Powder Burn (Burn with Sam Blackett #1) (19 page)

Detsen let the silence gather before he replied.
“So tell us, then, Jortse Choedron, what would you do instead? How would you fight Demagistan’s armies, millions strong, with their modern weapons, tanks and aircraft? How would you lead our people against these professional soldiers?”

“
Committed guerrilla armies fighting for their own land have always proven stronger than invaders – just look at Afghanistan.”

“
You would wish the future of Shibde to look like Afghanistan?” Now it was Detsen’s turn to look incredulous. “And the mujahideen fight with Pakistani support, and in the beginning with American money and weapons. Where are your weapons going to come from, Jortse Choedron? Where is your secure base, on whose territory will you train, and rest and prepare? Is that what you have brought the CIA here for?” Detsen waved at Sam as he spoke. She felt Lens start out of his seat, but Pete put out a restraining, silencing hand.

“
I can only reveal these things when the time is right,” replied Jortse.

Now Detsen stood, leaning forward on outstretched fingers.
“You come here, before this Council, and you demand that we overthrow the legitimate ruler of our country and install in its place yourself, a hot-headed young man with no knowledge of the lives of the people of our country, who promises them only war, only bloodshed, pain and death –
and you have no plan that you are prepared to share with us for how you are to conduct this war?
”

“
I
am the rightful ruler of Shibde, and the Council knows it.” Jortse stared down the line of impassive faces, ignoring Detsen, appealing to the others. “Today you have an opportunity to undo the wrongs of thirty-seven years ago. Today you have an opportunity to put the leadership of the country into the hands of a man who has the energy to lead it. Ugyen has no heir. There is no other successor. Whether it is now or on his death, I will be king of Shibde. I ask you to choose now – while there is still time to repel the Demagistan invader from our land. I am the Seeker, destiny has chosen me. You ask for details, you ask for plans – I give you leadership. I give you the power of Dali Shakabpu.” And with these final words Jortse swirled round, the sword sweeping over his head and down. It crashed into the torch stand behind him, slicing it – wood, steel frame and all – into two. The parts neatly separated and fell to the floor with a gush of flame and burning ash.

The fire scattered across the floor had begun to burn out when Trisong Detsen finally spoke.
“We have heard, and seen, enough. The Council will discuss your claims. Dismissed.”

Jortse turned on his heel, slid the sword back into the scabbard, flipped it onto his shoulder and walked back through the hall. Sam glanced at Pete
. “What do you think?” she whispered.

“
Great performance, but he’s not got a bat’s chance in hell of getting their support. How do you think he did that trick with the sword?”

“
No idea,” said Sam.

Dromo Gache glided past and led them to a gloomy, badly
lit antechamber. Angry, red-faced Buddhas glared down at them from the walls. Dromo waved them to the bench seats in silence, then returned to the Council. Six of the black-cloaked guards took up positions a few yards away. Sam, Pete and Lens sat, while Jortse stood near the door watching the deliberations in the distance. No one seemed in a hurry to try to take the sword away from him.
He’s made his play,
she thought,
and it has worked.

“
So if all you needed from the Council was their blessing to lead an armed rebellion, why did you demand the crown?” asked Lens.

“
I thought he was dead, but as soon as I saw that Detsen still led the Council, I knew that I would be refused anything I asked. Since it made no difference, I decided I might as well say what I really felt.” Jortse straightened and turned as he spoke, meeting their gaze defiantly.

“
Who’s Detsen?” asked Sam.

“
The power behind the throne, Cardinal de Richelieu to King Ugyen’s Louis XIII. The man my father had always blamed for our exile.”

“
I don’t think he’s going to help you,” said Pete.

For just a moment, Jortse smiled.
“No, but I’ve been thinking, if there are fighters to be found in this country, they’re amongst the real people, the nomads, the yak herders. Most of them are barely Buddhist, they’re still wedded to even older ways – the animist religions of the high plains. I doubt they really think much of this Buddhist pacifism that Detsen preaches. They’re just following the leadership out of a traditional devotion to the king. I can change that. They’re the perfect guerrilla fighters. They know the country. They can live off the land. And I can reach them without having to risk Demagistan’s network of surveillance in the towns. But not on this trip, I need to get out and plan it properly.”

“
We’re with you,” said Sam.

“
You are?” said Jortse.

She nodded
. “All of us.”

“
Even him?” Jortse waved dismissively at Lens as he spoke.

“
Even him, he doesn’t want to stay here on his own, and Pete and I felt you had a cause worth fighting for.”

“
Good. When things are further along, we will have need of someone who can tell our side of the story, make our case in the global court of public opinion.”

“
I should be glad to help when that time comes,” said Sam.

Jortse nodded.
“When I make my move, stay close. I don’t want to hurt these people.”

“
I thought they were all pacifists or whatever, how are they going to stop us?” asked Pete.

“
The Royal Guard aren’t from Shibde, they’re Nepalese mercenaries,” said Jortse.

“
Now he freakin’ tells us,” muttered Lens.

It was only ten minutes later when Gache approached them.
“The Council has made a decision. Come,” he said. They followed him back to the center of the great hall, where Shibde’s Council of wise men still sat grim and silent behind the massive table. This time Gache’s introduction was wordless – a quick, informal bow as he moved to his seat. And this time the protective ring of monks wasn’t hidden in the shadows beyond the flickering torches. They were standing just behind the Council, hands clasped in front of them. Sam realized that Jortse wasn’t the only one expecting trouble. There was no sign of weapons, but they could be carrying anything under those cloaks. Sam didn’t sit down, she figured they’d need to move quickly.

It was Trisong Detsen that spoke.
“We have made a decision. I will not waste your time any further. The Council cannot support your request. Ugyen is the rightful king of Shibde, and will remain so until his death, when the question of succession will be considered by the Council. We have decided not to allow you to return into exile, you will stay here under house arrest. These people” – again he waved at Sam as he said this – “will also remain here while we make further investigations. We do not wish to release anyone that knows even the approximate position of the Council chambers.” The words echoed flatly through the cavern and dissipated into the silence.

Sam swallowed hard. Lens swore under his breath.

“So, Detsen – as to the father, so to the son – you would rob me of my rightful inheritance too?” said Jortse.

“
It is not your rightful inheritance,” replied Detsen. “The succession is always a matter for the Council. If you knew a little more about Shibde, if you knew
anything
about Shibde, you would know this. Now, hand over the sword. It is the property of the king.”

Jortse folded his arms across his chest and straightened his tall frame.
“I found the sword. I am the Seeker. It cannot be relinquished until Shibde is free.”

“
It was the emperor’s sword, Jortse Choedron, therefore it is now the king’s,” responded Detsen.

Sam heard movement behind and glanced over her shoulder. There were more guards
– menacing, hooded shadows in the flickering light. If Jortse was wrong and they couldn’t escape, she could be forced to spend the rest of her life here. “They’re getting round behind us,” she hissed.

“
I know,” said Jortse. “Follow me.” He spun round as he spoke, the sword already, almost magically, in his hands. The Council scattered, but Jortse was running for the door. Sam, Pete and Lens followed. She grabbed up a flaming wooden torch from its stand as she ran past. The trap had not quite been sprung. Jortse was already amongst the men that had approached from the back of the cavern. They had been slow to draw the weapons she was sure they carried under the cloaks, and they scattered as the glittering blade sliced through the air. Sam swung the torch in its wake. Jortse reached the door just in time, hurling himself at it feet first as it shut in his face. It slammed back open.

“
Shut it behind us, Sam!” yelled Jortse, as he tumbled through the doorway and followed up on the dazed guard who had been trying to close it.

Sam
swiveled on her heels as Lens and Pete dived through; she slammed the door shut, wrenching the dead bolt into place. Bodies thudded uselessly into the other side.

“
They were expecting me to try for Detsen, and they’ve pulled everyone into the hall to protect him and the Council. So, as this is the only way in or out, I think we’ve bought ourselves some time. Come on, bring the torch,” urged Jortse, “we should get our bags.”

Sam hurried past the motionless body on the floor, hoping he was just unconscious. She glanced at Pete, jogging beside her
. “Where the hell did you get that?” she asked.

He lifted the rifle
. “One of those guys dropped it, I thought it was dangerous to just leave it lying around.”

“
You have any idea how to use it?”

“
Nope.”

“
Swap,” she said, handing him the torch.

“
I thought you were all for nonviolent solutions,” he said.

“
That was before that asshole threatened to lock us up and throw away the key,” she replied, as he handed over the rifle. “It’s one of yours, an old British Army Lee-Enfield,” she added. “My father’s best friend used to hunt with one of these.” She slid the bolt back to check the chamber was clear – it was. Then she unclipped the magazine; it felt light, probably held just one stripper clip, five of the maximum ten rounds. She replaced it and shouldered the rifle, and they hurried after Jortse. There was no one guarding the cell when they got back to it.

“
Let’s hope our luck holds,” muttered Lens, as they grabbed their packs.

Jortse had shrugged off the formal robes and was back in the long-sleeved black sheepskin coat. The bedroll was slung over one shoulder, the sword over the other. He put the wide-brimmed hat back on.
“Everyone ready for this?” he said.

“
Yep,” replied Sam.

Jortse picked a second torch from its holder on the wall.
“Then let’s get out of here.” He led the way down the gloomy corridors, back towards the main entrance, the occasional torch flickering as they swept past in a tight group. Sam checked each turn with what she remembered – they couldn’t afford to waste time getting lost. The corridors were empty, and it seemed that Jortse was right, every available man had been pulled into the main chamber to stop him killing Detsen. Sam reckoned they were just one final left turn and fifty-one paces from the entrance when Jortse came to a halt.

“
They won’t have left the entrance unguarded,” he whispered. “How well do you shoot?”

“
Pretty good,” replied Sam.

“
Can you keep their heads down, while I rush them?”

“
Sure, but I think I only have five rounds, and it’s about fifty yards, so you’ll need to make it snappy or I’ll be empty before you get there,” she said.

“
‘You can’t get five aimed shots off in the time it’ll take me to run fifty yards,” said Jortse, as he drew the sword.

“
Let’s see, shall we,” she replied, dropping to her belly. She slowly eased her head around the corner to get a look. There were four of them, two just inside the door and two a couple of paces outside – that made it harder. She didn’t want to kill anyone, but she didn’t want to get locked inside the chambers either. She quietly worked the bolt, eased the safety forward and settled into her prone shooting position, rifle tightly wrapped into her shoulder.

“
OK?” asked Jortse, leaning over her.

“
On three,” said Sam, “go down the left-hand wall to stay out of my line of fire. Three.”

Jortse swung round the corner and started to run. He’d covered ten yards before anyone even saw him. Sam put a round into the rock, about two feet above the head of the first man to react. The report crashed around the confined space and he froze like a deer in the headlights. The rifle was shooting low and to the right. She worked the bolt without taking her cheek off the stock, just like her father had taught her. The next round was chambered in a little more than a second.

The second man inside the door had got his rifle off his shoulder. She put a shot into the wood a foot to the right of his chest. He dropped the rifle, turned and ran to join the two outside the cave, who were now pushing the huge door closed as fast as they could go. Jortse was still twenty yards away. She flicked the bolt for the third round and realized she had no choice. She breathed out, took a moment longer to aim and then put a bullet into the leg of the one man she could see that was pushing the door. He crumpled with a scream, falling into the corridor. A second later Jortse had the tip of the sword at his throat, yelling at him in a language she didn’t understand. It worked – the other two men appeared from behind the door with their hands up.

“
Shit, I hope I didn’t get the artery,” swore Sam, as she rose and ran forward with Pete and Lens. By the time she got to the man on the floor, Jortse had herded all four of them together inside the chambers. She quickly checked the wound and exhaled a massive sigh of relief. She’d clipped the outside of the thigh. It was bleeding, but not badly and the bone looked intact. Pete handed her his fleece hat and she jammed it over the wound.

“
Hold it,” she instructed one of the other guards. “Jortse, tell him to hold it on tight.”

Jortse saw what she wanted and spat out the instructions. The man knelt down beside his fallen comrade and placed his hand on the makeshift pressure pad. Sam tried to smile reassuringly, and put her hand on top of his to show him how firm he’d have to press it. Something else her father had taught her. A heartbeat later
, a bullet ricocheted off the rock behind and buried itself in the door above her head.

“
Bloody hell, they’ve broken loose!” yelled Pete.

She looked up, five men were rushing them, others providing covering fire.
“Outside! Now!” she shouted. They threw themselves out of the entrance, and Jortse and Pete immediately started to push the door shut. Sam dropped to her knee as she turned and pulled the rifle to her shoulder. A bullet cracked into the rock at her feet, and she felt the shrapnel hit her cheek. She breathed out, took aim and squeezed. The leader of the charge went down twenty yards from them. The rest of the rushers threw themselves to the floor. A second later the door slammed shut and Pete pushed the huge wooden latch into place. There was the rattle of gunfire from inside, and the door shivered under the impact.

“
We’ve bought some time, but not much, let’s move,” said Pete. He looked at Sam. “You OK?” he asked.

She swallowed, and nodded
. “Yeah, yeah, I think I got his legs again, lead the way,” she said. “Go, Lens!”

Pete turned and started to run east, and Lens needed no more encouragement to follow. Jortse started off behind him and Sam brought up the rear, trying to clear her mind of the image of the falling man. Then Pete was waving, yelling, and she remembered. She shoved the rifle between Jortse’s running legs. He crashed to the floor, releasing the sword as he tried to break his tumble onto the rocks. She dropped the rifle, swooped and grabbed up the sword in one smooth motion.

“Got it,” she shouted, “I’ve got it.”

Lens kept running without even a glance behind, but Pete was waiting for her.

“Run hard, don’t look back,” he yelled, grabbing her free hand and accelerating beside her. She saw the landscape fall away from her ahead. She started to slow. It had sounded like a good idea back in the cell. Now she wasn’t so sure.

“
Trust me ...” said Pete, tugging her hand.

She looked him in the eyes, and could see her fear reflected in his face.

“Don’t think, just jump, and try to land on the backpack,” he said.

Then Lens suddenly lurched to a halt, five yards ahead of them.

“Holy crap!” he screamed.

Pete dropped his shoulder and clipped him as he went past. Lens tottered, thrashing unsuccessfully for balance. She was half a pace behind Pete, and although he had a firm grip of her hand, there was still a moment when she might have been able to pull back. But she was a believer. She tucked the handle of the sword into her belly and jumped off the cliff. If she had thought to yell or scream on the way down, the clutch of fear at her throat and the sharp intake of breath as gravity ripped her into free-fall snuffed out the notion. Then the backpack hit. It was a glancing blow as she bounced gently off a near-vertical ice crust. It pushed her into a slight rotation and slapped her heels against the surface. Then the pack touched down again as the slope came up to meet it
, and she started to slide.

She dug her heels in to brake, but it was a mistake
; her right foot found some grip before the left and started her rotating. On the icy surface there was nothing much to slow her up and she accelerated into a dizzying whirl. Sliding – or was she still falling? – and definitely spinning, she flew down the mountain in a blizzard of ice. Then her heels broke through the crust, into deep, soft snow. It flicked her into a somersault, a giddying double rotation that would’ve scored nothing for elegance. She tumbled onwards, trying to relax into the fall, holding the blade of the sword clear from her body, waiting for everything to go quiet. When it did, she lay staring up at the little piece of sky torn out of the white sheet above her.

Some of her senses were convinced that she was still moving, while others begged to differ. The result was a wave of nausea. She clenched her teeth, pursed her lips and swallowed. The bile in the back of her throat slid back down. She wriggled toes, feet, legs, fingers, arms, body and head. Everything seemed to be working.

“He’s not jumped, he’s not jumped!” It was Lens’s excited voice, getting closer. “He’ll fight rifles with a sword but won’t jump, just goes to show you how irrational risk assessment is,” he babbled on, “you’ve got much more chance of drowning in your bath than you have of being killed in a terrorist attack, but which are people more scared of –”