Darwin's Soldiers

by Ste Sharp

  A line of red light erupted from Althorn’s left and he looked up in time to see the laser blast catch Belsang on his shoulder. He was weakening, he thought. If he was going to kill him he would have to do something different to last time. But what? He ignored the spiked armour on the Vaalori and thought about how to get Belsang off the giant.

  His answer came when the brothers returned. The two armadillo-like mammals had popped up directly in front of the Vaalori.

  ‘Dominus!’ they called out in unison. ‘We want to say how much we enjoyed your battle, but it’s time for us to move on now. You gave it a good try – better than the last time but–’

  Althorn saw Belsang’s blue colour glow a little brighter but he stayed silent.

  ‘Oh.’ One of the brothers tilted his head to one side. ‘No, your mental abilities won’t work on us and, to be honest, I’m finding this body a bit cramped.’ He looked at his brother. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Yes, please!’ the other replied.

  ‘Whatever you are planning will fail.’ Belsang’s deep voice made Althorn step back. ‘I’m aware of the human’s recovery and your aid, but you will fail, he will be sacrificed and we will be victorious.’

  Althorn felt a cold shiver run down his neck. Had he wasted the chance to get to Belsang? The brothers’ distraction had been his last chance and he was just standing here, watching.

  ‘No, sorry,’ one of the brothers replied, ‘this really is the end.’

  A blue bolt of lightning leapt from Belsang’s arm and smashed into the brother on the right, throwing him back twenty paces. His brother watched casually then turned to Belsang with his arms wide open. ‘I really have enjoyed every–’

  A second flash of electricity cracked and sent him flying back in a shower of sparks. This was Althorn’s moment! He dashed forward as fast as he could, picked up the two prostrate animals and sped away. He was fast again – and getting faster! The thrill was back. His one eye was wide open as he dodged and jumped a wide circle around Belsang.

  ‘What are you doing?’ One of the brothers looked up.

  ‘Throw us,’ said the other.

  ‘Throw you?’ Althorn was weaving in and out of craters and avoiding the fighting soldiers. ‘Where?’

  ‘At Belsang!’ they cried.

  Althorn could see they were serious. He cut back and lobbed them through the air towards Belsang’s Vaalori.

  Then, and not for the first time in this land, Althorn was amazed. He skidded to a halt and watched as the small mammals ballooned in size in mid-air. Legs popped out, arms swelled and their heads mushroomed. By the time they hit the ground, they had transformed into two thickset, brown-scaled giants, bigger than any Lutamek. They barged into Belsang’s five-legged steed with a double, shoulder-barging attack.

  Belsang floated higher, seemingly unaffected by the charge, and zapped the brothers with more energy. But the power was weaker this time and they barely flinched. One leapt up and grabbed Belsang.

  ‘Come here!’ he shouted, as though playing a game. He squeezed the wriggling Brakari and breathed a red gas over him. ‘Here you go, One-eye!’ He threw Belsang at Althorn as though feeding a dog.

  ‘Quick, One-eye!’ the other brother shouted.

  Althorn snapped to attention. He ran to where Belsang had landed and drew his knife. He could feel Belsang trying to slow him down with his mind but whatever the brothers had given him created a barrier. With Belsang’s energy drained and no mental powers, Althorn could fight Belsang hand to hand, so he stabbed with his blade.

  A blue claw slashed out, cutting Althorn’s arm, but he sped up, circling and stabbing. Each turn, attack and parry took less than a split second as the Celt and Brakari fought at a speed few witnesses could follow. All Althorn could do was get nearer and go faster. A series of fists struck out at him, thumping him in the head or body, but Althorn’s momentum was too great. Lightning flashes blinded him but he carried on spinning round, getting closer like a comet drawn to a star. All he saw was the blur of Belsang’s blue body and his eyes. Althorn felt the pain in his empty eye socket and lunged with his blade: in and out. Tightening the circle and slicing fast.

  It felt like he had cut Belsang a hundred new wounds but had no way to tell.

  Then a burning flash took his energy and Althorn spun away in pain.

  ***

  Mihran felt the draw of victory. His feet twitched as he resisted the urge to spur the tocka into action. No. He had to control his mind and keep calm. He had moved out of the ruined fort and onto the open grass for a clearer view of the battle, but needed to direct the troops to where they were most effective. The models had swung in their favour but the Brakari still outnumbered them and who knew what tricks they still held up their sleeves?

  Speed is the essence of war, he thought. Take an unexpected route.

  He had followed Li’s advice and turned the tables on the Brakari: trapping them and quickly coming out to fight when Belsang had expected them to cower in the ruined fort. Now, the mass of human and Sorean soldiers fought hand to claw, while the archers and riflemen grouped in clumps as he had ordered, covering the foot soldiers. The British contingent of redcoats held their own on the left wing, combining their forces with Jakan-tar’s fleet-footed fighters. Mata was rooted to the spot, attacking any Brakari who dared approach him, and Lavalle’s cavalry had regrouped after driving into the wing of the army. Gal-qadan’s tocka were doing the same on the other side. Which reminded Mihran of Gal-qadan’s weapon. He looked for Crossley. Shoot fast and move, he had said, or risk sharing Li’s fate. But he had yet to see the lightning snake across the battlefield.

  Crossley, Mihran thought-cast. Have you fired the weapon?

  Either the goddam thing’s broke or it’s a phoney, Crossley replied.

  High-pitched shrieks drew Mihran’s attention to the right where Gal-qadan’s tocka leapt into action again: teeth bared and claws unleashed. Had Gal-qadan tricked him? He only had to wait a second to find out as an oscillating wave of energy ripped into the Brakari army, frying and splintering the soldiers in its path.

  Gal-qadan was never going to give up his power.

  Abandon it, Mihran ordered Crossley. Use whatever weapon you find.

  Mihran ignored Crossley’s swearing thought-cast response, which had been sent to all captains, and focused on his primary model: they could force a victory.

  Commander. Samas’ voice entered Mihran’s head. Gas attack!

  Mihran picked out Samas and saw a yellow mist flowing from a swarm of hairy beasts near Belsang. Movement in the sky caught Mihran’s attention and a huge rock smashed next to a group of spearmen, sending them flying. He looked to the left flank – the surviving titans were still crawling with red worms which worked the last few catapults. Everyone was desperate for victory.

  Push left, Mihran ordered Samas.

  The yellow gas would divide the army if he wasn’t careful. Why had he allowed himself to think about victory?

  Come on! He willed Samas and his men to move faster.

  Gal-qadan, Mihran thought-cast, cut through and hold your side.

  If Gal-qadan’s cavalry could push from the right, they could reverse the effect of the gas and corral the Brakari into a tight circle.

  Commander, I see the Draytor. Olan’s comment surprised Mihran.

  Where? Mihran replied.

  Near Samas’ troops, Olan thought-cast. In disguise but I see its true form.

  Mihran scanned the mass of human soldiers pushing away from the gas. Samas led his troops across a barren patch of grassland to join Sorean and the redcoats, while injured soldiers limped at the rear, away from the Brakari, who advanced with the mist, unaffected by the gas.

  Where were Gal-qadan and the tocka? They needed to drive in before the foot soldiers were surrounded. Mihran saw one Brakari slashing and stomping at thin air. It winced as though struck and lashed out again. It had to be Sakarbaal, and there was Samas, ready to fight with his rock-fist and spear. How d
id he get there so fast?

  Samas, Mihran thought-cast Olan. The Draytor is Samas.

  Nobody will know which is which, Olan replied. I will attack the Draytor.

  Good luck.

  Mihran glanced at the second Samas but he had gone. On the ground he saw Sakarbaal’s discarded trident next to his broken body. Mihran altered his model accordingly. The Carthaginian had been tricked and now the Draytor had disappeared.

  More movement caught Mihran’s eye – laser fire this time. Was that Bowman with Li’s rifle or… Delta-Six? Had he returned or was it the shape-shifter? Nearby, three shapes were attacking a Brakari: taking it apart with sharp, speedy movements. The three ghost samurai Gal-qadan had bragged about. Here came Gal-qadan now with his tocka. Had the Draytor changed into a riderless tocka? Mihran rubbed his brow. He couldn’t answer every question – he had to concentrate on the big picture.

  Commander, a new voice thought-cast.

  Mihran recognised it but immediately threw up a mental shield. That was the voice Belsang had used when he had given false information: Althorn’s voice.

  Mission accomplished.

  The voice was followed by an image of a powder-blue body on the ground with a fixed look of shock on its face. Was this more trickery? Mihran looked to the centre of the battlefield and saw two monstrous, brown beasts pushing the giant Vaalori to one another like boys bullying a sheep. In front of them, Mihran could make out a short figure with a brown hood standing beside a tiny blue body.

  Is it true? Mihran asked Althorn.

  ‘I’m the Brakari leader now.’ A deep voice made Mihran turn and miss Althorn’s reply.

  Mihran recognised the large, dark-blue Brakari from John’s description. ‘General Panzicosta,’ Mihran said and remained motionless on his tocka.

  ‘Dominus Panzicosta now, Commander.’ His reply was accompanied by a snapping sound. ‘Who will be your replacement after you die?’

  Mihran’s models shifted to accept the death of Belsang. ‘When I die?’ Mihran smiled as the thought sunk in. All the pieces he had meticulously positioned and manoeuvred like in a game of chess had played their part but one piece had been missing: himself. ‘Many could replace me.’ He knew it. All the men and women of his army had qualities he had never credited them for until he took the time to understand each individual.

  Now it was his turn to fight.

  ‘But tell me,’ Mihran stared at his enemy, ‘how did your leader die so easily?’

  ‘Pah! Belsang?’ Panzicosta moved forward slowly. ‘He was a strong warrior once but came from an age of martial weakness. His doctor plied him with chemicals… once they had been removed and his mind tricks neutralised, he was running out of time. When he used the last of his energy he was little more than seven pairs of eyes stuck on a bag of shit.’

  Mihran raised his eyebrows but shouldn’t have been shocked by such contempt. He had assumed the Brakari army had underperformed because so many were enslaved, but now he could see the other half had followed through fear.

  ‘And so he died, like so many others,’ Mihran said.

  He heard the snapping sound again and Panzicosta reared up on his back legs, causing Mihran’s tocka to stir. ‘Enough of your delays, human. It’s time for you to die and for the victory I deserve.’ He scuttled forward and raised his front claws.

  Mihran’s tocka pawed at the ground and its back muscles rippled, ready to pounce.

  ‘No,’ Mihran whispered. ‘You need to sit this fight out, my friend.’

  Mihran dismounted and released his long, maroon cloak to reveal his sabre. ‘So be it.’ He whispered a prayer to the clouds as he unsheathed the blade and took up a defensive pose.

  As the huge shape of Panzicosta loomed closer with his large fore-claws raised, Mihran pushed his mind out to feel his thoughts. He winced, feeling their strength: fuelled by bitterness. Once he filtered the emotion away, Mihran could read Panzicosta’s intentions.

  Panzicosta leapt forward and smashed with both fore-claws, but they only met dry ground: Mihran had been quick and now stood to his side. His sword flashed and drew a white line across the Brakari’s shell. Reading the next move, Mihran ran in the opposite direction, then rolled and sliced again, this time clipping one of Panzicosta’s trailing legs.

  The fight carried on with Mihran closing his mind off to his army and the battle around them. He focused on Panzicosta and avoided every blow, but his sword only scratched his enemy’s shell. The Brakari didn’t seem to be losing energy either, Mihran thought, as he paused to catch his breath. The next move was quicker than he anticipated and he took a glancing blow from Panzicosta’s hammer-claw, bruising his side.

  He had to concentrate and find a weak spot.

  ***

  The tocka were clear of the explosions when the ground ripped apart. The rift was so large John had to take Lavalle’s word that it cut around the ruined fort from flank to flank.

  ‘I didn’t know Crossley was capable of such endeavours.’ Lavalle shook his head as they let their tocka rest.

  ‘Well, he said he knew explosives,’ John replied with a smile.

  ‘Better than the first lot anyway,’ Bowman added. ‘At least these went off at the right time.’

  ‘The only question is,’ Euryleia jumped off the tocka to stretch her legs, ‘how do we get over the trench to fight the Brakari?’

  John had always found it hard not to stare at Euryleia, but now her four arms made it impossible.

  ‘We’ll use the bridges,’ Lavalle replied. ‘They left three bridges in the design – wide enough for the tocka, but too narrow for Brakari.’

  ‘Do we have to go back in?’ John asked. ‘Can’t we just fire at them from this side?’

  Lavalle shook his head. ‘They’re too far away.’

  He was right. Even from here, John could see the few titans that hadn’t fallen in the chasm were fifty paces in and the rest of the Brakari army had pushed even closer to the fort. John’s bullets would be useless from the edge of Crossley’s rift.

  ‘Do we spilt up or cross as one?’ Euryleia asked as she stroked a riderless tocka. ‘What?’ she said when Lavalle stared at her.

  ‘Is there something wrong with my tocka?’ he asked.

  Euryleia shrugged. ‘Apart from its metal skin? No, but I can ride and shoot now.’ She raised her arms and smiled. ‘So do we split up or are we one army?’

  ‘One.’ Lavalle tore his gaze away. ‘We’ll take the central bridge and–’ he stopped and closed his eyes.

  Everyone waited while he thought-cast.

  John checked the Lutamek cube and noticed some of the lights had changed.

  ‘New orders.’ Lavalle was back with them. ‘We take the right bridge. Gal-qadan’s horsemen will take the left bridge.’ He pointed to the left flank, where John saw a host of tocka coming from the fort.

  ‘And the central bridge?’ John asked.

  Lavalle gave a half smile. ‘Let’s just call that Crossley’s bridge.’

  ‘Oh.’ John looked away and nodded.

  Lavalle turned his tocka a full circle. ‘Every soldier take a tocka. There are plenty. If you can’t ride, sit behind a rider. Leave the injured here – we don’t have time to get them to safety.’ Euryleia shot Lavalle a look but the knight shook his head. ‘This is a battle we have to win and time is running out.’

  ‘Right then,’ John unhitched the cart and spoke to the Sorean who had been riding it, ‘looks like I’m with you. I might need a hand though.’

  The Sorean pointed to its throat and offered him a hand. Must be a mute, John thought. The Sorean was stronger than he had expected and pulled him up with ease.

  ‘It’s quite comfortable,’ John said and remembered Jess, his old carthorse. The others were following suit, with Bowman sitting nervously behind another Sorean as they headed off.

  The bridge was only two paces wide and John kept his eyes to the sky as they crossed: one slip and they would fall into the rift, but the tocka was m
ore nimble than John had realised and, by the time he opened his eyes, they were on the battlefield, approaching the enemy from the rear once again.

  ‘Arrow formation!’ Lavalle bellowed from the front. ‘Drive in a wedge and split their forces!’

  John looked to the left flank, where Gal-qadan’s larger force was forming a similar triangular shape, and gripped the tocka with his knees. He started forming bullets in his gun-arm. What he really wanted to do was ride a wide curve and shoot from a distance like before.

  ‘Aim for the light-blue enemy,’ Lavalle shouted as the herd sped up in unison. ‘They have softer shells!’

  To John’s right, a group of light-blue Brakari were retreating. John squinted and caught a glimpse of Millok’s orange flashes. Were they her children? John felt a sensation of calm wash over him as he watched her retreat to safety. She would be happy, he thought, and smiled.

  ‘Weapons raised!’ Lavalle’s voice rose above the rushing wind, shaking John.

  The thrill of the speed sent waves of adrenaline through John’s body. This was amazing! It reminded him of his grandfather’s stories and John was a part of the action now. The tocka’s muscles tightened like steel rope as it sped up and John imagined it baring its hideous teeth.

  ‘Attack!’ Lavalle shouted, and a barrage of fire was unleashed by the riders. The flash of Li’s rifle in Bowman’s hands lit the air and John fired, keeping the bullets coming. It was just like breathing now: he could do it without thinking. In and out. Build and fire.

  The ground was uneven and scattered with deep holes from Crossley’s explosions but, without the cart, John’s tocka was fast and nimble and soon had a Brakari in its sights. John stopped firing and leant forward to grip the Sorean, who was hanging on the tocka’s neck. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, John thought, with his eyes clenched tight. He felt the tocka leap and release a wild shriek. Teeth gnashed and claws snapped and John felt his grip loosen. He saw the tocka bite the Brakari. He saw blue shell, green sky and burnt earth, teeth and claws. Then he was falling.