The Place of Dead Kings

by Geoffrey Wilson

  Suddenly arrows hailed down from the bluffs. Missiles thudded into men and animals, dashed the water and skipped off carts and wagons. Porters screamed, choked, stumbled and flapped about in the river. An arrow nailed one man’s hand to a cart. Another speared a porter in the eye. The oxen roared and wrestled to free themselves from their yokes.

  Jack crouched down instinctively, although with the arrows coming from all directions there was little point. He snatched a look at his surroundings. The cliffs were steep and there was nowhere beneath them to take cover.

  They were trapped.

  And soon they would all be dead.

  Behind him, he heard the crackle of muskets and smelt the acrid scent of powder smoke. The Saxons were retaliating, but there was little hope of them hitting any of the savages while they were hidden by the mist.

  An arrow whistled past in front of Jack’s face.

  His heart hammered and the fire flickered in his chest.

  What to do?

  His only thought was to get back to Saleem and the others and then get the hell out of the gorge.

  Still crouching, he sloshed his way back downstream. The baggage train had come to a standstill and the porters were either flailing about in the water in their attempts to flee or cowering beneath wagons and carts. A team of oxen bolted and stampeded straight at Jack, arrows sticking out of their backs like pins. He leapt to the side as the animals and wagon careered past.

  He waded forward again, dodging bobbing corpses. By now many porters had come to the same conclusion as him. They pushed and shoved as they fought to get back to the end of the gorge. Jack caught an elbow in his ribs, then someone yanked his tunic so that he almost fell. Grunts and cries surrounded him.

  The sound of pipes and war cries floated through the mist.

  Arrows streamed down, picking off men. And now even rocks and stones plummeted into the gully as the savages hurled whatever they could at the column. A large slab slapped the river next to Jack and sprayed him with water. Another smacked into the head of a porter, flinging out blood and splinters of skull.

  The water boiled and turned bright red.

  Ahead of Jack, a wagon and a team of oxen had tumbled on to their sides. Several of the animals were dead, but the others thrashed and groaned as they struggled to free themselves, the water frothing about them. Jack swerved out of the way and stumbled on.

  Someone pushed him from behind. He slipped, tried to grasp a man nearby for support, missed and splashed into the river. He rolled out of the way of the rushing crowd, grabbed a rock jutting out from the cliff and hauled himself back up again. He was drenched, but worse than that, his pistol would have been soaked and was unlikely to fire now.

  Damn it. Just when he needed a weapon.

  He surged ahead again and finally found Saleem crouching beneath a slight overhang in the rock face. The lad’s features were frozen in fear and his eyes were rimmed with red.

  But he was alive. Thank God.

  Jack squatted and grasped Saleem’s shoulder. ‘Where are the others?’

  Saleem’s bottom lip trembled and he nodded at the water beside him. Jack looked across and saw two of the lads from Shropshire floating in the river, arrows in their torsos and clouds of blood drifting around them.

  Christ. Two more of their little group gone.

  He shut his eyes, clenched his teeth. It was hard to see young men die so easily. But they’d believed in the crusade and done what they thought was right.

  He was proud of them.

  He opened his eyes again. ‘What about the other three?’

  Saleem looked down. ‘They ran off. Said they’d had enough. I wouldn’t go with them.’

  Jack pursed his lips. He couldn’t blame the three lads for fleeing. It’d been brave of them to come even this far.

  ‘Jack!’ a voice called behind him.

  He spun round and saw Robert bounding through the river.

  The big man crouched. ‘We’re all getting out of here.’ He nodded towards the end of the gorge. ‘The Saxons are being slaughtered. We’ll all be dead if we stay here.’

  Jack grasped Robert’s sleeve. ‘You sure about this?’

  ‘You’re not staying here, are you?’ Robert said.

  ‘I have to.’

  Robert scowled. ‘You’re mad.’

  Jack sighed. He didn’t want Robert to go. The big man had been an asset on this expedition and, more than that, he’d become a friend. But Jack understood his decision.

  Jack smiled. ‘We always knew it was a mad journey.’

  ‘Aye.’ Robert’s eyes twinkled and his beard creased as he gave a wide grin. ‘We did that.’

  ‘You be careful. It’ll be a hard journey back.

  ‘Better than what you’ll be facing.’

  That was probably true. ‘God’s grace to you, then.’ Jack slapped Robert on the shoulder.

  ‘And to you, wee man.’ Robert put his hand on Saleem’s shoulder. ‘And you too, Sultan.’

  The big man stood, blocking out most of the light for a moment, then loped away into the mist, the river bubbling around him. The fog broke apart as he passed, and then slid silently back together again.

  ‘The arrows have stopped,’ Saleem said.

  Jack glanced around. It was true, no further missiles fell in this part of the gorge. All the surviving porters had fled. Corpses, arrows and scraps of canvas drifted in the swirling water. A lone pack mule stumbled about, as if in a daze. Carts stood abandoned and riddled with arrows. One of the oxen yoked to the fallen wagon still squealed and lashed the water with its hooves.

  From further up the gorge, Jack heard the stutter of muskets, shouts and the ring of steel. He frowned. It sounded like hand-to-hand fighting.

  The last thing he wanted to do was go upstream and find out what was going on. But what else could he do? If there was any chance of the party surviving, any chance of them still travelling to Mar, he had to make sure he was with them. He couldn’t turn back now when he was so close.

  He looked at Saleem. ‘You go with Robert. Quickly now. You can catch up with him.’

  ‘What?’ Saleem looked as if Jack had slapped him in the face. ‘No. Not this time. I’m not running away.’

  ‘Robert was right. It’s mad to stay here. I have to go on. But you need to live. Get back to Shropshire. Look after your mother and—’

  ‘No.’ Saleem bashed the water with his fist. ‘You left me behind in London. I won’t let you do that again.’

  Christ. Saleem was being an idiot. Jack didn’t have time for this. He grasped Saleem’s tunic. ‘You want to die? Is that it?’

  ‘Do you?’ Saleem glared at Jack, his gaze unwavering. He was panting hard and his jaw was tight.

  Jack searched Saleem’s eyes. He couldn’t see a single trace of hesitancy there. The lad had made his mind up and Jack would have to accept it. He imagined Saleem would follow him wherever he went anyway.

  He let go of Saleem’s tunic. ‘All right. If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is.’

  Jack’s throat tightened. Feelings, hard to place, welled in his chest. He wanted the lad to be safe, but at the same time wanted him to follow his conscience.

  It was similar to the way he felt about Elizabeth.

  ‘Good lad.’ He patted Saleem lightly on the shoulder.

  He opened his wet satchel and pulled out the pistol. The weapon was damp and slick. He reached back into the satchel, took out the cap tin and checked the caps. At least they’d stayed dry. He pressed fresh caps on to two of the nipples, pointed the pistol in the air and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked down and the first cap gave a bang, but nothing else happened. He cocked the hammer, which rotated the cylinder, and fired again. Still nothing. As he’d thought, the powder was wet.

  Damn it.

  He would have to pull the bullets out and clean the weapon before he could use it again. But that could take fifteen minutes or more, and he had to get moving immediately.
r />   He tossed the pistol back into the satchel, fished out the brass flask and tipped a little powder into his hand. The grey-black grains were dry. At least he still had powder and bullets, even if he couldn’t use them at the moment.

  He needed another weapon.

  He shot a look around at the floating bodies and detritus. None of the porters were likely to have been carrying firearms or anything more than a dagger. He turned to the corpses of the two Shropshire lads. They’d both had knives on them, and that was the best he could hope for at the moment.

  He grasped one of the bodies and was aware of Saleem staring at him as he felt under the sodden tunic. He felt an edge of cold steel – there it was. He slipped out the knife, held it up for a second and wiped it on his sleeve.

  He looked upstream. The cliffs and the frothing river receded into the mist. Shouts, cries, chimes of metal and the occasional burst of a firearm reverberated between the bluffs, but he couldn’t see anything through the fog.

  ‘Right, then.’ He glanced at Saleem. ‘Let’s get going.’

  Saleem nodded and drew his knife.

  Then they both stood and strode out into the river.

  12

  Jack and Saleem splashed through the burbling water, avoiding the drifting corpses and animal carcasses. They passed a couple of porters who were still alive but groaning and lying half submerged in the river. Saleem hesitated, but Jack grabbed his arm and pushed him forward. The men were severely wounded and there was nothing anyone could do to help them.

  Jack slowed as they passed the vehicle carrying the Ganesh statue. The oxen were all dead and lying on their sides. The animals were peppered with arrows and gouged by wounds where they’d either gored each other or smashed themselves against the cliff. The wagon was tilted and wedged against the rock face, the wheels on one side lifted out of the water.

  The statue had partially slid off the back and the base now rested in the river, the current swishing around it. The giant figure was still wrapped in canvas, but one arm, holding a stylised axe, had slipped out between the folds in the material.

  Jack paused for a moment. They’d toiled for weeks to cart the murti through the wilds. Andrew had died because of it.

  What a waste.

  And all because of bloody Captain Rao’s stupidity.

  A man screamed up ahead, the cry suddenly cut short.

  Jack forged on through the rapids. They passed several dead Saxons, then clambered up an incline where the water guttered down in a series of shallow waterfalls. Then suddenly they’d left the gorge, the cliffs opening out to slopes that were indistinct in the mist.

  They found themselves standing in a pool that came up to their knees. In every direction, both in the pool and around its edges, Saxons tussled with savages. Only those nearby were clearly visible – the others were shadow puppets behind the mist. Men shouted, steel rang and now and then muskets blasted, the flashes momentarily lighting up the haze. Pipes wailed in the distance.

  Jack only had a moment to take all this in before he heard a shrill cry to his right. He turned just in time to see a savage leaping at him. The man’s eyes were wild and his bearded face was twisted with fury. His arms were outstretched and in one hand he held a crude knife. His cloak fluttered like wings behind him, while his legs and feet were bare. Jack caught a glimpse of an emblem on his chest, but had no time to take it in.

  Jack’s heart shot into his throat. He spun to the side, slammed his knife upwards and slashed the savage’s side. At the same time, the man smashed into his shoulder and knocked him backwards.

  The savage smacked into the water, while Jack staggered back a few paces until he regained his footing. The man surged upright again, but he was now clutching a red wound in his abdomen. Dripping, he glanced at his injury and then glared at Jack. His cloak flopped open, revealing the insignia stitched to his chest.

  A white skull on a black background.

  The savage shrieked and dived at Jack.

  Christ. The man seemed to have no fear.

  Jack slipped easily to the side, swung his knife straight up and skewered the man in the gut. The force of the man’s weight knocked Jack backwards and he splashed into the water. He gasped, jumped back to his feet, went to swing the knife again, and then saw the savage lying face down in the water, blood circling out from him.

  Saleem was standing rigidly in the pool, shifting his grip on his knife and staring wide-eyed at the dead man.

  ‘Over here.’ Jack waded to the edge of the pool. They had to get out of the melee. The Saxons could deal with the savages as far as he was concerned. There was no reason for him and Saleem to get involved unless there was no other option.

  They hauled themselves on to the rocky bank and clambered up a steep slope covered in trees and thick undergrowth. Saleem went first, with Jack just behind. The ground was muddy and covered in fallen leaves. Both of them slipped to their knees a few times. Jack grasped a bramble bush by accident and winced as the thorns impaled his hand.

  Then something grabbed his ankle and yanked him back. He fell, slid downhill a few feet, twisted over and saw the grinning face of Sergeant Wulfric.

  Wulfric’s cap had fallen off and his bare scalp glistened with moisture. Dirt streaked his tunic and trousers and what look like blood splattered one of his sleeves, although he appeared unharmed. In one hand he held a red-stained scimitar, which he must have picked up when an officer dropped it, but he didn’t appear to have any other weapons.

  In a voice like cold honey, he said, ‘There you are, scum.’

  Jack shook his foot in an attempt to free it. ‘What’re you playing at?’

  Wulfric gripped the ankle firmly. ‘No, you don’t. Old Wulfric’s been waiting for this.’

  Jack still held the knife in one hand. Had Wulfric noticed? He tensed his fingers around the handle. ‘You’ll be shot.’

  Wulfric grinned even wider, exposing a row of yellow teeth. ‘No one’s going to miss one filthy Englishman.’

  Wulfric raised the scimitar behind his head. His single eye blazed.

  Jack kicked but couldn’t free his leg. His heart battered in his chest. He was going to be hit. There was no way out of it.

  Then a rock slapped Wulfric in the face. The Sergeant grunted, let go of Jack and staggered backwards. Blood gushed from his nose and ran over his lips. He grunted more loudly and put his hand to his face.

  Jack scrabbled out of Wulfric’s reach and twisted round to see Saleem standing a couple of feet up the slope. The lad’s eyes were frozen wide, his bottom lip quivered and he was panting so hard his shoulders rose and fell with each breath.

  ‘Run.’ Jack’s voice was cracked.

  Saleem clambered back uphill on all fours. Jack followed, slipping, grappling with vines, and grabbing at twigs and bracken.

  He heard a roar behind him and the snap of breaking branches.

  Wulfric was following.

  His heart stuttered and his breath was short. He could hear the Saxons and savages fighting, but the sounds were distant, coming from another world. The only thing on his mind was the task of clawing his way up the slope.

  He trod on a loose stone, which skidded away from under his boot. He lost his footing, slid down and dug his hands into the soil to stop himself falling further. He managed to ram his foot into a tree root and use that to propel himself forward again.

  But something tugged at his ankle for a second and wrenched him back.

  He heard Wulfric growling right behind him.

  Christ.

  Rather than make the same mistake as last time, where he’d lain helpless at Wulfric’s feet, he instead swung round and let himself plunge back. He saw Wulfric standing directly beneath him. The Sergeant widened his eye when he saw Jack flying towards him. Jack hit Wulfric in the chest and the Sergeant let out a loud wheeze. They both tumbled down, rolled a short distance and jolted to a stop against a bush.

  Jack landed face down and got a mouthful of dirt.

&nbs
p; Wulfric roared, scrambled to his knees and swung the scimitar wildly. Jack ducked and the blade whistled over his head, shredding the leaves of a shrub. Wulfric stuck out one leg to brace himself and sliced the blade downwards. Jack rolled to the side and the scimitar thumped into the mud.

  Now Jack saw an opening. Wulfric’s side was exposed as he knelt with his scimitar stuck in the ground. Wulfric went to lift his weapon again, but Jack shifted his grip on the knife, leapt and thrust the blade into the Sergeant’s flank. The knife slipped easily through cloth and skin and into the wet flesh beneath.

  Wulfric looked down and saw the knife stuck into his abdomen. He snarled and jabbed backwards with his arm, raising the scimitar at the same time. His elbow smashed into Jack’s mouth. Pain flooded Jack’s face, darkness puffed before his eyes and his ears whined. He stumbled back, still holding the knife, which was now slick with blood.

  Wulfric’s face seethed and his eye flared brilliant white. He whirled round, swinging the scimitar, but the attack was far too high and Jack easily ducked out of the way. The blade whacked deep into a tree trunk.

  And then it was stuck.

  Wulfric growled and struggled to pull the blade free. But it was wedged in firmly.

  Jack pounced immediately, knocked Wulfric to the ground and clambered on top. Without pausing for a second, Jack rammed his knife into Wulfric’s chest. Wulfric wheezed and his eye opened so wide Jack thought it would pop out. The Sergeant raised his arms to fend Jack off, but the strength seemed to have gone out of him and he could do no more than flail uselessly.

  Jack stabbed Wulfric repeatedly in the chest, blood flicking all around him. Finally, he stopped. Panting hard, he stared at Wulfric’s face. The Sergeant, amazingly, was still alive, although only just. He tried to lift his head and glared back at Jack.

  ‘Scum,’ Wulfric whispered. Then his head dropped back and he gave a final sigh as the life went out of his bulbous eye.

  Jack crossed himself, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, turned to the side and spat dirt from his mouth.