The Ironclad Prophecy by Pat Kelleher Read Free Book Online Page B

force. Everson gave them a fortnight at best, a month at the outside. The Pennines’ own foraging parties had to range further and further to find food and wood. Even with the help of the refugee urmen, feeding this many men was becoming a nightmare without some degree of successful agriculture. He couldn’t allow a siege to happen. He needed to deliver a swift, decisive blow. Something that would have the Khungarrii give them a wide berth in future. To do that, he needed to know more about them, and he recognised that the captured chatt represented a slim opportunity.
    “Is this absolutely necessary?” asked Padre Rand nervously, from the other side of the sandbagged room. He’d asked the Padre here because he’d had dealings with them in Khungarr.
    “Yes, Padre, I’m afraid it is. But don’t worry. You’re only here to observe. It won’t touch you. I’ve taken precautions.”
    The Padre, though, seemed little mollified by this.
    Sergeant Hobson appeared in the doorway. “The prisoner is here, sir.”
    Everson turned from the unsettling sight of the chatt army regrouping out on the veldt. “Show him in, Hobson.”
    Atkins, accompanied by a grim Napoo, escorted the captured chatt into the dugout. It hobbled into the room with a lopsided gait that suggested old injuries and new pains. Everson felt a cold shock of recognition. Most chatts looked the same to him, even now after all this time, but this one, even with its featureless white facial plate, was unmistakable. Its worn stumps of antennae moved with feeble jerks like a broken clockwork toy. This was no mere chatt soldier. This was the chatt that Jeffries had held hostage in Khungarr. Everson remembered that the damn thing had refused to help them when they were trying to find a way out of the labyrinthine tunnels. But there was so much information it might give them, not least about Jeffries’ last movements and intentions. If it would talk. But every moment it was here it could be gathering information about them; numbers, layout, weapons.
    Atkins stood smartly to attention, by the prisoner. Sergeant Hobson brought up the rear of the escort party and stood, stiff and formal, behind the chatt, his eyes never leaving it. In the far corner was Padre Rand, backed against the sandbagged wall, his hands clutching his bible to his chest as though it were a shield, his lips moving silently in prayer, his eyes following the chatt warily as it looked around. Even captured, its curiosity seemed insatiable.
    “Your herd is truly different from that of other urmen,” it said, in its breathless, monotone way. “They build their flimsy dwellings on the ground. I had heard reports from raiding scentirrii that Tohmii dwellings and burrowings imitate those of the Ones. This structure is crude, but strange and wondrous nonetheless.”
    Everson stepped toward the arthropod and held out a hand.
    “I’m Lieutenant James Charles Everson, Acting Commanding Officer of the 13th Battalion of the Pennine Fusiliers. We’ve met,” he added pointedly.
    The chatt finished surveying the room before answering. “Yes. This One is Chandar, gon-dhuyumirrii, olfactotum to Sirigar, liya-dhuyumirrii of the Khungarrii Shura.” It appeared to swallow air and force it out, as if having to shape words with organs not meant for human speech. “In gratitude this One offers you a blessing in the name of GarSuleth,” it said, opening its arms, tilting its head back and opening its mandibles.
    There was a loud click as Sergeant Hobson cocked a Webley revolver and pointed it at the back of the chatt’s head.
    “I’ve read the reports,” said Everson. “Attempt to spray anything – acid, a soporific mist – and Sergeant Hobson here will shoot you. Is that understood?”
    The creature lowered its head, relaxed its mouthparts and sank down on its legs in a submissive posture. “This One intended no threat.”
    Everson offered it a seat. The Khungarrii looked at the wooden chair