Winter Knights

by Harper Fox

  “Little bit more rope, mate. Pay it out a bit more.”

  The voice didn’t bother me. I enjoyed late-night radio plays and often fell asleep to them. This one wasn’t the best I’d heard, though—you had to keep the dialogue going, or at least some informative sound effects. All I could hear was faint rustling and a small rhythmic creak. Didn’t tell me much. Giving up on the production, I drifted, settling back into sleep.

  “What have you got down there?”

  “Nothing. You’ve sent me down the wrong hole again, you… Oh, hang on. I see him.”

  Light strafed my eyes, a blood-red streak through their closed lids. I didn’t want to know about it and irritably turned away. But the beam came again, and stayed on me this time. Reluctantly I lifted my head. I couldn’t remember sliding off the rock to make myself a bed on the wet cavern floor, but it had been getting very comfortable. The light stabbed my eyes open. I saw, in dazzled flashes, a man at the end of a rope, being lowered down into the cave. He was wearing an orange rescue-worker’s jumpsuit. I wondered why I didn’t feel more saved.

  “Gavin? Gavin Lowden?”

  A nice voice. Rough and reassuring, with a smile in it, as if its owner did this kind of thing all the time and wasn’t concerned by any of it. I didn’t care enough to want to respond, but a reflex of good manners made me raise a hand. My own voice was a rasp. “Yes. Here.”

  “Good lad. Okay, Lance, he’s alive. I just need a yard or two more—”

  The beam jerked and vanished. I heard a brief metallic whir, then the thud of a body hitting rock. Caught between two worlds, my brain tried to tell me that was it, play over. I might as well let go, surrender myself once again to the sweet call of sleep…

  “Artie! Artie, what happened? Art!”

  Another pleasant voice. They’d chosen the players well. Good actors: this second man sounded convincingly panicked, though not as if he got that way easily. Nice Northumbrian baritone, no trace of the harshness of coal mines and steel farther east. A fields-and-sunshine voice, old as the hills.

  “Art, for God’s sake—”

  “I’m all right. I’m fine. Bloody carabiner snapped, that’s all.”

  “That’s all? What if you’d been over a fissure?”

  “Well, I wasn’t.” The light reappeared. It was different this time, not so painful. A handsome, mud-splashed man was standing a few yards away from me, holding up an electric lantern. He smiled, as if the sight of me had somehow done him good, and gave me a cheerful wave. “Government cutbacks, eh? Evening, Mr Lowden. How are you feeling?”

  I couldn’t begin to tell him, although stupid would have been high on my list of replies. He didn’t wait. I watched helplessly while he unfastened the rest of the belaying harness and came to crouch beside me. He was in his early thirties, his face in the lamplight at once refined and resolute. When he took off his hard hat, bronze-gold hair tumbled down. I wouldn’t have noticed these things except that I wasn’t yet dead, and he was my Hallow Hill king. He was carrying a bright red rucksack marked with a white cross. He shrugged out of this and began to unzip it. “Wrong way round,” I told him. “Should be red on white, on your tabard over your chainmail.”

  “Beg pardon, son?”

  “Oh, I know it’s very medieval Christian. But that became the popular depiction.”

  He gave me a considering grey-eyed glance. “Landed on your skull, did you?”

  “No. My shoulder. It’s dislocated.”

  “Well, it’s probably not as bad as you’d think from all that blood, but you’ve got a nasty head wound too.” He unwrapped a swab from the bag I now realised was only a plain St John’s first-aid kit and sloshed antiseptic onto it. “Let’s have a look.”

  His touch was compassionate but firm as rock. He put one hand round the back of my neck to stop me from flinching while he cleaned up the cut. I had a vision of him at home with his kids—and I felt a surge of guilt. “I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “Dragging you out here. On Christmas Eve.”

  “Oh, is it that time of year again?” He taped a gauze pad to the side of my brow. “Don’t worry. That’s what we’re here for.”

  “You wouldn’t bother if you knew how stupid I’ve been.”

  “Well, see, here’s the thing—we’re not allowed to rescue just the intelligent ones. Now, about this shoulder…” Sitting me forward, he ran an exploratory hand down my back and over my collarbone. “People always think they’re dislocated. It’s probably just sore.”

  “No, I really think it might be—”

  “Wow, Gavin. Look at that!”

  “What?” He was pointing into the darkness behind me, his expression rapt. Instinctively I twisted round to look, and he took me in a double-handed grip—my armpit, my shoulder blade—and pulled back in the opposite direction. A crack resounded through the cave. “Nice,” I managed weakly, when the tide of faintness ebbed. “Fell for it.”

  “They always do. It was badly out. By the time we got you to hospital there might’ve been permanent damage. If I’d told you what I was up to, you’d have gone tense on me, and I mightn’t have been able to pop it back in. Ah, I’m sorry, though. Sorry.” He passed me tissues and a bottle of mineral water. I saw through a glaze of tears that his lovely face was pale and drawn, as if the giving even of necessary pain was difficult to him. “How does that feel now?”

  “Better. Much.”

  “Okay. We’ll give you a while, then I’m going to strap you into the harness and Lance will rope you up.”

  Lance… I shook my head, but that sent another wave of dizzy nausea through me and I concentrated hard on staying upright. I could feel my fingertips again, and the horrible sense of inner disconnection was gone. “I’m fine. We can go now.”

  “Mmm. Right. Make a fist for me.”

  I tried, and we both looked dubiously at the poor effort. I felt ashamed, as if an expected erection had failed to materialise. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m a bit tired. I came down here and I saw the lights. I saw the table with all of you sitting round. I would’ve blown the horn and woken you, only… I’m sorry. I should’ve had more faith.”

  “Gavin.” He stopped me with a hand to my arm, shook me gently. “Concentrate. Stay with me.”

  “I am with you. Piers would’ve done it in a second, though.”

  “Okay.” He reached into the rucksack and shone a small flashlight into my eyes. Then he pressed warm fingertips into the pulse at my wrist and sat frowning in silence for a minute, measuring me off against his watch. “Okay. We did get a bit chilly down here, didn’t we?”

  “A bit. I’m all right, though. Just winch me up and…”

  “Need you to be able to hold on to the rope. You just sit there for a second.” He got to his feet and went to look up at the cavern roof. “Lance?”

  “Right here. How’s it going?”

  “Head injury, possible concussion. Definite hypothermia. Can you send down the dragon?”

  “She’s on her way.”

  By the time he got back to me, I was creased up with laughter. I was bruised all over and it hurt, but I couldn’t restrain it, even when he lifted my chin and examined my face with concern. “Sorry!” I choked out, wiping my eyes.

  “Don’t be. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Want to tell me the joke?”

  “Well, it’s just…here we are. You’re called Arthur, and…”

  “Arthur? Only by my mother. Artie to my friends. Art.”

  “And you just asked Lancelot to…send down the dragon. Arthur Pendragon. Oh God!”

  He gave me a light, efficient slap. It stopped the painful laughter, and I stared at him, wondering how many times he had had to wallop hysteria into submission. “It’s just Artie Green, I’m afraid,” he said mildly. “My mate up there is Lance Whitley, though he’ll answer to Lannie if he’s had a few. And as for your dragon—well, a dragon’s what clever people use these days instead of brandy and hot-water bottles. She’ll
help. You’ll see.”

  I sat passively beside my rock. I wrapped a silver-foil blanket round myself when told to do so, and I watched Artie Green go to collect a plastic case being lowered to him on a rope. I was so cold now that I hardly cared, but curiosity flickered in me as he opened the box and began to unpack its contents. A big black flask, a metal cylinder, what looked like a valve and an oxygen mask. “What’s that?”

  “It’s called a Little Dragon. Are you one of those techie types who feels better when they know how something works?”

  I wasn’t sure. I did like to hang round the labs watching LED displays while I got my samples carbon-dated. “Maybe.”

  “Okay. You’re hypothermic, and you’re still losing heat because the air in here’s so cold. This flask is full of medical soda lime. When I attach the cylinder of carbon dioxide to it, like this…”

  “Oh. There’ll be a heat reaction.”

  “Good lad. Hold the mask to your face and breathe.” I tried, and promptly dropped it. He picked it up for me. “Don’t worry. There’s a strap can go round the back of your head, like that… All you have to do is press that button with your thumb. Can you manage?”

  I could, though I didn’t see the point. My feet and hands and skin were cold, not my insides. Still, it wouldn’t hurt, and holding the valve open kept me occupied while he unhitched another climber’s harness from his belt. I wondered if that was the point. I couldn’t imagine ever being strong enough again to be strapped into that and assist in my own return to the surface. “Breathe deep,” he advised me with a quick smile, and I obeyed.

  It was like getting off a plane in Egypt and taking a first lungful of sunlit air. I remembered that—the transition from the air-conditioned cabin to the dazzling apron, the moment of shock and then surrender. I coughed, and Artie made a move to release me, but I shook my head. I was cold inside. I just hadn’t realised. I took one shuddery breath after another, closing my eyes with the relief of it. Warmth radiated outwards from my lungs to my stomach, my heart, my limbs. It was delicious. The cramped rigidity eased from my spine and I subsided against the rock.

  A gentle hand brushed my hair and I flinched, afraid the treatment was over. “No, it’s okay,” Artie said, checking the valve. “You can have as much of that as you want. People do like it, so don’t think you’re some kind of junkie. Just tell me when you’re up for a ride on Lannie’s rope.”

  I nodded. I would happily tell him anything. Clarity returned with the cessation of cold, and I remembered some of the things I had been saying. I pulled the mask aside. “You must think I’m nuts.”

  “Not at all. But I gather you don’t think I’m Arthur Pendragon anymore.”

  “No. God, I’m sorry. I was tripping out.”

  “Just cold. Keep using the mask.” When I hesitated, he came over and put it back in place himself. This time I was lucid enough to notice his tanned, capable hands. “I’ve heard worse, believe me. At least you didn’t start pulling your clothes off.” I laughed behind the mask, and he lifted a brow. “Happens all the time. It’s a hypothermia reaction, weirdly enough. People get heat flashes. Probably something to do with a confused hypothalamus, though nobody really understands. Then there’s the ones that just get really irritable and shout at me while I’m trying to pull their arses back out of their pothole. You’ve actually been quite nice.”

  I was pleased to hear it. I was in the grip of a dawning awareness of what a fool I’d been. Marching out through the snow was one thing, but dragging good men like this into danger after me… “Sorry,” I muttered, then pulled the mask away and repeated it so he would hear. “Sorry. I can’t believe I’ve done this.”

  “Well, I’m sure you had your reasons. Christmas doesn’t go down well with everyone. You can tell me all about it once we’re out.”

  “I don’t think I will, but… I’m ready now. Let’s go.”

  He helped me over to stand by the rope. First he sent up the Dragon and the medical rucksack, then he waved a signal to his companion at the surface. I couldn’t see anyone up there—couldn’t see any way out, but after a moment the rope descended again, and Artie bent and began fastening me into the harness. I was capable of feeling self-conscious by now and wished I could have helped him. There was a rough intimacy in his movements, the fastening of straps around my waist and backside, and doing it for myself would have made me less acutely aware of his proximity. When he was finished, he bestowed on me the tiniest glimmer of a look that suggested he had read my mind, and he dug into his pocket and produced two large clips, pro versions of the little multicoloured things I’d noticed students using as keyrings and hooks for their water bottles. “Fresh carabiners,” he said. “Let’s hope these ones don’t disintegrate.” He unscrewed them at the side and hooked them on to the rope and the harness, then gave each one a hard testing tug. “You good to go?”

  I nodded, dry-mouthed. “What do I have to do?”

  “Just use the rope to steady yourself. Don’t pull. Lance will do all the hard work from the top.”

  “Oh, I will, will I?” That was Lance, calling down cheerfully from the top. I heard the grin in his voice, then his sudden silence. “Artie, hang on.”

  We both looked up. Artie frowned. “What is it, mate? Got a problem up there?”

  “No. Hoping you don’t have one down there. I can hear… Art, quick! Get out of the way!”

  Artie whipped round, unhooking my harness from the rope to free me. I heard the rattle of falling rocks an instant later. Something vast detached itself from the roof above my head and shattered at my feet. I sprang back. I was still unsteady and would have fallen, but Artie’s arms closed round me tight. “Got you,” he gasped. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so. Yeah.”

  “Then run. Run!”

  Chapter Three

  “I think we’re quite near the surface. Stay calm.”

  Backed up against a pile of scree, I stared at him. He was practising what he preached, I’d give him that. He’d settled on a rock as comfortably as if it had been a footstool in his living room and was checking his mobile and radio for a signal. I forced my dust-caked, bone-dry tongue to action. “Anything?”

  “Not just now. Signal always sucks around here anyway. What network are you on?”

  I couldn’t remember. The only network I could think of was the pulsating web of blood vessels behind my eyes. It was academic anyway. “I left my phone behind.”

  “Right. Yeah, that’s always best when you head off into the wilderness.” He pushed stiffly up from his rock. “Let’s have a look at that cut. You’re bleeding again.” I stood still—not much choice in the matter; I was paralysed in the spot I had reached when the snarling, clattering curtain of rock had finished its fall—while he examined me. “How’s your shoulder?”

  “Absolutely the least of every bloody problem I could possibly have. Arthur. We’re trapped.”

  He glanced around the tiny chamber. The ceiling was just shy of his head. A stretch of the arms would take in all its walls. It wasn’t a cave. It was a pocket, a bubble, a hole Armageddon had briefly forgotten to fill in its haste. “I told you, call me Art,” he said mildly. “I know you’re scared. I know you want to pitch a great big fit on me, but try not to. Lance will find us.”

  He brushed some of the rock dust out of my hair. He gave my upper arms a squeeze which somehow made my legs fold, and he sat me down. I listened to my own hyperventilation until shame struck me and I got hold of enough breath to speak. “How… How will he find us? How?”

  “Oh, all kinds of tricks. Sniffer dogs, and there’s a body-heat detector back at HQ. Don’t think we’ll need them, though. Lance will come for me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He always does.”

  I looked up into his eyes. There was more than one kind of blind, beautiful, unswerving faith, wasn’t there? I wondered why it had been left out of my own nature. I thought about Piers on our short trip to Chartres cathedral
, where I’d accompanied him to humour him and to see the fabulous architecture. The statues and carvings hadn’t moved him, but I’d turned round and caught him at the centre of the labyrinth, his face raised to the light falling through the rose window. I wished I’d known, at our last meeting, that I would never see him again. A rough sob escaped me before I could help it, and I clamped a hand to my mouth.

  Art sat down beside me. “Here, let’s try and keep you warm,” he said, and put an arm around my shoulders. “So, tell me. What were you doing in a cave in Hallow Hill tonight anyway?”

  “Hallow… You call it that too?”

  “Of course. Come on. It’s Christmas Eve, in case you hadn’t noticed. What’s the story—fight with a girlfriend?” I didn’t answer, and I turned my head away a little when he leaned to look questioningly into my face. “Oh, no. Boyfriend. Piers.”

  It was a ploy of distraction and I knew it. I wondered how many other poor terrified bastards had handed him their life story while they waited to be saved. “How did you know his name?”

  “You were telling me some wild story about King Arthur and a horn. I’ve heard that one before, actually, around here. Nobody ever dares blow it. But you reckoned Piers would. Nice lad, is he?” I nodded. It seemed the barest acknowledgement I could make. “Been going out a long time?”

  “Three years. Until tonight. He dumped me.”

  “Oh.” His arm around me tightened. He was very strong. He had seized me as the rockfall started, run with me and practically thrown me far enough upslope to find this safe niche. This tomb. “That’s tough. Want to tell me what happened?”

  I didn’t. I thought not, anyway. My story would sound pitiful. Still, it was a good alternative to the fit he had mentioned, and he was dead right—that was just biding its time. If I allowed myself full realisation of where we were, what had happened, how likely I was ever was to breathe free moonlit air again… “He was coming to join me for Christmas,” I abruptly began. “I booked him into my hotel. Then at the last minute he phoned me and said he couldn’t make it.”