“They are skilled.”
The feral warrior sat recovering his wits. He watched Onan, who was waddling about and amusing himself. The bird felt the warrior’s gaze upon him, and rolled a wily eye in return.
“Clever birdie!” Onan chuckled, then bobbed his head up and down in a dance. He had been eating more banana melon. “Clever birdie!”
The cockatoo delicately handed the feral a piece of melon. The warrior accepted it, quite taken by the bird’s intelligence.
Snapper reached out, and Onan leaned his head into her, rolling his head in ecstasy as she scratched him behind his crest. The feral warrior pointed to Onan and made careful hand signs.
“Your mount. It is impressive.”
The feral seemed to be recovering his composure.
“What is his name?”
Snapper spoke clearly and carefully. “Onan!”
“Onan.” The feral spoke aloud, stumbling the syllables past a mouth filled with tusks and fangs. “Onan?”
“Onan”. The shark chuckled, and returned to hand signs.
“Because he spills his seed upon the ground! It’s a joke from an old religion.”
The feral seemed a little puzzled, but nodded in acceptance. He rose carefully from the ground, feeling many cracks and sprains.
“We must not remain here. More enemy may come.”
He motioned towards his injured comrade.
“I will take my brother to the healers.”
The warrior was in no condition to help, as Snapper set to work. Some tree branches and tunics from the fallen ferals served to create a makeshift travois. The shark strapped the travois poles into place behind the surviving beetle mount, then carefully lifted the unconscious man and laid him in place. The ride would be hell – if the man had been conscious, every jolt and bounce would have torn into his arm. Snapper scratched at her hide and scowled.
“Warrior, how far must you travel?”
The young feral picked up a war club from the ground.
“We will find others in a day of travel. Perhaps two days.”
Snapper thought, nodding as she looked towards the hills.
“You cannot draw a bow. Screamers may still be in the hills.”
“It cannot be helped. The wind spirits must protect us.”
Bugger it – being a true chevalier was becoming expensive. Snapper unhooked her belt and removed the holster and her old two-barrelled pistol. She placed the weapon into the warrior’s hands.
“Here. I cannot send you into the hills unarmed.”
Snapper placed a handful of brass cartridges into the warrior’s pouch, then demonstrated the use of the gun.
“Do this – place the shells here. Cock and fire it thus.”
She made a sign indicating a gift between equals.
“May it serve you well.”
The young feral looked at the weapon in solemn amazement. He then gazed up into Snapper’s face.
“This will not be forgotten.”
The warrior leapt up onto the riding beetle and rode off without once looking back. He headed north towards the distant cliffs many days ride away. Snapper watched long enough to make certain they were off and on their way, and gave the men a final wave.
“Well birdie – today we were good hussars!”
‘A knight there was, and from the time he first began to ride on out,
Loved he chivalry – truth, honour and courtesy…’
Giving a gun to ferals would be a hard thing to explain back in town: best not to bandy the story about. “Right! Work to do! There’s no rest for the wicked!”
“Wicked!” The bird agreed, fluttering his short wings. “Salty cracker!”
“With dinner, mate. With dinner.” There was still the matter of the missing cocoplods. “Yoiks and away!”
The fallen houses were given a cursory search, but Snapper could find nothing of any great interest. This was clearly no place to linger. She left the valley, letting the bird cover their tracks with a cunning sweep of his tail. Once they had retreated carefully past the trees, they turned and headed straight back up the hillsides. Snapper rode Onan just behind the hill crest, making sure they left no telltale silhouette against the sky.
There was no more negotiation over salty crackers. Snapper and Onan moved fast, paralleling the cocopod trail. But after an hour, a great crazed jambles of rocks and boulders began to fill the way ahead. It was perfect ambush country: Screamers could strike like lightning from a dozen different directions. Snapper thought for a moment, then decided to curl around to the south east, swinging wide about the boulder field. She rode onwards, and then looked to the south, where the hills blended slowly down into a carpet of plant-animals, trees and open brush.
The sun had sunk low towards the horizon, and the sky had become a dark, regal shade of peacock blue. Out on the plains some few kilometres away, a close-knit group of campfires glimmered orange against the deepening shadows. Dust still hung above the brush: clearly it was a trade caravan, or perhaps a large group of travellers. Snapper scowled at the sight, and then suddenly jerked her head to the north as a sickly stench came wafting on the air.
Onan gave a croak of dismay.
They moved downhill towards the nearest valley. The cockatoo came to a halt, riffling his feathers and backing away in disgust.
The valley floor was black with corpses.
Thirty cocoplods lay ripped and splayed all across the valley floor. Every one of the big herd animals had been clawed, ripped and slain. The corpses had somehow all burst open like balloons. Fat beaked flies swarmed in the air, feasting on the remnants of a massacre. Snapper stared, her tail standing out stiff behind.
Nothing moved except for the flies. Snapper slid from her saddle, carbine in hand, and moved carefully forward. Keeping her eye on the lengthening shadows all around, she made her way to one of the flyblown corpses and squatted at its side.
The entire cocoplod had been consumed, and yet the hide seemed largely intact. It was as if the poor beast had been eaten from the inside out.
The insides of the nearest bodies held several weird, empty husks, like the pupae of titanic insects. And the tracks that left the site of the dead, flyblown corpses were Screamer tracks.
A hundred Screamers – or even more.
Ichor dripped slowly from the pupal husks. The dead cocoplods were still warm: the Screamers could only have been gone from here an hour at most. The shark ran back to Onan and swung into the saddle, turning her bird to the south. Onan sped back up hill, head low and eyes ever wary.
Sunset spread umber wings out across the sky. But on the southern scrublands, the single cluster of campfires gleamed bright. They shone horribly clear – a beacon that would summon Screamers to a terrifying feast.
Snapper and Onan raced southward towards the campfires. Somewhere in the hills behind them, a nightmare raised its head and gave a chilling, hungry scream.
Chapter 2
There were seven settlements dotted about the southern plains. They ran from Spark Town up in the north, all the way down to Sky Island at the edge of the sea of storms. To the east, there were a few farming communities, well fortified against monsters from the wilds. But Spark Town was the oddly eccentric jewel in civilisation’s crown: the one place where tools and homespun technology were advanced enough to create breech loading rifles, brass cartridges and percussion caps. Spark Town was the place to buy electric power generators, home made light bulbs, good swords and the best riding animals. It also made some extremely weird liquor. Little trade caravans from afar were thus a common sight – all of them trundling slowly and carefully towards the town’s bounty.
The far south had more rain than the north – and some decidedly dangerous plants. Acid-jet plants could cause third degree burns on the unwary – but fearless farmers cultivated them in droves and collected the acids into hefty jugs made from primitive glass. Acid was vital for making gun cotton and percussion caps, as well as for charging the hefty batteries made by Spark Town’s workshops. It was a useful trade, and it welded the little communities together. News, ideas and people made the long, difficult treks between the communities every few months. They had lived in peace with one another ever since the GeneStorm.
Snapper came riding through the twilight, heading towards a neat wagon laager that had been laid out in a protective circle about some tall old pepperbark trees, linked together by cables. There was a cook fire, and smaller watch fires maintained twenty metres from the ring of wagons. Snapper whistled and called towards the pickets as she approached, drawing the attention of two men with guns.
“Wagons ho! Rider coming in!”
“Rider ho!”
A caravan driver armed with a long musket rose from behind a bush.
“Approach the fire!”
Snapper rode Onan in through the picket line. With the fall of evening, she had brought out her pelisse – slinging it from one shoulder in conscious imitation of an ancient hussar. As the guards opened a cable and let her in amongst the wagons, two dozen travellers arose from their evening meals to stare at her in amazement. Snapper sketched a salute towards the clear leader of the expedition– a shockingly stylish, handsome man apparently part fox, and part golden pheasant.
“Snapper. Spark Town.” The shark pointed with her carbine to the north. “Douse the fires! You’ve got Screamers up in the hills about three k’s away!”
A tall man came walking over from beside the cook fire. He was human – well, human enough, if you ignored his tail – and kitted out with a broad dusty hat and a decent Spark Town breech loading rifle. He gave the shark a laconic nod and dusted off his hat.
“G’day. Tammin – up from Rust Ridge. Caravan master.”
“Good to see you.” Snapper dismounted, still pointing to the north. “I’ve been tracking some Screamers. They’re just up the hills there to the north.”
“Screamers!” The man looked north in astonishment. “How many?”
“Maybe a hundred – a hundred and fifty.” Sunset had become twilight. Snapper looked quickly back to the stark, black hills. “They might have dispersed into packs, but some of them will be headed this way.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve cut my way through some already.” The shark took a pull from her canteen. “What’s in the wagons?”
“Cotton, zinc, copper ingots, chemicals…” The man Tammin slapped a heavy wagon beside him. “They’ve been waiting for this for months!”
Half the cargo was stuff used for making brass cartridges and ammunition. Snapper looked quickly up and down the wagons, trying to judge their speed.
“We’ll have to get the wagons through to town!”
A caravan guard had joined the conference – part kingfisher and part cat. The man slapped his hat free of dust. “Screamers? Actual Screamers?” The cat-bird shook his head. “My grandad said those buggers were fast! We’re gonna have to abandon the wagons and make a run for it.”
“The town needs the cargo.” The caravan master was adamant. “The last couple of shipments never got through.”
“Then hitch ‘em up!” Snapper rode Onan towards the fires. “Get moving! Screamers will have seen your fires!”
People immediately gathered their weapons. Many of the travellers were armed with crossbows, or makeshift muskets made in village blacksmith shops. Only the caravan guards and drivers had more modern firearms, all bought on previous trips to Spark Town. The human caravan leader immediately strode towards the elegant fox-pheasant over near the mounts.
“Captain Beau! What should we do?”
The fox-pheasant, apparently a military man, strutted gorgeously forward. He had long sharp spurs jutting from his avian legs, and a wonderfully confident air. He straightened his plumes and brushed dust from his immaculate cuirass.
“Ah! Let’s get everyone armed! We should man the wagons.” He pointed towards the west. “Let’s move!”
“Man the wagons!”
Tammin called his commands, and the wagon drivers came running.
“All crew – load weapons!”
People ran madly back and forth: passengers, merchants and travellers. One wagon immediately broke an axle, spilling cargo all over the grass. The fox-pheasant looked rather lost, while the riding beasts squawked and reared. It was all extremely ineffective. Snapper scowled, and managed to seize the caravan master by the arm.
“Douse the fires!”
Snapper had to shout above the noise of groaning beasts and clashing orders.
“You need move right now. Due west.”
“Too many creek beds.”
Tammin bellowed back, ducking as an immense dray best swayed past.
“We’d never get the wagons moved.”
“I’ll scout a route ahead.”
Snapper headed back to Onan.
“Do you have any outriders?”
“Captain Beau has been our night guard. He joined us outside the last village.”
“Has he been any good?”
“Excellent! We’ve never once been disturbed!”
The caravan master seemed sincerely impressed
. “The women in wagon three say they have never slept more soundly!”
It was apparently a good endorsement. Snapper patted Onan on the neck, knowing the bird was tired. “
Right! Well let’s get him mounted. Who’s your day scout?”
“Throckmorton!”
The caravan master ran off to see to the dray beasts.
“I’ll send him to you. And thank you!”
“You’re welcome.”
The shark girl felt damned tired: the caravan crew had better stand her at least a dozen drinks in the Spark Town pub. She led Onan over to the water buckets, where both she and the cockatoo drank and drank. All around them, absolute chaos had broken out. Wagons were being hitched and fires doused. Ramrods rattled in muskets as passengers loaded guns. Snapper helped herself to a serve of stew, gulping down the food while watching the wagoners go efficiently about their business. Their defences were taking shape – a heavy wall gun atop the lead wagon was being loaded with a charge of musket balls and old nails.
The fox-pheasant flitted past through the swarm, tucking a pair of elaborate one-shot pistols through his belt. Snapper threw her stew bowl into the back of a nearby wagon and wiped her mouth.
“Hey you!”
The officer blinked and looked at her in surprise. He had the clear air of someone who was off about other business. “Who, me?”
“Yes you!” The shark snared the man. “You’re the night guard?”
“I am indeed!” The man swept into a bow – all pheasant tail, fox ears and courtly grace. “Beau! Captain, minstrel and sword of fortune. At your absolute service –
madam.”
“Right! You’re with me! Let’s get mounted.” The shark swiftly sorted out her equipment. “You got yourself a carbine?”
“A carbine?” Captain Beau suavely waved the idea aside. “No no no! Surely I would be of far more use in a supervisory, ah…?”
Snapper threw the man a full canteen. “Get one! OK, let’s go go go!” She hauled the bird-fox towards Onan. “Right – we trail blaze, we check for Screamers, and signal the wagons if it’s safe. We need a dark lantern or a torch.”
“Dark lantern. Yes! Absolutely!” Beau tapped at his muzzle as though suddenly remembering, and made as if to disappear. “Ah! I think I saw one over at the far side of the camp! I’ll just…”
“We can grab it as we pass through.” Snapper shouldered her carbine. “Get your mount. We have to get the wagons moving!”
Something utterly weird suddenly bustled into view: something pink and elegant and with far too many limbs. Quite definitely female, if her build was any guide. She may have been a mantis – but no mantis Snapper had ever seen had quite so floral a carapace, nor a head quite so pointed at the eyes. The woman had four arms – two fitted with hands, the other two with rather alarming serrated claws. She pointed one of these excitedly towards the nearest wagon, seizing Snapper with one delicate pink-white hand. Another hand seized the fox-pheasant, dragging him along through sheer moral force.
“Quickly! We have to stop this at once!” The creature waved her numerous arms, all of them a stunning floral pink. “They cannot store those there! Disaster is imminent!”
Wagoners had chosen this exact moment of crisis to shift loads between the wagons. Hefty bales of cotton formed the bottom of one wagon’s load, and men were hastily lifting huge glass carboys of liquid up atop the cotton bales. The mantis was utterly beside herself with agitation.
“They must stop it! They must stop it at once! Madam – order them to desist!”
Snapper blinked in absolute confusion.
“Why is this my problem?”
“You have very big and sharp-looking teeth. And you look like people probably listen to you.” The mantis propelled Snapper over to the wagons, and yelled angrily at a huge bull-headed wagoneer. “You there! Do not mix those loads! Do none of you people ever
read?”
The bull creature just kept right on slinging huge carboys atop the cotton bales.
“Hey lady – the boss said to stop them rattling around!”
“Then use the silica sponges, and put them on the metal trays! There must be no exposed wood!” The mantis was quite incensed. “None! And pray do not mix the acid jugs!”
Snapper looked first to the fox-pheasant, Captain Beau, and then back to the mantis.
“What’s wrong with mixing the loads?”
“Because the carboys are full of acid! Nitric acid in the red ones – sulphuric acid in the green.”
“And that is bad because…?” Snapper was a little lost: everyone needed her attention all at once. “Isn’t the cloth is going to cushion the jars?”
“You cannot mix these loads!” The mantis was utterly adamant. “If the acid leaks into the cloth, it will convert it into nitrocellulose. Gun cotton!”
Snapper could definitely see the point. “You mean the same as in a cartridge for a gun?”
“It is sixteen times more powerful than black powder.” The pink mantis had climbed the wagon, and was pulling acid jugs back down to the ground. “Five hundred litres of acid, and three tonnes of cotton? That’s probably enough to propel most of this camp into orbit.”
“Ah!” Snapper felt a sudden panic – the acid jugs were made of glass, and imperfectly corked. She immediately snared one of the wagoners. “Hey, morons! Listen to the damned mantis! Acid in one wagon, cotton in the other! Do
not
mix those loads!” She pointed to another pair of wagoners. “You – get everyone aboard the wagons. No lights! And you! What’s your name? Beau?” Snapper grabbed the fox-pheasant, who seemed on the verge of edging off again. “We’re scouting. You’re with me!”
Drifting down from the night sky came a most extraordinary being: it was a collection of woody spheres from which sprouted three pairs of great leafy wings. There were several vines topped by heads that resembled pink and orange flowers – possibly a flame pea? Several strong vines hung down below. They carried a notebook, a crossbow and a squeeze-bulb powered air horn. The air horn honked to attract attention as the floating plant settled graciously down.
The mantis greeted the plant with enthusiastic joy.
“Throckmorton! There you are old thing!”
The plant honked its horn again. The collection of heads – all looking oddly like fox faces, with two bat-like orange ear petals and a magenta snout – peered down at the mantis. Tentacles arose, and began to make careful, swift motions in the air. The floating plant spoke finger talk with a languid dexterity.
“One guard is missing. He did not come back to wagons.”
The mantis bustled to a wagon and picked up a gun-shaped object that was connected to a wooden backpack by a length of patched electrical cable. “We’ll go fetch him in!” Apparently the plant could hear well enough – he simply lacked vocal cords. “Ah! Introductions! Throckmorton, this is…”
“Snapper.” The shark hastened after the mantis. “Now look…!”
“Oh! Kitterpokkie, by the way. Or Kitt! The whole thing is a bit of a mouthful!” The mantis activated a switch on her clumsy gun, and it made a hum, spitting and snapping sparks. “Right! Now Throckmorton – where was this missing guard seen last? I’ll bring a light!”