The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by William Meikle

  Ten of the escaping Others made it to the edge of the graveyard and were mounting the small wall at the far end when Martin gave the order to fire. The hidden musket-men rose out the long grass and sent volley after volley into the writhing, burning shadows.

  “Another barrel!” Toby shouted, and the man on the cart started to manhandle a butt across the floor of the cart.

  Martin sensed a movement out in the graveyard. A large stone, some eight feet square, moved to one side, and a band of six Others sprang up and out of a deep, stone-lined tomb. Their clothes gave off small wisps of smoke, and they carried their hands over their mouths to protect them from the fumes, but the silver had not reached them.

  Martin recognized the thinner of the figures from the long white hair that streamed behind it...it was the Boy-King, and the ones with him were from his personal guard. Just then a second stone slid to one side and a tall figure, instantly recognizable, emerged. It was Rollo.

  “Fitz!” Martin shouted, “The Boy-King...get the Boy-King!”

  The innkeeper had already swung the spout towards Rollo, and had to re-adjust his aim. By then it was too late...the Boy-King and his guard had moved out of range of the main jet of water. Splashes hit them, but it bought mainly small wisps of smoke that they were able to quickly brush away as they sped out of range of the bellows.

  Martin let off both his pistols. He hit one of the Boy-King’s guards, a Highland Other which immediately started to blaze where the shot had punched a hole in its back. The Boy-King did not look back. With his remaining guards protecting him in the middle of the small group, he flew into the face of the rank of musket-men.

  “Fire!” Martin shouted. “Fire!”

  Four musket-men did shoot, and two more of the Boy-King’s guards fell...the fat monk, and an ancient crone who had already got silver on her legs. She screamed as she burned, black and smoky like a badly made candle.

  Martin yelled in triumph.

  “Fire!” he shouted again.

  But the rest of the musket-men lowered their weapons as the Boy-King and his three remaining guards burst into their midst, a frenzy of fangs and flashing swords. Within seconds six musket- men lay dead or dying and the Boy-King was off and away down the hill.

  There was more smoke rising from the escaping group, but the day was still heavily overcast, and the sun was not strong enough on its own to give them the true death.

  The musket-men shook their heads as if waking from a long sleep.

  “Shoot!” Martin shouted. “He’s getting away!”

  But the Boy-King was already out of range, heading off at speed to the foot of the hill.

  And once more Martin felt the Other’s presence in his mind.

  “Ah...the Wolf is rampaging among the flock once more,” the voice said. “You have got in my way once too often...”

  The ground at the foot of the hill seethed, as if a massive tremor ran through the earth. The dark army rose up, a forest of hands grasping at the air. They groped upwards, the wrists coming slowly from the earth, then the arms. Finally their heads and shoulders pushed out of the soil.

  Smoke rose from their bodies, but they came when their King called, out into the evening sun. Like a vast black blanket, they began to creep up the hill.

  The voice in Martin’s head laughed, long and hard. Martin knew he had to move, to get his men away, but his body was held as if in a vise as the black army got ever closer.

  Then he felt it...the tickling of the long wolf hairs as they came on his arm. The contact with the Other was broken as quickly as it had come. Martin could still smell him, but was no longer compelled to obey him.

  “Back!” he shouted. “To horse! To horse!”

  Some of the musket-men were still dazed, still trying to shake off the Boy-King’s spell, and it took long seconds to get the men mustered and moving. By then the bulk of the Boy-King’s army had already risen out of the ground. Martin noticed with dismay that the last of the sun was leeching out of the sky.

  “To horse!” he shouted once more, and this time the men all responded.

  Fitz was trying to get the cart turned.

  “Leave it,” Martin said. “Get to a horse...we will have some spare.”

  “But the bellows…” Fitz said.

  “Forget them. We can get other bellows...we have no other innkeeper. Now quickly. They will be on us in a minute.”

  Fitz rocked the last water barrel until it fell over, spilling bulb, silver and water over the cart and the horse that pulled it.

  The horse snorted, but Fitz patted it on the flank as he undid the yoke.

  “That should save you, old fellow,” he said. “I can do no more.”

  He slapped the old horse on the side, and it trotted away sedately, then stopped, and began to feed on the grass beneath it.

  “I’ve seen dead men with more sense,” Fitz said, then turned back to Martin.

  “We had best get going, sir,” he said with a grim smile. “I think we may be out-numbered this time.”

  Martin also managed a smile as they turned up the hill.

  “Mayhap if Megan was with us we would prevail.”

  “Aye…” Fitz replied. “Even the Boy-King would quail in his boots at meeting my wife when her ire is up.”

  Martin, Toby and the innkeeper were the rear-guard as they ran up the hill. When they got to the top Martin had a last look back.

  The foot of the hill was already in darkness, but there was enough light to see that the bulk of the dark army were heading north, following the Boy-King and what remained of his guard.

  The bulk...but not all.

  A band of several hundred Others had made their way up the hill, and were even now almost level with the graveyard. They were led by the tall figure of Gord Rollo, with a turned dog loping along beside him, a dog with fiery red eyes and yellowed fangs that dripped stringy ropes of drool.

  “I’m coming, Father!” they heard the tall figure shout. “Keep your neck warm for me!”

  Edward Hillman was holding Martin’s horse. His eyes were wide with fear, but he had not moved to get a mount of his own.

  “Can you ride, boy?” Martin asked.

  The lad nodded.

  “I have been riding with the hunt since I was ten.”

  “Then find yourself a mount that suits you, but do it fast…there are Others almost upon us.”

  Martin got all his men mounted and turned them to face the advancing Others. As the dark horde came over the brow of the hill, the horsemen let off a volley of silver shot from muskets and pistols that brought blue flame dancing along the line of darkness. Without waiting to see the full effect of the shots, the men wheeled and sped off, following the setting sun.

  The Others followed. They were not as fast as the mounted men, but they were faster than men-and-only-men would have been on foot...and Martin suspected they would not tire.

  “I’m sorry, sir!” Fitz shouted.

  They were galloping down the far side of the hill, as fast as they dared push the horses in the gloom. Behind them the band of Others was still coming on...more than quarter of a mile behind now, but showing no signs of flagging.

  “Sorry for what?” Martin said.

  “I went for Rollo...I should have gone for the Boy-King. My rage against him blinded me.”

  “Forget it,” Martin said. “You were trying to kill Others, and you did a good job.”

  “But the Boy-King got away,” Fitz said, and Martin heard the frustration in the man’s voice.

  “And did you know it was the Boy-King?”

  Fitz looked puzzled.

  “No. Why would I...I have never seen him.”

  “Aye. But I have. In a vision,” Martin said, and noticed too late that some of the men had overheard and were giving him the sign against the evil eye again. He decided to ignore them; he had seen too much this past few weeks to worry about their superstitions. “And I should have given the order sooner. It was the heat of battle, man...th
ere was no fault.” “Thank you, sir,” Fitz said. “But it doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “Then maybe this will,” Toby said, coming up beside them. “I reckon that yon crone that we burned under the silver was Hannah of Tyre. It is said she has been the nursemaid to six Blood- Kings, and was born even before the Others came to this land...we got one of the old ones.”

  “More than one,” Martin replied. “We got the Monk.”

  “Aye,” Fitz said, “I’ve heard of that one. He came from Rome, at the time King Henry was sacking the monasteries. He’s been a plague on God-fearing Englishmen for centuries.”

  “So you see, old man,” Toby said to Fitz, laughing as he galloped past them. “We are whittling them down. At this rate we should get them all by the turn of the century.”

  Fitz laughed, and Martin joined in, their spirits momentarily lifted. But all the time they were aware that the black Others came on apace behind them.

  They galloped for as long as they could, but the time came when the horses needed rest.

  “We cannot keep up this pace,” Toby called out, but Martin was loath to stop altogether, and ordered them to slow to a trot for a while.

  Edward Hillman drew up alongside Martin. The boy was a natural horseman—he and his mount moved as one.

  “I have a new idea, Sire,” the lad said. Fitz groaned, but smiled at the same time.

  Edward was indignant.

  “Do not scoff, Fitz...the silver worked, did it not?”

  The lad looked so serious that Martin had to stifle a laugh as he spoke.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “If you can find a narrow passage, I believe we can mount an ambush,” Edward said.

  “With what?” Fitz said. “We had to leave the barrels behind.”

  “Aye. But we have our canteens.”

  “Tell me your plan?” Martin said, and a thin, grim smile of expectation played on his lips as the boy outlined his idea.

  Ten minutes later the opportunity presented itself as they rode through a gully between high rocks on either side. Martin sent Toby and Edward to prepare the lad’s plan, and he positioned the rest of his men among the rocks on either side of the path. The horses were being held in a clearing fifty yards further back.

  It was full dark now, and the sky was overcast. It was only just possible for Martin to see the high rocks on the far side, but he knew that Toby had his men ready and their muskets armed.

  “Will it work?” Fitz said, and Martin smiled.

  “Master Hillman is as bright as a button...I do believe he has found another new way to kill Others.”

  “Only as long as they come,” one man said.

  “They are coming,” Martin said. “All we have to do is wait for them.” He didn’t add that he knew they were already close...he could smell them in the air.

  They didn’t have long to wait. The Others appeared out of the gloom, a thick line of blackness that seemed to suck in the available light. They were a rag-tag bunch...men, woman and youths, all in various stages of tattered dress mixed with mud and grime.

  There were red tunics among them...soldiers who had been turned either at Nottingham, Derby or Carlisle. But these had no discipline left. They snarled and growled like wild animals, and they screamed in rage as they ran forward. There was no sign of Rollo, but Martin knew the Other would be there somewhere in the throng.

  He let them come on until they were almost directly beneath them, then gave the order.

  “Fire!”

  A volley of musket-shot rang out, and the Others flinched...but the shot wasn’t aimed at them.

  A row of canteens, stretched out along a long rope, had been slung above the gully, and the shots found their mark. The canteens were holed and, spinning in the dark, sprayed water, bulb, and silver over the Others below. The scene was suddenly lit in blue, flickering flame as they began to burn and scream. Martin saw Rollo, several rows back, trying to put out a flare of fire at his breast.

  “Silver shot. Fire!” Martin shouted.

  Twenty rounds of silver shot slammed into the front rank of the attackers. Like small volcanic eruptions, blue explosions burst on their bodies. Some of them, the smaller ones, burned almost immediately. The rest panicked and fell back, burning, spreading the flame as they went. In the dim blue flickering light it was possible to see that the Others were at least eight-deep in the gully. If they had pushed forward at that point, Martin thought that they might have overran the musket- men but the panic spread as another volley of shot rang out.

  As quickly as they had come, the Others retreated into the dark, leaving twenty-five of their company lying full dead in the gully.

  Martin’s men cheered as one.

  “To horse,” Martin ordered. “They will not give up...not yet.”

  “Do you have any other ideas Master Hillman?” Martin called out to the boy as they mounted.

  “Aye, sir,” Edward said, blushing. “But they will have to wait until we reach Milecastle once more...I have need of a seamstress for this one.”

  “Then we had best make sure we get you back there,” Martin said.

  Even as they mounted and wheeled south once more, Martin saw the dark Others begin to pour through the gully. He led his men away at a gallop.

  “Yon trick won’t work twice, Sire,” Toby the smith said. “They may be dead, but they’re not stupid.”

  Martin nodded.

  “Aye. Our only hope is to outrun them. I fear it will be a long night in the saddle.”

  Half an hour later the horses began to tire again, and Martin ordered them to slow to a trot once more.

  “By my reckoning we must be only ten miles or so from yon ruins we stopped in at lunchtime,” Toby said.

  “Aye. I agree,” Martin said. “And we cannot push the horses like this much longer. It is our time to come up with a plan.”

  He was about to call Fitz over to join them when someone at the rear of the group screamed, and a shot rang out in the night.

  By the time Martin and Toby fell back to the site of the shot, their rearguard had already gone, taken into the night by the Others. All that was left was a badly bitten horse, and a still smoking musket lying on the ground.

  He ordered the men into a gallop.

  By the time they reached Newcastleton they had lost three more men from the back of the group.

  “We cannot go on like this!” Martin shouted, and Fitz agreed.

  Martin ordered the men to a halt in the yard outside the ruined church.

  “Fitz,” Martin said, “take half the men, and Master Hillman here, and head for Milecastle...as fast as you can manage. The Protector needs to know where we found the Boy-King. Toby and I will hold them back as long as we are able.”

  “Sir, I…” Fitz began, but Martin cut him short.

  “No arguments. Go now. We have no time.”

  Fitz nodded. Martin saw that Edward was close to tears.

  “Fear not,” he said. “I will see you soon...if your next idea is as fine as your last two we will be slaying many more Others together, you and I.

  “Take our horses,” he told Fitz. “And tether them a mile down the road. They will only get in the way if we keep them here.

  “Now go,” he said. “They’ll be on us any minute.”

  “We will see you in the inn on your return,” Fitz said, and saluted. “I will have a flagon waiting for you.”

  The innkeeper quickly chose the men to accompany him, and within a minute he had led half the men away to the south.

  “Well, Toby,” Martin said, “let us see how long we can delay the Others and give our friends time to make it home.”

  The Others began to pour into the yard just as Martin and Toby had fully deployed the men. They stood in a tight formation, two ranks of five men each, backs to the wall of the church. Each man had a musket loaded with silver, two pistols and his stakes. Martin did not expect to survive, but he meant to take as many of them with him as he was ab
le.

  “Fire!” Martin shouted. The air was quickly full of smoke and the stench of powder. The silver shot used at such short range tore through the ranks of the Others, but more were already leaping forward to take the place of the fallen.

  “Front rank, fire!” Martin shouted.

  A second volley hit the Others, blasting half a dozen of them to the final death.

  “Back rank, pistols!” Toby called. The guns roared, and eight more Others fell.

  “Front rank…!” Martin called, but by then the Others had closed tightly around them and it was down to hand-to-hand fighting.

  The men in front of Martin started to club at the Others with their muskets, then attacked with their stakes. But these were not professional soldiers—before last week they had been bakers, butchers and cobblers. Although they fought well, they were not skilled enough, or fast enough, to have much impact on the Others. It was only seconds before Martin found himself face to face with a drooling creature.

  He shoved his pistol into its face and shot it between the eyes with his last load of silver. Its head seemed to collapse into itself, and the creature fell away backwards...but there were plenty more willing to take its place. Grubby hands started to reach for him.

  Martin felt the wolf hair rise on his arm, and the wound in his head throbbed painfully. He howled his rage to the sky, a scream so loud that the Others around him stepped back, confused. Martin dropped his guns, armed himself with a stake in each hand, and threw himself into the throng.

  “No…Martin!” he heard Toby shout, but he ignored the voice. There were Others to kill, and there was a rage driving him.

  There were still random gunshots in the yard, but the Others were rapidly overrunning the soldiers. Martin’s men were falling fast.

  Martin was only dimly aware of it. He was lost in a red mist, a frenzy where all that mattered was the stakes and the soft bodies of the Others. He gave them the true death, again and again. And as he killed, he howled to the sky.

  Somewhere, out over the forest, his howls were answered as the wolf pack responded to one of their own.