Pat Kelleher - The Ironclad Prophecy

“Boy sees you as role model,” said Gutsy, wrily.

“Oh, believe me, I’m nobody’s bloody role model.” The thought of Flora burned brightly in his mind.

“Maybe not, but apparently you have a reputation. Poor Chalky’s probably expecting you to magic up Saint George himself right about now.”

“Well, you’d know about that.”

“Eh?”

“Saint George. You’re the one married to the bloody dragon by all accounts.”

“Now that’s the Only I know and love,” said Gutsy, with a guffaw, slapping him on the shoulder. “Good to have you back.”

MATHERS PUSHED FORWARD, trusting to his new abilities. He could see the scent trail of the creature, the spirit, now — a thin, tenuous vapour trail, so delicate that any movement tore it and it dissipated on the air current. “This way,” he declared, indicating the right hand fork without a second’s hesitation. The bantam driver, Wally, was at his right hand, as ever. Frank and Norman were flanking the stupefied Alfie, while Cecil, Jack and Reggie trailed in their wake. Atkins and 1 Section followed on behind as rearguard.

ATKINS HEARD A sound in the tunnel behind him, like a tide sucking on shingle, as something rushed along the tunnel walls towards them.“Run!” he yelled.

Ahead of him, after a moment’s confusion, the tank crew took him at his word, herding Mathers before them.

Atkins turned and knelt and, with Gutsy, held the tunnel as the rest of the section raced swiftly past. They felt the wash of foetid air, and in the darkness something moved, bearing down on them like a train. Gutsy pulled off his bayonet, slipped it back into its sheath at his waist, and fitted the wooden baton of a rifle grenade into his Enfield barrel. He pulled the trigger and the pair ran up the tunnel to where Mercy and Porgy were holding the second line.

The grenade exploded, the shock wave almost blowing Atkins off his feet as he raced past Mercy. Porgy fired three rounds rapid into the dying fireball and the pair joined Atkins and Gutsy in the retreat. They reached a gallery at the junction of five tunnels, where the others had taken shelter from the funnelled blasts.

No sooner had the noise of the grenade died than they heard a low rumbling howl, not from behind them where the creature had taken the brunt of the attack, but from below, the dread sound funnelled up from the depths via the surrounding tunnels.

“Bloody Nora, don’t say there’s more of them!” groaned Mercy.

Atkins jerked his head at the tunnel openings. “Pot Shot, Gazette, find one that goes back up to the surface.” His gaze met Mathers’ inscrutable mask, almost daring the officer to countermand his orders, but he didn’t. He was clutching his stomach and holding onto the small driver.

“This way, Only!” called Gazette, at the mouth of a tunnel. The section and tank crew retreated into it, alert, their rifles sweeping the tunnel mouths around them.

Not taking his eyes from the direction they had come, Atkins ordered Gazette and Mercy to scout the tunnel. “And hurry!” he said, hearing the tidal rush of things moving up through the adjoining tunnels towards them from the darkness below.

“I want two volunteers,” yelled Atkins.

“I’ll stay,” said Mercy.

“Me too,” said Chalky, although he seemed less certain than Mercy.

Atkins shook his head. “Go up with the rest, Chalky.”

Chalky stuck his chin out, like a stubborn child, and clasped his rifle until the whites of his knuckles showed, as if he expected Atkins to take it off him. “No. I’m staying. I know you’ll protect us, Only, the way you did Lieutenant Everson.”

Atkins nodded and waved the others off.

With Mathers’ indomitable will crumbling, as he lost his fight with whatever was ailing him, the tank crew took it upon themselves to protect their precious bloody commander. They took off up the tunnel, Wally and Alfie supporting Mathers between them, the rest of 1 Section herding them along. Napoo grasped Nellie’s hand and raced up the tunnel with her, even as she drew her revolver.

Atkins, Mercy and Chalky held the tunnel mouth at the gallery. A foul breeze blew around it, and the dust on the floor began to swirl in eddies, as things rushed up from the depths towards them.

Chalky began muttering the Lord’s Prayer.

“Cover me,” Atkins said, as he raced around the gallery, tossing a grenade down into each of the four tunnels. He heard them land, rattling off into the darkness, and he dived back for cover between Mercy and Chalky. They crouched down as the grenades went off one after the other, like a barrage, bringing down the tunnels. Dust and debris billowed into the gallery, filling it with a gritty, choking cloud.

From deep below came a low awful sound, that reverberated in his chest and made his very bones ache. He could hear rubble and debris clinking as something with weight and speed rammed against the tunnel collapse, attempting to drive its way through.

“Go!” he cried.

Mercy needed no telling. Chalky hesitated until Mercy grabbed his arm. “Run, you daft bugger!”

ALFIE FOUND HIMSELF leaving the gallery behind and herded up the passage, under the insistent barking of the Fusiliers. The initial barrage of hallucinations from his ‘baptism’ were wearing off. If that was the world Mathers wanted him so badly to inhabit, then he could keep it. It was as if Mathers needed him for his own shaman’s party. The others may have bought into it, but Alfie wouldn’t. He struggled against the horrifying new world invading his senses. The comparatively gentle side effect of the fuel fumes he could put up with, but this enforced ingestion was a brutal assault on the senses. It terrified him, but what terrified him more was the fact that Lieutenant Mathers wasn’t scared at all.

Alfie fought against it, as hard as it was to cling to the mundane when your world was ablaze with wonders and horrors. Nellie’s presence helped. Without her, he feared he would be as lost as the others.

“The Lieutenant needs to rest,” panted Clegg, under the subaltern’s weight. “He can’t carry on.”

To their right the tunnel wall had partially crumbled away to reveal a void beyond.

“This’ll have to do,” said Jack, stamping his boot into it several times. The edges of the hole collapsed, creating an opening big enough to enter. He thrust a torch through to reveal an empty space, which would provide some protection against the concussions. “Get in, hurry!” He directed the tank crew and Fusiliers into the space beyond.

They found themselves in another round chamber. One of the Fusiliers held a torch high to illuminate the place.

“Jesus!” exclaimed Alfie.

The bodies of several chatts lay on the floor of the chamber: Scentirrii, judging by the heavy carapace casings. They were covered with fine dust or ash, which had hardened over them, softening their outlines. With them were the bodies of two more chatts, priests. Alfie knew them by their featureless faces and the mouldering tasselled silk sashes. They lay on the ground under a covering of calcified dust, as though they had died peacefully, resigned to their fate. They had seen others like them, but not this far down.

Across the chamber, as though unfit to die with them, were the bodies of three worker chatts. These, however, had died violent deaths, their carapaces broken open.

Chandar stepped reverently around them, chittering to itself softly, its stunted middle limb restless. But it wasn’t the bodies that agitated the chatt. It was what had been entombed with them; a motley collection of jars, amphorae, and pots of varying sizes, hastily gathered and stacked on shelves in niches and on the floor.

Smirking, Norman picked up a sealed stone jar. “Here, lads. SRD rum rations, and about bloody time!” He made to smash the neck against the wall. Chandar rounded on him, reared up on its legs and advanced towards him, its mandibles open as it hissed.