Doc kept his attention on the tracer. "Not here," he said. "But getting closer."
The field of stones went on for hundreds of yards, then the trees encroached again and hid them from sight.
A few minutes more, then Alastair shouted, "Someone is conjuring nearby. I can see trails of overflow power."
"The great hill, probably. It's the correct direction." Doc leaned forward to tap Jean-Pierre's shoulder. He pointed to a turnoff marked by a standing stone. "Go past. The approach may be guarded."
Jean-Pierre passed the turnoff, but a few hundred feet further found a spot where he could pull off the road behind a screen of trees.
Doc said, "Noriko, you're vanguard."
She nodded. From the boot of the car she removed her scabbarded sword. She slung it over her shoulder by its cord, exchanged a quick look with Jean-Pierre, and loped off into the trees.
Doc gathered the rest and followed at a slower pace. Harris watched with interest as they fell without discussion into formation to pass through the trees: Doc was first and center, Alastair and Jean-Pierre yards out to either side. Joseph solemnly walked some distance back from Doc; Gaby and Harris trailed him. Gaby had her rifle slung by its strap. She kept her attention on the surrounding woods.
Jean-Pierre was first to notice a white scar cut into an oak branch off to his left. "Noriko's mark." He went to look at it, then waved the others over.
Harris took a quick look at the man slumped at the base of the tree. He was short, muscular, not bad looking. His gray suit was streaked with dirt and leaves. His face was familiar. "This is the guy who shot at me when I was driving," Harris said.
Jean-Pierre looked unhappy. "Blackletter probably has a lot of men here if he can spread them around guarding the approach."
Ahead they saw lights through the trees—stationary lights, very bright, very high—and became even more cautious, creeping along with teeth-grinding slowness. Soon enough the trees thinned and gave way to an open field. Jean-Pierre and the others crouched low and moved carefully forward from tree to tree.
Ahead of them was a treeless hill; it was a rounded cone, perfect and artificial. Wooden poles, more than a dozen, rose from the lower crest of the summit. At the top of each was a spotlight shining down on the hilltop.
There was a great deal of equipment set up on the summit. Harris saw dozens of wooden cabinets the width of a man and twice as tall. Each one was wired with flickering lights, green and red, that put him in mind of Christmas trees. More wooden cabinets were laid lengthwise across the tops of the upright ones. He could see silhouettes moving around in the center of the arrangement, but they were just silhouettes to him. There was a steady motor noise from the top of the hill.
The arrangement reminded Harris of something. It took him a moment to remember what.
Stonehenge. The cabinets were set up like a wooden Stonehenge, each one representing a monolithic stone. On this model, none of the stones was missing; even the massive lintel stones were represented.
Long yards of bare, hard ground separated the line of trees from the lower slope of the hill and the four lorries parked there.
Doc squatted and studied the situation. "Where's Noriko?"
Jean-Pierre nodded toward the trucks. "There first. Since there's been no noise, she'll either have eliminated the guards . . . or found that there are none. Now she'll be circling around to deal with as many perimeter guards as she may."
"That's the right idea. Very well. Priorities." Doc counted them off on his fingers. "One. Evaluate the situation. If it's just too much for us, retreat; we'll follow them. Two. Retrieve Caster Roundcap and any other prisoners. Three. Stop whatever they're doing. Four. Capture—or kill, if we must—Duncan, the Changeling, Angus Powrie. Any questions?"
There were none.
Doc looked them over. "Joseph, I hate to say it, but you move . . . "
"Like a dying steer in a glassworks," Joseph said.
"You've said it a little more pointedly than I would have. Get to the trucks. Take three of them out of commission and wait there." He turned to Gaby and regret crossed his face. "I must ask this. If worst comes to worst, will you kill to save me? Or Jean-Pierre, or any of us?"
Harris saw pain cross her face. She looked not at Doc but at him, Harris, for a long moment. "Yes."
"Go with Joseph. When trouble starts, the men in the woods will head back to the hill and the trucks. You have to support us and keep them off you. If you have to retreat, take the truck Joseph has spared."
She nodded.
"Alastair, Jean-Pierre, Harris and I will spread out around the hill and ascend. Gods grace us. Let's move out." He rose and immediately glided off clockwise around the hill.
For a moment, Harris felt a thrill of accomplishment. Doc had counted him in without asking. Maybe he had no more proving to do.
On the other hand, he'd just been included in something that would probably get him killed.
Chapter Nineteen
Harris, creeping counter-clockwise around the hill, kept Gaby and Joseph in sight as they moved across open ground toward the trucks. The two of them were mostly concealed by shadows; he had little difficulty picking out their motion, but then he'd been watching them since they left him. Maybe Blackletter's men, occupied by other things, would miss them.
They reached the four trucks and disappeared among them. Still no noise from the top of the hill. Harris felt the coil of tension around his chest let go. He picked up his pace.
Alastair would be some yards behind him; ahead, nothing but forest verge and Blackletter's guards. He kept his revolver pointed high.
It took him long, tense minutes to pass to the other side of the hill. In spite of the cold air, he sweated his shirt and jacket through. But he encountered no one and decided that he'd gone far enough. He stared up the hill; the Cabinet-henge at the top of the hill looked the same from this side as the other.
How to climb—the gun in hand or in his jacket pocket? He decided on the latter approach. Even as regular and gentle a hill as that was, he felt certain he'd need both hands to climb it in the dark.
He took the lowest portion of the hill on two feet. But the first time his foot slipped beneath him, he deliberately went flat, quiet as he could manage, and began negotiating a deal with God—payable only if the men at the top of the hill hadn't heard him.
Doc lay prone and wondered how he might cross the last fifteen paces to the henge of cabinets . . . when Blackletter's men made it easy for him.
The green and red lights on the cabinets and the spots atop the poles flared into incandescence for a moment, then went black.
A column of swirling light shot skyward from the center of the wooden circle and the ground rumbled.
Doc felt a voice in the rumble. He knew it was the goddess of this place. He knew she felt pain. Then both the light and the noise faded.
Doc heard laughter, cheers, applause from the men inside the circle. But he took advantage of the sudden darkness, moving forward spiderlike to the outer ring of wooden blocks. He drew his automatic.
He edged around the cabinet and peered into the center of the arrangement. The overhead lights were out and there was no moon, but some of the men were carrying electrical torches.
Twenty men, he estimated. At the center of the layout was a wooden altar; smoke still rose from it, but all Doc smelled was burned wood. Doc saw a pile of ten large metal drums and, near them, a large piece of machinery Doc took to be a generator; two men were pulling at its starter and cursing.
He closed his right eye and looked with his good one.
The whole area blazed with the green-yellow light of a recent devisement. He was surprised by its intensity. And inconvenienced; it would be difficult to pick out any lesser glows in that wash of light. He opened his other eye and the glow faded.
As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, it happened.
Jean-Pierre's voice: "Angus Powrie!"
Gunshots, four in quick su
ccession.
Men shouted. Some dropped to the ground. Others ran blindly.
Doc almost cursed. On the hilltop, his friends' few guns faced their twenty. This was not going to be good.
More gunshots. Doc heard an autogun open up. Maybe it was Alastair's. Regardless, he had to do something before Duncan's men realized just what an advantage they had.
He aimed at the pile of metal drums and fired three quick shots, then ducked back behind his cabinet.
More shouting: "This side, too! They're all around us!"
Another autogun began chattering. Doc felt blows as his cabinet was hammered.
He spun in place, dragging a toe, making the crudest possible circle to stand within. He concentrated and made the sound of gunfire fade away.
"Great Smith," he said. "I will give you lives in combat." The ancient, wicked promise made him quail inside, but he had nothing else to sacrifice. "Give me a spark from your anvil. Give me a wind from your bellows. Give me a blow from your hammer. I have faithfully served the gods. I will keep faith with you!"
He focused on the promise, imagined it as a living thing, a demon that must be stroked and fed, and felt his power grow within him.
More blows against his back. Shouting, dim and distant; he tried to keep it at bay.
A raging, roaring pride swelled inside him. It snapped him upright, stretched him to the limits of his limbs. He heard his own roar mingle with the shouts of his enemies. The pride within him longed to see those men smashed flat as by the broad head of a hammer, their bones crushed, their blood soaking the earth.
He stepped around the cabinet and flung the power he felt in his hand.
Fire leaped from his palm. It was no larger than his fist, but it unerringly flew to the liquid leaking from the drums he'd fired upon.
The pool of fuel caught fire and began burning brightly. Now he heard the cries of the men, loud and close in his ears, and he exulted in their fear. There was more gunfire but he felt no pain.
He made a sweeping gesture, a circle in the air, and wind tore across the hilltop, rocking the cabinets. The fire flamed up into incandescence under the pile of drums.
The blow. He balled his hand into a fist and struck his left palm with it—and felt the last of the power leap from him.
The drums blew with a shattering roar of anger. Doc saw a new column of light leap up into the sky, but this was fire, violently propelling warped and ruined metal drums into the air before it. Light and heat washed over him, knocking men down where they stood or ran, sending some of the cabinets tumbling down the hill.
The explosion blew Doc off his feet. He felt the hard earth of the hill slap his back, driving the wind out of him. There was no pain.
Burning wood and metal rained down around him. He lay where he'd fallen, all the strength gone from him, and impatiently waited to regain control of his limbs.
He'd promised lives. He had to take them . . . or the god would be angry with him. He groped around, found the butt of his gun, and opened his mind to the flood of greed for life and blood he could feel waiting beyond it.
Harris saw the bright light from beyond the cabinet ahead, heard the blow of the explosion. The wooden block leaned over toward him, toppled, and began bouncing end-over-end at him.
He rolled sideways, sliding down the slope, scraping cloth and flesh off elbows, knees, ribs. The cabinet smashed to pieces behind him.
The towering column of flame illuminated the hilltop, the slope, the treetops dozens of yards away. He saw three men—Jean-Pierre, Angus Powrie, and a skeletally thin man he did not recognize—grappling together, Jean-Pierre on Powrie's back, the redcap reaching around for him, the third man bound and caught up among them. They rolled out of sight over the crest of the hill further ahead.
The flash illuminated the lorries; Gaby and Joseph, out of sight between the rearmost two, looked up to see the gold-and-orange mushroom cloud climbing skyward.
"Oh, God."
"They'll be coming, Gabriela." Joseph turned to look toward the forest verge. "Be ready. Wherever you watch, I will watch the other way."
She didn't answer. She stared up at the flaming hilltop a long moment more, then worked the rifle's bolt to chamber a round. She propped the rifle on the lorry's fender and aimed up the hill.
Alastair stood behind one of the cabinets that remained stubbornly upright. He leaned out to the left, fired off a blind burst, then moved over to lean out right. This time he aimed, targeting a man whose back burned as he ran; a quick burst and that target was down, burning but unmoving.
"Beldon Royal Guard!" he shouted, a deep, commanding bellow unlike his true voice. "You're all prisoners of the Crown! First Unit, move up! Sixth Unit, move up!" He changed to a shrill tone: "Aye aye! Marksmen, target and fire at will!" Another voice, thick with the accent of Neckerdam: "Royals! Let's get out of here! Run—!" He punctuated his last shout by leaning and firing again, and cut off his own command with a scream of pain.
He had no more vocal ability than any man on the street, but maybe, may it please the gods, with bullets whistling, fires burning, and men screaming, the enemy would believe it all. He leaned out again and swept a burst across the silhouettes he saw moving before him.
* * *
Gaby saw the first two men running down the hill toward the trucks. She held her breath, aimed slow and sure as Jean-Pierre had taught her, put one man's chest in her sights, and squeezed the trigger.
The man's knee bent the wrong way when his weight came down on it. She heard his scream, saw him fall and roll a few yards, and suddenly she felt like puking into the grass.
Instead, she ejected the cartridge and chambered another one.
The second man continued down the hill. Him she missed; her bullet kicked up dirt a yard below him. He skidded to a halt, turned, and began racing back up the hill. His companion crawled slowly after him.
"Left," Joseph said. "Toward the roadway."
She shot the bolt, then aimed across the broad hood of the lorry and fired again.
Harris raced after Angus and Jean-Pierre, and was on them almost before he knew it.
Jean-Pierre lay in a pool of something white and revolting—his own vomit. The other man, old, thin, bespectacled, lay with his hands and feet bound; he stared imploringly at Harris.
Angus Powrie stood over the two of them. Blood ran down his left shoulder. He carried a double-barreled shotgun and pointed it at Jean-Pierre's face. His face, illuminated by fire from the hill, wore a smile so cold and hard Harris would have sworn it was cut from ice.
Harris skidded to a stop only half-a-dozen steps from them and took aim at Angus. "Drop it," he said. "Or I'll kill you." His words were punctuated by gunfire from the hilltop.
Angus didn't look at him. He continued to smile down at Jean-Pierre. "Smooth action on this trigger," he said. "Kill me, and the baby prince dies. Throw your own gun away and he won't."
Harris saw Jean-Pierre shaking his head. The prince was folded over like a piece of paper; Angus had to have hit him in the balls.
"I don't believe you," Harris said.
"Then he and I both die." Angus' gaze flicked up to Harris, then returned to Jean-Pierre. "Damned shame when it doesn't have to happen, boy. I can leave, he can leave, you can leave, we all meet later and kill each other. Or you can decide to be a hero and kill your friend."
Harris couldn't find it, the perfect solution. The only way everyone could be happy was if Angus was telling the truth . . . and if Harris did what he said. He could feel the eyes of the elderly man on him, too.
"I don't believe you."
Angus looked at him, though his gun remained aimed rock-steady at Jean-Pierre. His expression was solemn, open. "Son, I give you my word of honor. Throw your piece away and we all walk away from this."
Jean-Pierre shook his head and tried to get to his knees. He couldn't; he rocked in the pool of his vomit. His voice was a pained wheeze. "Don't. He has no honor. I'm dead, Harris. Kill him for me."
<
br /> There was nothing but calm resolve in Angus' eyes.
Harris swore and tossed his gun down the hill. Jean-Pierre managed to get up to his knees.
"And the other one in your pocket. I'm not stupid, boy."
Harris complied.
Angus smiled, showing the points of his teeth. "But you are." He pulled both triggers.
The blast caught Jean-Pierre in the chest and face, blowing him over backwards.
Harris looked at his friend. Jean-Pierre's chest and half his head had been erased by a paintbrush dipped in dark, dark red. There was white noise, a scream of static, in Harris' head where his thoughts should be.
In slow motion, he turned to look at Angus Powrie.
The redcap was smiling at him. He had the shotgun broken open. He was pulling two new shells from his shirt pocket, moving them down to load them into the gun.
The static in Harris' head grew into a roar of hate. In slow motion, he forced his hand back to the holster over his kidney.
He got the pistol out, swung it in line, saw Angus' eyes widen with surprise.
He fired.
Darkness sprouted from Angus' gut.
He fired.
There was an explosion. The open shotgun went flying and Harris saw raw, red-black meat where Angus' left hand had been. Angus turned.
He fired. A dark circle appeared on Angus' back. Angus began running.
He fired. Angus lurched forward and rolled down the hill, arms and legs flailing. Then the redcap was up at the base of the hill and running toward the safety of the trees.
He fired.
He fired.
His gun began clicking, the noise of failure. Angus disappeared among the trees.
Harris looked at Jean-Pierre. The prince's one remaining eye was turned skyward.
And the white noise filling Harris' mind found expression in his voice, a roar of pain that stripped his throat raw.
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