Jack was lost now. ‘Why, sir?’
‘The law of karma, as I said. A mahasiddha won’t use a power, because that would mean he couldn’t learn any more. He withholds his powers, you see, in the hope that he can develop as far as he can. If you see a siddha use a power, then you can be almost certain he’s not a mahasiddha.’
Now, Jack stared into the stinking darkness of the pit.
The law of karma. Once you use a power you can’t learn any other powers. You’re blocked. Couldn’t that be why the stolen yantra never worked?
When Jack had developed his sattva-tracking power, Jhala had told him to use it immediately. Jhala hadn’t said anything about the law of karma. Shouldn’t he have told Jack about it? Couldn’t Jack have learnt more if he’d been given the chance?
It was hard to believe, but could Jhala have held Jack back intentionally? Had Jhala made Jack into what he himself was – a blocked siddha with only limited powers?
Jack’s fingers found a piece of metal and gripped it tightly. Thunder clouds gathered in his chest.
Had Jhala tricked him?
Jack heard a sound. He’d been sitting in complete silence for a long time – hours. He shook Charles and Saleem awake and lit the lantern. They looked up to where the glow of the lamp trailed off into darkness.
Silence.
Just as Jack thought he’d made a mistake, the sound came again – a slow, steely ring, as though a knife were being sharpened. Up the slope they saw a flicker of movement. Then another. Legs became visible, then the distended thorax, then the head swarming with feelers.
The creature gurgled, as though water were bubbling in a well. The flotsam and jetsam attached to its body tinkled as it crept to the bottom of the pit. It stood facing them and swivelled its head from side to side. Charles had the steel pole now, while Saleem held a rusting spade.
Jack’s heart poked at his ribs and the pit began to circle slowly about him. He swallowed some jatamansi and sensed a tingling spread out from his breastbone. He bent down, stuck the fuse in the bottle and lit it. The flame leapt and crept slowly along the cloth. This was it – his last chance. If he couldn’t kill the avatar, then Elizabeth would die. He swallowed but his mouth remained painfully parched.
The creature took a step forward, a trace of coal smoke puffing from its side.
Jack took a deep breath and advanced, knees bent. He moved the flaming bottle about and saw the creature’s head follow the light.
‘Come on,’ he cried.
But the beast scuttled to the side, towards Charles.
‘Get back.’ Jack moved quickly to block the creature’s path, bottle raised.
Charles edged behind Jack.
The creature gave a metallic growl and steam escaped with a hiss. It sat back on its haunches, then, without warning, leapt through the air over their heads. It arced through the darkness, jangling and clanking, and landed, with a grating squeal, on the wall above Saleem. It scurried down. Saleem tried to run, but he was up to his knees in mud. The creature was almost upon him.
Charles shouted and charged. The pole slammed into the beast’s head and a stalk broke off. The creature clicked and gurgled and turned to face its assailant. Jack grasped Saleem and dragged him out of the mud. Saleem scrambled away and Jack almost fell over, but managed to hold on to the bottle.
The creature kicked the pole and sent it flying to the other side of the pit. It roared and jabbed at Charles with its mouth. Charles fell back, crying out.
‘Hey!’ Jack ran in front of the creature, waving the bottle.
The creature bellowed and opened its mouth wider. Jack was so close he could see the kaleidoscope of blades and mandibles, smell the blast of coal, sattva and rot.
Now. He should throw the bottle now. But he waited. That mouth was wide open, but it was too far away for him to be certain of getting the bottle down it.
Let the beast come closer . . .
His hand was slippery with sweat and his heart was bashing in his chest and he’d actually stopped breathing, not because of his illness, but because he was concentrating so hard on what he had to do.
The avatar leant forward and prepared to strike. The pointed proboscis extended from its mouth. Jack glanced at the bottle. The fuse had burnt down almost to the lip. He paused, then threw. The bottle glinted as it sailed through the air. It hit the side of the creature’s mouth, but bounced off and landed in the mud a few feet away. The fuse glimmered, then went out.
Jack felt sick.
He ran towards the bottle, but one of the creature’s legs shot out and tripped him up so that he fell on his back. For a second he saw the proboscis fly towards him. He cried out and rolled to the side. The proboscis splashed into the mud and the creature gave a contorted howl.
His breath was like fire in his throat and blackness threatened from the corners of his vision. He tried to stand, slipped back to his knees, struggled up again and dived, getting his hand on the bottle. He looked up to see the creature raising its head again, mouth flickering.
He looked back at Charles, who stood grasping the pole once more, eyes wide.
‘Matches,’ Jack shouted.
Charles threw him the box, but it went wide and landed two feet away. The proboscis shot out again, like a jet of water – Jack ducked and felt the wind of its passing in his hair. The proboscis smashed into a pile of metal, scattering fragments.
Jack jumped to his left and grasped the matchbox. Hands shaking, he reversed the fuse and scraped a match against his boot. It didn’t light.
Something smacked him hard in the back and he fell forward, the breath knocked out of him and his chest screaming with pain. He flipped over and saw the creature towering over him. It slammed its leg into his breast and the rounded piece of metal at the end pinned him to the ground. He couldn’t breathe. He grasped the metal leg and tried to move it aside, but it was locked in place. He wriggled and kicked but couldn’t free himself. Coiling darkness crept across his vision and he shook his head to keep himself from slipping into unconsciousness.
Both Charles and Saleem shouted and rushed forward. Charles rammed the pole into the side of the beast, while Saleem smacked with the spade against the leg holding Jack.
Weak, Jack scraped a match against an iron sheet. The match snapped. Cursing, he got out another.
The beast knocked Charles against the far wall. It kicked the spade out of Saleem’s hands, then brushed the lad aside.
Jack frantically scraped the second match. It wouldn’t light. He was choking on the pain and was faintly aware that he must have bitten his lip as he could taste blood in his mouth.
The creature turned its head to him, roaring. The pointed proboscis edged out a short distance. This was it. He only had a few seconds left. If he couldn’t light the fuse now . . .
The match fizzed, then flickered. He looked at it as though he’d struck gold. He shoved it against the remnant of the fuse, which caught, the flame swelling against the bottle’s lip.
The creature opened its mouth wide and the stench of rotting flesh boiled out. Jack struggled to take a breath and rally the last of his strength. He lifted the bottle, tensed his arm, then threw. The bottle twisted and rolled in the air, the fuse glimmering. It hit one side of the creature’s mouth, bounced, hit the other side, rolled for a moment and then funnelled into the dark maw.
Nothing happened.
It hadn’t worked.
He was about to die.
There was a sudden boom and the creature jolted. Then another boom, inside the metal casing. One side of the beast’s thorax split open and shards of steel flew out. Steam screamed as it shot from several places.
The creature rolled on its side, squealing. Jack could see the cogs and brass pipes inside the wound, with the red fire in the centre. Steam and coal smoke filled the pit and made it difficult to see.
The leg that was pinioning him fell away and Jack was able to stand. He coughed and rasped down air. Charles cheered and slapped him on
the back. Saleem also climbed to his feet, unharmed.
They watched as the creature writhed and shrieked, water bubbling fiercely inside it. The fire dimmed to faint embers and the steam cleared. But the avatar still moved, although slowly. It dragged itself over to the wall, only four of its legs still working. It began climbing the wall, pulling itself a few feet and then stopping, before pulling itself a few feet further.
Jack gulped down some jatamansi. ‘Follow me.’ He ran underneath the hanging monster and grasped the end of its thorax.
‘What?’ Charles said.
‘We’ll never get out of here otherwise,’ Jack said. ‘Hurry up . . . and bring that lantern.’
Charles and Saleem took hold of the metal ribbing. As the beast raised itself, they put their feet against the slope to support themselves. They sweated and strained, but managed to keep their grip. Despite the jatamansi, Jack’s chest ached and he had to fight to stop himself blacking out. Charles fixed the lantern to a gap between the ribs so that they had light the whole way up.
The creature groaned as it hauled itself over the edge of the pit. In the yellowish light, Jack could see they were in a round chamber dug out of the earth.
‘Quick.’ He let go and pain shot through his body as his feet hit the ground. The creature looked severely damaged, but he was worried it might be able to repair itself.
Raising the lantern, he looked about the chamber and spotted a tunnel leading away to one side. They ran down this, tripping at times in the soft earth.
Jack listened for any sign that the creature was following them, but he heard nothing. For a moment he wondered whether there were more of the beasts, but he tried to put the thought out of his mind.
They came to an intersection, and kept going straight on until they found another intersection. Jack had no idea which direction to go in, but decided to keep straight ahead so that at least they wouldn’t lose their way.
After fifteen minutes, cool air from a side tunnel touched his cheek. He looked up the passage and saw faint grey light in the distance. ‘This way.’
They went on for another ten minutes, the air becoming clearer and the light growing. The tunnel sloped gradually uphill.
Finally, they came out at the bottom of a shallow crater. Dawn had cast the cloudy sky silver.
They scrambled out of the crater and stood for a moment looking back at the dark hole.
Charles made the sign of the cross.
‘Praise to Allah,’ Saleem whispered.
Jack felt something running on to his chin. When he dabbed it with his sleeve, he saw it was blood. He touched his lip – it was swollen and painful where it had been split.
He looked around. They were back on the plain they’d left hours earlier, the open ground grey and dreamlike in the growing light. More than a mile away he could see the dark form of the mill town, with the two red eyes of fire floating above.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
14
Jack woke when he heard the clomp of marching boots. He jolted up and for a moment didn’t know where he was. Then, as he looked around, he remembered. He was in a shallow hollow surrounded by trees and bushes. They’d taken shelter there a few hours before dawn. After escaping from the pit, they’d run for several miles and then hidden for the rest of the day. During the night they’d stolen across the Thames basin, finally leaving the mill district behind.
It was Saleem’s watch, but the boy was curled up asleep with a slight smile on his face.
The bloody fool. He’d put them in danger again – just like that Private Salter.
Jack held himself back from shouting to wake the lad – he couldn’t risk it with the sound of the marching growing louder. He crept to the edge of the hollow and looked through a mesh of gorse bushes. Below him was a short slope and, beyond that, a road that was little more than a cart track. Thirty men were marching down the path. Although they were too far away for him to see clearly, it looked as though they were wearing European Army uniform.
‘What is it?’ Saleem whispered. He’d woken up and stood staring at Jack, sleep still clogging the edges of his eyes. He was toying with his beard and from the grey look on his face he seemed well aware he’d done something wrong.
‘You idiot,’ Jack hissed. He jabbed his finger at Saleem. ‘You’ve bloody done it again. You’d be shot in the army for that.’
Saleem backed away. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry’s not good enough.’ Jack took a few steps forward. ‘I’ve a good mind to thrash you—’
‘Hey,’ Charles said. While Jack had been berating Saleem, he’d woken up and had slipped over to the edge of the hollow. ‘They’re crusaders. Look.’ He pointed through the bushes and down the slope.
Jack walked across and squinted in the mid-morning sunlight. The marching men were now close enough for him to see the patches on their chests bearing the cross of St George.
Charles went to stand, but Jack yanked him down again. ‘Could be a trick.’
‘There’s no trick.’ Charles pulled himself free and pushed through the bushes. He waved his hands and shouted. The soldiers stopped and in a fluid, unified movement whipped their muskets from their shoulders and formed two rows, the first row kneeling, pointing their weapons straight up at Charles. The crosses gleamed on their chests.
‘Wait.’ Charles held his hands above his head. ‘We’re friends. We’re going to London.’
A man in his forties, with a moustache and goatee, lowered his weapon slightly. ‘Who are you?’
‘Private Charles Carrick, 12th Native Infantry.’
‘Who’s your sergeant major?’
‘Peter Turnbull.’
The man broke into a grin and lowered his firearm completely. ‘One of Peter’s lads. Well, well. Used to serve with him myself a few years back. Namaste, Private.’
Charles put his hands together and bowed slightly. ‘Namaste.’
The soldiers slung their firearms back on their shoulders.
Charles turned back to the bushes. ‘You can come out.’
Saleem shot Jack a questioning look, but Jack just grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and thrust him through the gorse. Saleem cried out and stumbled down the slope. Then Jack himself climbed out and limped wearily down towards the soldiers.
As Jack, Charles and Saleem approached, the man with the goatee presented himself. ‘Sergeant Howell Kendrick, 9th Native Infantry.’
Jack was surprised to hear a Welsh lilt to Kendrick’s voice. Were the Welsh joining the mutiny now? It made some sort of sense – Wales, like England, was ruled by the Rajthanans. Of course, the Irish would stay out of the fight – why should they get involved when Rajthana had never occupied their lands? And as for the Scots, they were nothing but primitive tribes, on no one’s side but their own.
‘This is Saleem al-Rashid,’ Charles said. ‘And Sergeant Jack Casey, 2nd Native Infantry.’
Kendrick’s face brightened and he gave Jack a deep bow. ‘A pleasure to meet a fellow native officer.’
‘Left the army quite a while ago,’ Jack mumbled.
‘He was at Ragusa,’ Charles said. ‘And he’s led us from Wiltshire, across the mills.’
Kendrick’s eyebrows gathered. ‘You came through the mills? We heard it was too dangerous – poisoned after the fighting.’
Charles opened his mouth, but seemed unsure what to say and looked to Jack.
‘There’s something wrong with the place, that’s for sure,’ Jack said quietly.
‘Well, you made it at any rate,’ Kendrick said. ‘All the land from here to London is under the control of King John and his general, Sir Gawain.’
As Jack had heard, the area had been taken early on in the mutiny and held by the rebels since then.
‘We’re falling back to London,’ Kendrick said. ‘You can come with us.’ He looked them up and down. ‘Are you fit enough to march?’
It was only now that Jack noticed how dishevelled he and his companions wer
e. Their clothes were torn and filthy, their hair matted and faces haggard. They looked like vagrants.
‘Of course we can march,’ Charles replied.
Kendrick beamed and slapped Charles on the shoulder. ‘Good lad.’
As Jack, Charles and Saleem fell into line at the back of the platoon, the men grinned and wished them well. One offered them a drink from his canteen, which they gratefully accepted.
They trudged through the increasing heat of the morning. The countryside quivered in the sunlight – green fields, hedgerows, stands of trees. The smoke and dismal plains of the Thames basin were now far behind them.
Jack noted that the soldiers didn’t march in proper formation, or step in time. Their uniforms were flecked with dust, with threads unravelling in places and buttons missing. They would have been flogged in the army for this lapse. No discipline. At least, not enough. How could these men hope to take on the Rajthanans?
But at least he was getting closer to London. He saw Elizabeth in the cell and calculated that there were ten days left. He felt a flush of nerves. Just ten days.
Saleem was subdued and hardly spoke during the march. He appeared exhausted and often stumbled. Charles, on the other hand, seemed to have more life in him than ever and spoke to his new comrades enthusiastically whenever they stopped to rest.
Towards midday, a village bordered by willows appeared ahead beside the banks of a shallow river. It was little more than a collection of huts, although there was a larger stone house to one side and a small church.
As the platoon marched closer, villagers walked across from the fields and stood to either side of the road. The peasants cheered, clapped and whooped. Some shook pitchforks and hoes at the sky. Women in dirty bonnets held out tankards of water and pieces of fruit for the passing troops.
‘Long live King John!’ many shouted. ‘Long live Sir Gawain! God’s will in England!’
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