“I want these stones down, today,” Faro shouted. “Clear the site.”
Conall kept his head down, mingling with the other slaves, unable to look at his brother. He took hold of a rope, braced his legs, and waited for the shout. When it came, the men took up the slack and hauled. The first stone fell with a crash that echoed across the hillside and out over the fjord.
Fifty to a rope, the slaves pulled the small stones away with ease, dragging them off downhill. Conall moved closer to see how they had been put up. The stones weren’t set deep into the earth, but balanced on hard rock, easy to move, and within four hours, the smaller stones had all been hauled off and the guards ordered a break.
On the hillside a hundred yards from the stone circle stood a pile of rubble, discarded either by the builders of the monument or the men who created the strange building. Here the slaves sat to eat their meagre meal, Conall on a rock next to his father, chewing on a lump of dry bread. He gestured back towards the stones. “You see the man standing there, in the centre of the circle.” Conall kept his voice low so no one else would hear, only his father. “He’s the man from The Arkady.”
“The one you escaped with, from that quarry?”
“That’s him.”
“You must be glad to see him alive.”
Conall had told no one about Jonah and the map. Not Bagatt, or Heather, or even his father. “There’s something I’ve never told you.”
Adam paused, waiting. “Go on.”
Conall bit his lower lip thoughtfully. “When we landed on Spitsbergen, we were shipwrecked.”
“You told me the story.”
“I told you I lost Jonah. That wasn’t entirely true.”
“Let’s have it,” Adam said. “I assume this is leading somewhere.”
“We found The Arkady adrift, and saved her, beached her, to stop her from sinking. And then we searched her. Jonah found a map.”
“The one Faro was looking for? When he was put in the brig?”
“Jonah took it,” Conall said. “Two maps, one of this headland, and a detailed drawing, showing how to find the treasure.”
“And Jonah over there has them?” His father was rubbing his chin.
“He did,” Conall said. “I’d guess Faro has them now.”
“So he’ll find the treasure.”
“Maybe.” Conall glanced to either side, making sure no was listening. He took a swig of water to wash the crumbs of dry bread from his throat. “But it makes no sense to be moving these stones. The treasure’s hidden deep in the mountain. There are tunnels, and rooms inside the rock. And that building there, that’s the entrance. So the thing is, if Faro’s got those maps, what’s he doing? He can take the treasure, any time he wants. Why risk all this? Why move the stones?”
Adam threw the last of his water out of his mug onto the dry rock. He cleared his throat and cracked his knuckles. “Interesting tale. Glad you finally chose to tell me. But I know something you don’t. Because I’ve been here before, alone and able to look around. I’ve been inside that building. And I can tell you, there’s nothing there.”
“Nothing?”
“Solid rock. No doorway. No tunnel. No treasure. But I’ll tell you something else. That building has been moved. It wasn’t built there. It’s not stable, no foundations. Someone put a lot of effort into moving it. And the question is, why?”
To hide the tunnels, Conall saw it now. The building was a decoy. The Oduma must have known there would be maps, that the building would give away the entrance. They moved it, and built the stone circle to hide the doorway. So Faro had it right. Once they had moved the stones, he’d find the entrance to the tunnel. Beneath the biggest of the stones, most likely, or under the altar where Jonah stood, staring out to sea.
The guards shouted at the men to get back to work.
Conall pushed himself up, his legs weary from the morning’s work. “Faro’s worked it out, he’ll take the treasure.”
“Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Adam said.
But the afternoon slipped away, and the work slowed as the men hauled on the larger stones, struggling to move them. When finally the first of them toppled, the roar of rock smashing onto the mountainside echoed across the sea. The handful of Oduma slaves who still remained let out moans of protest, soon silenced by the whips of the guards.
“Drag it off,” Faro shouted, and another hour went by as the men hauled the stone out of the way.
“If it was me, I’d use the truck,” the engineer said, as they waited for the guards to attach the chains around the stone.
“But diesel’s precious, and our effort comes to ‘em for free,” Bagatt said.
The men worked until late into the afternoon, and still had moved only four of the twelve larger stones. Finally Faro gave the order to stop for the night.
“He doesn’t want to be caught out here in the dark, I’d guess,” Bagatt said to Conall as they made their way down the hillside. “Making sure we get back to camp in plenty of time. All of us except them, of course.” He pointed at the pile of corpses
Conall looked away, not wanting to see the mess of bodies. Instead he scanned the horizon looking for sign of Tugon and his men. Why did they not come? When would they strike?
“Eyes down and walk,” one of the guards yelled.
Bagatt prodded him in the back, urging him forward. “Guards are nervous enough,” Bagatt whispered. “Trigger happy. Keep walking. Get back to the camp, with no more killing. My guess is, we’ve still got a heap of work ahead of us this evening.”
A day of tough labour had left Conall’s body aching and exhausted. He kept going over the massacre, reliving every moment, the way the blood splattered, the screams of the men, the expressions on their faces as they lay dying. He couldn’t force the images from his thoughts, and a hour later he stumbled in a daze through the gates, following the man in front, until he finally collapsed onto one of the concrete benches by the food tables.
The compound was eerily quiet. The hut where the men of the Oduma lived stood dark and silent. The women handed out plates in silence. Few men talked, and then in low voices, as if afraid of offending the dead.
Darkness had fallen by the time Conall got any food, and the night air was damp and chilled. He chomped on the gruel, not even noticing what he was eating, not talking to the slaves around him. He didn’t notice the presence looming behind him until a hand landed on his shoulder.
“We meet again, young Hawkins.” Jonah Argent, free now of his chains, let down from his stone altar, had crept out of the dark unannounced. His crew leapt to their feet, surrounding him, slapping him on the back, demanding to know where he’d been and why.
“All in good time.” Jonah sat next to Conall, and called for food.
Jonah gestured for his crew to settle down and let him talk, and eat. Heather brought him a plate of gruel while Conall told Jonah the news of the captain’s escape. “Bought his freedom with your own then.” Jonah took a spoonful of stew and swilled it around his mouth thoughtfully.
“When did they catch you?”
“Three days ago,” Jonah said. “Kept me in a cell out of sight. Your brother has been most insistent that I talk.” Jonah rolled up his sleeves, showing burn marks on his arms.
“They tortured you?”
“I had nothing to tell ‘em though. All I know is on those maps. And your brother’s got ‘em now. Still, at least I can read the things, which is more than them.” He slurped his stew noisily.
Conall waited for the first mate to elaborate. Jonah said nothing.
“How do you mean?”
“They’re looking in the wrong place,” Jonah whispered.
“You’re thinking of the building? But there’s nothing there, solid rock.”
“You seem mightily well informed, young Hawkins.”
“Because it’s been moved.”
“Now you’re catching on,” Jonah said.
“And Faro’s worked out the entrance
is under the stone circle. He’ll find the tunnels, once he’s moved the stones.”
“That’s what he thinks,” Jonah said.
“But he’s wrong?”
Jonah grinned – the smile of someone who knows a secret, and might not tell. “I’d say he was wrong.”
“And you know where it is?”
“I have an idea.”
“It must be close.”
“Very close, but he can’t see it. You didn’t either, young Hawkins, though you sat right on top of it.”
The pile of rocks where they had sat and eaten their meal. It looked like rubble from the building works, covered in moss and lichens, hard to spot unless you looked close.
“Are you sure?”
“Can’t be certain until I dig. But that’s my bet. But I’ve told you my part, let’s hear yours. How did you know about that building being moved?”
Conall glanced around him. The crew had moved away. A group of slaves stood away from the tables, staring to the north. Even the Oduma had come from their huts, the women and the injured, gazing into the sky.
“My father told me.”
“Really? He’s here? Alive?”
“Keep it quiet. No one knows. “He was captured by slavers while looking for the treasure.”
“Not killed by wildmen after all. That’ll come as news to your mother,” Jonah said. “Got what you came for then, both your parents found?”
“Still need to reunite them.”
“A spot of freedom would go down nicely, that’s for sure. Which one is he?”
Conall pointed out his father. Adam sat on one of the tables, gazing northwards. He waved at Conall, gestured for him to look. Conall turned to the north, where the sky was filled with swirling fingers of ghostly green light.
“It’s only starting,” Jonah said. “Got a way to go yet, I’d say. Saw it once before. Northern Lights people call it. I asked Tugon, once, if he knew of it, and he went all quiet on me, the way he does. He didn’t like to talk of it, but he said enough. He thinks it’s sacred, seems to think most things are.”
“That’s not fair.”
“So I’d reckon,” Jonah said, “with one thing and another, the shootings, the deaths, your brother tearing down their monument, looking for their sacred treasure and now this, a sign from the gods some might call it, certainly a signal, I’d say if Tugon and his men were ever going to attack, they’d do it now.”
“Faro will be ready, he’ll be expecting it.”
“Which means we need to even the odds,” Jonah said.
“You think they’ll come tonight?”
“I’m sure of it,” he said. “You’ve been here all these months, young Hawkins. Tell me you’ve found a way.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
GHOSTLIGHT
The Oduma in the slavers’ compound, those still alive and able to move, had left their hut. Fifty or more, mostly women with a scattering of bandaged and battered men, knelt on the ground in prayer, mourning their dead while praying to the Northern Lights
The chill of the air stung Conall’s face. There would be ten hours of darkness tonight, but four had passed already, and still there was no sound of Tugon’s attack.
“They’ll come,” Jonah insisted, but the crew of The Arkady must strike the first blow. They would bring down the generators that fed the searchlights and electric fences. “I reckon he’s out there, watching. Tugon’s waiting to see the lights go down. When that happens, only then, they’ll strike.”
“He’s right, they’ll come,” Adam Hawkins agreed. “When the searchlights go dark, they’ll come. They wait for us.”
But to attack tonight was madness. The Oduma needed darkness. Why strike now, when the ghostlight lit up the compound, even the darkest corners where no searchlights could probe?
“Gloom is a good light to fight by, with a knife in your hand,” Jonah said. “You’ve got to get close to kill a man. A gun’s no use against shapes and shadows, if you don’t know who’s friend or foe. And there might be a lot of that about this battle.”
He gave a telling stare as he said it, and Conall took the meaning. Faro would have to be defeated. But saved too. The slaves might kill him for his cruelty and the Oduma would want revenge, for sure. The crew as well. Conall might have to stop them all, before the night was out, betray his friends once the battle was won, and let his brother go free.
Jonah knew. Would Argent try to stop him? He had no love for Faro, not after the torture.
The crew of The Arkady had gathered by their hut. The guards allowed the men to linger outside to watch the lights. Even the slavers stood with faces fixed on the sky. Strike now, with the guards distracted. Conall’s hand moved to his belt, feeling for the fighting knife given him by Tugon. But it was no longer there. Taken by the slavers.
He rubbed his face with his hand. What would he do, when the moment came, when this battle turned real? Men must kill and die, but did he have the stomach for it, for sticking a blade in a man and letting out his life? For watching eyes grow wide with fear and pain, then dim as the light faded to dark?
“You set?” Jonah prodded him in the arm. “It’s time we moved.”
Four men crept from the huts, unseen by the guards: Conall and Jonah, Bagatt and the engineer, George Proctor, the man with the knowledge of machines. He’d been inside the generator building when forced to help with maintenance and repairs. He knew a way in. And he would disable the generators, destroy them beyond fixing.
They moved silently, seeking out shadows and dark places. “We should have brought a wildman with us,” Jonah whispered as they pressed their backs against a wooden wall. They waited while a searchlight scanned the compound. “They’ve got the eyesight for it, I reckon, spending months without seeing the sun. End up like moles, or bats, able to flit around and slit your throat before you know what’s coming.”
The searchlight panned away, and the men moved towards their target. They crossed a road and scurried between two stone buildings where the guards lived. They headed for the quayside, where the coal was loaded onto ships. The generators were kept in a three-storey brick building that hummed with life and light, never quiet.
They paused. “How many men in there?” Jonah carried his cane, clutching it, ready to draw the hidden blade.
“One, at night,” the engineer said. “Has a radio that keeps him in touch with the guardhouse on the main gate.”
“How do we get in?”
“Door’s locked,” Proctor said. “He won’t open up, not without orders over the radio. But there’s a way in, where the ventilation shafts leave the building, there’s a hole there, saw it when we were doing maintenance, though it’ll take some climbing to reach it.”
The engineer shook a length of rope, stolen weeks before and hidden in his bedding ever since, waiting for this moment.
“Over to you, young Hawkins,” Jonah said.
They moved to the side of the building and Bagatt threw the rope over the ventilation outlet pipe.
“Up you go,” Jonah said.
Conall looked up, scrutinising the pipe. “You think that’ll hold?”
“It’s steel,” the engineer said. “Secured on the inside. It’d take the four of us.”
“Don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves,” Jonah said. “I’m too old to be scampering up rigging.”
Conall took the rope and began to climb. His muscles burned as he hauled himself up but his hands were tough from hard work, on the boats and in the mines. Strong feet gripped the rope as he pulled himself upwards, his heart pounding from the exertion and the knowledge that he might be seen at any moment. He stopped, listening. Only the wind. He half expected a bullet to come whistling out of the darkness bringing cold death.
He kept climbing, reached the top and saw the hole that had been punched through the wall. It had been roughly repaired but was still open at the top, wide enough for him to wriggle through. He grasped the metal of the vent, tentatively at first, then he
aved himself in. Conall crawled into the hole head first, dragging himself through, and fell to the floor on the other side.
He landed in a large, open room on the second floor. The vent pipes rose through the floor and a dim light filtered up the stairwell. He stayed motionless, listening for sound of the guard, but could hear nothing over the roar of the generators. Satisfied, he moved towards the stairs, keeping his tread light and steady. One hand on the rail, he looked down into the generator room.
There was an office by the main door, according to the engineer. The guard would be in there. Conall put a foot on the top step and paused. He should have brought a weapon. Another step. What if the man saw him? There’d be nothing for it but to fight to the death. He kept going down the stairs, scanning the room for movement. The machines took up most of the ground floor and the noise was deafening.
Get the door open, Jonah had said, they’d deal with the rest. But how? If the guard was in the office, Conall would be seen. Improvise, Jonah had said, lure the man out of there. So much planning, weeks and months, but when it came down to it, Conall had to think of something on the spot. It was up to him to find a way.
He crossed the ground floor to the generators, found a handle on one of them, and pulled it full down. The generator howled, picking up speed. That would do it. He ducked out of sight, and crept along the floor towards the door.
The guard ran from the office, heading for the generator that churned out of control. Conall slipped out behind him, pulled back the locks and swung the door open. Jonah burst through followed by Bagatt and the engineer.
“In there.” Conall pointed, knowing he sealed the man’s fate.
Jonah drew the sword out of his cane. “Wait here,” he said.
Bagatt followed Jonah. Moments later he returned and waved them into the generator room. The guard lay dead on the floor in a spreading pool of blood, his throat cut.
Conall looked away, choked back vomit. He put a hand on the wall, to hold himself steady.
“Take it easy.” Jonah thwacked him on the shoulder with his cane. “A gruesome sight I know but it had to be done and there’s the truth of it. It’s not merciful or kind, but they chose the way they live, and it impinges sorely on our freedom.”
In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers Page 20