His mind flickered and danced between memories.
He saw Katelin on her deathbed, Elizabeth as a child, William in the Tower of London moments before his death, Jhala the last time Jack had seen him in Poole.
Then for some reason his thoughts settled on the day he’d left home to join the army. It was winter and the bare trees were cracks against the white sky. He walked along the path from his parents’ cottage, the only place he’d ever lived. His father had died of flux six months earlier and without him it was difficult for the family to pay the rent. The local lord was threatening to evict them and the only way the family could survive was for sixteen-year-old Jack to join the European Army.
Jack took a deep breath as he walked along the path. He knew his mother was standing in the cottage’s doorway. He wanted to look back at her one last time, but he couldn’t bear to see her sad face again.
He took another deep breath. He wouldn’t look back. He would keep walking up the road, keep trudging forward and eventually get to Bristol and the nearest army barracks.
The road curved to the right and the forest thickened on either side. Soon the cottage would be out of sight. If he were going to look back, he had to do it now.
But he didn’t. He just kept walking around the bend.
He stopped for a moment. Even if he looked back now he wouldn’t be able to see the cottage. The cold pressed against his face. A crow squawked in the distance.
He’d done it. He’d left.
Now there was nothing stopping him from marching all the way to Bristol.
9
A cry rang out across the camp.
Jack woke instantly and sat up so quickly his head smacked into the underside of the wagon. He winced and spluttered a curse.
Two further cries drifted over the tents.
Rubbing his head, he rolled out from under the wagon and into the grey morning. He felt groggy and disorientated, but at least the pain in his chest had gone. He stumbled to his feet, slipping a little in the mud.
Drizzle had enveloped the landscape and the mountains were no more than dark blurs.
He heard several further cries from the far side of the camp.
‘What’s going on?’ Saleem scrambled away from the wagon, his eyes wild and a knife in his hand.
‘Put that away.’ Jack nodded at the knife. ‘Might just be more Scots. Let’s take a look.’
Saleem hid the knife beneath his tunic, but he kept looking around as if some enemy would appear at any moment.
Andrew and the others crawled out from under the wagon, and Jack led them all towards the shouting. Other porters and soldiers were also rising, hurriedly pulling on trousers and unpiling muskets.
Jack reached the edge of the camp and spotted soldiers gathering near the line of the forest. Most of them were staring at something on the ground, while the rest were pointing their muskets in the direction of the woods. He ran across to them and slowed when he saw what they were looking at. Lying in the slick grass, pale and still, were two Saxon soldiers in full uniform. One had an arrow in his neck, blood clotted around the hole where the missile had entered. The other had three arrows jutting out of his chest.
They must have been on sentry duty overnight.
Sergeant Wulfric arrived and his top lip curled into a snarl when he saw the bodies. He looked at the dark woods, as if the trees themselves had killed the men.
Rao, Parihar and Atri hurried across the meadow, straightening their tunics and buckling on their scimitars. When he saw the corpses, Rao crinkled his nose and shoved his handkerchief over his face.
Wulfric crouched and stroked the feather flights on one of the arrows – they were crudely stitched to the shaft with thread. He looked up at Rao. ‘Scots.’
Rao pressed his handkerchief harder against his face and shot a look at the trees.
Parihar drew his scimitar, the metal singing. ‘We’ll teach these savages a lesson.’
Rao waved his hand vaguely in Wulfric’s direction. ‘Sergeant, cremate the bodies. We need to get moving from here.’
Wulfric stood still. His forehead rippled, as if a variety of different emotions were passing through his head. He opened his mouth, shut it again and finally said, ‘Cremate, sir?’
‘The Mohammedans bury their dead,’ Atri said to Rao in Rajthani.
‘Oh.’ Rao frowned, waved his hand again at Wulfric and said in Arabic, ‘Bury your dead as you will.’
By mid-morning, the expedition finally set off into the swirling drizzle. Dark shapes loomed out of the mist before them, condensing into trees, knolls and boulders. The shadowy mountains crowded to either side. To Jack, near the back of the column, the front half of the party were apparitions. The Saxons marched silently, no longer singing in their peculiar tongue. The Rajthanan officers rode alongside on their horses, hunched in their overcoats and staring repeatedly at the surrounding slopes. Rao and Parihar were faint blots in the distance, their black parasols hovering above their heads.
The satchel swung at Jack’s side as he walked. He’d found a quiet spot and loaded the pistol before they’d set off. He had a feeling he might need the weapon sooner rather than later.
Why had the savages killed the sentries? Because of the shrine?
Wulfric and Parihar were idiots. They shouldn’t have desecrated the sacred place. They’d put the whole party in danger and made the journey to Mar more difficult.
Without meaning to, Jack found himself gripping the edge of the satchel tightly. Rao, Parihar and Wulfric – all fools that he had to obey for the time being.
Saleem looked pale and his face was greasy from the rain. He constantly glanced around him. No doubt he was expecting an arrow to come whistling out of the fog at any moment.
It was hardly an unfounded fear.
In an attempt to distract him, Jack said, ‘Bloody rain.’
Saleem nodded, but stayed silent, his lips pressed together tightly.
‘Does it ever do anything but rain in Scotland?’ Andrew said.
The others from Shropshire chuckled and even Saleem managed a smile.
They pressed on along the valley until midday, the soft rain continuing to float around them. Jack noticed they were constantly passing through strong sattva streams, many wider than two hundred yards. Clearly, much of Scotland was rich in sattva.
They stopped for lunch, and then the guide led the way uphill. At first the incline was gentle and the carts and wagons rolled easily over the grass, but then the slope steepened and turned rocky. Boulders protruded from the earth and patches of scree covered the ground. The vehicles’ wheels squealed as they juddered over the loose stones.
It became so steep the Rajthanans were forced to dismount. Jack and the others had to push the wagon to help the oxen. Several times a wheel jammed in a crevice and they had to lift the vehicle over the obstacle.
‘Where’s this guide taking us?’ Andrew said. ‘Does he have any idea?’
The men laughed, but Jack had real doubts. Did the guide know which direction to take? Was he lost?
Then the underside of the wagon thudded into a boulder and wedged itself tight. The oxen bellowed and gouged the earth with their hooves, but they couldn’t drag the vehicle forward. The driver cracked his whip, but the animals were still unable to move the wagon.
Jack cursed under his breath. Not again.
He crouched, peered under the vehicle and saw that the rock was jammed tight against the axle and one wheel – but, thankfully, nothing was broken.
He stood up again. ‘Right, lads. We’ll have to lift it.’
‘You lot again.’ Wulfric strutted down the slope. ‘Get that thing moving.’
Jack and his men took up positions around the wagon. When Jack yelled ‘Lift!’ they all yanked up, grunting and twisting their faces. Jack wrenched as hard as he could, the tendons in his arms aching and his neck muscles snapping taut.
But the wagon didn’t move.
Jack released his grip. ‘Wait, lads.
Something’s caught.’
He crouched and peered under the vehicle again. It was dark and he couldn’t make out what was holding the wagon down. He went to slide underneath for a better look when he felt a strap across his back. It didn’t hurt but the surprise made him jump.
‘Get on with it, scum,’ Wulfric said behind him.
Jack paused.
That was it. That was bloody it.
It was as though a pool of oil had been lit inside him.
He swivelled round, straightened and took two quick steps towards Wulfric. ‘Do that again and my boot will go right up your arse.’
Wulfric narrowed his eye and a smile stretched across his lips. ‘Didn’t like Old Wulfric giving you a slap?’ He struck Jack lightly on the chest with the strap and smiled even wider.
Jack’s hand shook. His head felt hot and full of blood.
He mustn’t hit Wulfric.
‘Coward, are you?’ Wulfric said. ‘Afraid of Old Wulfric?’
Although Jack couldn’t see them, he sensed the other men watching. Everyone was silent. The only sound was the snuffling of the animals and the soft rush of the wind.
‘Come on, scum,’ Wulfric said. ‘If you want to fight—’
Jack heard a crunch, followed by the screech of wood. He spun round in time to see the wagon’s backboard fly apart, sending splinters tumbling through the air. The chains, which had been attached to the board, flew up and the statue slid off the back, canvas and ropes flapping about it. Jack’s comrades flung themselves out of the way, Saleem rolling to the side of the track just in time.
Except for Andrew.
The statue slammed into his chest and pummelled him to the ground. He lay pinned, the top of his torso and head poking out from under the metal figure, but the rest of his body underneath.
No.
Jack rushed across to the statue. At the same time, the oxen, now free of the heavy load, sprang forward, wrenching the wagon over the boulder.
Andrew was alive, but he was gasping for breath and his eyes were glazed. A rock partially supported the statue, but a large part of the weight was pressing down on the lad. He moved his arms feebly like a crushed beetle.
Christ.
‘Here!’ Jack shouted. ‘Everyone. Move this thing!’
Within seconds, Saleem and the others clustered around the murti. Robert roared and slammed into the side of the statue, the canvas cover buckling. They all lifted, their feet skidding. Saleem fell and splashed in the mud. The rain bathed them in beads of moisture.
Jack heard a shout of surprise, glanced up and saw a strange sight. One of Robert’s gang had let go of the statue and now stood with his hand on the side of his head. The shaft of an arrow poked out of his ear. He looked almost comical for a moment, a jester performing an act, but then blood pulsed between his fingers and drooled down his neck. He staggered, toppled into an awkward sitting position and gave a long moan.
Another arrow hissed through the rain and disappeared overhead.
‘Savages!’ Wulfric shouted.
A swarm of arrows now flickered about them, bouncing off rocks, impaling the ground and hammering into the sides of the carts. It was as though the sky were raining sticks. Missiles thudded into several more men. One porter, with an arrow in his chest, stumbled into the gloom, crying out for the Lord to save him. Other men lay writhing and moaning on the ground.
Jack glanced down at Andrew, who was still and pale.
Was he alive? There was no time to check.
‘Move this bloody statue!’ Jack rammed his body into the side of the huge figure. The others joined him, despite the arrows dancing around them.
Blood roared in Jack’s ears and his heart bashed in his chest. He wouldn’t let Andrew die. They had to move the statue. Had to. He’d allowed the young man to come on this journey and it was his responsibility to keep him safe. And it would be wrong, unjust, for anything to happen to Andrew.
An arrow slapped the canvas and bounced over Jack’s head. Barnabas, one of the Shropshire lads, gasped and fell back with a missile in his mouth.
Christ. They had to move that statue quickly.
‘He’s dead,’ Saleem shouted.
Jack looked down. Saleem was crouching, his finger pressed to Andrew’s neck. Andrew lay still, eyes wide and mouth open, as if he were staring at something in horror.
Jack squatted, pushed aside Saleem’s finger and felt for a pulse. Nothing. The lad was gone. There was no doubt.
Damn it.
An arrow whispered between Jack and Saleem’s faces.
Saleem froze for a moment, but Jack grasped him and yanked him over to a small hollow beside a boulder. Robert crashed down next to them and the other men scrambled to find what little cover they could.
‘Over here!’ Wulfric blew a whistle. ‘Two lines!’
About fifty soldiers had scrambled to the back of the column and now arranged themselves into two rows facing out towards either side of the track. At Wulfric’s command, they loaded and fired. The weapons crackled, flame and white smoke jetting from the barrels. Arrows still hailed down. A couple of soldiers lurched back with shafts in their chests.
A horn blower somewhere further up the hill sounded the alarm, although it was hardly necessary.
Jack grasped the satchel still hanging at his side. Should he draw his pistol and help? If the situation got worse, he would, but at the moment he didn’t want to reveal to Wulfric and the Rajthanans that he had a weapon.
An arrow struck the ground nearby, slithered along the stones and stopped near his feet. Another speared a puddle and stood there quivering.
Wulfric blasted his whistle several times and barked the commands to reload.
In unison, the soldiers placed their muskets butt-down on the ground, plucked cartridges from their ammunition pouches, bit them open, poured the powder down the barrels and stuffed in the balls. They then rammed down the bullets with their rods, retrieved percussion caps from their pockets and pressed these on to their weapons’ nipples. They moved fluidly, oblivious to the noise and confusion about them, even when three of their number fell to arrows.
Finally, they raised their muskets and blasted into the drifts of rain, the clouds of smoke blurring them completely for a moment.
Rao, Parihar and Atri came skidding down the track, their scimitars swinging wildly at their hips.
‘Can’t see them, sir,’ Wulfric said. ‘They’re hiding all around us.’
Rao and Parihar snapped open spyglasses and stared through them. An arrow hopped along the ground and struck the side of Rao’s boot. The Captain jumped in fright, but the missile hadn’t harmed him.
‘We can’t shoot them like this,’ Parihar said in Rajthani to Rao. ‘We’ll have to get the men up there.’
Rao nodded and ducked as an arrow whizzed overhead, although it was far too high to hit him.
‘Sergeant,’ Parihar said to Wulfric. ‘Split the men up. Deploy knives. Get up there and sort these savages out.’
Wulfric blew his whistle and barked at his men, waving also to those who were still further up the slope. He grasped his musket and slipped out the catch so that the knife clacked into place. ‘Allah is great!’
‘Allah is great!’ the soldiers repeated.
With a roar, Wulfric charged up the slope to the right of the track, about half the men following, all of them snarling and shouting in Saxon.
Parihar drew his blade, which flickered in the dim light, and held it above his head. He bellowed and sprinted up the incline to the left, the remaining soldiers scrambling after him.
Clouds of arrows continued to batter the party. One plunged into a mule, which brayed and ran off between the rocks, its load spilling off. Several wounded porters crawled across the ground. Others fled down the track, most of them picked off by the savages’ missiles.
An arrow struck the rock above Jack’s head and snapped in half. He glanced around for somewhere better to hide, but there was nowhere nearby.
/> Rao and Atri scuttled under a mule cart. Arrows bounced off the vehicle and jammed into the wood. The mule bucked and stomped, but a driver crouching beside it held it in place.
An eerie wail drifted across the valley. At first it seemed like the cry of some strange bird, but as it grew louder Jack recognised it – pipes. The minstrels in England had a variety of different pipes, but none made a sound quite like this. It was harsh and discordant, and set the hairs on the back of his neck quivering.
Jack glanced at Saleem – his eyes were wide and his skin was grey. Jack put his hand gently on the lad’s shoulder for a moment.
Then he caught the sound of chanting, just audible over the skirl of the pipes and the cries of the Saxons. The savages were shouting in their strange tongue.
‘It’s a war cry,’ Robert said. ‘Can’t understand it all, but I can catch a few words.’
Jack listened carefully. How many savages were there? It was hard to tell. The cries bounced around the mountains and valleys. Was it a few hundred? A few thousand?
The mule driver collapsed to the ground, an arrow in his neck, and the mule squealed and scrambled up the slope, the cart clattering behind. Rao and Atri, still lying on the ground, were suddenly exposed. Rao flung his hand over his turban, as if that would somehow protect him. Atri swung up into a crouch, but an arrow slammed into his chest. The siddha tried to stand up, slipped back to his knees, and then fell forward until he was on all fours.
‘Use a power!’ Rao screamed in Rajthani.
‘No,’ Atri shouted back.
Rao grabbed Atri beneath the arms and began dragging him to the side of the track. Arrows pierced the ground all around them and smacked against the rocks.
‘Use a power,’ Rao shouted again.
Atri grunted. ‘Must stay pure. The Brahmastra—’
An arrow thudded into Atri’s stomach and he groaned.
Rao glanced at the wound and pulled more frantically.
Atri’s eyes rolled white. He began mouthing words silently. Feebly, he raised one arm and a bulb of blue, translucent flame flickered around his hand and trickled down his wrist.
The Place of Dead Kings Page 13