The Place of Dead Kings (18 page)

He shut his eyes again and ground his teeth as he fought to stay silent. He didn’t want to wake Saleem and the others, didn’t want anyone to know he was weakening.

The pain came in waves, from a throbbing ache to searing agony.

Stay calm. Breathe deeply.

Should he try the Great Health yantra one more time? Kanvar had told him not to give up, but after failing for so many years it was hard to have much hope.

He breathed deeply several more times, tried to block out the pain and did his best to bring the yantra to his mind’s eye. The design came to him in fragments, first one section, then another. He fought to hold it still, but the pain kept intruding on his thoughts.

If the yantra worked now, he knew exactly what would follow. The knowledge of how to use the power would rush into his mind. Within an instant, he would know everything there was to know about the power. And then he would have a choice – either use the power immediately, or hold back. An unblocked siddha might hold back at this point in order to remain pure. But of course, for Jack there was no choice. He had to use the Great Health power as soon as he could.

He sensed the air grow colder, heard a hush of rain and smelt wet earth. Drops drummed on the wagon, the sound echoing in the space beneath the vehicle.

There was a moment of intense quiet, when his surroundings seemed to fade away, and the yantra sat still and perfect in his mind.

And then . . . nothing.

Damn it.

The yantra hadn’t worked. Would probably never work.

And now the pain came rushing back, twisting and knotting in his chest. He tightened his jaw, grasped clumps of grass in each hand and tried his best to muffle his gasps.

He would have to wait it out. He wouldn’t die tonight – he wasn’t bad enough yet. But the pain could last for an hour, maybe more.

To distract himself he thought of Elizabeth. So long as she was safe he had nothing to worry about.

His mind flickered and danced between memories.

He saw Katelin on her deathbed, Elizabeth as a child, William in the Tower of London moments before his death, Jhala the last time Jack had seen him in Poole.

Then for some reason his thoughts settled on the day he’d left home to join the army. It was winter and the bare trees were cracks against the white sky. He walked along the path from his parents’ cottage, the only place he’d ever lived. His father had died of flux six months earlier and without him it was difficult for the family to pay the rent. The local lord was threatening to evict them and the only way the family could survive was for sixteen-year-old Jack to join the European Army.

Jack took a deep breath as he walked along the path. He knew his mother was standing in the cottage’s doorway. He wanted to look back at her one last time, but he couldn’t bear to see her sad face again.

He took another deep breath. He wouldn’t look back. He would keep walking up the road, keep trudging forward and eventually get to Bristol and the nearest army barracks.

The road curved to the right and the forest thickened on either side. Soon the cottage would be out of sight. If he were going to look back, he had to do it now.

But he didn’t. He just kept walking around the bend.

He stopped for a moment. Even if he looked back now he wouldn’t be able to see the cottage. The cold pressed against his face. A crow squawked in the distance.

He’d done it. He’d left.

Now there was nothing stopping him from marching all the way to Bristol.

A
cry rang out across the camp.

Jack woke instantly and sat up so quickly his head smacked into the underside of the wagon. He winced and spluttered a curse.

Two further cries drifted over the tents.

Rubbing his head, he rolled out from under the wagon and into the grey morning. He felt groggy and disorientated, but at least the pain in his chest had gone. He stumbled to his feet, slipping a little in the mud.

Drizzle had enveloped the landscape and the mountains were no more than dark blurs.

He heard several further cries from the far side of the camp.

‘What’s going on?’ Saleem scrambled away from the wagon, his eyes wild and a knife in his hand.

‘Put that away.’ Jack nodded at the knife. ‘Might just be more Scots. Let’s take a look.’

Saleem hid the knife beneath his tunic, but he kept looking around as if some enemy would appear at any moment.

Andrew and the others crawled out from under the wagon, and Jack led them all towards the shouting. Other porters and soldiers were also rising, hurriedly pulling on trousers and unpiling muskets.

Jack reached the edge of the camp and spotted soldiers gathering near the line of the forest. Most of them were staring at something on the ground, while the rest were pointing their muskets in the direction of the woods. He ran across to them and slowed when he saw what they were looking at. Lying in the slick grass, pale and still, were two Saxon soldiers in full uniform. One had an arrow in his neck, blood clotted around the hole where the missile had entered. The other had three arrows jutting out of his chest.

They must have been on sentry duty overnight.

Sergeant Wulfric arrived and his top lip curled into a snarl when he saw the bodies. He looked at the dark woods, as if the trees themselves had killed the men.

Rao, Parihar and Atri hurried across the meadow, straightening their tunics and buckling on their scimitars. When he saw the corpses, Rao crinkled his nose and shoved his handkerchief over his face.

Wulfric crouched and stroked the feather flights on one of the arrows – they were crudely stitched to the shaft with thread. He looked up at Rao. ‘Scots.’

Rao pressed his handkerchief harder against his face and shot a look at the trees.

Parihar drew his scimitar, the metal singing. ‘We’ll teach these savages a lesson.’

Rao waved his hand vaguely in Wulfric’s direction. ‘Sergeant, cremate the bodies. We need to get moving from here.’

Wulfric stood still. His forehead rippled, as if a variety of different emotions were passing through his head. He opened his mouth, shut it again and finally said, ‘Cremate, sir?’

‘The Mohammedans bury their dead,’ Atri said to Rao in Rajthani.

‘Oh.’ Rao frowned, waved his hand again at Wulfric and said in Arabic, ‘Bury your dead as you will.’

By mid-morning, the expedition finally set off into the swirling drizzle. Dark shapes loomed out of the mist before them, condensing into trees, knolls and boulders. The shadowy mountains crowded to either side. To Jack, near the back of the column, the front half of the party were apparitions. The Saxons marched silently, no longer singing in their peculiar tongue. The Rajthanan officers rode alongside on their horses, hunched in their overcoats and staring repeatedly at the surrounding slopes. Rao and Parihar were faint blots in the distance, their black parasols hovering above their heads.

The satchel swung at Jack’s side as he walked. He’d found a quiet spot and loaded the pistol before they’d set off. He had a feeling he might need the weapon sooner rather than later.

Why had the savages killed the sentries? Because of the shrine?

Wulfric and Parihar were idiots. They shouldn’t have desecrated the sacred place. They’d put the whole party in danger and made the journey to Mar more difficult.

Without meaning to, Jack found himself gripping the edge of the satchel tightly. Rao, Parihar and Wulfric – all fools that he had to obey for the time being.

Saleem looked pale and his face was greasy from the rain. He constantly glanced around him. No doubt he was expecting an arrow to come whistling out of the fog at any moment.

It was hardly an unfounded fear.

In an attempt to distract him, Jack said, ‘Bloody rain.’

Saleem nodded, but stayed silent, his lips pressed together tightly.

‘Does it ever do anything
but
rain in Scotland?’ Andrew said.

The others from Shropshire chuckled and even Saleem managed a smile.

They pressed on along the valley until midday, the soft rain continuing to float around them. Jack noticed they were constantly passing through strong sattva streams, many wider than two hundred yards. Clearly, much of Scotland was rich in sattva.

They stopped for lunch, and then the guide led the way uphill. At first the incline was gentle and the carts and wagons rolled easily over the grass, but then the slope steepened and turned rocky. Boulders protruded from the earth and patches of scree covered the ground. The vehicles’ wheels squealed as they juddered over the loose stones.

It became so steep the Rajthanans were forced to dismount. Jack and the others had to push the wagon to help the oxen. Several times a wheel jammed in a crevice and they had to lift the vehicle over the obstacle.

‘Where’s this guide taking us?’ Andrew said. ‘Does he have any idea?’

The men laughed, but Jack had real doubts.
Did
the guide know which direction to take? Was he lost?

Then the underside of the wagon thudded into a boulder and wedged itself tight. The oxen bellowed and gouged the earth with their hooves, but they couldn’t drag the vehicle forward. The driver cracked his whip, but the animals were still unable to move the wagon.

Jack cursed under his breath. Not again.

He crouched, peered under the vehicle and saw that the rock was jammed tight against the axle and one wheel – but, thankfully, nothing was broken.

He stood up again. ‘Right, lads. We’ll have to lift it.’

‘You lot again.’ Wulfric strutted down the slope. ‘Get that thing moving.’

Jack and his men took up positions around the wagon. When Jack yelled ‘Lift!’ they all yanked up, grunting and twisting their faces. Jack wrenched as hard as he could, the tendons in his arms aching and his neck muscles snapping taut.

But the wagon didn’t move.

Jack released his grip. ‘Wait, lads. Something’s caught.’

He crouched and peered under the vehicle again. It was dark and he couldn’t make out what was holding the wagon down. He went to slide underneath for a better look when he felt a strap across his back. It didn’t hurt but the surprise made him jump.

‘Get on with it, scum,’ Wulfric said behind him.

Jack paused.

That was it. That was bloody it.

It was as though a pool of oil had been lit inside him.

He swivelled round, straightened and took two quick steps towards Wulfric. ‘Do that again and my boot will go right up your arse.’

Wulfric narrowed his eye and a smile stretched across his lips. ‘Didn’t like Old Wulfric giving you a slap?’ He struck Jack lightly on the chest with the strap and smiled even wider.

Jack’s hand shook. His head felt hot and full of blood.

He mustn’t hit Wulfric.

‘Coward, are you?’ Wulfric said. ‘Afraid of Old Wulfric?’

Although Jack couldn’t see them, he sensed the other men watching. Everyone was silent. The only sound was the snuffling of the animals and the soft rush of the wind.

‘Come on, scum,’ Wulfric said. ‘If you want to fight—’

Jack heard a crunch, followed by the screech of wood. He spun round in time to see the wagon’s backboard fly apart, sending splinters tumbling through the air. The chains, which had been attached to the board, flew up and the statue slid off the back, canvas and ropes flapping about it. Jack’s comrades flung themselves out of the way, Saleem rolling to the side of the track just in time.

Except for Andrew.

The statue slammed into his chest and pummelled him to the ground. He lay pinned, the top of his torso and head poking out from under the metal figure, but the rest of his body underneath.

No.

Jack rushed across to the statue. At the same time, the oxen, now free of the heavy load, sprang forward, wrenching the wagon over the boulder.

Andrew was alive, but he was gasping for breath and his eyes were glazed. A rock partially supported the statue, but a large part of the weight was pressing down on the lad. He moved his arms feebly like a crushed beetle.

Christ.

‘Here!’ Jack shouted. ‘Everyone. Move this thing!’

Within seconds, Saleem and the others clustered around the murti. Robert roared and slammed into the side of the statue, the canvas cover buckling. They all lifted, their feet skidding. Saleem fell and splashed in the mud. The rain bathed them in beads of moisture.