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  The fungus from the beds was loaded onto large sled-like litters before being transported elsewhere, presumably for storage or distribution.

  From the shadows of the tunnel, Atkins watched the Urmen, fascinated. They seemed like ordinary humans. They were dressed in roughly woven tunics and each wore some sort of blue mark upon their foreheads. Looking into the hall he was reminded of his first job in Houlton Mill, the men and women intent on their task as the foremen looked on. Fourteen he’d been when he left school. Those foremen hadn’t been armed, though. Atkins counted twenty soldier Chatts, five in the gallery, the rest patrolling the floor.

  “Bloody slave labour, that’s what it is,” muttered Pot Shot, appalled.

  “Up there,” whispered Everson. Atkins and Hobson followed his finger to the gallery. They watched Urmen enter it with their laden sleds.

  After an urging shove from Hobson, Atkins stepped warily out into the hubbub of the fungus farming chamber, his bayoneted Enfield at the ready. The noise about him didn’t suddenly subside and deteriorate into an ugly, tense silence as he half expected. In fact, the world carried on around him, the Urmen continuing with their tasks and pulling harvested litters of fungus along using shoulder harnesses woven from what looked like plant fibre.

  Cautiously the rest of the section stepped out to join him. They kept to the edge of the chamber and headed in an anticlockwise direction for the gallery ramp. Poilus broke away from the group to acquire an apparently abandoned sled-like litter. He loaded the sacks and sandbags of extra weapons onto it, then heaped it with fungus to the cover the weapons. An Urman woman approached him to protest and Atkins felt himself tense for a fight, but Poilus, gesticulating, seemed to be making some sort of argument. Angrily, she gesticulated back. Poilus trumped her by pointing to the soldier Chatts on the gallery above and she threw her arms in the air, shook her head and wandered off sullenly.

  They were making headway toward the spiral ramp when several soldier Chatts appeared out of a passage and advanced purposefully towards them. Urmen scuttled out of the way as, behind the squat, heavy-set soldiers, a taller, more regal-looking Chatt followed them; its head and antennae covered with a rich carmine hood that masked its features. It wore a length of silk thrown over its shoulder and tied around its abdomen from which hung a great number of tassels. The soldiers knew a member of the ruling classes when they saw one. Atkins and Hobson froze, unsure how to react.

  A flat-faced soldier Chatt stopped in front of them, its lance sparking faintly. Its black, featureless eyes scrutinized them. Its antennae waved petulantly as it sought confirmation of the expected chemical mark of Khungarrii scent. Atkins became very aware of the sweat on his hands and his forehead as it continued its inspection and hoped his human smell wouldn’t wash away his scent mask. Finally satisfied, its antennae stopped waving and it began scissoring its mandibles belligerently. “Move, dhuyumirrii comes.”

  Poilus, helped by Pot Shot, dragged the litter to the side of the chamber before dropping his harness and making a curious gesture, touching his hands to his forehead and then to his chest, while bowing to the imperious Chatt approaching them.

  “Move,” he hissed urgently at Atkins and Hobson, who moved clumsily back against the wall under the watchful gaze of the soldier Chatt. With a nod from Everson, the others followed suit. Atkins caught a waft of cloying perfume from the head covering of the stately Chatt. It was so strong that he had to suppress a cough as it swept passed without acknowledging their presence.

  Pot Shot glared after the haughty arthropod. “Same the bloody world over,” he muttered. “There’s always them on top. Now I find out it’s the same on different worlds an’ all. I can’t say I’m particularly encouraged. Still, all will be different when we get the Urmen to stand up for their rights and take these folk down a peg or two.”

  “Yeah, well don’t forget our first priority is our own,” hissed Gutsy. “Save your Labour rhetoric for later, eh?”

  “Move on,” ordered Everson, once the regal Chatt party had passed.

  Pot Shot ducked into the shoulder harness, braced himself and stepped forward, taking the weight of his sled. Ketch, obviously unhappy with his own sacks of ammunition, sought to do what Poilus had done and requisition a litter the better to carry his load. However, a restraining hand on his wrist stopped him. A tall Urman glared down at him.

  “Where is your mark?” he asked. “I see no mark.”

  “Mark? But I have the scent, you saw,” he said, indicating the receding Chatt with its guards.

  “Urmen Khungarrii don’t smell it. You are required to wear the Mark. You know that. Where is it?” he hissed, staring hard at the corporal’s forehead and pointing to his own blue glyph.

  Ketch raised a questing fingertip and wiped it across his own greasy brow. “It must have come off? I sweat. A lot.”

  “Then reapply it before someone else notices and takes you for Casteless and godless and calls the scentirrii. GarSuleth wills it,” he snapped, before shoving Ketch away and returning about his business. The corporal snarled and brought up his bayoneted rifle ready to thrust the point home, but Atkins grabbed him by shoulder.

  “No, Corp,” he said. “Not here. Not now.”

  Ketch glared after the Urman, growling under his breath before relaxing his stance. He turned and shrugged Atkins’ hand off his shoulder. “Fuck off, Atkins.” He grabbed the vacant sled-like litter, loaded it up and began dragging it along sullenly.

  The social injustice of his surroundings continued to gnaw at Pot Shot, like a dog with a bone. He grabbed the arm of a passing Urman woman. “Why do you submit to their rule?”

  “We are all Khungarrii. GarSuleth provides. GarSuleth wills it,” said the woman.

  Everson stepped up and gripped Pot Shot’s arm. “Jellicoe, that’s enough. Now isn’t the time to organize a general bloody strike.”

  “But, sir—”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Jellicoe. We’re here to do a job.”

  Reluctantly, Pot Shot returned his attention to pulling the sled, shaking his head and muttering while the Urman woman stared wonderingly after them for a moment, before turning back to her task.

  The Tommies approached the ramp and began to make their way up its incline.

  “What’s the matter with ’em? Don’t they want to be freed?” asked Pot Shot, taking a last look down over the labouring Urmen.

  “They’ve been under the yoke too long,” said Gutsy. “They just need someone to show ’em how, that’s all. Guess we’ll be doing that before the day’s out.”

  JEFFRIES STOOD IN Chandar’s small chamber while he allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He peered at the objects all around him, piles of Urman junk; pots, jars, jewellery, woven mats, crude shoes and animal skin clothing, wooden implements of every description. Some, given pride of place on earthen plinths or in niches around the wall, commanded the eye. Others, considered less important perhaps, sat in unsorted piles around the floor. He found himself reminded of the piles of their own trench equipment in the other chamber.

  “Sirigar thinks this one is wasting its time, but this One’s accident allowed it to see Urmen in a new way,” said Chandar, standing proudly amid its collection.

  “Accident?” said Jeffries, glancing around with indifference, now he could make out more detail in the lichen-light.

  “This One’s antennae were damaged,” said Chandar, squatting and beginning to root though a pile. “This One can no longer sense odours. In Khungarrii terms this One is…” It seemed to struggle to find the right words.

  “Ah. Scent blind. Unfortunate for you.” Jeffries was becoming impatient with the small talk. After cornering Chandar into revealing what it knew about Croatoan, he didn’t appreciate this new delay.

  “No, GarSuleth wills it. To Khungarrii this one is pitied, unable to perform its duties, so I have undertaken new studies. Liya-Dhuyumirrii Sirigar allows this one to pursue its interest in Urmen, now this One only sees the world in
the way they do. This One believes it gives it some insight into their old way of life.”

  “Where did you get these artefacts of yours?”

  “Scentirrii would occasionally come across such things and bring them back. Once they were deemed to be of no harm or interest they were disposed of on the midden heaps, but this one retrieved them. This one can only speculate as to some of their uses. This One thought you might be able to enlighten it.”

  The old fool had been hoarding these things, not knowing what they were and no doubt extrapolating ludicrous theories about indigenous Urman culture on that basis. Jeffries wandered over to a niche in which was a pile of small metallic objects. Chandar followed, watching his reaction eagerly.

  Jeffries stood before the niche, for once nonplussed, all thoughts of Croatoan suddenly expunged from his mind. Fingers trembling, mouth dry, Jeffries picked up the least of the trifles; a small round metal disc, and turned it over in his fingers.

  “What do you think it is? A charm, a ward perhaps?”

  It spoke volumes to Jeffries that the Chatt didn’t recognise a coin when it saw one. He studied the copper disc between his thumb and forefinger. He heard the blood rush in his ears and his fingers trembled fractionally with every pulse beat. This... this was a Roman coin, a denarius, if he wasn’t mistaken and, judging by the pug ugly, bullnecked profile on the obverse, from the reign of the emperor Titus. He struggled to keep his outward composure calm. Somehow, this all made sense. Somehow.

  “In a manner of speaking,” he croaked, having to cough and clear his throat as he shuffled through the pile of similar coins. “Do you have anything more?”

  “Yes,” Chandar’s stunted middle limbs seemed gripped by spasms as if exhibiting childish delight. It led Jeffries to another pile of items and began sifting thorough them, looking for a choice find. With each new presentation Chandar made, it became harder for Jeffries to conceal his disbelief at what he saw. There were more coins, bone pins, a crushed and dried out leather sandal, a scattering of mediaeval brooches and pottery, a small carven Celtic cross, Elizabethan silverware, crockery and scraps of cloth, and what seemed to be medical tools; an incision knife, a spatula; the items came one after the other. With a lurching sense of vertigo, it became clear to Jeffries that they were not the first humans to visit this world from Earth. Even as he thought this however, another, more damning, hypothesis began to form in his mind.

  The more Jeffries saw, the more he became convinced that there had been incidents of human displacement in history before. What had happened to those people? Well, that was a stupid question. If their own experiences were anything to go by, then most of them would have been killed, struggling to survive their first few days. But the survivors? Could these troglodytic Urmen be the descendants of others who had arrived here from Earth in the past? There were many legends of mass disappearances throughout history. For all the soldiers’ hopes, for all their desires and dreams of Blighty, it appeared that there may not actually be a way back to Earth. But what did that have to do with his Great Working? With Croatoan? That he couldn’t yet see, until his gaze fell upon what should have been an impossible object, or at least, until a few minutes ago, an impossible object. The sight of it caused him barely to suppress a gasp.

  “Where... where did you find this...?” he rasped, picking up a weathered, hand-carved wooden sign that proclaimed boldly the legend, New Roanoke.

  With that one name, the matter of Croatoan burst once more into the forefront of his mind. Croatoan, the fallen angel who communicated with the renowned Elizabethan Magus, Doctor John Dee. Several of his disciples were reputed to have been among the first English settlers in Virginia in 1582 when they attempted to found the colony of Roanoke, financed by the secretive School of Night. When the supply ship returned later, the colony had disappeared. The only clue they found was the word ‘Croatoan’ carved into a gatepost. That the opening of the New World was conceived of as an occult operation was an idea Jeffries had been aware of for a long time, he just didn’t think they meant this new world, although he could certainly see how it fitted the bill as prima materia.

  It was becoming clear to him now, beyond all doubt, that Croatoan was linked to the disappearances. Was the colony really an audacious early attempt at the very magickal operation he had performed, well away from prying Protestant eyes, where the necessary bloodletting could be practiced on the native population without being hampered by the moral imperatives of society?

  Whatever the truth, it would seem the same fate had befallen the settlers of the lost Roanoke colony as befell the Pennines. From the weathered sign he held in his hands, it was clear that they too had been transported to this world in response to their Working. Here, they had sought to found a new colony, a new Roanoke, who worshipped Croatoan. If the Battalion’s own experiences were anything to go by, then not many would have survived their first few weeks without help. He rounded on Chandar. “Tell me about Croatoan. That’s the bargain. Tell me about Croatoan.”

  Chandar hissed at the mention of the name, but resigned itself to its side of the bargain.

  “According to the notes of the Perfumed Chronicles it happened many, many queens ago. In the spinnings of the dhagastri-har queen— the forty-third queen of Khungarr—a herd of Urmen passed into the lands of the Khungarrii and, seeking refuge in Khungarr, which they received willingly, they brought with them into our midst their own god… Croatoan. They began trying to convert the Urmen of Khungarr to their god and, as a sign, pointed out a bright spot in the sky that they claimed was their god come to smite down GarSuleth.” Here Chandar made a brief gesture of reverence as if to protect itself and its god from its own heretical words. “The light grew brighter, brighter than all the other dew drops that shine in GarSuleth’s Web and Urmen turned against the Khungarr. The liya-dhuyumirrii declared that GarSuleth would cast the false god from the Sky World. So it came to pass that the false god was hurled down in fire and the entire world felt his fall. Croatoan was consumed in flames and consigned to the underworld by Skarra. With their god destroyed the majority of Urmen turned rightfully to GarSuleth. Those that would not were, likewise, cast out and his worship declared heretical by Chemical Decree from the queen.”

  That Croatoan was woven into the fate of the Khungarrii was more than Jeffries had dared hope for. As all these thoughts circled round his mind, his eyes fell on a piece of parchment sat in a niche, pinned to a board of bark. Chandar looked on proudly as he studied it. It looked like a map. He must have made a noise because Chandar picked up on it.

  “Does it mean something to you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The dhuyumirrii studied it but it has no scent of meaning to them. The glyphs we cannot decipher.”

  “Did you not think to ask one of your Urmen?” said Jeffries, irritated at having to deal with these interruptions as he struggled to get to grips with all that he was seeing.

  “Khungarrii Urmen can neither script nor scent. After the Croatoan Heresy their own ways were declared sacrilege. All that they were is lost. Urman culture was eradicated. All Urman writings and knowledge wiped out. They are Khungarrii now. No one can read the language, if language it is.”

  Jeffries stared at the map. It seemed to be a map of this world. He couldn’t understand how Chandar couldn’t see it for what it was, but then it was entirely probable that their cartography was scentbased and not visually oriented. He ran his eyes hungrily over every symbol, over every mark on the map. Everything he knew from his studies—the style of calligraphy, the type of parchment—told him this was Elizabethan. It was fine, if hurried draughtsmanship. The map was incomplete although it did indicate what seemed to be mountains, forest, rivers and presumably, other edifices. He saw blocks of closely written Enochian and Voynich text that he would have to decipher laboriously. And there, and there, despite the bad penmanship and the foxing, emblazoned on the map in several locations, Jeffries recognised the unmistakable sigil of Croatoan.

  CH
APTER SEVENTEEN

  “Louse Hunting”

  EVERSON HALTED THE party in a side tunnel to get their bearings. It was apparent to him that these rough tunnels were reserved for worker castes, designed as passing places or servants’ passages, so that the ruling Chatts wouldn’t have to come face to face with them. His father’s house in Broughtonthwaite had similar features.

  He got Poilus to ask passing Urmen if they knew where the prisoners were being kept, but he might as well have been asking them the way to the Alhambra Picture House. There was no way they would find the captured soldiers by blundering blindly about these tunnels, the place was a maze with numerous cul-de-sacs and dead ends, so it was just as well he’d got a plan.

  “Atkins,” he called.

  The private turned from watching the mouth of the tunnel and Everson, crooking a finger, beckoned him back.

  “Sir?”

  “You still have that confounded creature?”

  “Yes sir, it’s getting a bit restless, though,” he said, nodding down at his gas helmet knapsack, which was moving about in an agitated fashion. “I reckon he must be getting pretty hungry.”

  “Good, time to take it for a walk then. Let it out, will you.”

  He saw Atkins look at Hopkiss, who just shrugged.

  “Don’t look at Hopkiss, Atkins, just do it,” said Everson.

  He could see the looks in their eyes; it’s a bloody officer, who knows what he’s thinking, just do as you’re told. But he’d learnt to let that wash over him a long time ago.

  Atkins complied and pulled a large rat-like creature from his knapsack, its long nose already questing at the air with small, wet snuffles.

  “Got a name has it, Atkins?”

  “Ginger, er, Mottram, called it Gordon, sir.”