Harvest (34 page)

The trouble was that Quatremayne’s power in his own domain was absolute. If he said, with that little snort of an awkward laugh, ‘I . . . appreciate . . .
that
one . .
.’, then whether she be wyf, sister, daughter or even a bilgesnipe girl, his need better be satisfied, or else.

His smirks and nasty laughter were of the victor over the vanquished. He felt the same contempt for life that he did for Blut. There was no compassion.

Such perversity had been his evening’s important ‘business’.

Now, washed and changed, the military machine under his command in hand and in control, he found time and mood for less important matters: courts martial and hearings in which the unfortunates
beneath him who had offended the Imperial or military code were tried, sentenced and summarily punished.

That night there were two court martials of ranking officers and the trials of various civilians who had been unlucky or foolish enough to displease the Fyrd since their arrival in Englalond. In
addition there were one or two personal scores to settle.

Quatremayne used such occasions to instil fear and respect and did not hesitate to impose and carry through the harshest sentences. Punishments, from beatings to executions, were under the
direction and personal hand of the head of his security, the unpleasant and diminutive Gritt Grolte, who was also the individual who most often found the General his females.

The General occasionally carried out executions himself; and sometimes, quite unpredictably, he enjoyed granting a pardon. It made him seem merciful. It made him feel powerful. It ensured that
he had people about the place who owed their lives directly to him.

The hearings took place in a small compound near the Warwick Road Bridge consisting of tables and chairs and a place for the accused. This time, as so often in the past, at night. His
victims’ fears were greater then.

As the first of the accused – a senior officer charged with weak command because intoxicated – was brought before him through the cold night, Quatremayne continued with other minor
business, in particular hearing verbal reports. This had always been his habit. So it could easily be that a Fyrd private or officer might be having his fate decided by a commanding officer who
simultaneously was listening to a verbal report about latrines. Worse: if the report pleased or irritated him, that spilled over into Quatremayne’s attitude to the accused, for better or for
worse.

That particular night the General was in a bad mood, made angry by a slight division in his own ranks concerning transports that were not yet fully ready. These were in Walsall to the north of
the city and Kidderminster to the south, where a combination of minor Earth movements, of the kind that had bedevilled Englalond in recent months, and irritating human unpredictability meant that
nobody could be sure when the transports would arrive. It was, he knew, the kind of upset that could seriously undermine matters when it came to the invasion of Brum.

He waved away this latest report and gave his full attention to the hearing. His former comrade in arms and quartermaster, Stoll, was the one charged with inebriation. Not for the first
time.

A token trial for a token offence, demanding a token punishment.

The overweight Stoll certainly seemed to think so as he stood before Quatremayne, who listened to charge and counter-charge with furrowed brow that did not appreciate Stoll’s evident
complacency.

‘Guilty,’ said Quatremayne looking either side to the other two officer-judges, ‘I think we can agree on that.’

Naturally they agreed. The court waited idly for the sentence, all in good humour, Stoll included. This was just a warm-up, that was why he was first.

But Quatremayne pursed his thin lips.

The issue of the inefficient transports had worried him. Such things should not be happening so close to the coming major advances. Time for an example to be set.

‘Garrotte,’ he said quietly, ‘now.’

Gritt Grolte rose, two hefty Fyrd at his side. His eyes were black holes, his face pallid, his hair greasy and dark.

‘But . . .’ began Stoll, the realization slow to dawn, ‘
but
. . .’

But he was stood up, turned, marched away barely able to struggle against Grolte’s painful grip.

‘Do it where we can see,’ commanded Quatremayne. ‘Next?’

Nothing subdues a crowd more than harsh sentences instantly carried out there and then. One after another.

‘Garrotte.’

Again, ‘Garrotte.’

Short-drop hanging.

Fire.

Bolts.

All in quick succession, the accused were hauled away and they saw and heard the slow and terrible squeezing out of a sequence of lives by Grolte. As the verdicts came one after another, the
court had to listen to guttural hisses of terror and pain against the background of the noisy shunting of trains and carriages.

F
or Jack and the others in Binley Wood, the last hour of their vigil outside the bunker felt the longest.

Only when the dark turned to grey-black and then to grey dawn, and the nearby trees became visible, did they begin to stretch, warm themselves, sip water, prepare.

‘Barklice, I want you to make a circuit of the area . . . see if there are any other entrances or guards.’

Backhaus offered to go with him but Jack shook his head.

‘Mister Barklice works best alone on these occasions. You will hardly know he’s gone and you’ll certainly not hear him return.’

It was true. Barklice had already melted away into the lightening dark, from tree to bush, from bush to fallen branch, and on around, silent as the dead.

He was gone half an hour and he reappeared as silently as he had gone, up some steps from the cutting below.

‘There is no other entrance like the one below,’ he reported. ‘There are air vents above, but heavily cowled and overgrown. There are also vents in the forest floor, covered in
steel doors. I found three, there’s probably a fourth. The doors have been weighted down with stones, recently. One shows signs of having been forced from beneath, before the stones were put
on it. That’s one to watch.

‘Not sure how many guards, but I’d guess six. Their patrol routes are easy enough to find, they’re trampled and obvious. They’re not expecting visitors. The patrol uses
four stopping points, all at the edge of the wood . . .’

‘And the routes all start from the entrance down there?’ queried Jack.

‘I can’t see any other way in or out.’

‘How near are the roof air vents from where we are now?’ asked Recker.

‘Thirty yards. Through those shrubs.’

‘Can you draw me a plan of the structure?’ asked Recker.

Barklice took a twig from the wood floor, cleared the humus, and quickly did so on the bare earth beneath, marking in the roof vents and the doors in the forest floor.

‘What are you thinking?’ Jack asked Recker.

‘Diversion,’ he replied. ‘A small charge in the cowlings will serve to open them up and it’ll be heard throughout the structure. Unless there’s someone directly
below, no one will get hurt. It might draw out the guards . . .’

Jack stiffened and whispered, ‘No need for that right now!’

The great doors at the entrance were opening.

Two Fyrd came out, both armed, two more stood at the entrance covering them. They looked about, saw the coast was clear, nodded at the ones inside and the doors closed.

The two talked briefly and set off round the bunker in different directions, one away from where they watched, the other up the steps Barklice had used a short time before.

Jack smiled grimly.

‘I’ll take him down,’ he said.

‘I’ll cuff him,’ said Backhaus.

The Fyrd came up slowly, breathing heavily. Not very fit, it seemed. Jack took a place behind a tree, stave in hand.

Backhaus behind another.

The other two retreated out of sight.

‘Good morning,’ said Backhaus, stepping from behind his tree.

The Fyrd froze, not sure if he was facing friend or enemy since Backhaus looked like a Fyrd himself. Jack stepped up behind and felled him with his stave.

‘Cuff and gag him,’ he said, ‘while I go and meet the other one before he realizes that his friend has not come to meet him. Barklice, show me the way.’

They met Number Two ten minutes later, this time adopting the guise of hydden who had lost their way and were surprised to see a Fyrd in the wood. He too was easily overpowered and gagged. Jack
slipped Barklice’s stave through the crooks of his arms and marched him back to the others, where he was laid on the ground next to his colleague.

A change had come over Jack.

He was taken over by a new purpose and energy. He seemed bulkier, more resolute and dangerous. There was no doubt he was the leader, and that he meant business, whatever that business might
be.

‘Barklice, guide the Bombardier to the cowled vents to set charges ready. We need to flush the others out before dawn advances too far and our friends are missed.’

‘For what time?’ asked Recker coolly, eyes glinting. He liked his work.

‘They should go off five minutes after you get back here. Speed is of the essence.’

They nodded and were gone.

Jack pulled out his dirk and eyed the two prisoners.

He knelt down by the younger-looking of the two.

‘We have little time,’ he said, ‘certainly no time to argue. I am going to ask questions, you will answer them.’

They stared at him, the younger one with insolence, and the older nervously.

‘How many of you are guarding the bunker? Nod your head when I get to the right figure. One . . . two . . . three . . .’

They stared but did not nod their heads.

When he got to ten he continued, ‘More . . . ?’

Still no response.

Jack glanced at his chronometer.

He placed the dirk just above the kneecap of the younger one and pushed the point in not quite enough to break the skin.

‘I’ll try again, pushing in a little way with each number. One . . .’

The Fyrd writhed but showed no sign of weakening. The other looked desperate at the prospect that awaited him as well.

‘Two . . .’

The dirk broke skin, entered flesh.

‘Hold him,’ said Jack.

Backhaus did so.

‘Three . . .’ and blood spurted.

The Fyrd writhed desperately, but it was the other who broke and tried to speak.

‘That’s better,’ said Jack, turning to him but keeping the knife where it was in the first.

‘Four . . . five . . .’

Only when he got to eight did the Fyrd nod.

‘Eight!?’

Again he nodded.

‘Guarding how many?’

Jack took off the gag of the one who was cooperating but shoved his dirk into his throat.

‘How many?’

‘Two.’

‘Two,
sir
,’ said Jack to maintain dominance.

‘Two, sir.’

‘Eight guarding two seems disproportionate . . .’

Recker and Barklice returned.

‘Five minutes,’ said Recker.

Backhaus took up the questioning.

‘Who are they?’

The response was surprising.

Total defiance on the face of one, real fear on the other.

‘Can’t say, sir. Mustn’t say.’

‘Professor Foale?’

‘Ye . . . yes.’

‘The other?’

‘Mustn’t say.’

‘Four and a half minutes,’ murmured Recker.

Jack thought fast.

‘Where are your six friends?’

‘Two are sleeping, four by the entrance. They’ll do internal rounds when we return.’

‘Where are their quarters? Near the entrance or not?’

‘Near. I didn’t want . . .’

‘Four minutes,’ said Recker.

‘Where are the prisoners?’

‘Inside the bunker.’

It took a moment for them to appreciate what this meant.

‘You mean,’ said Backhaus, ‘that the guards are
outside
it?’

The Fyrd nodded.

‘There’s an antechamber, but I never . . .’

‘Shut up,’ said Jack, ‘just answer the question.’

‘We’re all outside. The bunker has inner as well as outer doors. The prisoners are locked inside and we have no quick access.’

‘Three minutes,’ said Recker.

Jack thought fast, the others let him.

The sky was lightening and soon the sun would show. Whichever way they played it, time was running out.

‘Can they see you when you come back? How do you signal you’re outside?’

‘We knock, they can’t see us.’

‘A particular knock?’

The Fyrd nodded.

‘Two minutes, sir.’

‘Right,’ said Jack, ‘here’s how it’s going to be . . .’

He told them briefly and they all got up.

Barklice retreated back into the wood in case anyone found a way to use the trapdoors on the forest floor. The younger of the Fyrd was tied tightly to the nearest tree. The cooperative one was
hauled to his feet, the point of Jack’s dirk firmly in his back.

They guided him down the steps towards the entrance.

‘Don’t make a sound until I tell you.’

Jack pushed the dirk in a little to make him understand what would happen.

‘Sixty seconds . . .’

‘Count me down,’ ordered Jack, before whispering in the Fyrd’s ear, ‘On my signal I want you to give your normal knock but make it sound urgent. Backhaus, you’ll
follow me; Recker, find Barklice and watch our backs. This is going to be swift and brutal.’

‘Thirty seconds, twenty-nine, twenty-eight . . .’

The seconds shot by.

‘Twenty . . .’

‘
Now!
’ said Jack urgently.

The Fyrd began knocking.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-rat-rat-rat-tat

Then a pause and again:
rat-tat-tat-tat-rat-rat-rat-tat

A sliver of sunlight hit the door as he and the others moved to one side to be out of sight when it opened.

‘Three, two . . .’ murmured Recker to the sound of bolts being thrown.

As the door swung open there was a loud
bang! Bang!
above their heads.

‘By the Mirror, what was
that!
’ said the guard inside, opening the door still more.