Harvest (19 page)

He paused, unused to speaking in this way to Slew, whom most folk disliked and all but his closest friends, and Sinistral, distrusted.

‘My Lord?’

‘Make peace with your mother, the Lady Leetha. Make peace. In the time coming we will all have need of those who love us and no time for divisions. In any case, it distressed my Lord
Sinistral that you and she do not see eye to eye.’

Slew flushed with anger but Blut ignored it.

‘Make peace,’ he said again, adding, ‘we are all of us flawed, we have all made mistakes. Trust me in this.’

Leetha was Sinistral’s adoptive daughter, remarkable and beautiful. People thought Slew was their son, but he was not. She had two sons, of whom Slew was the elder. He believed she
favoured the younger, who was Jack, a fact Jack himself had only recently discovered.

Witold Slew stood staring at him for a long time. Shadows hung about his form, menacing and strange. His great stave shone with danger; his being was as powerful as any hydden Blut knew. Yet
through it all there came the ancient hurt, the sense of being wronged which Leetha’s seeming dislike of him had caused.

Yet Blut’s words had entered into him and taken his mind off this old wound. He looked at him with respect.

‘Lord, Emperor, I shall do as you command.’

His dark eyes lightened.

‘What is it, Slew?’

‘I am glad it is Borkum Riff you chose. He . . . is . . . like me, Lord.’

‘Difficult?’ smiled Blut, ‘I believe he is!’

A rare look of genuine concern crossed Slew’s face.

‘Will you be safe until I return, Lord?’

Blut smiled again.

‘Miracles happen.’

Finally: ‘My Lord, I think it wise that I take two others with me, the Norseners Harald and Bjarne. The former Emperor will be weak, he may be threatened and I need ones I trust with him
at my side.’

‘Take who you think best fitted to the task, Slew. The Nordic lands have produced some of the finest fighters, I am told.’

‘Thank you, Lord.’

Slew left and the Emperor’s clerks appeared, papers and dossiers in hand.

I
t took Jack, Stort and the others eleven days from the time they left Turner’s Green to reach Brum along the canal. They had travelled by
night, hiding up by day, and bodily hauling their frail craft round those locks that were chained. It had been laborious and hard but they had learnt one thing: the Fyrd steered clear of canals,
which perhaps they were not used to, so that the main danger was from human beings.

‘But now we’re on the outskirts of the city it’s not the Fyrd we need worry about so much,’ said Jack, ‘but our own kind. The slums of the Hay Mills have many rough
and dangerous elements, but from all I’ve heard Sparkbrook will be much worse.’ Dodd nodded his head in agreement.

The built-up areas they were now travelling through made portering their craft increasingly difficult, yet not so much so that the alternatives were better.

‘Another day, one more night, and we’ll make it,’ said Jack. ‘If we can get into striking distance of Digbeth, where we have many friends among the bilgesnipe who are the
experts on these waters, I believe I’ll be able to get us all safely back in no time at all.’

But, as Jack feared, when they got to the bleak and barren depths of Sparkbrook, where the canal ran through deep caverns of ruined factory buildings occupied by low types and criminals,
disaster struck.

They were passing under one of the many arched bridges as discreetly as they could, from one factory area to another, when a boulder was thrown at them from above, which crashed straight through
the bilges.

As they began to sink they heard laughter above and the running of feet and moments later they were floundering in the water.

They pulled themselves up onto a derelict factory frontage on the canal which seemed a place of relative safety. Jack decided it would be safer and quicker to leave the rest of the group where
they were while he set off into the night to get help.

They slept well enough and without disturbance. But through the day that followed Meister Laud became confused and difficult. To make matters worse their food was running out.

As the second night fell and still Jack had not returned, they all began to worry. Dodd knew Sparkbrook by reputation and understood that it was one of the most dangerous districts in Old Brum.
True, they were safe where they were, protected by the canal on one side and deserted outhouses and wasteland on the other.

‘We best be prepared against attack,’ he said. ‘A boulder from a bridge might be no more than a thoughtless jape by a passing youngster brought up to distrust strangers but if
a group of ’em forms we’re in trouble.’

‘What do you suggest beyond vigilance and making sure our staves are handy?’ said Katherine.

‘That’ll have to do for now,’ said Dodd.

The hours passed towards midnight and creaking and footfalls in nearby buildings made them ever more fearful that they were being watched. The great city hummed quietly about them, the glow of
its lights making the low clouds above livid and threatening. It was unlike Jack not to come back when he had said he would and though they were confident he would return, Meister Laud was now
shivering and fretful, and they were all growing very tired and cold.

‘If only we could light a fire,’ said Terce.

Dodd and Stort shook their heads. A fire would only attract attention.

‘He’s getting worse,’ said Terce later, by now trying to keep Meister Laud warm by wrapping him in his own coat and holding him in his arms. ‘We need to warm him
somehow.’

Katherine made a warming brew, using a buried fire, which sufficed to heat water in a slow and smoky way. They fed it to Meister Laud but he had barely strength to sup it, his limbs shivering
now quite violently.

When Katherine fancied she heard someone or something again in one of the buildings beyond the flames, Stort got up to investigate. He was gone longer than she liked.

When he returned, he said, ‘There’s folk about all right and I don’t like the feel of ’em. Which being so we might as well light a fire as not. Better to die warm than
die cold and if anyone comes we can see ’em if they get too close.’

‘And not at all if they stay out of the orbit of the light,’ said Katherine. ‘But I suppose it won’t make things worse and will help Meister Laud.’

Stort and Dodd set to building the fire near the canal with Meister Laud between it and the water, the rest guarding on either side. A stretch of wooden fence provided a measure of protection
along the canal side.

At first they smothered the flames with vegetation dampened with canal water. Then, when that provided insufficient heat they lit another, then a third. Finally, with the canal behind them, and
the lights of the city glowing high above the canyon of old buildings that rose on the far bank side, they let go all pretence and allowed the fires to join forces and burn free, facing the
rustling darkness of derelict Sparkbrook with their staves in their hands.

Meister Laud soon perked up, reached his hands to the warmth, his white hair and cheeks red with the fiery warmth, a slight smile on his face.

‘Better,’ he said, ‘better . . .’

Occasionally the flames grew too bright, breaking through the barrier of moist vegetation Stort cleverly placed on the far side of the fires, and he went to shore it up again. Then, to
Katherine’s alarm, he disappeared again towards the concrete buildings they had explored when they first arrived. She heard movement, clattering and dragging sounds. He came back, busied
himself round the far side of the fire again and eventually returned to the light and safety of their little sanctuary bounded by water and fire.

His eyes were streaming and he smelt of oil but he had a satisfied look on his face.

‘What have you being
doing
?’ hissed Katherine.

‘Things,’ he said coolly. ‘Defensive measures, in case. Unless Jack gets here very shortly I have a feeling we’ll soon have some most unwelcome visitors. I have
constructed a last-resort measure . . . I’ll give ’em sparks in Sparkbrook!’

‘What do you mean?’

He shrugged and said nothing, preferring to hunker down and keep an eye on the water behind as well as the shadowy buildings all about, whose broken windows now danced with firelight.

The fires served their purpose well and all of them felt better. Dodd made a fortifying hot brew of his own, which burnt their throats with something more than heat.

‘Jack’ll come soon,’ Katherine said, to encourage them. ‘Jack’s never failed me yet. Maybe it’s a longer way than we thought, or there is some difficulty . .
.’

‘I expect that may be so,’ replied Stort, doing his best to hide the anxiety from his voice that she obviously felt as well. The truth was they were now sitting ducks. They could not
see a thing beyond the darkness and . . .

Thwump!

The first stone came sailing out of the darkness and hit the ground next to Stort’s stave.

Thwump, thwump!

The next two came hard and fast, accompanied by unpleasant laughter and running shadows in and out of the buildings.

Clatter! Bang!

Some tin cans and a bottle arced over towards them.

Smash!

The bottle caught a stone and broke, sending shards of glass over them. As the figures got nearer and grew more distinct, the laughter grew louder and deteriorated into jeers.

Stort said quietly, ‘They look to me no older than children, Katherine . . .’

To her horror, he rose from their shelter as if to go and talk to them.

Thwump!

Something shot past and lodged in the wooden upright next to him. Katherine hauled him back down and they looked at the bolt juddering in the wood of the fence by the canal.

‘Youngsters with crossbows, it seems,’ said Katherine grimly.

Thwump! Thwump!

Two more bolts hit the wood.

Terce shifted his bulk in front of Meister Laud to protect him. Dodd looked furious, Stort’s eyes narrowed.

‘This is getting dangerous,’ said Katherine, who had gathered their things together ready for a quick escape by water. They knew already that the canal was not too deep and quite
narrow. It would be worth a try to get away by crossing to the other side, but not something to do lightly. It might be a step too far for Meister Laud.

‘Where’s Jack?’ asked Katherine. For the first time desperation had crept into her voice. The dancing, jeering shadows became suddenly clear. They were a mob of
rough-tough-looking hydden youths, attracted by the smoke, now seeing beyond the flames and beginning to realize that their advantage in numbers was overwhelming.

Most of the mob were throwing missiles, many had clubs, some nasty-looking knives, and they finally saw the one with the crossbow, who was more adult than child.

‘What we need,’ said Stort, ‘is a broom or some other such long implement. Our staves are a mite too short for what I have in mind.’

‘A broom!’ cried Katherine, the flames turning her fair hair golden.

‘Or something like it,’ said Stort calmly.

The mob advanced nearer, the missiles slowing, as if getting their hands on what they obviously saw as intruders on their turf would be more fun. Knives glinted in the night, eyes narrowed with
pack-like blood lust.

‘Or,’ said Stort, ‘we could tear one of the boards from this fence.’ But they were impossible to move.

‘For Mirror’s sake, Stort, talk sense, or we’ll have to take to the water any minute now, but . . .’

Terce had now stood up to face the crowd, the flames of the fires seeming insufficient defence against the ire of the mob.

Katherine saw the one with the crossbow raise it and take aim. She grabbed Terce’s robe and hauled him sideways.

A bolt just missed him and Meister Laud, disappearing into the canal behind.

‘Charge the buggers!’ someone shouted from the crowd and a great roar went up as their assailants gathered up like some great wave before surging forward towards them.

‘Whoa there, me hearties!’ a new voice cried out from the water. ‘Who’m be aiming bolties at my good old craft!’

As the crowd before them began their charge, an extraordinary figure leapt onto the canal bank between Katherine and Stort. Meister Laud’s eyes widened into surprise, then terror. It was
as if a demon was attacking them. The figure who had leapt into their side of the fray looked like a pirate from an arabesque nightmare.

Thin, turbaned, bare-armed, with golden rings in his ears and dark, shiny hair that caught the light of the fires like streams of crimson ribbon. He wore a loincloth, had powerful bare legs and
bejewelled sandals on his feet.

‘A troubly eve it seems, Mistress Katherine, a gangrious night, Mister Stort . . . !’

‘Ah, Arnold!’ cried Stort. ‘You have got just what I need. Pray give me that pole!’

Arnold Mallarkhi was the best boatyboy in Brum, and a friend to them all.

‘You and no other, Mister Stort, may have it,’ said Arnold. ‘Here it be!’

The bilgesnipe swung it over their heads and placed the handle end in Stort’s stave hand.

‘Stand clear or stand low, me mateys,’ said Arnold, guessing at once Stort’s intent, ‘for that pole’s longer and harder than it looks!’

As they all fell to the ground, Stort raised the pole lengthways, turned a circle to get momentum, such that the pole swung whirring over their heads, and as it came back he directed it through
the three fires, one by one.

The fiery debris was scattered towards the charging mob, some shooting up as sparks into the air, the heavier material falling on the ground at their feet.

Then . . .
whoosh!
and
whoomp!
and great fireballs shot towards their attackers, driving them back.

‘Fuel, diesel, old paint,’ said Stort, who had collected it in the dark from cans discarded in the outhouses. It was why he smelt of oil. A great mass of flame shot up, forming a
protective arc right round them, and turning the charging mob into screaming retreat, stones dropping, clubs falling in the flames, the crossbow thrown aside.