“Pay homage to GarSuleth, the creator of all. Very few Urmen have the privilege of entering these chambers,” said Chandar, bowing its head, touching its hands to the base of its antennae and then to its thorax and waiting for Jeffries and Rand to do the same.
Even through his euphoria, Rand frowned slowly. “I will not bow to a heathen god,” he slurred drunkenly.
A hiss escaped from Rhengar’s mouthparts. The scentirrii stepped closer, their lances poised, ready to punish any perceived blasphemy.
Jeffries, unwilling to lose whatever trust he might have gained, grabbed Rand firmly by the upper arm and brought his mouth close to the chaplain’s ear. “Just do it, Padre. We’re in the midst of a nest of insect savages. If you know anything of entomology, there are probably a hundred ways they might kill us and I, for one, do not intend to be a martyr. Now bow!”
Reluctantly the Padre repeated the movement Chandar had shown them, and Jeffries did likewise. The scentirrii relaxed their stance and, as they continued their way across the chamber, Jeffries glanced up at the web. Was it home to some primitive creature that they kept and worshipped as a god? He briefly envisioned being cocooned and left as a sacrifice to some great bloated thing and then, more pleasantly, imagined the Padre there instead.
They were ushered through an arch at the far side of the room and along a series of passages and interconnecting chambers where members of Sirigar and Chandar’s caste were engaged in various alchemical tasks. Finally, they were led into a smaller room, the main feature of which was several large piles of plundered trench equipment. At a glance Jeffries saw thigh boots, scaling ladders, waterproof capes, cooking utensils, fleabags, rifles, an old grenade catapult, trench mortar shells, a primus stove, Mills bombs, periscopes, a pickelhaube, latrine buckets, a gas gong, a sniper’s loophole plate, several steel helmets, cases of small arms ammunition and, he noticed — partially hidden by tarpaulin — what looked to be several rusted old pressurised canisters of chlorine gas. Where the hell had they found those?
“These things are unknown to the Ones,” said Rhengar. “They stink of decay and corruption as do you. The Ones would know their uses and your intentions.”
“Intentions?” said Jeffries.
He was being judged and everything hung on how well he passed the test. He assumed that if they found out the true nature of some of the things around them, then whatever dialogue they might have would be cut very short indeed. A degree of diplomacy was called for.
“Most nomadic Urmen know better than to resist the Ones,” continued Rhengar, “yet your herd is large and aggressive and you have made your clumsy delvings in Khungarrii territory. Our scentirrii were alerted to your presence spinnings ago. Your odours were carried before you on the breath of GarSuleth. The Khungarrii could not fail to notice it, it overpowered everything, almost obscuring the sacred scents themselves.”
“And the Unguents of Huyurarr have long heralded the coming of a great corruption. There are those amongst the Ones who, upon sensing your putrescence, fear for their very existence,” said Sirigar. “Are those Ones wrong?”
To Jeffries it sounded very much like the case was already stacking up against them. He had to think fast.
“If GarSuleth wills it,” he said.
Chandar had been rummaging through the pile of looted trench items with a degree of curiosity, making smacking and clicking noises with every item he examined. “And this,” it said, picking up a piece of field kit. “What is it?”
“An entrenching tool. For digging. These other things are harmless, I assure you.”
“And these?”
“Boots, gum, soldiers, for the use of,” Jeffries answered, mocking the Chatts with a parody of quartermaster’s speech.
Rhengar picked up a rifle. “And this? What is this? Khungarrii fell before these without being touched.”
“Skarra take them,” intoned Chandar, head bowed.
“As we did before your electric lances. You know this is a weapon and I assure you we are quite adept at using them”
Rhengar snapped its mandibles together rapidly, rising up on its legs until it towered over Jeffries. The effect was unsettling, which was probably the entire point.
“Do not presume to threaten the Ones,” the Scenturion chittered, its mandibles slicing furiously. “If you are a harm to the Ones, then the Ones will cull you the way it has been done with Urmanii in the past, otherwise you shall be absorbed into Khungarrii worker caste to toil for the good of Khungarr.”
“Rhengar, you forget yourself ,” said Sirigar. “This Urman can not harm us. Is it not still under my benediction?”
Rhengar backed off.
“I do see your dilemma,” said Jeffries tactfully. “Believe me, I do.”
“Your dilemma too, Urman,” reminded Rhengar.
“You do not worship GarSuleth,” said Sirigar. It was a statement rather than a question.
“No,” said Jeffries, turning from Rhengar. “I worship… another.” He wanted to pursue the subject but Napoo had told him Croatoan was heresy here and now probably wasn’t the right moment. He would have to bide his time. He just hoped he had enough. At best, he had a day to get the information he required. Bloody Everson would see to that. The man was transparent. He’d come charging to the rescue like he was the BEF.
“Take your despicable claws off that, heathen!” said the Padre drunkenly. Chandar had attempted to take the Bible from the Padre’s hands.
“Chandar!” Sirigar scolded. “You are not here to indulge your inconsequential and heretical studies. You are only here under sufferance, do not test this One.”
Jeffries’ ears pricked up at the word ‘heretical’. This Chandar, despite its broken appearance, might be more interesting than it at first appeared.
Chandar responded to Sirigar in a rapid rattle of mandibles. Sirigar retorted. They sounded like a pair of angry crows. There was obviously a great difference of opinion being expressed and it was being expressed physically, in a series of stylised movements. Actions seemed to define and punctuate argument and proposition, counter-argument and denial. Like dancing bees, thought Jeffries.
The attention of the other Chatts was momentarily drawn to the sparring pair and, seeing his chance, Jeffries deftly palmed the pistol he had been eyeing on the nearby pile of equipment, thrusting it under his jacket and down the waistband of his trousers.
Chandar sank lower and backed away, obviously losing the exchange to Sirigar, who hissed triumphantly, its mandibles and arms splayed.
Jeffries, however, had come to a decision. There must have been a reason the rest of the battalion had been spared the blood sacrifice that brought him here. Until now, he hadn’t been able to see it.
He turned smartly and addressed his captors. “Gentlemen!” he said brightly, with a clap, as if about to suggest a bracing snifter down the club. “You say we have a choice between annihilation and subjugation?”
Rhengar and Sirigar exchanged glances, their antennae twitching.
“It’ll be difficult, but, yes, I believe I can deliver my people,” said Jeffries. “For a price.”
INTERLUDE FOUR
16th November 1916
Dear Flora,
I am well and have acquired a pet now. Gordon is a blessed nuisance, but he ain’t half good at chatting shirts. I thought once the Lt. found out about him I’d have to get rid, but he says Gordon’s fancy for the verminous louse has sent cases of trench fever down, so I guess I’m stuck with him.
Thanks to a local native we met, called Napoo, our diet has improved. After days of bully beef and hard tack we now have fresh fruit, although my hands are raw and my back is aching from picking the stuff. I don’t think I’m cut out for country life. Living in holes and grubbing a living from the land isn’t easy. We need more than this if we are to survive. An estaminet wouldn’t go amiss, for a start, although after an unfortunate incident I’ve sworn off drink for the duration.