Then what?
The firing stopped and the quiet was strange after the sound of the battle. Birds started chirping again high in the trees. He jogged along, keeping an eye out for signs and trying to make as little sound as possible. He could have called out to his friend, but then that would have alerted the French.
William’s trail was clear – he’d been moving quickly, with no time to cover his tracks. Jack recognised the telltale inward turn of his friend’s right foot. The smoke had largely faded now and Jack scanned the trees ahead. But he saw nothing, not even a branch left swinging.
He remembered all those times he’d tracked enemies while he was in the army. But back then William had been beside him, encouraging him on, and Jhala had been there too, and the other men from the company, and they’d been on the side of dharma, and their enemies had been on the side of chaos and ruin, and they’d all been part of the most powerful army in the world.
He came out of the trees and found himself blinking in the sunshine – the light had returned to normal after the strange darkness that had come across the gully. Above him rose a grassy slope, at the top of which stood Sengar, Kansal and half of the French. They were all looking down the far side of the hill.
‘Up here, Casey,’ Sengar shouted.
Jack hesitated for a second. He could see William’s footprints leading straight up the slope. Had his friend been captured by Sengar? His heart drummed.
He clambered up the incline, pain weighing on his chest and black welts expanding before his eyes. He was rasping fiercely by the time he reached the summit. Lefevre looked at him with an eyebrow raised and a trace of a smile on his lips, seemingly pleased to note Jack’s weakness.
‘Down there.’ Sengar pointed to the steep, barren slope on the far side of the hill.
A group of men were scrambling down the last stretch of the slope and jumping on to horses that had been picketed at the bottom. William was amongst them, his shaven head rising well above those of his comrades.
‘Can you see Merton?’ Sengar asked.
Jack tried to regain his breath. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. He wouldn’t betray William. ‘Yes, he’s with them,’ he said hoarsely.
Sengar slammed his scimitar back into its scabbard. ‘Right. We’ll soon have the bastard. I’ll teach him to take on the Maharaja’s Army.’ He turned to his men. ‘To the horses – quickly. And check for survivors as you go.’
Jack was the last back down to the rail line. He’d gone as quickly as he could, but he was still fighting for air and there was a constant throb in the centre of his chest.
‘No rebel survivors,’ Kansal reported to Sengar. ‘The wounded all shot themselves before they could be captured.’
Sengar’s eyes narrowed and he gripped the pommel of his scimitar. ‘No matter. We’ll track them. It’s up to you now, Casey.’
Jack glared back at the Captain. The top button of Sengar’s tunic had come undone during the fray, revealing a purple thread that hung from his left shoulder and across his chest – the mark of a siddha. Just as Jack had suspected, the Captain had been given the secret training.
The rebels wouldn’t stand a chance against Sengar. No European, let alone an Englishman, had ever trained to become a true siddha.
There was a groan nearby. The guide was still alive and trapped beneath his fallen mule. He was frail from blood loss, but he still fought to pull himself free.
Sengar sucked on his teeth, strode over to the guide and stood with his legs apart and arms folded. ‘Where will the rebels go?’
‘I-I don’t know what you mean,’ the guide said.
Sengar frowned and drew a dagger. He crouched with his knee on the guide’s chest and raised the dagger to the man’s throat. ‘The rebels must have a camp. Where is it?’
‘I had nothing to do with—’
‘I’ve no time to waste.’ Sengar pressed his knee harder into the guide’s chest.
The guide grimaced from his wounds, then stared back at Sengar and spat. Sengar shifted his grip on the dagger and stabbed the guide hard in the mouth. The guide jolted and his eyes widened. Sengar stabbed again, smashing at the man’s teeth and then driving into the back of his throat. Then he hammered at the man’s eyes, pounding in a mad fury. Blood splashed his hands and tunic. The guide’s face was mangled and shattered, but somehow he was still alive, his chest rising and falling. Sengar stabbed over and over again at the man’s throat until it was a bloody, open mass. Finally, the guide lay still.
Sengar stood. There was a splatter of blood on one of his cheeks. His eyes blazed.
Jack stared at the blood-soaked corpse. There’d been no need for the Captain to kill the man that way. He could have just shot him in the head. Any other officer would have. Jhala would have.
‘How many have we lost?’ Sengar barked at Kansal.
‘Five dead and seven wounded, sir.’
Sengar looked over to where five French bodies had been laid side by side on the grass. Nearby, the seven wounded men sat propped against the cutting. Some had relatively minor wounds, having been shot in the leg or arm. But others had been hit in the torso and were pale and almost unconscious. Sengar stood over them and surveyed their wounds. He commanded those who were least injured to help the others on to horses. They were to ride back to Pentridge as best they could to seek treatment. No one could be spared to go with them.
‘You others, follow me,’ Sengar shouted to the remainder of his troops. ‘We’ll pick up the trail on the other side of the hill.’
They charged along the train tracks and within fifteen minutes reached the end of the gully. The forest thinned to a few twisted trees and it was easy to follow the base of the hill around to the point where the rebels had mounted their horses.
Sengar halted the party with his hand and looked at Jack. ‘Get on with it, Casey.’
Jack nudged his mare forward. The pain in his chest had faded and he was breathing relatively easily again.
He dismounted and studied the ground. The trail was clear and simple – thankfully there was no need for him to use his power. He saw the sliding boot prints of the rebels as they came down the slope, the stamped cups left by the hooves of the waiting horses, the churned earth where the animals had raced away down the valley.
He noted the hoof prints, each one unique. You could tell a lot about a horse just from its prints: size, speed, age, health, which legs it favoured, the weight it was carrying. He took a moment to memorise the most distinctive markings: the horseshoe that was worn steeply on the left side; the shoe with the missing nail; the deep prints of the animal carrying a heavy load.
But he took longer than he needed. Even when he was sure he would be able to follow the tracks, whatever the terrain, he still delayed. He knew he should get back on his horse, get on with it, but the reluctance dragged at him. He thought for a second about refusing to track William – he would have liked to have seen the look on Sengar’s face when he said it. But, of course, he couldn’t do that.
Finally, he climbed back on his horse and led the group off along the trail, with Sengar riding beside him.
The ground flattened into a wide, open valley and they spurred into a gallop, the horses’ hooves pummelling the soft earth.
Jack kept an eye on the rebels’ tracks, looking out for fresh signs, the places where stones had been scattered or grasses parted. Sometimes he had to slow down, and at one point he stopped completely and dismounted to examine the terrain more carefully.
Sengar clenched and unclenched his reins as he waited. He snapped open his spyglass and gazed at the hills.
The trail took them west across open ground, then north between a row of hills, then west again through a rocky ravine and over a saddle. William appeared to be weaving across the downs in an attempt to lose them, plunging ever deeper into the area known as Cranborne Chase.
Jack wished there was some way he could get a message to his friend, to explain himself. But it was pointless to wis
h for something like that.
After about two hours they came to a shallow river surrounded by willows. Before them lay a well-used ford and the tracks of numerous animals and people criss-crossed the nearby bank.
Jack leapt from his horse, crouched and searched the beaten soil. Amidst the other tracks, he could see the fresh marks of the rebels’ horses leading straight into the ford.
He stepped into the water; it was shallow, no higher than his knees. He walked across to the far bank, where he found dozens of trails again, but no sign of the rebels. He frowned and gazed along the bank, looking for any sign of the horses leaving the river. But there was nothing.
He walked back to the middle of the river. Sengar scowled at him, while Kansal and the others watched intently.
He knew the rebels must have travelled either upstream or downstream, but it was impossible to tell which way. He looked down, but the water was murky and the river bed stony. Any mark the horses might have made would have been washed away within seconds. He would either have to conduct a long search over both banks, or—
‘What is it?’ Sengar called.
‘Nothing,’ Jack replied. ‘Just making sure of something.’
‘Hurry up.’
Jack closed his eyes. This was it. He would have to use his power. There was no other way.
The water was cold and swift, making it difficult to stand still.
‘Your mind is like a rippling pool.’
He thought of the yantra and it glowed white before him.
He breathed deeply and concentrated on the air passing in and out of his nostrils. His heartbeat slowed, the centre of his forehead trembled, and then he noticed a trace of sattva.
He reached out to his surroundings with his mind. He was deep enough into the meditation now to sense he was in a medium stream. Good. He would have preferred a strong stream, but this was better than nothing.
Jhala had said to him, ‘To use a power you need three things: sattva, a yantra and your mind. Sattva is the fuel, the yantra provides the instructions and your mind is the engine. The more sattva available, the easier it will be for you to use your power.’
The yantra glimmered and wavered. But each time he brought it into focus, his mind’s eye zoomed in on the bottom right. He kept forcing his mind back to the full design. And finally he managed to hold the yantra steady. Now he just had to keep it there a little longer—
Then his mind snapped back to the bottom right.
He gasped and opened his eyes. His heart was racing, his breathing was shallow and his wound pulsed. How could he do this? He couldn’t even hold the yantra still.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Sengar called out from the bank.
Jack tried to ignore the Captain. He splashed some water on his face, then wiped it off with his sleeve.
Now. He had to do it now.
He closed his eyes again and focused on the yantra. But it kept sliding away. His mind wouldn’t rest.
Elizabeth flickered in his thoughts. He saw her in the cell, lank hair over her face, tears on her cheeks. And the question of why she had ever joined the mutiny kept pounding in his brain.
Was it because of a man she’d fallen for? Now that he thought about it, this seemed unlikely. When had Elizabeth ever done anything just because someone else told her to? Even as a child he’d called her ‘wilful’.
A wilful child who’d run away one night. He remembered this now . . .
He’d been sleeping in his cottage and something had made him sit up and stare into the dark. He panted. Something was wrong. But he couldn’t see or hear anything untoward. Katelin was shifting and sighing on the straw mattress beside him and he could see the vague bundle of his five-year-old daughter in the corner. There was nothing to worry about; he should get back to sleep.
The wind tugged at the shutters and crackled in the thatching.
Something about his sleeping daughter didn’t look right. He slipped across to the corner of the bedroom.
He stood dead still and the floor seemed to drop.
Elizabeth wasn’t there. The bundle he’d seen was just her bunched blanket.
‘Elizabeth!’ he shouted.
‘What is it?’ Katelin was already standing.
‘She’s not here.’
They were both outside in seconds, both calling out, although the wind ripped the words straight out of their throats.
‘You get help in the village,’ Jack shouted. ‘I’ll head to the forest.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Katelin clung to his arm and her long blonde hair swam around her face.
‘No. We have to spread out. She could be anywhere.’
He pulled himself away and ran across the field towards the dark line of the trees. He glanced back once and saw Katelin’s pale form flitting along the road. The village was only a few hundred yards away and she would soon be there. Old Jones and the others would help her look for Elizabeth.
Halfway to the woods he realised it was pointless just charging around. He had no idea which direction Elizabeth had taken, or even when she’d left the cottage. He would have to track her, and the best way to do that at night would be to use his power.
He called her name one last time, hoping—
And then there it was, a faint cry that found its way through the whirling wind.
He called out again, and the tiny voice responded.
He ran in the direction of the voice, shouting her name over and over again, his throat cracking at the effort. He stumbled into the trees and battered his way through branches and leaves as if fighting off an enemy. He tripped on a tree root, fell, got up, fought on.
Her voice guided him through the speckled dark.
And finally he found her, huddled in a hollow, dirt on her face and scratches on her hands.
He scrambled down to her, took her in his arms. ‘What happened?’
‘I’m sorry I ran away.’
He searched her face. ‘Ran away? Why?’
‘I was looking for the Grail.’
‘The Grail?’
‘Like Sir Galahad.’
He half laughed, half choked at her reply. And he lifted her up and carried her out of the hollow and back through the moaning, uneasy trees.
And now, finally, these thoughts were slipping away and the night that Elizabeth disappeared was fading . . .
The yantra shimmered and he locked his thoughts on it.
He reached out again for the sattva about him, drawing it in, using it to feed his meditation. The scent of sattva grew stronger. A good sign. He was smelting, extracting sattva from his surroundings and processing it with his mind.
A tingle built in his spine. He became more aware of the slurping water, the hush of the wind, the faint heat of the sun.
The spirit realm was close now. God was close.
The yantra froze in his mind. He held it there . . . and then the design burst into blinding light. Spirit and matter, purusha and prakriti, touched.
Fire rushed up his spine and crackled over his scalp. A grand, vaulted cathedral sprang open in his mind.
He was in the centre of a vast and intricate lattice . . . interconnected.
6
Jack lifted his eyelids. Everything was sharp and distinct. He could see every coil of water in great detail, every shaking leaf on every tree, every flying insect embroidering the air. At the same time it all seemed unreal, as if viewed from a great distance. He sensed the sharp pain in his chest and the pulse of the sattva-fire, but this was distant too. His body was not his own.
He stared beneath the surface of the river and spotted a misty, silver ribbon twisting in the water. He noticed another thread nearby, then another. He stood up straight and glanced around. Patches of gleaming mist were dotted under the water, along both riverbanks, across the ground beyond, everywhere.
Trails in sattva. The marks all living things left as they passed through the streams.
He’d done it.
But for how long?
The pain in his chest was worsening, and although it seemed far away he could tell it was growing fierce. He had to move quickly.
He scanned the river and searched through the myriad trails of people and animals. The shining skeins were thick in the ford, but more sparse elsewhere. Soon he saw them – the bright, fresh tracks of more than fifty horses going upstream.
He looked over at Sengar. ‘This way.’
The party rode into the river, Sengar’s batman leading Jack’s mare. Jack strode through the water at their head, following the phosphorescent trail. By focusing his attention on the glowing strands, he forced all the other trails from his vision. The trees thickened on either bank and the river narrowed. Branches from both sides almost met overhead, forming a green-tinged tunnel. The smell of dank moss merged with the constant sweet scent of sattva.
After fifteen minutes, the trail forked. Most of the horses had veered over to the left bank – the same bank from which the rebels had entered the river – but around five had gone to the right. Jack paused. To the left he could see the silver glinting on the bank and disappearing into the trees. But there were no hoof prints, no broken twigs, no scratches in tree trunks, nothing to otherwise suggest the rebels had passed that way. He’d seen this before – the trail had been hidden using a power. And one of the few people who possessed this power was William. It was a skill that, like Jack’s ability, could not even be learnt by the siddhas.
Jack glanced at the right bank and saw clear hoof prints leaving the river and passing over a muddy beach.
Sengar followed Jack’s gaze. ‘This way?’
‘Wait,’ Jack said.
He pushed his way through the water and stepped, legs dripping, on to the beach. He studied the tracks of the five horses. The sattva trail wormed and shifted just above ground level and led off into the brush. But there was something strange about the hoof prints. He bent and stuck his finger into the ground – the mud was soft and his finger slid in easily. He looked again at the hoof prints. The impressions weren’t nearly as deep as he would have expected. The horses hadn’t been carrying riders.
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