by Ste Sharp
Mihran held his eyes shut and massaged his temples. ‘False messages?’ His eyes snapped open. ‘It has to be.’
‘What are we going to do?’ John asked.
Mihran looked down from his tocka at John. ‘My orders? Why, we’ll fight of course. No choice.’
‘What?’ John was panting. He stared at the army surrounding him: they were out of formation and waiting nervously. The captains galloped over on their tocka: Lavalle, Samas, Li and the Mongol cavalry captain, Gal-qadan.
‘Commander.’ Li was first to address Mihran.
‘We must prepare for battle,’ Mihran replied.
‘But what about the Lutamek?’ John pointed at the few surviving robot warriors fighting on the ridge.
‘Nothing we can do. I await information and…’ Mihran stared at an empty space in the grass where a blur of grass morphed into the shape of Sakarbaal. ‘Report.’
‘Their entire army stands on the other side of the valley,’ Sakarbaal spoke between breaths.
‘Let me see.’ Mihran closed his eyes.
Sakarbaal closed his eyes and John watched the Carthaginian’s face writhe.
‘Yes.’ Mihran looked stony faced.
‘More than we thought?’ Samas asked.
Mihran nodded.
Lavalle asked, ‘Your orders?’
Mihran held up a palm. ‘I must recalculate… some Lutamek survived and if Althorn returns soon, I…’ Mihran suddenly looked up. ‘Captains, return to your troops – prepare your units.’
‘But…’ John was too late: Mihran and the captains had ridden away.
A few minutes later, John stood among the foot soldiers, behind Samas on the right flank. Around him he heard murmurs of prayer and other pre-battle rituals. John heard vomiting and sighed. What could he do? He couldn’t fight. They didn’t have time to strap a spear to his gun and all the alien weapons they had picked up had been handed out.
‘March!’ Samas shouted and the grass was trampled in an orderly style as they climbed the hill.
Behind John and his comrades, Li led her clan of myriad archers and riflemen while, to his right, the mass of tocka, led by Gal-qadan and Lavalle, paced uphill. On the left, Olan stood tall among the Sorean. Ahead of them, the lonely figure of Mihran rode his tocka.
John was not used to seeing his enemy. The start of a battle to him was waiting: staring at the mud of the trench wall; eyeing up the sodden rungs of the wooden ladders. Here they marched to war in plain view. What about Millok? John thought and scanned the troops. Over his shoulder he saw the abandoned carts and cumbersome belongings, with Millok floating above them in her invisible prison. He wanted to free her, to return the favour, but it was too late. He couldn’t run back. He had to fight, or he would be killed.
They all had to fight.
John knew he would do his duty as he’d done before. Face the enemy and lay his life down for the good of… who? The human race?
There was no chance of getting home and Joe was dead.
John’s mood snapped back to anger. He had to fight today, but that didn’t mean he had to fight now when he was of no use. He was more than just cannon fodder. If he was to get vengeance on whoever brought him here, they had to defeat the Brakari, so he had to do everything in his power to make sure his army won.
They reached the top of the hill and the view across the valley slowly revealed itself. More grass. Empty grass. The valley was bigger than John had remembered. Then the enemy. On the other side of the valley, squares of enemy soldiers stood in silence. When he focused on one square, John saw the blue Brakari and a variety of alien soldiers, including Lutamek, which sparked and twisted against their slave collars.
‘That’s a big army.’
John turned to see Mata, who had a broad smile lighting up his face. John tried not to stare at the black seed pods that hung over his body and asked, ‘You’re happy about facing such an army?’
‘Of course.’ Mata’s eyes grew wide. ‘More enemy to kill!’
John didn’t understand.
‘Forward!’ A call came from the centre and the foot soldiers moved off the hilltop. There was a plateau halfway down the valley where, John guessed, they would pause.
As they drew closer, John saw the Brakari army in more detail. At the centre stood a huge elephant-like beast and, on its back sat a tiny, bright-blue creature who had to be the Brakari leader, Belsang. Around the beast sat an array of boxes and constructions.
‘Formation!’ Samas shouted and the men around John stepped into rows and columns. ‘Halt!’
John was at the front. He took a peek down the line and felt tiny next to the scores of warriors, tall and brave. His heart was racing. He remembered a trick his mother had taught him: breathe in for a count of four and out for eight. In for four. Out for eight. John closed his eyes. His body was tricked and his heart slowed. He opened his eyes. The seething mass of alien fighters five hundred paces away hadn’t disappeared.
‘Why are they so quiet?’ someone at the back asked.
‘They’re shittin’ themselves of course!’ someone replied and laughter ran through the ranks.
John allowed himself a little smile and relaxed.
Then he spotted someone tied to a post near the Brakari leader.
‘Althorn?’
The colour of the hood was unmistakeable, but wasn’t he in Abzicrutia? John squinted. It had to be him.
Without thinking, John left the ranks and ran in Mihran’s direction.
Li ran over to intercept him. ‘John, what are you doing?’
‘Althorn – I saw Althorn.’ He pointed.
Beeping sounds came from her visor.
‘It’s him,’ Li said. ‘I’ll inform Mihran – get back in line.’
‘But.’ John didn’t know which way to turn. He looked to Mihran, sitting proud on his tocka, and to Li, who was thought-casting Mihran.
This was his only chance. He ran straight towards Mihran and heard Li’s footsteps behind him. John was close to Mihran when he heard the commander whisper, ‘It’s worse than I thought.’
‘Commander?’ Li had heard too.
Mihran spoke slowly. ‘Li, release the Brakari prisoner. My plans for it were in vain.’ His harsh eyes fixed on John. ‘You are of no use here, John Greene, you must get the shield generator from the Brakari city.’ His eyes grew distant. ‘Because without the Lutamek, we will lose this battle.’
***
Mihran surveyed the virgin battlefield and felt his heart race. He fought to quash the panic in his chest that pulled his emotions and influenced his thoughts.
Calm.
He pictured endless sand dunes blanketed by the myriad stars of a desert night sky. Warm breezes and a citrus scent.
Why had he disregarded the possibility of being intercepted by the Brakari like this? Never underestimate the enemy. Or, remembering what he had learnt from Li, Sun Tzu had said: ‘He who exercises no forethought but makes light of his opponents is sure to be captured by them.’
Mihran took a deep breath and looked for positives. The Brakari hadn’t attacked yet. There was still time to prepare.
He scanned the enemy, knowing they were doing the same with his army. He took in the number and variety of enemy troops and combined it with the information relayed to him from his captains and scouts. Could he trust the scouts’ information? Now he knew Althorn’s message was false, Mihran set up a coded-word system for each of his captains when communicating with him via his thought-cast system.
He disregarded the scouts’ information. Better to trust his eyes.
Mihran reduced his predictions to a few models of how the war would play out. When the battle started he would alter his primary model and, if necessary, replace it with a more suitable plan. Deaths, troop movements, successes and surprise attacks – they all fed into the model.
At the moment he saw only one thing: defeat.
Something was missing though. The valley had no abnormal features – the river to
the right was a good barrier and the left was flanked by uneven ground and forest. Nothing out of the ordinary. Still, an instinct told him the left flank was weak. On the army’s edge, the great swarm of cat-like Sorean stood with their swords glinting. Among them, Olan stood tall, having been taken into the Sorean army as one of their own.
Jakan-tar needs to strengthen the left side, Mihran thought-cast Olan.
Olan didn’t respond but, after a few moments, the Sorean troops reshaped their rectangular formation to a wide triangle.
Perfect.
Mihran adjusted his primary model and scanned the bulk of his army: the infantry stood at the centre, fighting under Samas, behind them stood the projectile units under the command of Li, while Gal-qadan and Lavalle sat on their patient tocka steeds on the right. Although stationed together, Mihran had given Lavalle a quarter of the cavalry and specific instructions on how to act during the battle.
In contrast to the Sorean–human alliance, Belsang had his soldiers form compact shapes with spaces of bare earth between them. They had twelve units, which now changed formation in response to Mihran’s changes. It was a good plan, Mihran thought. It made it hard to tell which troops were stationed where and made the army look smaller.
Deceptive.
On the far side of the valley, his counterpart, Belsang, floated above the back of a giant creature that Mihran had been told was a Vaalori. As dumb as it was huge, according to the Lutamek. But Belsang was not dumb. Mihran focused on the powder-blue alien: all limbs crossed and no sign of movement. Belsang had tricked Mihran with Althorn’s message and he couldn’t afford to be tricked again. He had to accept the powers he’d acquired since arriving in this land were nothing compared to Belsang’s.
Do not be intimidated by the enemy. They have lost before and can lose again.
Mihran’s army had secret strengths too. The Brakari had no idea of the violent nature hidden beneath the docile facade of the tocka. Or the humans for that matter. And Sakarbaal, who stood on the right flank, waited with an array of Crossley’s incendiaries and mines. The Sorean would be fearless and their shield technology would even the odds, with the bag of shields John had found in Abzicrutia giving the human soldiers a better chance of surviving.
It was like a life-sized game of chess. Mihran had to think several moves ahead, knowing that one bad decision would mean defeat and death. A pang of nerves tightened his stomach, echoing the emotions of his first battle.
We’ve got movement in the centre, Samas thought-cast.
Mihran stared at the enemy. This was his last chance to look for detail – anything that gave a weakness away.
Watch them carefully. Learn your enemy. Look for surprises. Mihran cast the thought to his captains.
The Brakari soldiers were forming four diamond shapes with three triangular groups in between, with their points facing towards the rear. The quick reshuffle was a show of control and obedience, Mihran thought, as much as tactics. Belsang wanted to intimidate the humans, much like the Roman army machine had bullied their barbarian enemies.
It wasn’t going to plan though.
Some of their dogs have escaped, Samas thought-cast.
Mihran saw three wolf-like creatures race down the enemy hill and splash through the stream, aiming for Samas’ men. This was a chance to send a message back to Belsang, Mihran thought.
Send in Kastor and Osayimwese.
Mihran had paired the two warriors as fighting partners after sensing their conflict, which Gal-qadan should have dealt with days ago. Mihran wasn’t surprised some of Gal-qadan’s men had deserted their steeds for the infantry – he had seen the Mongol’s thoughts and was fully aware of his capabilities.
The two armies watched in silence as the long-haired Spartan and the tall Oyo strolled out of the mass of soldiers. Kastor twirled his spear nonchalantly while Osayimwese stretched his neck and threw furtive glances at his partner. The three canines – which the Lutamek had told him were called Skrift – were far bigger than any dog Mihran had seen and beelined for the two humans as though sensing prey.
Forty seconds later, two bloodied bodies lay on the ground and the fight was over.
They fought well, bring them back in, Mihran thought-cast Samas.
It had been a good choice to pair them, Mihran thought, as he watched Kastor and Osayimwese with a smile. They stood, strong and proud, with their two long spears holding the third dead Skrift aloft while the other two beasts lay in pools of their own blood. The men had treated it as a competition and drawn. That was good – they would fight to outdo each other when the real battle began.
Now Mihran could concentrate on the enemy.
The mass of blue scorpion and lobster-like creatures brandished horrific weapons – slicing blades, maces and hammers – along with equally deadly spiked armour. Each misshapen claw or enhanced mandible represented an adaptation enhanced, according to the Lutamek, by a Brakari doctor who had developed cloning and evolution-advancement technologies.
They were desperate, Mihran thought. And clever.
He saw a number of freaks in the Brakari ranks, with disfigured heads and deformed arms. Some mimicked the more powerful, original soldiers. Could he write these soldiers off? Or did their wild nature pose more of a threat than the originals?
Mihran adapted his models accordingly.
I’ve analysed the troops in the triangle formations, Li thought-cast.
Report, Mihran replied.
Many equipped with shovel-like appendages. Flat- headed. Flippered feet. Suggest they are the moles.
Mihran had heard about these so-called moles from the Lutamek, who had built up some reliable knowledge whilst fighting Brakari scouting parties.
A glint of light beyond the river caught Mihran’s eye from the direction of Abzicrutia. What if the Brakari had backup? Looking at the enslaved aliens amongst the army, the Brakari didn’t seem likely to form an alliance with another species, but who knew how many estranged alien warrior clans roamed this land? Mihran adjusted his primary model to hold back Gal-qadan’s cavalry. Then he studied the slave soldiers. He saw Lutamek and Sorean, neither of which looked in any fit state to fight, while every other species – low-lying creatures, bulky beasts and curious pyramid-shaped objects – were positioned in the centre of each diamond, which meant Belsang didn’t trust them.
We’ve got movement, Samas thought-cast.
Mihran saw Brakari troops making space in the two centre diamonds.
Are they archers? Mihran asked Li and Samas.
Affirmative, Li replied.
Mihran focused on Belsang. What was he doing? He was swaying like a thing possessed.
Mihran tensed.
Prepare.
The shuffling on the opposite side of the valley stopped. Mihran heard a low humming sound as both armies hushed. He searched the enemy army as the sound rose in volume. Belsang was shaking violently: his arms and legs flailing about him. It had to be him. Mihran watched as, with one almighty fit, Belsang spat out a long tubular object that rose into the sky, leaving a trail of red behind it.
Mihran had no idea what it was but one thing was clear: the battle had started.
***
John stumbled as the cart ran away from him.
‘Shit!’ He ran to catch up, grabbed the trailing rope with his good hand and, with a sharp tug, had it under control again.
It was a simple cart of planks and metal wheels put together by the Lutamek to transport weapons and now Millok lay on it, groaning and twitching.
The battle valley was almost out of view when a screaming sound erupted and John pulled the cart to a stop. He turned in time to see a small black dot rise into the air above the human army. Mihran had ordered everyone to hold fire until absolutely necessary, so he wasn’t surprised to see the missile fly without opposition, but did a double take when it paused mid-air and was joined by four streams of what looked like orange liquid shooting up from the Brakari army. He winced, remembering the gassed sol
diers he’d seen. Was this chemical warfare?
He turned to Millok, sensing her stir and, despite himself, felt a glow of happiness. He was glad he’d repaid his debt and saved her but, more importantly, he was happy not to be on the battlefield. He sped the cart up again, casting a look back every dozen steps. The lava-like liquid had shot high in the air while, above it, the missile opened, releasing a cloud of shimmering white specks, which floated down with careless grace.
I must hurry, John told himself, as he pushed the cart over a rise and down the long hill which led to the wide plain beyond. He could follow the river to Abzicrutia, then he would need Millok.
An almighty flash lit the sky, followed by a deep explosion that he felt through the ground.
Millok’s long, grey head rose and fell.
‘The battle’s started.’ John tried to speak softly. ‘You’re safe now. We’re heading to Abzicrutia.’
Millok’s body tensed and, with a clash of shelled legs, she scrambled to her feet. ‘No,’ she whimpered, ‘not back there.’
‘It’s fine,’ John used the calming voice he used when Joe was upset, ‘nobody’s there. They’re all fighting.’
Several sets of Millok’s eyes focused on John. ‘Are you sure?’
John shrugged. ‘As sure as I can be. Why would anyone be left behind? They want to win, don’t they?’ John sped up as they hit the level ground, using the last bit of momentum from the hill. ‘Surely Belsang would throw everything at us?’
‘No.’ Millok rested her head on the planks. ‘Nothing is obvious with him. He deceives and punishes. I should be back there, fighting.’
‘Mihran said he didn’t need your knowledge.’ John shook his head. ‘I tried, honest.’
‘Then what hope is there?’ Millok asked.
John remained silent as the cart cruised across the flat plain. The wheels were good and had suspension, but he couldn’t keep pushing this hard for long.
‘You’ll have to fight too,’ Millok said.
‘We’ll get back in time to fight,’ he spoke to himself as much as Millok, ‘and if my gun’s still not working, I’ll find something else to–’