Golden Heart (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles)

by P J Thorndyke

  Chapter Eighteen

  In which our heroes flee to a new future

  “Katarina!” cried Lazarus, ecstatic as the Russian flung herself next to him just in time to avoid being hit by the volley of Confederate fire that followed Thompson’s death.

  “Didn’t anyone go topside?” cried Vasquez. “Who’s next? Tohotavo and all those other old coots?”

  “Just me, bandit,” Katarina called back.

  “But why?” Lazarus asked her.

  “I saw Thompson slip away as we were departing. I figured he would try and warn Reynolds. His heart was set on obtaining that gold for the Union and nothing, not even his hatred of Reynolds, would stop him from doing whatever it took to keep you from carrying out your plan.”

  “But… you just killed him,” said Lazarus. “You were as keen on getting the gold to the union as he was. Have you had a change of heart?”

  She shrugged. “I guess somebody taught me that some things matter more than gold.”

  “Vasquez!” cried out a voice from the Confederates.

  “Reynolds!” Vasquez shouted back.

  “It’s all over, Vasquez!”

  “It ain’t over till one of us is dead!”

  “You volunteering?”

  Vasquez swung around the corner and sent a bullet whizzing towards Reynolds. Three answered in return from different guns, the second striking Vasquez in the thigh. He fell back with a cry of pain. Pahanatuuwa dragged him out of the line of fire.

  “Damn him,” said Katarina. “Useless heroics…”

  “Come on,” said Lazarus. “It’s pointless to fight here. We need to get to the fuse and get things started. It’s the only way to end this.”

  “Agreed,” said Katarina. “You help Pahanatuuwa with Vasquez while I provide covering fire.”

  She nosed her long revolver around the corner and picked off a Confederate. A hail of fire came their way, and when guns started clicking empty Lazarus made a dash to the other side of the passageway.

  They struggled to lift Vasquez up onto his good leg. Katarina fired shot after shot, keeping the Confederates on their toes while they half supported, half dragged Vasquez over to her side of the passageway, which would lead them onwards.

  “They’re not following,” said Katarina, catching up with them.

  “Probably trying to head us off,” said Lazarus. “We need to get to the fuse, Pahanatuuwa. Do you know the way?”

  The big Cibolan didn’t answer, but began taking passageways seemingly at random. Lazarus prayed that he knew where he was taking them. They hobbled and stumbled in a northerly direction until they arrived at where they had started, seemingly days ago.

  “Light it!” croaked Vasquez.

  Lazarus fumbled for matches and eventually got the fuse burning. “Now, let’s get moving!”

  “No!” said Katarina. “Listen!”

  They listened. Reynolds could be heard barking orders to his men further down the tunnel.

  “They’re going to try and stop the fuse from reaching the dynamite!” said Lazarus.

  “Gotta stop them,” groaned Vasquez.

  They peered down into the blackness of the tunnel into which the burning end of the fuse had disappeared. It was a no-win situation. To ensure the dynamite would blow, they had to go down there and stop the Confederates from detaching the fuses. But to do that would leave them no time to escape. They did not discuss the matter. Action was the word and so they followed the sparkling fuse.

  They reached the dynamite and began firing upon the Confederates who would have come within seconds of reaching the explosives themselves. Reynolds and his party fell back, taking cover as Lazarus and his companions had done not long before.

  “Now what?” asked Katarina. “We can’t hang around here until the fuse reaches the dynamite.”

  Nobody had a chance to answer, for a second group of Confederates, no doubt come down from the northern temple, were making their way down the passageway towards them. They were trapped between two hostile parties.

  “Christ, now we’re stuck,” said Vasquez, reloading his revolver. “Hok’ee, old pal, I think this is it. I know you have more reason to hate Reynolds than even I do, but I promise you I’ll put an extra bullet in him for you. That is, if I have a chance to before the dynamite blows.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lazarus asked. “You’re not suggesting we leave you here!”

  “You ain’t got a choice,” said Vasquez. “My leg won’t get me out of here in time, but you three might just make it if you go now. Besides, only one of us needs to remain and guard the fuse. That’s gonna be me. Now get going!”

  “No!” said Pahanatuuwa.

  “Pal, I know. You got more right to kill that bastard than I do, but these two need your Golgotha to get them through and up to safety. There’s no other way, old buddy.”

  Lazarus could see the pain in Pahanatuuwa’s eyes at the thought of leaving his companion to perish, but even he could see that their choices had been whittled away to this single desperate one.

  “Come on, warrior,” said Lazarus, putting a hand on the Cibolan’s arm. “Your people need you more than Vasquez does.”

  “And so do we,” said Katarina.

  “There’s just a few more of Reynold’s men to kill now,” Lazarus added. “And then this valley will be free from them forever.”

  Pahanatuuwa rose, his eyes fixed on Vasquez.

  “Good-bye, Pahanatuuwa,” the bandit said, using his birth name for perhaps the first time.

  The Cibolan didn’t respond. Such was the way of his people, who believe that great emotion is expressed best through sullen silence.

  “Do you have enough rounds?” Lazarus asked Vasquez.

  “I could do with some more, if you’re offering.”

  Lazarus fished out his last two boxes. “One for you and one for me. I hope we both have enough.”

  “Good-bye, limey. You weren’t such a bad fella after all.”

  Lazarus managed a grim smile. “And neither were you.”

  “Look after that Russian hussy. She’s a wildcat but I kinda like her for it. Just don’t turn your back on her…”

  “We need to go,” said Katarina. “So long, Vasquez. We won’t forget this.”

  No more words were spoken, for the fuse was creeping nearer and so were the Confederates on either side. Pahanatuuwa raised his Golgotha and it boomed out, felling the nearest soldier in the party from the north. Time seemed to slow down to treacle as they ran, firing. There was no time to take cover and draw the battle out, only to make a mad charge and hope they could shoot their way through without taking too much damage.

  Terrified by the native with the mechanical arm, the Confederates turned tail, but Lazarus and his friends did not stop firing. This was no time for honorable warfare. They shot their enemies in the back, leaping over their fallen forms as they headed on and on towards the northern temple.

  They could hear Vasquez shouting behind them, “Come and get it, Reynolds, you fat, crazy bastard!” There was the sound of distant gunfire. Lazarus wiped a tear from his eye as they ran.

  The dynamite detonated before they spilled out into the temple complex; an earth-shaking roar that felt like the mountains themselves had been picked up and shaken by some titan. The glittering surface of the last temple they would ever see flashed past their eyes as if it was no more than a fleeting dream.

  They could hear the rumble of water behind them as the lake drained into its new basin, filling the tunnels and flooding the rooms of the underground kingdom. They reached the ladder that led up to the kiva and Pahanatuuwa was the first to ascend, the wood creaking under his hurrying frame.

  “After you,” Lazarus said, gripping the ladder.

  “Damn English gallantry,” he heard Katarina mutter as she hurried up.

  At the end of the tunnel he could see the torrent of water thundering towards them like a charging cavalry. He hurried up after Katarina, bumping his head agai
nst her rear. She vanished above him, and then he felt Pahanatuuwa’s corded arm seize him by the shirt collar and hoist him up into the kiva.

  Soon they were out onto the cliff, pounding the red earth with their feet. Behind them, the water erupted out of the kiva like a geyser, lifting its roof many feet into the air before it crumbled and dissolved into muddy rain. The whole cliff edge and its pueblo began to slip and slide down into the valley.

  “We need to get higher!” Katarina yelled.

  They scrambled up the cliff, scrabbling at the dirt and foliage with their hands, not pausing to look behind them. When they had got as far as they could climb, they found Pahanatuuwa’s people staring beyond them from their camp up in the mountain peaks. Only then did they turn around to admire the view.

  The whole valley had changed. The shape of the lake was drastically altered and much lower than it had been. All about were fallen trees, mudslides and floating debris. The water that had been tossed into the air drifted about in a spray of mist, causing a fabulous rainbow; a bittersweet contrast to the apocalyptic scene below.

  “Good Lord,” mumbled Lazarus.

  “Did we do the right thing?” Katarina said.

  “Ask Pahanatuuwa. I’ve no idea what’s right anymore.”

  “The kingdom truly belongs to the kachinas now,” answered the Cibolan. “Not to men, whose greed nearly ruined it. It will lie beneath the lake, forever lost to us. It is a great calamity, but it is right.”

  “People could still come looking,” said Katarina.

  “And they won’t find it,” said Lazarus. “The Seven Golden Cities of Cibola will continue to elude them. And I for one will not mention what I saw here.” He looked at her.

  “Neither will I,” she replied.

  They were in time for breakfast at the camp in the mountains, and ate ravenously while they watched the shifting and settling of the land down in the valley. A group of birds were flocking to a new patch. Nature was adapting to fit its new place, like jelly in a mould.

  Pahanatuuwa and Kokoharu approached them. They had been in discussion with the chiefs and elders for most of the morning.

  “I have just received confirmation,” he said, “that I am to succeed Eototu as chief of the western clan.”

  “Well congratulations,” said Lazarus. “But I thought that to become a chieftain here one had to marry a descendant of the clan’s mother?” He then saw Pahanatuuwa’s great arm around Kokoharu’s middle and knew that he had asked a stupid question. Katarina smirked at him. “Well, I suppose double congratulations are in order.”

  “Our first child shall be called Vasquez,” said Pahanatuuwa somberly.

  “Isn’t that a rather unusual name for your people?” Katarina asked.

  “My people will have to get used to it.”

  Kokoharu stood up on her tiptoes and kissed her husband-to-be on the cheek. “Together we shall repair the western pueblo and all the other cliff cities,” said Pahanatuuwa. “And in time we shall build new cities down in the basin. Each of the seven clans shall have their homes once more. It will be as it has been for generations.”

  “I wish them all the luck in the world,” said Lazarus, as they watched the happy couple walk away to attend to pressing tribal matters.

  “As do I,” Katarina replied. “But what now? For us, I mean.”

  “I think we’ve outstayed our welcome,” Lazarus replied.

  “Oh, I don’t know. They seem to be preparing for some sort of celebratory feast. I’m sure we’re invited for playing our part in the defeat of the enemy.”

  “Well, I enjoy a tribal feast as much as the next man, but I don’t intend to dwell here longer than necessary.”

  “It’s a long walk back to civilization.”

  “Well, we do know of a dirigible stashed away in an old fort not too many days from here.”

  She laughed. It was the first time he had ever seen her do so. It pleased him.

  “Will you fly it back to London and land it in Trafalgar Square?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “I don’t think that would make me popular with my government. No, I don’t feel quite ready to return to London just yet. I had thought of seeing the eastern cities of the United States. I hear they’ve more or less rebuilt New York now. You’re welcome to join me. Unless you want to take the balloon further, back to Russia.”

  Her smile faded. “I don’t know what will be waiting for me in Russia. A firing squad, perhaps.”

  “Surely it’s not as bad as all that!”

  “Perhaps not. But maybe I can put off my return as well.” She smiled at him. “After all, I’ve always wanted to see New York.”

  They sat for a while and watched the birds flapping over the water, winging their way to new lives, finding their paths in the new future thrown up for them by fate.

  A Note from the Author

  I hope you have enjoyed Golden Heart, the first novel in the Lazarus Longman Chronicles. If you haven’t already, check out On Rails of Gold the free prequel short story. The second novel – Silver Tomb – will be available very soon and its first chapter is included in this book to wet your appetite.

  If you enjoyed Golden Heart, you could be very kind and leave a review on Amazon or your retailer of choice, or even just recommend it to somebody. Check out my blog at www.pjthorndyke.wordpress.com where I post about all things Steampunk and will be giving away another free Lazarus Longman short story to subscribers sometime soon. I’m also active on Facebook and Twitter.

  Silver Tomb

  Chapter One

  In which our hero is unperturbed by the sound of an exploding horse

  As the wailing of the muezzins from their minarets carried across the rooftops of the city calling all Mohammedans to Asr—the third of the five daily prayers—the heat of the day had barely relented. In his room on the third floor of Shepheard’s Hotel, Lazarus Longman listened to the sounds of the Cairo afternoon while he dragged a straight razor across his cheeks and neck, scraping off a mixture of sweat, black bristles and Vinolia Shaving Soap. He carefully avoided the bristles on his top lip, leaving his very neat and very English looking moustache untouched.

  He halted as the sound of the explosion echoed down the street below his window and up the walls of the buildings, sending a startled flock of hooded crows flapping and cawing from the roof of a nearby mosque. He held the straight razor frozen an inch from his cheek during the stunned silence that followed the deafening roar, and when the cries of alarm quickly filled the vacuum, he resumed shaving, as uninterested in the racket as he was unsurprised.

  He had seen the fools trying to get the iron horse in motion on his way back to the hotel that afternoon. Several fellahs had put it into service pulling a cartload of dates. No matter how backward, every country on the globe was trying to imitate the technological leaps and bounds that had been reported and remarked upon in the Confederate and United States of America; a land Lazarus had spent a good deal of time in over the past year. It was true that the streets of American cities were stalked by the iron hooves of steam-powered beasts of burden. Cabs were drawn by remarkable metal contraptions on four legs, belching steam and clanking along with the stuttering and jarring one might expect from a stiff corpse brought back from the dead.

  But these were mere pedestrian toys in comparison to the terrifying war machines that continent had dreamed up and put into action in its twenty-five-year-long war. And the countries outside its borders, try as they might, would never even perfect a mechanical donkey without access to the valuable ore known as mechanite which seemed to be unique to the North American continent.

  That didn’t stop the construction of damn-fool contraptions like the one that had just exploded near Shepheard’s Hotel. In the absence of mechanite, the idiots had over-fuelled the coal furnace and let the steam build up to an irresponsible level, resulting in the inevitable explosion. Lazarus had seen this and had tried to warn them, but the fellahs in charge of the contraption had taken his prote
st as yet another English interference in the Egyptian’s natural drive for advancement, and had shouted him away. The contraption was a sorry, slapdash affair that would likely have come apart at the rivets before long anyway. They had even put a daft eared-head on the thing that looked like an ironmonger had tried to make a hobby horse for a pantomime.

  After his warning had been ignored and he had been rudely ushered on his way, Lazarus had shrugged his shoulders and gone up to the hotel to dress for dinner. He didn’t allow his sense of satisfaction at the sound of the mechanical horse exploding draw a smile on his lips. It was bloody dangerous to let simple farmers tinker around with coal furnaces and steam. He didn’t doubt that more than one of the fellahs had been scalded in the incident.

  He finished shaving and wiped away the residue with a cloth before fixing a collar to his shirt. He went over to the armchair where the morning edition of the Egyptian Gazette lay; one of dozens of newspapers printed to cater to the country’s large English-speaking population.

  He picked it up and rifled through it for the second time that afternoon. There was a report on the continuing investigation into the murder of a renowned Egyptologist whose body had been found scorched and mutilated down at the Bulaq docks. But the main story was the approaching visit of the CSS Scorpion II; the gigantic Confederate airship that, stripped of its guns, was crossing the Atlantic and making its way for Cairo on what was, for all Lazarus could gather, a mere show of might.

  He scanned the article once more with distaste. The interest of the Confederate States in Egypt and the Suez Canal was worrying. Officially Britain and the C.S.A. were allies, but this landing of the airship in Cairo had the Khedive dancing with glee at the prospect of his British overlord’s humiliation. The inevitable overshadowing of their technological and military might by their American cousins, as well as the promise of further foreign investment in his country’s fledgling economy would be pleasing to him indeed. The British had held Egypt in a vice of colonialism, however unofficially, ever since they had helped him wrangle the Khedivate back from the nationalist faction of the army, and had since showed no signs of loosening their grip.