Hour of Need tlom-6

by Michael Pryor

  The house itself was two storeys, built of local stone. The entrance sported a climbing rose that was gamely throwing out small white flowers. A small apple orchard ran away down the slope on one side, while the barn, pig sty and sundry other farming outbuildings that Aubrey was sure would give George a jab of nostalgia were on the other.

  After more guards and more checking of papers, Aubrey and Caroline were led inside to see General Apsley while George and Sophie waited outside.

  A huge desk had replaced the kitchen table in the largest room of the house. General Apsley stood behind it, facing away, hands behind his back and staring out of the mullioned window, over the yard, past the duck pond into the distance, where an artillery barrage marked the front proper. When Aubrey and Caroline were announced by the guard, he turned.

  Aubrey had some trepidation when the general advanced and was hugely relieved when he extended his hand. ‘Ah, Fitzwilliam. Timely, very timely.’

  ‘Sir.’ Aubrey shook, glad not to be denounced as the Traitor of Albion, and introduced Caroline.

  Though General Apsley was a big man, he wasn’t tall. His trunk was extraordinarily long, from his broad shoulders to his hips, but it was supported by legs that belonged to a much smaller person. Aubrey imagined that, sitting down, Apsley would tower over everyone.

  Apsley studied both of them for a moment, keenly, then he said what Aubrey had been expecting: ‘I knew your father, Fitzwilliam, when he was in the service.’

  Apsley must have been a good twenty years older than Sir Darius. ‘Did he serve under you, sir?’

  ‘He did, indeed.’ General Apsley indulged in a little moustache puffing. ‘Had trouble following orders, but he was a brilliant leader. Brilliant.’ He turned his attention to Caroline. ‘I have one of your mother’s paintings at home, young lady. It’s the most startling thing I own.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Caroline said carefully.

  ‘We have a delivery for you, sir,’ Aubrey said. ‘I understand you’re expecting it.’

  ‘We are indeed, and Stanley can’t wait to get his hands on it.’

  ‘One other thing.’ Aubrey reached for his satchel, intending to hand over von Stralick’s file, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  A small neat man hurried into the room. ‘Ah, Stanley,’ General Apsley said. ‘I was just talking about you.’

  Lieutenant-Colonel Stanley wore the Directorate field uniform of discreet black with minimum trappings. He was balding, with small round glasses, more like an accountant than a very senior intelligence officer. ‘Fitzwilliam! You’re here!’

  ‘We came as soon as we could, sir. One dozen magic neutralisers ready for your disposal.’

  Colonel Stanley beamed. ‘Splendid! We’re getting some indication of a magical build-up at the front, so these will come in handy.’

  ‘We have some bad news, however,’ Caroline said. ‘The magic neutraliser in Divodorum has been destroyed.’

  ‘That was the explosion earlier today?’ General Apsley asked sharply.

  ‘It was sabotage, sir,’ Aubrey said.

  ‘Any hope of repairing the machine?’ Stanley said.

  ‘No chance at all, sir,’ Aubrey said. ‘But they have some magical agents on site. They’re hoping they can do something, defence-wise.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Stanley took off his glasses, stared at them for a moment, then put them back on. ‘Something is in the air, Fitzwilliam. I fear we are about to come under the hammer.’

  ‘And that hammer promises to be a mighty one,’ General Apsley said. ‘Any sign of reinforcements while you were in Divodorum? We’ve been promised some colonials. I wouldn’t mind a battalion or two of those Antipodeans. Plucky fighters, the lot of ’em.’

  ‘Nothing while we were there, sir. Major Saltin, at the fortress, was expecting some at any time.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent,’ General Apsley said. ‘Why don’t you two go and treat yourselves to a cup of tea while we sort out the best place to deploy these machines?’

  ‘Sir.’ Aubrey saluted, then his hand went to his satchel – but seeing the map Colonel Stanley spread on the desk, he hesitated, especially when he saw Caroline’s interest.

  ‘Sir? Do you have a copy of that map we could take?’

  ‘Of course. Can’t say it’s entirely accurate, but we revise it as quickly as news comes in.’

  General Apsley pointed out the triple parallel lines of trenches that marked the front line of the Allied forces, with communications trenches running between them. The rearmost was the trench where reserves gathered, to replace the troops closer to the Holmland lines – or to ready themselves for an attack. The second trench was almost five hundred yards away, and the front line trench a further hundred yards nearer the Holmlanders. The long lines were marked by other, partially constructed trenches. Some were dead ends, some pushed into no-man’s-land, some were simply false starts.

  The landscape had been entirely changed. The narrow valley had been turned into a theatre of war.

  Aubrey and Caroline left the two officers poring over the map and deciding where they’d place the magic neutralisers to the greatest advantage, and went to find George and Sophie.

  They found them in the large mess tent that had been pitched on the other side of the barn. ‘Care for a late lunch?’ George asked. An empty plate sat on the table in front of him. ‘It’s simple, but filling, sausages mostly. Guaranteed to keep a soldier alive for a while, anyway.’

  ‘The soldiers took the wagon away,’ Sophie explained. She was using her fork to poke at what had once been an egg before army cooks had their way with it. ‘They said we could eat here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let them take it until we’d made arrangements for the horses,’ George added. ‘I didn’t like to think of them abandoned or anything like that.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be looked on as valuable recruits.’ Aubrey sat on the bench across from George and Sophie.

  ‘They have handlers and farriers and people dedicated to taking care of horses. I’m happy with that,’ George said.

  ‘And what are we to do now?’ Sophie had her notebook out and it was full of jottings about her Divodorum observations, from what Aubrey could judge reading upside down.

  ‘We make ourselves useful to the Directorate,’ Caroline said. ‘Isn’t that right, Aubrey?’

  ‘It’s right, but not terribly helpful. It’s one of the drawbacks of being special operatives.’ Aubrey drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I’d like to see how the magic neutralisers are deployed. It’s just the sort of information that might be useful, back at the Directorate.’

  ‘I suppose that would mean going to the front,’ George said. ‘The front front, I mean, not this back front. If that’s clear.’

  ‘As the mud I’m glad isn’t around,’ Aubrey said. ‘Do you have that map, Caroline?’

  George moved his plate and cutlery. Caroline spread the map on the table and Aubrey frowned at it.

  ‘One thing I should ask,’ Caroline said to him.

  ‘Just one?’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of leaving us behind and slipping up there by yourself, are you?’

  Aubrey touched his forehead. For an awful moment he was certain that his thoughts were written across it in big, bold letters. He couldn’t answer the accusation by denying it, because it was exactly what he’d been thinking, or by confirming it, because that would start an argument he’d never win, so he decided to lunge for a tactic he’d seen some of his father’s politician colleagues use: he didn’t answer the question that had been asked – he answered a completely different one.

  ‘I never said that war isn’t a filthy business. I condemn it utterly.’

  Caroline crossed her arms. ‘You’re not answering the question.’

  He had to smile. ‘I long to see you in Parliament. I have some people I wouldn’t mind seeing you skewer.’

  ‘Aubrey
.’ Sophie pointed at him with her pencil. ‘We will tie you up with ropes if you don’t agree to take us.’

  ‘George,’ Aubrey appealed. ‘There’s no point my risking you three when I can nip up and back before you know it.’

  George spread his hands. ‘I know you’re concerned for us, old man, but we’re concerned for you. We’re all nipping, or none of us nip.’

  46

  When they found colonel Stanley in the barn, he was more than happy for them to accompany him. ‘I understand that you’re something of an expert on these magic neutralisers, Fitzwilliam,’ he said, after instructing one of his agents to nail down the packing case again.

  ‘I wouldn’t say expert, sir. I’ve had some experience with them, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, that’s better than any of us here. I’m more your transference magic sort of man, myself.’

  ‘Really? Do you mind if I pick your brains on that, sir?’

  Which is how Aubrey sat up the front of the lorry with Stanley and the driver, while the others were relegated to the canvas-covered back. It was slow going through the maze of tracks cutting through the woods and negotiating the ridges and the rocky creeks. As well, they were constantly being blocked by slow-moving supply wagons and lorries, twice having to back off the road to allow traffic in the other direction. A depressing number of ambulances, both official and makeshift, nosed their way through the marching soldiers, a reminder, if any needed it, of what could lie ahead.

  Finally they debouched into a wide open area sheltered by a rocky outcrop. The large tents of a field hospital were the site of most activity, but the easternmost side of the glade had become a transport station with lorries unloading boxes of ammunition and foodstuffs.

  ‘This is as close as we can get by motor,’ Stanley said. He bounded out of the cabin and peered about. Lorries, carts, ambulances, and many, many soldiers were packed into an area the size of a football pitch. A few troopers, more phlegmatic than the others, had started campfires and were making tea or coffee.

  Aubrey had never seen so many slumped shoulders in one place at one time. The men had the weariness about them that came from extreme privation. Some twitched at unexpected noises; others didn’t move even when their name was called. War was grinding them to pieces.

  Stanley hurried about with papers in hand, looking more like an accountant than ever, until he found the officer he was looking for. The officer disappeared toward a neat line of tents and came back with a squad of infantrymen. The sun was drifting below the tops of the hills by the time the squad had unloaded the magic neutralisers, strung the crates in intricate rope cradles, and begun shuffling in the direction of the trenches.

  Aubrey and his friends were on their feet instantly, and followed.

  The certainty that they were heading in the right direction came not from sight – although the trees became sparser and more shredded as they picked their way over ground that was broken by large holes thrown up by artillery shells – but through hearing. The sounds coming to them were faint, growing stronger and oddly punctuated, but unmistakably that of war. Aubrey’s uneasiness grew as machine guns chattered insanely for minutes at a time before falling silent. He heard shouts in Gallian and Albionish and, more chilling, Holmlandish.

  The enemy was that close.

  Stanley led them through a defile where a creek had once run and then motioned for them to crouch. Spread out before them was the battlefield.

  The place where Gallia and Holmland had fought to a standstill in the early days of the confrontation had once been a narrow valley, a gap between ridges of the rather grandly named Grentellier Mountains that separated Divodorum from Stalsfrieden.

  The Grentellier Mountains were really more a series of low hills and ridges, lines of them running roughly north-west to south-east. One main road crossed this region, somewhat to the south of where Aubrey and his friends now found themselves; it was the route between the Gallian city and the Holmland one.

  The valley snaked along, widening and narrowing as it went, varying somewhere between one and two miles across. The hills on either side were studded with artillery emplacements, wherever engineers could drag them. The valley floor itself had been transformed from a narrow wooded corner of the countryside into a maze of trenches, bunkers and barbed wire.

  Aubrey felt small in the face of this theatre of war, but he knew that this was but a small part of the battlelines that stretched for miles in either direction.

  ‘This is a crucial chokepoint,’ Stanley said. He was crouching on one knee, sweeping his binoculars across the eerie scene. ‘We must hold here. If we don’t, the Holmlanders will pour through, double back, and chew into the rear of our lines.’

  Aubrey’s imagination, only too willing, provided a vision of the world looking down on this tiny patch. The attention of the powerful, the eager, the invested was, for a time, turned here.

  ‘What’s this place called?’ he asked.

  The officer lowered his field glasses and indicated to his right. A hundred yards away, a mound of rubble stood near the remains of a pond. ‘We call it Fremont, after that farmhouse over there.’

  ‘That’s not a farmhouse,’ George said. ‘That’s a ruin.’

  Stanley shrugged. ‘It was a farmhouse. Fremont was the name of the family who lived there, apparently.’

  ‘Family?’ Aubrey asked. ‘Where are they now?’

  Stanley had the good grace to look guilty. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Safe in Divodorum, I hope.’

  Aubrey wondered if, one day, the Battle of Fremont would rate a paragraph in a history book, or if it would be a chapter of its own.

  Sophie tapped Aubrey on the shoulder and pointed. ‘Look.’

  Against the setting sun, it was hard to make out but the tiny spot resolved itself gradually. ‘An ornithopter.’

  ‘Holmlander,’ Stanley said after using his field glasses. ‘I thought we’d shot down most of their observers.’

  The ornithopter was travelling toward them. Caroline shaded her eyes. ‘He’s having trouble controlling the side slipping in the wind.’

  Aubrey took Caroline’s word for it. ‘Do we have any aircraft in the area, sir?’

  ‘Not many,’ Stanley said. ‘The last I heard was that we were anticipating a squadron or two.’ He made a sour face. ‘“Expect them at any time” was the official phrasing.’

  The ornithopter was flying very high. Aubrey assumed that it was the better to observe the entire battlefront. The guns of the Albionites and the Gallians were silent for the moment. Such a tiny target was impossible, they all seemed to agree, not worth wasting ammunition.

  It was a sensible, rational military decision, but an optimistic rifleman obviously had other ideas: a shot rang out.

  Immediately, the ornithopter lurched sideways, as if skidding on the surface of a frozen pond. Then it dropped, spewing a trail of smoke and flame.

  ‘Remarkable,’ Stanley breathed.

  ‘He’s doomed,’ Caroline said. ‘His tail control is gone. Fuel tank too. He might be able to glide it in, if he’s very, very good.’

  Good, or determined, that’s just what the pilot was attempting. Aubrey found himself twitching and wincing with every jerky movement of the aircraft. The wings beat frantically as the pilot tried to kill his airspeed while retaining some control. The propensity of the machine to plummet like a stone while he was attempting this was a significant handicap, but he wasn’t giving up.

  Aubrey realised he didn’t care if the pilot was Holmlandish, Gallian or from another planet entirely. Silently, he cheered him on. His hands curled into fists as the ornithopter stuttered and attempted to roll, which would be certain death for the operator – as opposed to the most probable death that awaited if he could glide the machine into a landing.

  ‘You can do it,’ George muttered and Aubrey knew he wasn’t alone. He glanced at all of his friends and saw they were united in urging the pilot to success. Even the infantrymen of Stanley’s squa
d were watching intently, clearly hoping the pilot would succeed.

  The ornithopter twisted, then tilted to one side. Suddenly, in his attempt to right the craft, the pilot sent it hurtling across the lines.

  It was heading straight toward them.

  Aubrey couldn’t help it. Even though he was crouching, he ducked as it flashed overhead at tree-top level, a black shadow against the sky. Caroline cried out and the machine, larger than life, stalled and slipped sideways before the nose lifted a little. It was no good. The ornithopter laboured and banked slowly in the direction of Divodorum, then it clipped the tallest trees skirting the road. The sound of the impact could be heard even at this distance.

  Smoke rose from the site of the crash and Aubrey sank until he was sitting, aghast at what he had just seen, on the hard dirt.

  Aubrey’s father rarely spoke about his war experiences, but since, at the time, his deeds had been highlighted in the popular press, they had gained a currency that meant Aubrey had read about them from an early age. ‘Adventures’ was how they were inevitably described. Daring raids, perilous escapes, heart-stopping rescues, the stories of Darius Fitzwilliam’s exploits had added to the reputation of the young man who was already a public figure before he went to war. Of course, the stories were later immensely helpful in garnering public support for his political career.

  Even as a lad, Aubrey was aware enough to understand that the stories he read were coloured, so to speak. He knew his father, and Sir Darius would have laughed at some of the platitudes the man in the books regularly bandied about. Aubrey trusted the accounts of his father’s service friends more. People like George’s father, who was with Sir Darius when his military service was at its most dangerous. George’s father was also reticent to discuss war stories, but the few fragments he let slip told of a man he would follow anywhere – brave and steadfast. He also hinted at the horrors of war and of those who didn’t come back.

  Aubrey glanced again in the direction of the ornithopter crash, then looked toward the barbed wire and smoke of the front. This was war: a vast machine that chewed up people.