“I’m glad you are here, sir,” the big man said. “For I was wondering where we would go first.”
“As was I,” Martin said. “I feel it in my water that the Boy-King is long gone. Something has happened to dent his confidence...he is headed for the wall, as fast as he dares.”
“You have the sight?” the smith asked, but Martin shook his head. “No…’tis just a hunch. But the Duke needs proof. We will head for Ashbourne,” Martin said. “…the place where Rollo was taken. We know they used it yesterday...let us see if they are stupid enough to use it again.”
They found the first evidence of the dark army’s passing in a field some eight miles north. It had once held a herd of some fifty cattle, but now there were only the dried-out husks of drained carcasses and a horde of bustling flies.
“Will they turn?” Edward Hillman said, “I saw the horses of the Others last night...will the cattle too be turned?”
“Aye,” Martin said grimly. “They too will turn...although it is hard to imagine it.”
“Should we stake them?” the smith asked.
Martin shook his head.
“We have not the time to stop and stake everything the Boy-King leaves behind...if we did we would still be south of the wall come winter.”
Fitz rose up beside him and spoke quietly so that the rest of the men couldn’t hear.
“I disagree, sir. We must take the time to stake these here...I have faced a stampede of turned beasts before. It was with Menzies in the colonies, and they were oxen rather than cattle, but we barely got out alive. I would not be caught such a way again.”
“But look at them,” the smith said. “They are full drained.”
“That will only make them all the more dangerous,” Fitz replied, “for they will rage with the thirst. We must stake them...either that, or use the bulb.”
“Stakes will take too long...and the bulb would be too costly,” Martin said. “We are caught between two stools.” He sighed deeply. “Use the bulb. Issue men with buckets...one man, one beast. Let us get this done quickly.”
Soon the stench of boiling flesh was rising in the air.
“Well, young Hillman...they will not be back now,” Martin said, but Edward did not reply...he was lost in thought. They rode for the rest of the afternoon in relative silence. At one point one of the men started to sing, but the air was heavy and oppressive and seemed to suck all joy out of the song. That, and the heavy pall of smoke on the horizon from the burning city, dampened all their spirits.
It was nearly four o’ clock in the afternoon before they came to Ashbourne.
The town looked unchanged since their visit the day before. The only differences noticeable were the open door of the church at the north end...and the disappearance of the pile of bodies on the green. The Boy-King had yet more new recruits.
Martin called the band around him.
“Some of us were here yesterday,” he said. “And we lost men to the Boy-King’s mind-slaves. I want no mistakes today. We will stay together, and search a single house at a time...and only the larger ones. Keep muskets loaded at all times.”
“We will need to be quick,” Fitz said, “It is just shy of an hour till nightfall.”
“Then we had best get to it,” Martin said, and led them down the hill towards the town green.
“Fitz. Get a bellows hooked up,” he said as they reached the bottom of the hill. “If we are to be here for more than an hour, I do not want any Others to take us by surprise.”
The smith watched Fitz set up the bellows and slapped his forehead in exasperation.
“I knew I’d remember sometime,” he said, and turned to address Martin.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but it was during the fighting last night. I realized that the bellows could be improved...we smiths use bigger bellows in our forges...two-man bellows. If a way could be found to hook them up to the butts, we would be able to more than double the distance and power of the spray.”
“And will there be a smithy in this town?” Martin asked.
“No doubt, sir,” the smith replied. “There’s one in every town...and if I had remembered this morning, we could have had three or four from Derby.”
“Then take ten men and find us the forge. But be very careful...I will not lose another like Rollo.”
The smith saluted, and left at a run.
“Well, Fitz,” Martin said. “Where shall we search first?”
“The church,” the innkeeper said. “If it pleases you, I should like to see the place where Gord was taken.”
Martin led the party up the long street. Fitz stopped at the inn, but Martin shook his head.
“It is a charnel house,” he said. “And there is no ale.”
“No ale? In an inn? That is a disgrace.”
Before Martin could stop him, the innkeeper darted in to the premises, but came out again just as quickly. He rubbed at his mouth as if removing a bad taste.
“A fine premises,” he said, “but it could do with a clean. Let us see if the church has been kept in better order.”
“It happened in there?” Megan asked as they approached the church, “That is where they took Gord?”
Martin nodded. He ordered that the carts be placed in a protective cordon round the church door, and left one of the smith’s men in charge of the bellows. It was only then that he felt safe leading the men into the shadows.
The church was cold and dark inside, but otherwise it was empty. Only the fact that some of the pews had been overturned showed that anything out of the ordinary had happened.
“Tell me,” Fitz said. “How was it done?”
“In truth, I’m not sure,” Martin said. “I sent him to search the church. I believe they were ambushed by mind-slaves, and he was carried off...that was the last I saw of him.”
Megan sat on one of the pews and put her head in her hands. Fitz stood beside her with a hand on her shoulder. His eyes were cold and bright. Martin would not have liked to make an enemy of this man.
There was a shout from outside, and Martin’s stomach seemed to drop. Not again, he thought. But this time, it was only a yell marking the return of the smith. Martin and Fitz went back out into the sunshine, leaving Megan in the church.
Three of the smith’s men pushed a huge contraption ahead of them. It was a large pair of oak and leather bellows, nearly four feet long, mounted on thick oak legs and heavy wooden wheels.
“Well, they are certainly big,” said Martin, “but will they work?”
Megan appeared at his side. Once more her eyes were red-rimmed and moist, but they had their fire back.
“I’m sure they will work,” she said. “I helped Sawney make two of the hoses last night...I can make one for these, out of tent canvas if needs be. Give me two hours.”
Martin looked at the sky.
It was already getting dim.
“We shall stay here for the night,” he said. “A church is as good a place as any. Toby...set a watch. Fitz...if Megan is making the hose for the bellows, can you feed us?”
The bald man smiled. “Will ale and cold pies suffice?”
It was full dark before Megan announced that the hose was finished and connected to the bellows.
“We only have a butt of spring water,” she said. “We cannot afford to lose any more of the bulb.”
They unloaded the cannon and its shot from the weapons cart, and mounted the bellows in its place.
“I need two strong men,” Megan said. The smith and Fitz stepped forward and jumped on the cart. Martin noticed that Megan had attached a leather strap to one arm of the bellows, so that Fitz, with his stump, would be able to use them.
The two men stood on either side of the bellows and pumped, just two short pushes. A spout of water arced nearly thirty feet high into the air and landed with a splash more than fifty yards away in the dark. In just five pumps over the next ten seconds they emptied the butt of water, and soaked an area of road nearly thirty yards square.
“It will make a formidable weapon,” Martin said, “but it is somewhat impractical. I can see that we’ll need huge amounts of water.”
“But it will be useful for an element of surprise,” said the smith.
“Or if the Others are tightly packed,” Fitz said, and Martin agreed with them both.
“Keep it attached to a full butt of garlic water,” Martin said. “And keep two men near it at all times during the night-time hours.”
“Excuse me?” a small voice said. One of the Hillman twins was pulling at Fitz’s vest. “I have been thinking about ways to save our stock of the bulb. I have an idea...what if we put silver in the water?”
“It would be too heavy, Harold. It would merely sink to the bottom of the butt,” Fitz said. “It is Edward, sir...and it would not be too heavy if we ground it up to a fine powder, and kept the water well-stirred.”
“Come away and leave the men be, Edward. It cannot be done...it…” Megan said, but the smith interrupted her. The big man was getting excited.
“Yes, it can. The boy is right. If we melt the silver, then cool it fast, it will be brittle and easily crumbled. If we mix it with the water, we might not need the bulb.”
“But what use would it have?” Fitz said. “Would the water not negate the effect of the silver on the Others and put out the flames?”
“We will not know if we do not try,” the smith said.
“Can we do it here...tonight?” Martin asked, and Toby nodded.
“If we have the silver.”
“I have sacks full,” Fitz said. “The people of Derby were very generous...even if they don’t know it yet.”
“Then all I need is a fire,” the smith said, “and a helper. What do you say, Master Edward. Can you work a small pair of bellows?”
The boy’s face lit up and he followed the smith like a happy puppy.
The men were all billeted inside the church, with watches set up of five men at a time. Inside the church the large candles were lit and shadows danced and played across the walls. The pews had been righted, and some of the men sat, heads bowed, praying. Others were at the back of the church accepting flagons of ale from Fitz.
One of the men had a small squeezebox, and was quietly playing hymns. Suddenly a high voice started to sing. Martin turned towards the sound.
Harold Hillman stood in front of the altar, tears running down his cheeks. One at a time, the men joined in, until the old church rang with their singing.
The Lord is my Shepherd,
I shall not want,
When the psalm was finished everyone sat in silence, lost in his or her own thoughts. Harold Hillman sat beside Megan and she gathered him to her bosom where he sobbed uncontrollably.
After a time the man with the squeezebox began to play soft sea-shanties, and slowly conversations started up again around the room.
“There was a man,” Old Barr said to Martin. “Back in Derby. He told us to repent, for the Day of Judgment was at hand. He said that only a thousand times twelve-score would be raised in rapture to see the millennium of the Lord’s reign. He seemed very sure of the fact.
“He was even gathering a following. He was selling pamphlets for a groat...parchments that promised entry to the chosen band. He already had a small bag full of coins.”
“What happened to him?” Martin asked.
“The Butcher shot him for spreading dissension and gave his money to the poorhouses.”
The old man spat a wad of tobacco on the floor of the church and turned away. Martin wondered if he was quite right in the head.
Martin walked slowly to the back of the church.
“Ale, sir?” Fitz said, and Martin gratefully took a flagon from the innkeeper.
“What do you think, Fitz? Has the Boy-King really retreated? Or is old man Barr right? Are the dark days upon us? Have we been called to judgment?”
The innkeeper shook his head. “I haven’t heard any heavenly choirs. And I cannot believe the Boy-King has retreated...unless something has happened we do not know about. He is merely biding his time. We must stay vigilant, for an attack could come anytime.”
But the attack didn’t come that night.
At some point in the night Martin was able to sleep, but his dreams were red and bloody.
He runs through deep forest, his brothers and sisters by his side. They are swift and silent, their paws barely touching the ground as they speed after a frightened doe. He sends his gray brothers and sisters off to the side, covering the prey’s retreat, and leaps forward after the deer, feeling its back leg crush under his teeth, bringing it down easily and hungrily burying his snout in the soft parts.
The pack cowers beneath a bush as a dark army of shadows streams past in the night. He sniffs the air and finds it full of death and corruption as, for the first time in his life, he cowers, tail between his legs, shoulders hunched in submission until the dark shadows have passed.
He sits back on his haunches as a tall figure with a wounded arm stands above him. He springs, just as a sword comes down in a flash of silver....
Martin woke, covered in a cold sweat.
He slept no more that night. He sat with the men of the Watch, staring out over the town, seeing nothing, saying nothing. By the time the sun rose and Fitz brought him a cup of strong black coffee he felt more like himself, but he was quiet and taciturn during the breaking of the camp. It wasn’t until late afternoon that he raised a smile in response to a bawdy song started by the smith.
For the next two days Martin and his men crisscrossed the countryside north of Derby. They found no sign of the Boy-King.
By noon on the fourth day, Martin was becoming convinced that the dark army had fled. He sent a messenger south to the Duke.
“Tell him the country is empty, and that we go to look further north,” he said as the smith’s man mounted their fastest horse. “We will make for Milecastle...he can get a message to us there.”
“And tell him about the smith’s bellows and the silver!” Edward Hillman shouted from the small crowd that had gathered to watch the man leave.
Megan cuffed him around the ears, and he blushed redly.
“Yes,” Martin said, “tell the Duke about the use of smithy bellows, and tell him about young Edward’s idea. Mayhap the Duke has some engineers who can use the information.”
That night back in the church the smith and young Hillman had managed to create a fine silver powder that they had mixed with the bulb in a water butt. Both were infuriated by the fact that they had yet to have a chance to test it.
The band of men watched the messenger ride south until he was out of view.
“Milecastle?” Fitz said. “Does this mean we will pass my inn?”
Martin smiled.
“I believe there is some Winter Porter waiting to be drunk,” he said. “I have a mind to retrace our steps to Thornton-in-Lonsdale, and thence to Far Sawrey, and on to Carlisle and Milecastle.”
Fitz danced a little jig.
“Megan!” he shouted. “Get your clean bloomers on...we’re going home.”
Later that afternoon the band rode up the long driveway to the manor at Thornton.
They were in a somber mood, for they had passed through three villages since noon, all of which had been recently overrun by the Others. There had been old people and children to stake, and the work had been grim.
Both Hillman boys had tears in their eyes, as did Megan. But among the men Martin noticed only a steely resolve...a resolve born of a rising anger.
The manor looked exactly as it had on their previous visit, and as they pulled up outside the front door, Martin felt a sense of déjà vu. He almost expected Rollo and the dogs to come round the corner of the building at any moment.
He led the men round to the rear of the house and looked out over the sprawling lawn that stretched away to a large pond ringed by tall trees nearly a hundred yards away. The lawn had been recently disturbed...partially dug up and turned over. Martin knew it
had been disturbed a week ago...Rollo had told him...but this digging was much more recent. The disturbed earth was still brown and damp.
“That must be a very large, velvet-coated gentleman,” Fitz said.
“No gentlemen, these,” Martin said. “although they share a fear of the light. Toby, Edward, I believe we have found a test for your bellows.”
“Sir?” Edward said, but the smith saw Martin’s intention immediately and moved to man the bellows.
“Fitz. Give Toby a hand,” Martin said. “Everybody else, load your weapons...silver shot. It may yet be daylight, but ’tis best to be prepared.”
Fitz and Toby climbed onto the cart to man the bellows, and Megan leaped up to the driver’s seat and pushed Barr to on side. “Move over, old man,” she said. Martin expected the man to complain, but he merely spat a lump of tobacco to the ground, raised an eyebrow, and shuffled across the seat. Megan maneuvered the cart into a position where the bellows could be put to best use, and Fitz gave Martin a thumbs- up...they were ready.
Martin lined the men up in two ranks facing the lawn, then nodded to the smith.
“Let us see if we have a new weapon. Start the bellows.”
Toby and Fitz began to pump and the spray arched out over the lawn. It landed on the grass...and nothing happened.
Edward Hillman groaned and turned away in disappointment…just as the soaked ground exploded in blue flame.
Great screams came from beneath the soil and the ground heaved. Martin thought it was like watching a child playing under a bed-cover...the whole lawn rose and fell in great ripples and undulations.
“Soak it!” he shouted. “Soak it all!”
Spurting gouts of the water surged over the lawn, and everywhere it landed blue flame erupted. In parts of the lawn where the water had yet to reach, dirt-stained Others dug themselves out from the ground, only to burn in the rays of the sun. Some pulled themselves completely out of the ground, only to explode violently as the water from the bellows found them.
An arm burst out of the soil at Martin’s feet...too close for the water to have reached it. The hand reached for him, and Martin was still lowering his musket to shoot when Edward Hillman threw a handful of silver powder on the limb. It exploded with a blue flash, and the flames started to spread to the immediate area of lawn.
The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition Page 45