was David Tanto, but three times a week, when he went to his club, he was known to his lodge brothers as ‘Firestorm’, hero of Mars and rescuer of ravished damsels. Sword and Sorcery films, model making, war games and suchlike were high on the list of entertainments on offer there.

  Once a month, they organised paint ball and laser rallies in Ravenna Park, and it was in those woods that David Tanto finally went over the edge. Red team’s Charlie platoon were about to storm the Green team HQ, when a screaming figure dressed in bearskin and leather dropped from the trees into their midst and started wielding a great sword about his head. Their terror turned to anger when they realised that the plastic sword didn’t actually cut anything, but it wasn’t until Firestorm’s wig came off that they managed to subdue him. He was banned from the club, and ridiculed as a pathetic figure, but other members secretly began sewing barbarian costumes for themselves, and six months later, he was reinstated as a full dog soldier of the lodge.

  Promoted to Commander, Firestorm led the Green team into battle with lasers and plastic swords every month.

  His fathers enthusiasm for all things romantic and barbarian rubbed off on Marcus, and when he was offered the chance to move from office canteen to the monster asteroid miner, Hood, both he and his father were ecstatic. Marcus actually saw Mars, from a distance of course, but he still sent squirt messages to his father, which were full of the dangers of space travel and near misses with asteroids.

  With a son actually out there, in space, David’s standing in the lodge reached dizzy heights and he was content. Then the Stream invaded through the warp gate.

  Marcus was devastated by the reality of alien warfare, and the first two months of fighting in Spain were a time of permanent terror for him. He inherited a Growler super capacity laser rifle when Specs Donovan was evacuated with gangrene, and feeling more secure behind the big gun, the horrors of war diminished slightly, and turned into only occasional nightmares.

  His father would have been proud of him, but the North West of America was now a wasteland, and details of the miners actions were known to only a few.

  Landing at Burnt Wood in the dying time ship, and then moving to South Farm had been like a homecoming for him, and it was as if he had been dropped into one of his dad’s dioramas. The village girls adored him, and although no one was bigger than Anton the security chief, Marcus’s teenage physique was becoming decidedly Conanesque.

  He now thought of himself as Marco, son of Firestorm and Venga the she wolf, but didn’t think the dogs would understand that bit, so kept it to himself. It was actually true, sort of, because his mother had briefly joined her husband’s lodge as Venga, but found it all a little disturbing, so had resigned after five weeks.

  So it was, that on the second day of the battle below Guardians Nest, when half of the Eastern army were thinking of fleeing from the massed spears of Central, Marco son of Firestorm, strutted majestically onto the battlefield with his permanent escort of seven amazons and twelve wardogs.

  Asher’s field

  The greatly unequal armies were now only 150 metres apart, facing each other across the uneven fields of Asher’s farm, and the unnatural silence of the expectant day was broken by a rising buzz of speculation and excitement as Marco’s little war band moved steadily from the right flank, where Caren, the angel of light, was taking practice swings with her alien sword, to take up their position front and centre.

  His appearance brought different reactions from all corners of the battlefield.

  Central’s tyrant leader, Violet was fuming again.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know what it is?” she shouted at Pansy Prayerbook, the unfortunate acolyte delivering the message.

  “The machine can’t see it properly, your highness.”

  “Then give it another goat and tell it to get a move on.”

  She aimed a kick at the cringing girl who was just bright enough to move only slightly, so that Violet still had the satisfaction of her foot making contact with flesh, then Pansy limped away towards the gaggle of anxious priestesses gathered round the ‘machine’.

  The Homesteaders were proud of their Marco and cheered as he passed by, and he acknowledged them with a clenched fist held high.

  “Lady, look at them muscles, bet he’s stronger than Billie now. He’s magnificent.”

  “Have you seen them trollops with him? They’ve hardly no clothes on, same as him.”

  “Should be ashamed of themselves.”

  “Gonna be a bit chilly come autumn.”

  “Look good though, don’t they.”

  “Yeah.” There was a brief silence, then they simultaneously gave large sighs.

  “Wish I was down there with him.”

  Opposite Marco, the Ibis contingent were becoming alarmed at the sight of the creature in front of them.

  “And I’m telling you, that ain’t human. Look at all that hair round it’s middle an down it’s back. It’s a weird wolf that is.”

  “Must be bloody weird, or them dogs would have had it by now. You know that dogs and wolfs don’t get on.”

  “Yeh well, them dogs are not so ordinary themselves, are they? You ever seen a dog with helmet, sword and shield before?”

  “Forget the dogs, that there’s no wolf, more like a forest devil. Most of them over there are from round Burnt Wood.”

  “So?”

  “Well you know what they say about Burnt Wood don’t you.”

  “What’s that then?”

  “Well, you know, there’s forest devils there.”

  The woman in the rank behind them leaned forward, “more than devils girl. There’s tree beasts as well.”

  A heavy silence fell on the unhappy group as they looked upon the fearsomeness of the first tree beast ever seen outside of Burnt Wood. (It would have been the first one seen anywhere actually) Above his sandals, a hunting knife was strapped to each leg, and he was dressed in an animal skin kilt with leather straps across his enormous chest, and his helmet was covered in fur and decorated with horns. Twin swords hung down his back, their handgrips peering expectantly over his shoulders.

  Marcus was never to be seen again, now that Marco had made his grand entrance, and as the worried murmurings began to be heard from the Central militia, the cheering from the Eastern army grew louder.

  “Have you ever seen anything like it before?” said Gudrun, not expecting
an answer.

  “Only in picture books, Goodie,” replied Margaret. “In his locker on the Hood.”

  “What were you doing in his locker then?”

  Margaret gave her friend a mischievous grin, “well, I had to welcome him on board, didn’t I.”

  “Damn! Thought I was first one there. Where’d he get the tarzan outfit from?”

  The answer came from an unexpected quarter.

  “Good isn’t it?” said Toldo the wardog. “Our Caren Bonecrusher and your little Tanya made it from a picture he showed them.”

  “Tanya?” said Margaret with rising voice.

  “Yes, she provided the goat skins, Really needed a lion, but had to make do. Still looks a hoot though doesn’t he?”

  Marco was the best thing that had happened to the dogs in years, and they had drawn straws for the privilege of running with him and his amazons in the forthcoming battle. In the unlikely event of him surviving the conflict, Flair and Sticker had worked out a rota so that they could all have a laugh with the mad man.

  Sylvia Long was Homesteads leading sword hand, and had thought that she would be in the centre of the front line, so she confronted Marcus, sorry, Marco.

  “What the hells do you think you’re doing?” She said, horrified at his, and her girls appearance. “And where’s your blasted armour?”

  Marco was right in character as he answered her, “fear not, fair one. I will protect you.”

  “What?”

  “You’re safe now, fair damsel, for Marco and his fearless band of warriors are here to save the day.” He ad-libbed beautifully.

  “What?”

  The dogs listened intently, and hung on to his every word, grinning wildly and stifling their laughter. The distraught war leader turned to the three Homestead girls, now dressed in the bare minimum of leather required to preserve their modesty.

  “You idiots belong to me, and you can get your arses back to the wagons and put some decent clothes and armour on. Now.”

  The girl nearest to her, Snowy Vale, looked her in the eye, then smiled and taking a pace forward, casually raised her shield. There was a ‘Thunk’ and Sylvie found herself staring at an arrow head protruding through the wood.

  She looked from Snowy to the dogs, and back again. Realisation dawned on her. “Just what have you been up to?” She demanded.

  “Same as you, only more so I reckon” answered the grinning girl, “all of us. Crampton girls as well, and it’s been… interesting.”

  Sylvie took a deep breath and nodded slowly. The Crampton girls had taken some persuading to get near the dogs, but all seven of them now had ‘super senses’, and were a match for Beryl and Joannie, the only others who had ever overdosed on superdog hormones.

  “Do as you see fit,” she said quietly, “we’ll follow.” Then she resumed her place, and sent new messages both ways along the line.

  Margo Lemon lowered her bow, “see that? She didn’t even look.”

  Her neighbour answered her, “there’s summat a bit witchy going on over there Margo.”

  “Reckon them dogs are straining to get on with it.”

  “Wish you hadn’t said that, Margo. I’m nearly messing meself already.”

  “Well don’t do it near me, Dotty Sharp, that’s all.”

  Fortunes of war

  On the small rise behind the Eastern ranks, the four gurus, Connie, Mona, Tammy and Joannie linked hands.

  “Can’t see no alternative,” said Tammy eventually, being boosted to the limit by the other three’s egos.

  “Might as well do it, I reckon.” She beckoned to the runner, Suzy Swift, “go tell that Jade to concentrate on the right. We’ll be pushing that way.”

  “Jade, right,” repeated the girl, and she sped off.

  Margo Lemon upset the guru’s plans, by loosing another shaft at the ‘tree beast’, and yet again, it was deftly caught on another amazons shield. Amongst the opposing archers, Jimmy was the first to say what they all felt.

  “It’s bloody stupid, we’re well within range and should have a go, now.”

  Anton confirmed his feelings, “too right Jimmy lad, all in favour say aye.”

  It was said humorously, but humour took a back seat here on Asher’s field. A dozen small voices said in unison, “aye.” They probably didn’t understand the joke, but Jade made the decision that changed the battle’s outcome, “Sod it. Nock your shafts,” she ordered loudly. “Draw and aim. LOOSE.” Twenty three arrows soared towards Central’s archers. Seven were from Homesteaders, and Jimmy had been in the time machine’s medico, so eight were guaranteed hits. Fifteen struck home, and as the screaming began, Marco started the advance towards the enemy, his terrible swords still sheathed on his back.

  The advance was uneven, as the flanks were not expecting it, and Marco’s troop became the point of an arrow formation. When only ten paces from the enemy, He drew his swords at last, and in doing so, his right sword nicked his left wrist. Marcus made a brief appearance, “Bugger and damn.”

  Then Marco loudly reasserted his authority. “KILL THEM ALL, NO PRISONERS,” he bellowed at the top of his voice. The dogs behind him howled with uncontrollable glee. This was what they had risked rigging the lottery for, it was going to be a great tale to tell their grandkids, and they would be able to strut around the camp and have the ladies swooning at their feet. Lady dogs, that is.

  When the amazons started yelling, “kill them all,” as well, the Ibis militia suddenly remembered that they should be at home milking the cows, or something, and in front of Marco, the enemy melted away, while the only blood on his swords was his own. The battle ebbed and flowed across the meadow, with Central’s numerical superiority in some way cancelled out by the Homesteader’s super sense and the chaos that surrounded Marco wherever he went. He could still be heard above the clash of steel and the screams of the injured and their injurers. “NO PRISONERS.”

  Connie Nesbitt looked on in horror.

  “What the buggery doodahs are they doing?” she yelled in anguish, “they aint supposed to do that, it’s nothing more than a barroom brawl.”

  The Docksiders, however, were in their element. Barroom and brawl uttered in the same breath were like nectar to them, and besides, they had Beryl on their side now. Last time they’d had this much fun, at the Full Moon tavern in Gap, Beryl had been the fly in the ointment, but today, she was the icing on the cake. Behind the sailors from Dockside and Gap lay a trail of bleeding and broken women, but strangely enough, no bodies. Brawls were more interesting than battles, and you left your enemies alive so they could recover to do it again in the return match.

  But over there, on the far right, it was death city. Caren, she of the blond hair, baby face and innocent eyes, and dubbed the angel of light by the villagers, was, in more realistic terms, the angel of death, as she wielded her alien sword with a dexterity born in the kendo ring at Hummingbird Tower. The sword was a scalpel salvaged by the Hood from a wrecked alien h
ospital ship, and had a blade one molecule thick, which was only visible because it twinkled. Part of the sword appeared to be in another dimension because all that Caren had with her was the sword grip with its controls, and the helmet covered in solar panels. There were no generators, motor units, gyros or wires to trip over, nothing. What the blade touched, it cut through without effort, and it weighed less than her kendo stave back home.

  She fought in silence, as her almost redundant followers stepped through the blood and gore of amputated limbs and headless bodies.

  “Oh, flaming seesaws, what have I trod in now?” exclaimed Gilda.

  “Back off Wilma, it’s growing again.”

  Caren extended the blade with a gentle squeeze of the handle, and two of Violet's palace guard, who thought they were out of reach were felled in one sweep of the glittering blade. A mass of lungs and intestines fell from one in a shower of blood which covered the other, who promptly fainted. She thought that she had died, but the sword had only grazed her hand, and when she regained consciousness after the battle, declared it a miracle and became a devout follower of the Lady.

  On the left flank, a small group stood watching the fray. Margaret frowned and turned towards Gudrun. Her friend shrugged her shoulders and shook her head slightly. Margaret turned to face Denny again, who was sitting with her back to an olive tree.

  “Denny?”

  “I’m not going,” she said quietly, and pushed the alien sword further away with her foot.

  Margaret squatted down beside her. “You can’t sit here while people are dying for you.”

  There was a haunted look in Denny’s eyes as she answered. “You’ve read the book,” she exclaimed. “You know what happens out there.”

  “No. You said yourself that the book isn’t always right. You can’t keep out of it, you’ve got to help us.”

  Denny jumped to her feet and started pushing Margaret away. “No, no, no.” A push on each word. “Your future’s safe, You’ll be the house of Valens. You’re not going to hell.” There were tears in her eyes now, and she whispered, “I am.”

  Margaret stepped back a pace, sighed and then turned and waved her little troop forward towards the whirling, confusing mass of screaming women.

  Halfway along the battlefront, two small figures darted among the adversaries.

  “You’ll have to keep up, can’t look after you if you don’t keep up.”

  Tanya slowed down to let her breathless ally close the gap between them.

  “It’s all these knives you makin’ me carry, what we want all these for anyway.”

  “Don’t you listen Sali Vorden? I told you, knife goes blunt on you and you’re dead ain’t you. Not like doing one goat, there’s lots of these, and they’re fighting back.”

  They ran on, Tanya keeping tally. “Over there,” she shouted, and veered left towards a knot of screaming women waving spears.

  “Wait now.” Sali hung back as Tanya’s tiny form shot forward and swarmed up the back of one of the mail clad warriors. The knife flashed in the sun as it crossed the woman’s neck, and an unstoppable spray of blood spurted from the severed artery.

  Tanya grabbed Sali and they ran between the groups of female soldiers swaying across the bloody field.

  They were in a dead spot now and sat between two boulders in a shallow dip.

  “And that makes eight,” said Tanya proudly, “that’s our four each, and I reckon it’s up to the others now.”

  The two fourteen year olds had heard that the odds against their side winning were four to one. “Told you it was easy, didn’t I, wouldn’t want to do it every day though.”

  “There’d be nobody left, if we did it every day Tan.”

  “Yeh well, that’s why we don’t innit?” She paused, listening, “Someone coming.”

  A red faced woman slid into their haven in a shower of pebbles.

  “Bloody hells. Two kids, where’ve you come from?”

  “We’re from South… ouch,” as Tanya kicked her before she could add, ‘Farm’.

  “South, from La Via? Thought you’d never get here, it’s turning nasty out there.”

  “Yeh,” said Tanya, “we’re the advance scouts, the rest are coming now, look, over there.”

  The unfortunate woman turned and peered over the edge, and Tanya’s right arm swung round, plunging her stiletto into the exposed ear and piercing the brain. The body convulsed for a while and then was still.

  “Oops.”

  “Oops what Sali Vorden?” asked Tanya, looking down at the broken knife in her blood stained hand.

  “Nine. You think we’ll be in trouble for it?”

  Chaos

  The fortunes of war should have swung back in Centrals favour with a discordant blast of horns, when a monstrous figure grew among the priestesses, but one look at the grotesque shape was enough for most of the combatants, both friend and foe to put aside their differences. Marco had his back to it and never noticed the sweeping tentacle coming in his direction, but Ella, one of his amazons, leapt on him, yelling, “down.” The huge appendage hurtled past above them, and she dragged him to his feet again then turned and ran. Even the dogs were retreating slowly, this was taking the joke a bit too far, and the amazons joined them.

  Underneath the horns and fur, Marco’s helmet was a mining standard series 3, and the voice activated vid screen obediently slid down into place.

  Up on the ridge the initial shock of the monsters sudden appearance was wearing off.

  “Where’d that come from?” asked Mona, speaking to no one in particular. Connie Nesbitt screwed her eyes tighter. “Look careful, Mona, but don’t look at it, see it.”

  Mona, Tammy and Joannie looked at it, and saw it for what it was.

  “Cheating buggers,” whispered Tammy.

  “Can you do anything Jo? You’re the best hope we’ve got now,” and Connie looked at her hopefully.

  At another blast of the awful horns, the monster had grown a gorgons head and the snakes were inviting everyone to dare to come within reach of their deadly bite.

  The panic stricken mob that had been two armies pounded past Tanya and Sali’s shelter. “Sounds like they’re going home then,” said Sali hopefully. “Making a lot of noise about it though, aint they?” she added.

  Tanya frowned. “’s not right,” she said quietly, and peeped over the edge. She ducked down, then slowly looked over again. “Still not right,” and shut her eyes, then turned back to Sali in amazement.

  “Give me your shirt Sali Vorden, and stay put till I come back for you.”

  Whatever the others could see over there behind the enemies centre, Denny could only see mister snakehead with the writhing tentacles, but the words of her prayer book came unbidden into her mind and she knew what the Dark Angel had to do.

  "The earth cried out at the sacrifice of blood," she whispered.

  300 metres away, Caren stared at Denny, willing her to be strong, and as if drawn by some unnatural force, D
enny looked up and found herself transfixed by her adopted sister’s accusing eyes.

  She could stand it no longer, and an inhuman cry started to creep out from between her gritted teeth. "And the Dark Angel raised the vampire sword high," she quoted. Then louder, walking forward. "The sword took the soul of the beast." She started to jog down the slope, and her voice rose to a scream. "And the Dark one was no more". She had to get there before Joannie.

  So, as the battlefield emptied of the former antagonists, Marco alone stood his ground while three others sped towards him and the monster, and the dogs hesitated in their unwilling withdrawal.

  Marco looked on in bewilderment. At the edge of his vision the livid tentacles still swept to and fro across the field, but they weren’t attached to anything, and in his vid plate the camera showed him reality.

  He’d seen one of these before. Memories of the battle for Jalon bridge came back to him, and his dormant nightmares flooded back and turned his puzzlement to fury. In front of him, on a wagon was an alien they had nicknamed ‘mind bender’. It had appeared at Jalon and projected images of hordes of alien tanks into their minds, and dozens of his comrades had died in the confusion. How this one was still alive was a mystery, but he could see that it had lost various bits and pieces of anatomy or armour, and a goat seemed to be growing out of it’s face plate.

  With an anguished roar he held his swords out in open defiance and walked resolutely through the writhing tentacles towards the wagon and the red faced priestesses who were still blowing those bloody trumpets. The dogs stopped going backwards. This was more like it, Mad Marco at his best, and about to become lunch.

  As he thrust his twin swords through the goat’s carcase at the aliens head, his three rescuers arrived within seconds of each other. Tanya was nearest and fastest.

  Her white blindfolded shape swept past the dogs with the nimbleness of the 29 goats that had willingly given their lives to her in the last year, and she leapt at the grand mistress of the temple who was running towards Marco with an altar knife in her hand.

  Tanya got her first battle wound as the blade slid down her leg, but through the pain, the little goatherd sliced open the others belly with her best knife.

  “Goats get it clean. You get it dirty, cow face,” she said through gritted teeth, then fainted. (She was a devout Lunist, and had a thing about cruelty to goats).

  Violet was panic stricken. “You stupid charlatans,” she screamed, “give you the best of everything and let you keep whatever you can steal, and this is all you can do?”

  Then Dockside’s snarling guru was on her, and Violet lost her head. Truly, lost her head. Joannie then turned towards the alien, which was still sending out images of the writhing monster, and where Marco still struggled to get his swords free from the dead goat, having failed to penetrate through to the alien inside.

  As Joannie raised her sword, Denny arrived and yelled at her, “NO. Don’t make it bleed.” Joannie turned, and as she lowered her blade, Denny grabbed at it.

  “Bloody hells girl, what you done that for?”

  As the blood welled up in Denny’s clenched fist, she raised her hand, moved it over the hilt of her ‘magic sword’ and closed her eyes. Her blood dripped into the hilt’s receiver, and a red molecule blade like Caren’s steadily grew in length as the bio sword activated itself. Caren’s scalpel was solar powered and blue, but Denny’s was the product of life on a sunless world, and would later became known as the vampire sword.

  She stepped forward and casually brought the blade down through the ancient alien, which fell cleanly and bloodlessly in two, and as the projected image of the monster snapped out of existence, the sword drew the alien mind into hers and she forced it behind the same door where Jan had been. She’d had Jan in her mind for five dreadful days, but the alien was going to be there for a lifetime.

  The Dark Angel now knew her own future. She sat on the bloody grass and wept.

  A legend is born

  At the instant that the imaginary monster vanished, all the dogs had eyes for was Marco, who had finally wrenched his twin blades free of the unfortunate goat. He was standing over the body of the alien bio mech, with blood dripping from both of his swords.

  One sniff of the noonday air was enough to tell them the truth about whose blood it was, but the dogs were philosophical about it all and didn’t want to ruin a good story.

  While the amazons rescued the fallen goatherd and Denny, and put everyone out of their misery, by making the priestesses and their trumpets part company, the wardogs bounded up and danced around the alien and Marco, waving their swords and singing his praises. It was in Dog Speak, not Spanglish, and their discordant howling could be heard the length of the valley. The scattered remnants of the fleeing armies ran that little bit faster.

  Around lonely camp fires on long nights, the tale of Marco, son of Firestorm and his blind virgin queen Tanya the Goat, would grow a little with every retelling, and then, those who were actually there would sometimes get confused, scratch their heads and say, “did it really happen that way?”