Annabelle let out a breath that she hadn't been aware of holding. "That was creepy."
"This path is much too dangerous," Tomàs muttered.
Annabelle frowned at him. "Hey, nobody's keeping you. Anytime you want to take off, you got my blessing.
The Portuguese made no reply, but something ugly flickered in the back of his eyes before he gave her one of his ingratiating, thin smiles.
I smell something. Shriek said suddenly. An odd, unpleasant smell—like a fish. but it walks on the land.
"Like something rotting?" Annabelle asked. She lifted her head and tried to catch a sense of whatever it was that the arachnid had smelled, but her own sense of smell wasn't as highly developed.
Shriek shook her head. No, Being Annabelle. Whatever it is, it is alive.
"How close is it?" Annabelle asked.
I can't tell. I …. She shook her head. It is gone now.
Annabelle sighed. Perfect. Now they had to watch out for some kind of walking fish that played maracas?
"I'll take the first watch," she told Shriek. "You go ahead and rest—I'll be waking you all too soon."
The arachnid nodded. As she stretched out, carefully smoothing down her hair spikes where she lay on them. Annabelle turned to the other two. Tomàs was laughing.
"Walking Fish?" he said. "Bom. Walk them into my belly, then."
Still chuckling, he turned in. leaving Annabelle and Sidi alone by the dying fire. Annabelle fed some more wood to the coals.
"What do you think it was, Sidi?"
"I don't know. Annabelle, but we'd better keep a close watch. If Shriek thinks it's dangerous..."The Indian shrugged. "I trust her."
"Me, too. She's good people. You'd belter turn in."
Sidi reached out and touched the back of her hand. "We'll be fine. Annabelle—you'll see."
She turned her hand to clasp his for a moment, and gave his fingers a squeeze. His skin was dry, the palms thick with callouses.
"I hope so." she said.
She watched him curl up by the trunk of the tree, head pillowed on a root, and envied the way he immediately fell asleep. Then she sat up, feeding more wood to the fire, and listened to the jungle night. She started at every sudden noise, but the weird shaking sound wasn't repeated during her watch, nor during that of any of the others, she found out in the morning.
Tomàs had the last watch, but when Annabelle woke, she noticed that Shriek was awake as well, though still lying down, two of her six eyes focused on the Portuguese.
I shoulda thought of that, she realized. Some leader I'm turning out to be. The bloody little weasel could slit all our throats while we're sleeping.
The following day passed uneventfully. That evening, Shriek brought down one of the tapirlike creatures and this time, Annabelle ate with them. Although she was still squeamish about watching the thing be butchered, she could handle eating it. But not the monkey—that was too much like eating a cousin, or a baby. Shriek was apparently aware of that, for she'd passed up a number of monkeys in favor of the tapir, and for that. Annabelle was grateful.
Annabelle had the dawn watch that night. She built up the fire, silting back from its heat, but wanting the comfort of its glow no matter if it made the already stifling night hotter. Light was just creeping in through the overhanging boughs when she heard the sound again.
Chica-chic.
She looked quickly around, trying to sense the place from which it was originating. To her left?
Chica-chic.
Chica-chic.
Right and left.
She nudged Sidi with her foot and picked up a length of wood that she'd been planning to add to the fire.
Chica-chic.
Shriek was awake and sitting up. She plucked hair spikes from her hide, one for each of her four hands.
Chica-chica-chica-chica . . .
The sound came from all around them. In the crowing light. Annabelle could make out humanoid shapes moving toward them through the trees. Except for the strange maraca sound, the jungle was silent. Then, the first of the approaching creatures stepped into clear view.
Shriek drew back an arm, but there was a whuffing: sound and she clapped a hand to her neck where a small dart had stung her. Her arms flailed and then she toppled over.
"Ah. Jesus . . ." Annabelle murmured.
She was on her feet. Sidi and Tomàs flanking her on either side, both armed, as she was, with lengths of firewood. Another pair of the creatures Joined the first one, then two more, another three, until there were a dozen or so of them surrounding the small company. Looking at them, Annabelle remembered what Clive had read from Neville's journal—"blue people"—and Shriek's warning last night.
An odd, unpleasant smell—like a fish, but it walks on the land.
No kidding, for they did reek, and they looked like fish. And they were definitely blue-skinned.
They were no taller than four feet, but broad-shouldered and stocky. Their faces had the streamlined look of fish about them, with eyes set widely apart, almost to the sides of their heads. Their noses were only vestigial, their mouths wide, lipless slits that almost cut their heads in two. Instead of ears, they had holes in the sides of their head. Their hair was black and slick on the top of their heads, but there was none on their bodies. Loincloths covered their genitals. Each had a blowgun, and a number of darts sticking up between his knuckles, obviously ready for instant use.
It was when she caught sight of the back of one of them that she realized what they reminded her of—sharks. They had stiff fins sticking up along their spines, and when a few opened their mouths, she saw rows of sharp teeth. Mouths open wide, they tilted their heads back, and Annabelle saw their uvulas shake.
Chica-chic.
Mystery number one solved, she thought. Now, how the hell do we get out of this?
One who appeared to be a leader stepped closer to them. "Folly, folly," he said.
His voice was a wheezing rasp, and Annabelle wasn't sure what she was hearing. Was it English? Was he telling them they were stupid? No marks for brilliance there, pal. Or was it an alien word? And if so. what did it mean?
She thought of Clive and his party wandering happily across the veldt, and wished she'd been smart enough to slick with them.
"You know, kids." she told her companions, "I think the smart move now's to drop these sticks."
At the sound of her voice, blowguns lifted to the mouths of those who weren't making the weird maraca sound, each weapon fixed on Annabelle, Sidi, or Tomàs.
Chica-chica-chica.
Annabelle let her stick fall from her hand. "Take it easy," she said, in the most placating tone she could muster. "You win."
On either side, her companions let their own makeshift weapons drop.
"Did you ever get the feeling it's gonna be just one of those days?" she said to Sidi.
"Folly, folly!" the leader cried.
"You said it, pal."
A number of the creatures came up to them and forced them to lie on the ground, hands behind their backs. Their wrists were tied, and then they were forced back to their feet and pushed on down the game trail, blue hands prodding them with stiff fingers whenever they lagged. Behind, Shriek was tied to two long poles. Their captors then hoisted her bulk onto their shoulders and took up the rear.
Face it. Annie B., Annabelle told herself. You screwed up again.
Nine
The ground tremors grew worse as the enormous herd of brontosaurs drew nearer. It was now possible for Clive's party to see the scavenging coelurosaurs as well, though they were still dwarfed by the monstrous herbivores where they ranged in the shadow of the herd. They appeared to be a kind of lizard and were, indeed, the size of ostriches. Their rear legs were far larger than the fore, though they appeared equally comfortable running on all fours or upright like a man, their long tails thrust out straight behind them for balance.
The scavengers would be his party's principle danger, Clive realized, but it was difficult
to drag his gaze away from the behemoths that made up the herd. The Walking Mountains, Finnbogg's description of them was all too apt.
It was next to impossible for Clive to calculate the sheer bulk of the creatures. It was as though the glass dome of the Great Exhibition's Crystal Palace had become flesh, sprouted enormous legs, tail, and elongated neck, and begun to march across Hyde Park. But not just one dome become monster. Hundreds of them. For as far as the eye could see.
Clinging to the tree to keep his balance, Clive could only marvel that such creatures could even exist. The cyborg's estimates of the creatures' lengths and weights seemed inadequate.
"Well," Smythe drawled at his side. "We can't complain of this being a dull sort of a place."
Clive nodded. Mopish, it certainly wasn't.
"I could do with a little boredom." he said.
"Finnbogg would settle for merely surviving to remember." the dwarf muttered.
"My circuits will preserve the memory." the cyborg said, "even if we do not survive."
Smythe rolled his eyes. "Isn't that bloody reassuring."
"We should have gone with Annabelle's party," Clive said. "As soon as we saw that feeding ground, we should have turned back. Meteorites and grass fires, indeed."
"That's it!" Smythe cried. "Finnbogg. Major—each of you take a grip of my shoulders and hold me hard."
Clive gave his comrade a puzzled glance, then braced himself as best he could and took a grip on Smythe's left shoulder. On the other side of Smythe. Finnbogg did the same. Clive glanced back at the herd. Their approach remained steady, the sound of their tread like one continuous roll of thunder. The scavengers were closer still. Any moment they would be investigating this island of trees where his small party was hiding.
He turned back to see Smythe striking flint against steel.
"What are you doing?" he cried.
"Setting a grass fire, Smythe replied. "Don't you see? We'll start a fire and fan it in their direction to chase the bloody things away."
Capital, Clive thought. And if the fire chose to burn in their direction instead? But the wind was blowing toward the behemoths, and it was obvious that no one else had a better plan.
With a bunch of dried grass between his knees. Smythe worked the flint and steel, cursing with great imagination as he attempted to set it alight. Twice he dropped the flint as the reverberations grew too severe and both Clive and Finnbogg momentarily lost their grip on him. The cyborg had turned from the view of the herd to watch them with what Clive swore was amusement in his cold features.
Then a spark flew to the grass, and the grass smoldered. Smythe blew gently until it caught fire. With his makeshift torch in hand, he closed himself from the grip of his companions and crawled unsteadily away from the tree, where he started a line of fire in the tall grass.
"Help me now!" he cried over his shoulder.
Flint and steel returned to their pouch at his belt. He removed his coat, and began to fan it at the flames. The dried grass caught fire quickly, and soon the three of them were heating the sparks that leapt back toward them while simultaneously fanning the flames in the direction of the herd.
The wind at their backs gusted, and suddenly there was a wall of fire rushing away from them. Through the smoke they could see the monstrous heads of the brontosaurs lifting on their extended necks, turning in the direction of the flames.
"That's done it!" Smythe cried as the closest of the creatures lumbered away in panic.
But now they were busy beating out the flames that threatened to engulf their hiding place. Coughing and choking, they built a fire barrier of charred ground on three sides, but they need no longer have worried. The wind drove the fire away from them, and soon there was a sea of flames bearing down on the herd; their island copse was safe.
The earth tremors increased dramatically as the herd lumbered into a panicked half-trot, the behemoths pounding the plain with their immense weight, the scavengers darting among them, quick as lizards. Dust and smoke choked the air. Clive, Smythe, and Finnbogg clung to the ground as it rocked and buckled under them. Even Guafe lost his balance and assumed a similar undignified position. The air rang with the thunder of the herd's flight.
By the time the tremors had been reduced to mere vibrations, the party was so shaken that they could barely stand. Their sense of balance was all awry, and they lurched to their feet like East End drunks, grinning at each other.
"Hurroo!" Smythe cried. "That's foxed the bastards!"
Clive clapped him on the back. "There's the man!"
The cyborg suffered none of their loss of balance.
Standing stiffly to one side of them, he brushed at his clothes.
"I see no cause for celebration." he said, his metallic voice sharper than ever. "All you have accomplished is the ruin of a perfect observational opportunity."
"Don't be such a wet goose." Smythe told him. "Would you rather be dead?"
"That is not the point. I believe it would have been far more interesting to gather data on such obscure fauna— not to stampede them."
Smythe didn't bother to reply. He spat on the ground and turned to look at where the fire was dying out as it came up against the tramped and cropped area of the behemoths' trail.
"I don't understand you." Clive said. "We might have died if Horace hadn't thought of turning the herd back with his fire."
Guafe studied the Englishman for a long moment. "Knowledge is a precious commodity," the cyborg said finally. "More important than a few lives."
"Died you would have, too," Finnbogg said. "What good's saved up thinks then?"
The cyborg touched his chest. "My memory circuits are stored in a casing that would survive the detonation of a nuclear bomb." At their baffled looks, he added. "By which I mean a great deal of destructive force."
"But you wouldn't survive." Clive said.
"That is not important."
Smythe turned to look at Guafe. "Sounds to me like a case of a wet arse and no fish."
Now it was the cyborg's turn to appear confused.
"A fruitless quest," Clive explained.
Smythe nodded. "A man's a man, for a' that." he said, quoting Burns. "For what he is. my clockwork man, for what he does. If a man's heart is true, he is more important than any cause. Better to be remembered for the good deeds you've done than for what bits of knowledge you carry around in your brain. You may have some indestructible memory chest inside you, but it'll do no one any good if you're to die here. Who's to find it?"
"My people would—"
"If your people knew where you are, they'd come looking for you, now, wouldn't they?"
"This is a pointless discussion." Guafe said, effectively ending the conversation. "We have the belter part of the day ahead of us, and a long journey still to complete. I suggest we get on with it."
Without waiting for them, he set off.
It was easier traveling, following in the trail of the brontosaur herd. Without having to fight through the grass, even dodging the crater-like footprints, they made much better time, doubling the distance that they had covered the previous day.
"We're beginning to look like a pair of heavy swells." Smythe remarked to Clive as they followed the cyborg, who walked ahead of them with a stiff-backed gait.
Clive nodded, fingering his beard. A few decades ago—at least, in English years, and counting back from when they'd left London—the officers returning from the Crimea had started a new fashion of full beards, or opulent side-whiskers, that the heavy swells took as their own. They spoke in languid drawls to indicate their social superiority, turning all their r's into w's. Specimens of their kind survived well into the 1860s.
"At least we haven't descended to that wather weawisome style of speech."
"Oh. Howace. How you do go on!"
Both men broke into laughter, garnering a puzzled look from Finnbogg.
"Don't worry, Finn." Smythe assured him. "We haven't both gone knackers."
"I needed
that laugh." Clive said when he'd recovered his breath.
Smythe nodded. "It's a grim world," he said. "And, speaking of grimness, are there any other dangers on this level that you haven't warned us of, Finn?"
Clive patted the pocket that held his twin's journal.
"We need all the warning we can gel. Neville said nothing about those creatures."
"I wouldn't count on too much help from your brother, sah," Smythe said. "That's one thing Annabelle had right—we're more liable to run headlong into danger following his directions, than going our own way. It's what he doesn't tell us that worries me."
Clive was in complete agreement. "More surprises, we don't need."
"Finnbogg heard story of Walking Mountains and their herdsmen a long time ago." the dwarf said. "Finnbogg doesn't remember much of it. But when they came and ground shook, then Finnbogg—"
"Herdsmen?" Smythe cried. "What herdsmen?"
"Perhaps he's referring to those scavenger creatures," Clive said hopefully.
The dwarf's brow wrinkled as he searched for the memory. "Finnbogg thinks they're a kind of bird. A low-flying bird."
Clive and Smythe worriedly scanned the sky.
"Silver in color." Finnbogg went on, "and they nest in the mountains." He waved a hand in the general direction of the mountain range that, for all their traveling away from it, appeared as close today as it had two days previous.
Smythe said, "It's at least a week's march across this plain. If luck is with us, for once, perhaps we'll miss meeting up with them."
Clive frowned. "Neville wrote nothing of these herdsmen."
"He wrote nothing of the herd, either," Sim the replied.
The remainder of that day, they watched the skies, getting cricks in their necks, but there was no sign of any bird, silver or otherwise. Smythe brought down another of the curious dares in the late afternoon, so once again they had fresh meat for their supper. The dares had been congregated about a small fresh-water seep, so while Smythe cleaned his kill. Clive and Finnbogg filled their watersacks, which had been growing steadily emptier since leaving the river.
That evening, as they smoked strips of the meat for the next day's meals, the two Englishmen kept after Finnbogg, wanting more information about this level of the Dungeon. The dwarf fended off their queries, growing more upset, until he flew into a sudden, towering rage.