The Orphaned Worlds (32 page)

But Greg was only halfway up the stairway when he heard footsteps hurrying up behind him and a voice calling his name.

‘Scholar Cameron! … wait …’

He looked round to see Weynl, the senior Uvovo Listener, labouring up after him. Under the thin grey material of his robes his chest was heaving and his breath was wheezing. Greg offered his hand in support.

‘In the Hall of Discourse … the Sentinel is … asking for you … important message …’

‘Anything to do with Horst?’

The Uvovo shook his head. ‘Okay, Listener, I’ll hurry back down, now? You just take your time …’

‘Just need … to regain my breath …’

Greg nodded and quickly descended to the main hall, asked one of the Diehards, Ivanov, to get a report from the observatory, then continued down to the sublevels. The main floor had rooms and storage chambers and the twin entrances to the Hall of Discourse. This floor had been turned into living quarters and had many lamps hanging from the walls, improvised door curtains, bales and bundles of belongings stacked against the walls. There were a few people wandering around, chatting or smoking, but during an assault most kept to their rooms. More than once as he hurried along he acknowledged nods and raised hands, and occasionally heard parents singing to or with young children.

The underground risk lay not on this level but the upper sub-level that the Uvovo had occupied. A weather-worn crack out on the mountainside had provided a channel to a small section of the stronghold’s inner periphery. One particular room had been repeatedly barricaded with stone but it didn’t stop the machines trying to burrow in. That was where the other Brolturan rifle was kept, mounted on a crate and pointed into the room.

But when the energy reserves give out we’ll be faced with an impossible decision. I hope no one thinks I’m gonnae take it
. He ran fingers through his hair, feeling fine grit, feeling his general condition of grimy sweat, wishing for just two minutes of a hot, or even lukewarm shower.
About as much chance of that as getting Weynl and the other Listeners tae dance the Dashing White Sergeant
.

Grinning at the image, he went down into the recessed entrance and through the ajar doors to the Hall of Discourse.

Opaque tints and gleams of coloured light from the glassy wall panes filled the tall circular chamber. He remembered the first time he had come here, accompanied by Chel who had cautioned him about a ghost thing that called itself the Keeper. But Greg had been all over the Tusk Mountain stronghold, or Uok-Hakaur as the Uvovo named it, had poked into corners from top to bottom and had seen nothing of a ghostly nature. And now, with Chel off searching the wild forests for some enigmatic evidence, Greg felt the burden of understanding more keenly than before.

Four stone platforms, one twisted and melted, one cracked and shattered, one undamaged but lifeless, and the fourth which was bathed in light. Three of Weynl’s Listener colleagues stood next to the glowing platform, looking up as Greg approached.

‘The Sentinel has asked for you,’ said Churiv, the tallest of them. ‘Insistently, persistently.’

‘So I just go up there and it talks to me, right?’

‘That is so, Scholar Cameron.’

Scholar
, he thought as he ascended the set of small stairs to the platform’s lip. An honorary title I hardly deserve.

The moment he stepped onto the carved stone and into the glow, veils of radiance sprang up and coalesced into the strange Human female image from before, that first time when he had seen, smiled at and waved to Catriona while being told about Uncle Theo’s abduction, then learned some of the details about Horst’s mission to the depths of hyperspace. That had been a strange, strange moment, to see her without being able to speak with her. She had looked a bit careworn, and she had on a grey and brown robe that exposed her legs, which were streaked with green. Her short hair had looked unkempt and her eyes almost seemed to shine while possessing something else, some echo of a presence peering out. And when it was over, absurdly she had blown him a kiss and they both laughed and mimed ironically about it. Then she was gone.

‘
Human Gregory, are you able to give me your attention?
’

He nodded sharply. ‘I am.’

‘
A friend needs your help – this message is for you.
’

A section of the glowing veil darkened, became a picture, the inside of a cramped, rounded space in which Chel sat. Next to him an oval door hung open, revealing a weave of branches outside, all in dark outlines. Then he realised that the Uvovo was sitting in a vudron chamber. Then he saw that all of Chel’s eyes were open, his original pair and the four on his brow, staring, almost quivering with the strain starkly visible in those features. Then he spoke.

‘The Sentinel tells me that he will get this message to you, Greg. I went in search of the last Keeper of Segrana, or at least of some evidence of his resting place. I found something else, and then a Brolturan patrol found me. There are about five or six of them, and they have me trapped in an astonishing place. I need your help, Greg. Please come – the Sentinel will guide you.’

The dark image shrank and dissolved into the veil.

‘How long ago did you get that message?’

‘
Less than twenty minutes, during the assault.
’

‘And how far away is he on foot?’

‘
At least three hours. Listener Oskel has a map for you.
’

One of the Listeners handed him a square of cardlike parchment as he descended from the platform.

‘
The seer indicated to me that the Brolturans are steadily closing in. Urgency is advised.
’

I know how damned urgent it is!
he wanted to growl but instead said, ‘I’ll have to make sure the coast is clear first. We’ve too much to lose.’ He glanced up at the Sentinel’s feminine form. ‘Thank you.’

The report from the observatory gave them the all-clear so ten minutes later Greg, Alexei and four experienced volunteers left via the Stealth Gate, a twenty-foot-long passageway usually filled by three massive, counterweight-balanced blocks of stone. This let them out behind a huge cracked rock slab from which they descended and worked their way round to a bushy gully sloping north towards the Forest of Arawn.

It was early afternoon, grey and overcast but a welcome change from the perpetual gloom inside the mountain stronghold. But the outside was the enemy’s domain, where every tree and grass clump, every scrap of foliage might be cover for some mechanical horror. In the eighty-odd hours since the occupation of Tusk Mountain, it seemed as if the Brolturans’ mech factory had churned out a veritable horde of robotic predators, at least going by the rumours and second-hand accounts conveyed by the handfuls of refugees who were still arriving every couple of hours. Now, as Greg and his band crept through cold, silent under-growth, fear-driven imaginations populated the shadows with a glittering swarm of blade-wielding machines waiting to rush them.

Their progress, however, remained uninterrupted as they moved downslope and into the denser thickets of the forest, just as the Sentinel’s map indicated. In the grainy light beneath the overarching branches they found themselves negotiating a morass, crossing it by a series of tussocks to solid ground that rose then dipped into more swampy earth. Sodden foliage squelched underfoot, insects buzzed and piper lizards peeped. Finally, the route led upslope to lush meadows laid out in the lee of a steep-sided hill which itself adjoined the lower slopes of a mountainous promontory, part of a ridged spur jutting north from the Kentigerns.

This was it, this was their destination.

Sticking to the Sentinel’s map, they followed a path from the base of an immense tilted boulder through a dense thicket to a set of age-rotted wooden stairs. Wind-driven rain was lashing down by the time they climbed the decayed, mud-slippery steps and reached a ledge and a crooked doorway beneath a moss-bearded lintel, an entrance to the hill. Rivulets of water pooled at their feet and trickled away into the darkness. Greg drew his sidearm, a Gustav 9mm, then with torches angled to the ground he and Alexei led the way inwards.

By the pinched torchlight, Greg spotted footprints in the mud, small, Uvovo-sized and flat, like the hide shoes that Chel wore. The passage narrowed and changed; split logs and woven mats had been laid down at some point long ago, but much of it had rotted away.

‘Stinks like a compost heap,’ murmured Alexei.

‘Might no’ be far wrong there,’ Greg said as the passageway widened and they emerged on an uneven platform at the edge of a cavernous tangle of branches and trunks so densely intertwined that everything was sunk in a dreary gloom. Staring off through it, Greg could make out small faint splinters of light that showed that some part of this giant mass of greenery was open to the air. So why did the way here lead through a hillside?

From where they stood, three thick branches spread out, each with rudimentary steady-boards providing a walkway, where they were still attached. One sloped downwards, one ran level to the left where the shadows were darkest, and the third sloped up. The message from Chel had come from inside a vudron and they were usually positioned up high …

‘This one,’ he muttered, holstering the Gustar before moving towards the upsloping branch.

But a hand grabbed his elbow, holding him back – Alexei, finger pressed to his lips then pointing at that rising limb. And in the silence, a rhythmic creaking, a heavy tread drawing near. Soundlessly, Greg gestured over at the way into the shadows. His men hurried after him but before they were all out of view, something flashed brightly above head height and flame and steam flared from the branch leading away. There was a shouted command, and a Brolturan trooper emerged from the higher bough, weapon aimed.

Right in front of Greg was a sturdy branch at a useful distance and height. He saw the opportunity and leaped, hands outstretched, caught the branch, swung down and up.

As his right foot connected with the surprised Brolturan there was a woody crack from the branch he was holding on to. As it tore away he lunged with his other hand at a stump jutting from the wider branch and managed to grab it as the Brolturan fell screaming into the tangled murk, a splintering, crashing descent that ended quite abruptly.

‘Need … a hand … here …’ he gasped, struggling to hold on to the woody stump which was mossy and slippery. ‘Any time now! …’

Hands grabbed him and hauled him up then carried him back to the platform, where he found himself face to face with his friend, Chel.

‘So, friend Gregory, my message reached you.’

Greg regarded him. The Uvovo Seer was likewise studying him, and with all six eyes. He seemed quite calm, as if some inner understanding had been reached, but there was also a piercing quality to that many-pupilled gaze, something inexpressible.

‘Well, ye know, I was led to believe that you were in dire straits,’ Greg said. ‘Yet here you are, and not looking so bad.’

‘Why thank you, Gregory. The truth is that two changes have taken place since I sent that message, the first being the realisation that stalking my pursuers was better than being hunted by them. The second …’

The Uvovo paused, and a moment later the sound of gunfire came from below and not too far away. Greg’s men exchanged surprised looks but Greg thought he saw a certain knowingness in Chel’s features.

‘So what’s going on, Chel?’

‘Ah, that will be … the Rus, Mr Vashutkin’s people.’

Greg’s eyes widened. ‘Vashutkin’s here?’

‘No, just a few of his followers, not all, some died …’

Greg looked closely at Chel. ‘How do you know? Have you spoken to them?’

The Uvovo’s spread of eyes were gazing into midair, as if studying another world. ‘No, I saw them, saw their paths …’ He glanced at Greg. ‘Vashutkin is not here, Gregory, but he is not dead. Now we must go, quickly, they will need our help soon!’

He leaped forward and took the downward branch, balanced and agile and somewhat swifter than any Human. A few metres along he paused and looked over his shoulder. Greg thought for a moment then nodded.
Just hope my trust isna misplaced
.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s move.’

Contrary to its initial aspect, the branch soon levelled off and began to slope upward. Or at least the path that Chel led them along did, squeezing through knots of tough, taut, leafless branches, stepping from one thick limb to another, hearing dull creaks and cracks from the intertwining shadows. At Chel’s insistence the torches were pinched off to the absolute minimum and they were advancing with meagre glows to reveal hand- and footholds. As Chel led them through a twisted mass of branches to a ledge overlooking a sparser, more open area, Greg noticed a faint, crepuscular radiance coming from above. This place looked like the crown of a truncated tree around which later growth had stretched forth and proliferated.

Only this tree seemed to be about eighty or ninety metres across, which implied that the base of the tree could be upwards of a hundred metres in diameter.

‘Before the War of the Long Night,’ Chel said, ‘the forests of Segrana held sway over the land. Her vast canopy stretched from the shores to the mountaintops. Only the greatest of trees could support such a weight and even they had to interlock their strongest boughs to sustain the burden. This was one such, a pillar tree that suffered terrible damage during the closing stages of the War against the Dreamless yet managed to survive the flames and the climatic extremes that followed. Then at some point in the last few centuries the nearby mountain’s entire west face collapsed, half-burying the pillar tree. But the green life always comes back so, masked by the surrounding forest and the fresh growth on the new slopes, this crippled remnant of Segrana-That-Was looks like a foothill.’

Then he took them down to the tree’s broken crown, long since worn down by decay and weather but also bearing evidence of occupation, mossy log platforms and the rotted remains of shelters.

‘Someone was here,’ said Alexei. ‘Why have we never heard of this place?’