He looked up. Above him loomed another half-dozen terraces. There was no point in tackling them immediately, he decided. He was tired out and in need of at least a short rest, so he sat down on the ground with his back against a rock. The furry creatures promptly started clambering over him. Dozens of them scrambled on top of him, covering him from head to foot. Then they nestled against him and started to purr. He was enveloped in a warm, live fur coat.
‘My, aren’t they trusting?’ said Dandelion.
‘We ought to kill a few and drink their blood,’ Krindle suggested.
‘I really missed you and your constructive ideas,’ said Dandelion. ‘Good to have you back, Krindle.’
Rumo was asleep within seconds.
Lying down or standing up? Rala couldn’t have said which she was doing. She tried to speak, but she couldn’t move her lips. She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids refused to obey.
Was she frightened? No. She was awake, alive and undaunted. That was strange. She ought to have been at least a little bit frightened, but although she couldn’t see, couldn’t move and was imprisoned in something, her composure steadily increased. It was strange, yes, but true. Had she gone mad? Mad people sometimes felt irrationally calm in hopeless situations, so she’d heard.
Rala consulted the instincts of her species. Sniffing the air, she detected the smell of metal, the smoky aroma of lead. She’d been buried alive. Or was she dead? No, she felt so alive, so wide awake! If only she could receive some sign, some sign from outside, that would prove she was alive! But there was nothing to be heard. She lay in the dark for a long time – just lay there and waited.
There! At last! A click followed by the unpleasant sound of metal grating against metal. A long-drawn-out, excruciating sound that set her teeth on edge, but it was music to her ears. Someone was scratching on the outside of her coffin.
Then she heard a voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once. A low, unfamiliar whisper, it sounded cold and dead, and mingled with that soulless whisper was an irregular mechanical noise like the ticking of a defective clock.
‘Rala?’ said the voice. ‘Are you [tick] awake at last? Yes? [tock] My instruments [tick] tell me you are. [tock] Then we can begin. Are you [tick] ready to die? To die more slowly [tock] than anyone has ever died before?’
General Ticktock’s story
When General Ticktock and his Copper Killers vanished from the face of Zamonia a legend arose that they had fled straight to hell. Like all legends, this one contained a grain of truth, and truth is always stranger and more exciting than fiction. Yes, General Ticktock had fled straight to hell, but that was the beginning of his story, not the end. Down there he found everything he had always dreamt of. He found a home, and he found eternal death and dying. What was more, he surpassed himself in the truest sense, becoming something far, far greater than he had ever been in Overworld. But that was far from being the best thing that befell General Ticktock in Netherworld. No, the best thing he found there was love.
He never looked back after fleeing from Lindworm Castle and leaving his soldiers in the lurch. He marched for hours, days and months without ever calling a halt or glancing over his shoulder.
After about a month General Ticktock paused for the first time and turned round. His entire army, or what was left of it, was standing respectfully to attention. Several hundred Copper Killers had followed him every step of the way and were humbly awaiting his orders.
That was when he realised his soldiers would follow him anywhere, no matter what he did. He could have marched them straight into a smelting oven and they would have obeyed without question. That was blind obedience in its most perfect form. With bodyguards like these he could still achieve all he wanted.
‘We are yours to command, General Ticktock!’ cried the Copper Killers, smiting their armour-plated chests.
So they marched on through Zamonia, attacking villages and small unfortified towns. Unlike traditional armies, however, the Copper Killers pursued no definite objective. They did not aspire to enrich themselves or capture towns in order to occupy them and enslave their inhabitants. They merely did what they had been trained to do: kill, destroy, and then march on with a view to killing and destroying anew. The Copper Killers enjoyed this merciless routine and would, if it had been up to them, have continued to perform it ad infinitum. In the end, however, General Ticktock grew bored. He would have liked to wreak still more destruction and kill with greater refinement, but there seemed to be no prospect of doing so within the confines of Zamonia.
One day the Copper Killers were opposed by an army of Demonic Warriors. Although the Demonic army was numerically superior to them, all that remained of it by nightfall was a handful of captured warriors impaled on stakes at the edge of the battlefield, kicking and struggling as they waited for death to put them out of their misery.
General Ticktock, who was immensely interested in anything to do with death, stationed himself in front of the dying warriors and asked, ‘Where [tick] do you think you go to [tock] when this is over?’
‘To Netherworld!’ they replied in unison.
‘Netherworld? What [tick] does Netherworld have to offer [tock] that attracts you so?’
‘Eternal death and eternal dying,’ croaked one of the warriors.
‘Wine laced with blood!’ groaned another.
‘Murder and torture are as universal there as birth and death are up here,’ gasped a third.
‘I’m intrigued [tick],’ said General Ticktock. ‘How do I get to [tock] this wonderful place?’
‘You?’ the Demonic Warriors laughed. ‘You can’t! You’re only a godforsaken machine – you can’t die. The only passport to Netherworld is death.’
‘Well [tick], I mustn’t detain you [tock],’ said General Ticktock, and he personally slit their throats.
From now on he was obsessed with the idea of getting to Netherworld. Telling him that he couldn’t do something was just the way to infuse him with a burning desire to accomplish it nonetheless. The dying Demonic Warriors had finally presented his aimless existence with an objective: he would descend into that terrible realm of pain and death, even without dying – indeed, he would if necessary burrow his way down there with his own hands. And once there he wouldn’t leave it at that – oh no, he would become the ruler of that evil place.
The Copper Killers were henceforth under orders to question all the people they met about the route to Netherworld, and ‘questioning’ usually meant torturing them until the last items of information had been extracted. Because people will say anything under duress, many places were claimed to be the site of the secret entrance to Netherworld: a ravine in the Midgard Mountains, a cave beneath the sea near Betaville, a crater in Devil’s Gulch. The result of this search for the route to Netherworld was that the Copper Killers roamed around even more restlessly than before – and were disappointed every time.
One day their quest took them to a small town known as Snowflake because of the eternal snow that covered its buildings. General Ticktock decided to storm the place as soon as he sighted it in the distance. The Copper Killers cleaned their weapons, loaded their crossbows and – as usual – gathered information by torturing a few locals captured in the vicinity of the town. One of them was a blind, exceedingly old Druid who led a hermit’s existence on a hill nearby.
He warned the Copper Killers as follows: ‘Do not set foot in that accursed town! People have settled there many a time, only to disappear overnight. A few days ago I once more smelt the acrid stench drifting over from the town, and once more its inhabitants have vanished. Avoid the place – it devours its own children!’
General Ticktock, who was intrigued by this story, decided to be merciful to the old Druid, so he had him killed on the spot instead of being slowly tortured to death. Then, because his curiosity had really been aroused by now, he ordered the Copper Killers to launch a night attack on Snowflake. Sure enough, they were unopposed. There was no resistance. The pl
ace was deserted – a ghost town, as the old man had said. Its snow-covered roofs gleamed in the moonlight and General Ticktock wondered why so handsome a town had been left unoccupied. Perhaps the blind greybeard had frightened its inhabitants out of their wits with his scaremongering and they’d abandoned the town because of an old wives’ tale. At all events, General Ticktock was piqued by the absence of anyone to kill and regretted having treated the old man so mercifully.
When the Copper Killers entered the main square of Snowflake they were confronted by a strange sight: a gaping hole as big as a village pond. Undeterred by the evil smell that rose from it, General Ticktock went to the edge of the abyss and looked down. A seemingly endless spiral staircase led down into the bowels of the earth. He sent for one of the prisoners he’d taken outside the town.
‘What [tick] is that [tock]?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ the trembling prisoner replied.
General Ticktock seized him by the throat and hurled him down the hole, then listened to his screams, which took a long, long time to die away.
‘But I do [tick],’ he said, when silence had finally returned. ‘It’s the entrance to Netherworld [tock].’
An impressive entrance
Hel suited General Ticktock perfectly. It was not only bigger but wilder and more evil than any city he’d ever seen before. The dark alleyways, the ghostly lighting, the weird architecture, the bizarre inhabitants, the soot and grime – he was hugely delighted by all that met his eye when the Copper Killers marched into Hel. For the first time in his life he had no wish to destroy a place; he wanted to become a part of it – the most important part, naturally.
The general’s army encountered no resistance as it clanked, unspeaking, through the soot-blackened streets. Anyone who saw the metallic warriors coming shrank back and disappeared into the gloom. From time to time they met small bands of Bluddums or other mercenaries who respectfully stood aside to let them pass, but most of the inhabitants seemed to be either pale-skinned creatures with horns or peculiar hybrids whose strange physique was perfectly in keeping with the city’s general appearance. General Ticktock was delighted.
He paused to torture a few of the locals – the quickest and most reliable method of briefing oneself on a strange city. They spouted information like a fountain. The city’s name was Hel and it was the capital of Netherworld. Its king was Gornab the Ninety-Ninth, whose chief adviser was Friftar, and the entire population was currently assembled in the Theatre of Death. That was enough to be going on with.
The Copper Killers attached a long chain to the neck of one of their prisoners and sent him on ahead to show them the way to the Theatre of Death.
The entrance to the theatre was guarded after a fashion by a smallish squad of Bluddums. They were so dumbfounded by the sight of the intruders that a volley of crossbow bolts mowed them down before they could draw their swords. The Copper Killers marched over their dead bodies and into the theatre.
An extremely unequal contest was in progress when, to everyone’s astonishment, the invaders paraded in the arena. A platoon of Bluddums armed with axes and swords was busy butchering some of the prisoners recently imported from Snowflake. They offered little resistance to the Copper Killers before they too were laid low by a volley of crossbow bolts.
More and more metallic warriors marched into the arena. The spectators, the king, his chief adviser and bodyguards – all were frozen with horror. The spectacle unfolding before their eyes was past belief: an army of mechanical beings had occupied the Theatre of Death and was aiming crossbows at the audience. For a while, all that broke the deathly hush was the ticking and whirring of those fearsome machines.
Then General Ticktock himself entered the theatre and strutted into the middle of the arena. Scattered cries rang out as the audience caught sight of the biggest of the metallic warriors. He was even more massive, terrifying and nightmarish than the rest. Several of the Copper Killers ostentatiously spat fire from their steel mouths.
‘Which of you [tick] is the king?’ General Ticktock called loudly.
‘I am the gink!’ replied Gornab, who had leapt on to his throne and was trembling with agitation.
‘Yes, this is King Gornab Aglan Azidarko Beng Elel Atoona the Ninety-Ninth,’ Friftar announced, giving his monarch a cursory bow. ‘And I am Friftar, his chief adviser and director of the Theatre of Death. May I, on His Majesty’s behalf, enquire your name and ask what possessed you to burst in here and kill our soldiers?’
General Ticktock spun out the interval between Friftar’s question and his reply until the suspense became unendurable. The audience held its collective breath.
‘My name [tick] is General Ticktock,’ he declared in a voice that carried to the furthest row of seats. ‘And these [tock] are my Copper Killers. We have come …’
The general inserted another pause for effect. The Copper Killers, many of whom were aiming at the king himself, continued to cover the spectators with their crossbows.
‘… to enter your service!’ Ticktock concluded. Then he went slowly down on his knees and humbly inclined his head in the direction of Gornab the Ninety-Ninth.
The theatre rang with cries of jubilation.
The warrior and the king
Gornab was delighted with General Ticktock from that moment on. Having frightened him terribly, the gigantic Copper Killer had generously set his mind at rest. Friftar’s diplomatic machinations paled into insignificance beside such a gesture. What a fascinating, glittering, dangerous new toy! A metallic warrior with a machine in place of a heart – and he wanted to be of service to him, Gornab!
How dearly he himself would have liked to be an immortal, heartless creature of this kind! General Ticktock possessed every attribute of which Gornab could only dream: everlasting good health, invulnerability, inexhaustible energy. Compared to him, Gornab’s generals were inexperienced shirkers who had never set eyes on a battlefield larger than the theatre’s arena, and even then from the safety of the VIPs’ box.
Ticktock’s dramatic appearance had been followed by lengthy negotiations between him and the king, with Friftar eagerly acting as interpreter. It was eventually agreed that the Copper Killers should be granted Hellian citizenship. In return, they would undertake to abstain from further hostilities and hold themselves in readiness until the king and his advisers had agreed on their sphere of responsibility.
After General Ticktock had gone off to settle the Copper Killers in their new quarters, Gornab spent some time conferring with Friftar.
‘I prospoe to oippant Negeral Tocktick mmocander-in-fiech of our eramd froces,’ he announced.
‘Really?’ said Friftar, concealing his surprise. ‘You propose to appoint General Ticktock commander-in-chief of our armed forces? A brilliant idea, Your Majesty – as usual.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? Solabutely llibriant! Tocktick is fowerpul! He’s invrulenable! He’s a bron worriar!’
‘Yes, he’s a born warrior. Invulnerable. The ideal person to command our troops. I congratulate Your Majesty on making such a shrewd appointment.’ While he was repeating Gornab’s words, Friftar’s thoughts were darting in a hundred different directions simultaneously.
‘The pity of it is …’ He left the sentence hanging in mid air.
‘Wath? Wath’s a tipy?’ Gornab demanded.
‘Oh, it’s just that … well, General Ticktock has so many qualifications, he’s such a scintillating figure. What a loss to the Theatre of Death!’
‘Neaming wath?’
‘I mean, did you see how the audience reacted to him? That mixture of fascination and fear? He had only to raise a finger and they were all mesmerised. He’s so … so glamorous.’
‘Moglarous?’
‘I mean, he possesses everything we need in the Theatre of Death. He would be an immense draw. His mere presence would guarantee a full house. The Metal Man! The Heartless Warrior and his Copper Killers! If General Ticktock assumed command of the theatre guards, the
common folk would love it.’
‘The nommoc flok? Since when have I neeb esterinted in the nommoc flok’s iponions?’
Friftar uttered a ringing laugh. ‘That’s a good one, Your Majesty! You mean your jest to imply that the common folk must sometimes be permitted to believe that their opinions count for something?’ He feigned intense thought. ‘Yes, you’re right yet again, by all the fires of Hel! It’s a most statesmanlike decision.’
‘Learry?’ Gornab said, looking bewildered. Hadn’t he meant to say the opposite? He shook his head to clear it. ‘Yes, I soppuse it is.’
‘It’s brilliant!’ Friftar exclaimed delightedly, refilling the king’s goblet with wine. ‘The Copper Killers on guard duty at the Theatre of Death! Not only an attraction but your personal bodyguard! Why didn’t I think of that myself? Their presence would lend the contests additional charm. They could occasionally step in and kill some prisoners.’
‘Klil some prosenirs?’ Gornab became infected with Friftar’s enthusiasm. ‘Yes, of source! Klil some prosenirs!’
‘Wait, Your Majesty, I’m just beginning to grasp your intention. We must build them a gallery of their own, is that it? Higher than the prisoners’ gallery, so that they can supervise them from above. Of course! How brilliantly original!’
‘Iraginol? Yes, iraginol!’ cried Gornab, clapping his hands. ‘Then they nac sipervuse them! Yes, sipervuse them from avobe!’
‘So you’re appointing General Ticktock commander of the theatre guards,’ Friftar said casually. ‘Shall I inform the nobility and the common folk? May I publish a decree at once?’
‘Hm?’ Gornab scratched his head, looking stupefied and thinking hard. ‘Yes, you yam. I mmocand you to.’