Pat Kelleher - Black Hand Gang

“Well he’s as good as admitted it, by all accounts,” said Everson. “Even if he isn’t, he’s still in a hell of a lot of trouble. If those papers are anything to go by that’s fraudulent enlistment, impersonating an officer, at the very least. Not that any of that matters a jot against a death sentence. Chap was going to swing before we ever came across him.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Ketch. “He seemed like such an upstanding bloke.”

“Well, he would to you,” said Atkins. “Man after your own heart by the sound of it.”

“Watch your mouth, Atkins, I’m still your NCO and don’t you forget it.”

“How could I?” muttered Atkins. “You never bloody let me.”

Behind him, Atkins heard the rattle of the Lewis gun and the confused squealing of Chatts as Captain Grantham covered their escape.

Everson halted at a junction. Ahead, the passage branched. There was an opening to their left, decorated with some kind of hieroglyphs. After the unadorned, functional nature of the rest of the edifice, this struck him as something important, at least to the Chatts.

“Damn! I think Jeffries has given us the slip.”

The excited clicking of alien jaws and joints alerted them to another approaching troop of insect soldiers ahead.

“Heads up, chaps,” Everson warned as he backed against the wall, pistol arm extended. Ketch stopped beside him, dropped down on one knee and raised his rifle. Atkins fell in behind him, rifle at the ready. The troops of Chatts skittered round the corner, some carrying lances, others carrying short swords and spears.

“Wait for it,” said Everson. “Fire!”

Atkins and Ketch fired and cycled, fired and cycled. The Chatts went down in a hail of bullets.

“Well Jeffries obviously didn’t go that way,” said Everson, and looked again into the dark opening to his left.

The distant sound of the Grantham’s machine gun had stopped. It was replaced by several rifle shots, followed by several high-pitched squeals. There was a brief silence then a defiant shout. “Come on you bastards. I’ll show you what backbone is. For the Pennines!” The tunnel echoed to the sound of a roar of rage and, following closely on its heels, a drawn out wail of anguish, pain and terror, punctuated by the explosions of Mills bombs.

“Sir?” said Corporal Ketch, looking at Everson expectantly.

“We can’t help him.”

A muffled pistol shot rang out from somewhere beyond the ornate doorway.

“This way!” said Everson, reloading his revolver before advancing cautiously. Behind him, the two soldiers slotted fresh magazine cartridges into their rifles.

JEFFRIES STRODE CONFIDENTLY through the dark high space of the temple, his hand tightly around Edith’s wrist, dragging her along like a recalcitrant child. A large scentirrii in a silk scarlet tabard approached him with a spear. Jeffries shot it in the head. In the shadows, he saw dhuyumirrii and acolytes withdraw, melting into the shadows, clicking in agitation. He only had a few rounds left in his pistol but he only had to make it to the chamber where the Khungarrii had deposited their trench equipment. But his main priority was Chandar’s little heretical collection.

“Please, stop,” said Edith. “Whatever you thinking of doing, please don’t!”

“What?” he said distracted. He stormed into the library chamber of niches where he saw again the scriptural jars filled with their holophrastic scents. “Chandar!” he called, waving his pistol and swinging Edith brusquely round in front of him for a shield, like a clumsy dance partner.

The acolyte Chatts backed away. He shot a jar, taking delight in the Chatts’ alarmed reaction as it shattered, leaving a sticky sour smelling unguent to drip thickly from its niche. “Chandar!” he bellowed at a cowering insect. “Chan-dar, you arthropodal cretin! Where. Is. He?”

The old, maimed Chatt appeared. “What is this? We had an agreement.”

“We did,” said Jefferies. “Change of plan. I’m afraid it’s off. However, if you want my men they’re yours. Keep them, cull them, it’s all the same to me.”

“This trait of disloyalty is one we know runs through Urman culture, but you took the Rite of GarSuleth. How can you do this?”

“It’s called individuality. You should try it sometime,” said Jeffries.

He pushed the pistol into the holster of his Sam Brown and flung Bell to the floor before picking up a jar of sacred unguent. He swirled it around and watched particles of aromatic compound dance in a thick suspension of what he surmised was some sort of oil. He pulled the stopper from it and sniffed cautiously.

“It contains a distillation of ancient proverbs,” explained Chandar.

“And this?” Jeffries asked, indicating another jar.

“The commentaries of Thradagar.”

“And this?”

“The Osmissals of Skarra.”

“And this?”

“The Aromathia Colonia.”

All Jeffries could smell was rotting plums, pine sap and a hint of motor oil. It was intensely frustrating. All this knowledge and no way to access it. He pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief from his trouser pocket and poured some of the oil onto it, soaking the cloth before stuffing the handkerchief into the neck of the bottle. From his pocket, he withdrew a battered packet of gaspers, put one in his mouth, took out a packet of Lucifer matches and struck one against the box. It flared brightly.

Chandar staggered back, awed by the sight, and watched nervously, its eyes locked on the jar.

“What are you doing?” The pungent smell of phosphor drifted around the room, which seemed to alarm and frighten the other Chatts, who backed up against the wall, all except Chandar.

Jeffries casually lit his cigarette, took a deep draw, and smiled before holding the lit Lucifer to the corner of the oil-soaked cloth. He hurled the improvised petrol bomb down a gallery where it smashed with a splash of flame, catching other containers which quickly combusted. Jeffries watched in satisfaction before making another makeshift bomb, this time ripping a strip of cloth from Bell’s already torn dress to use as a wick.

“What have you done?” cried Chandar, his mouth parts slack with horror.

“I’ve done you a favour,” said Jeffries, pulling his pistol from his belt once more. Thick heady smoke coiled against the roof of the Receptory chamber and began to sink down. He grabbed a coughing Bell and a shocked Chandar, bereft at the sudden brutal loss of its precious scent texts. He urged them at gunpoint down the interconnecting passage that led to the Chatt’s alchemical work chambers, closely followed by tendrils of smoke.

The smell of the smoke had already alerted the Chatts in the Olfactory, where they worked their strange mixture of theology and alchemy. They were running hither and thither in great agitation as Jeffries shoved Bell and Chandar into the room. Jeffries casually surveyed the space and chose his target.

“No! You can not,” wheezed Chandar.

“Dwyer, you’re mad!” said Bell. It earned her a vicious slap across the face and she staggered back, stunned.

Taking the lit cigarette from his mouth and touching it to the oil-soaked wick, he watched the flame lick up the cloth before casting the bomb into a workshop beyond. It smashed in a spray of fire amongst the volatile distilling jars, prompting soft whooffs of combustion whose gentle sound belied their ferocity.

Waiting only long enough to watch the fire catch, Jeffries took a last drag and flicked the glowing Woodbine into the strengthening blaze, before pushing his hostages on.

In the chamber beyond, where the Chatts had stored the trench equipment, Jeffries reloaded his pistol and picked up a webbing belt of Mills bombs. Keeping a wary eye on Bell and Chandar he hastily emptied boxes of small arms ammunition into haversacks along with tins of Machonochies, Plum and Apple and bully beef. Using webbing, he tied them together with several rifles and, as gently but hastily as he could, lowered them out of a window opening on a length of rope. He could hear the rifles clatter against the face of the edifice below. Then the rope ran short and he had to drop his load to tumble down onto a midden heap far below. He could only hope it wasn’t all damaged beyond use once he retrieved the items.