The Place of Dead Kings (23 page)

He needed another weapon.

He shot a look around at the floating bodies and detritus. None of the porters were likely to have been carrying firearms or anything more than a dagger. He turned to the corpses of the two Shropshire lads. They’d both had knives on them, and that was the best he could hope for at the moment.

He grasped one of the bodies and was aware of Saleem staring at him as he felt under the sodden tunic. He felt an edge of cold steel – there it was. He slipped out the knife, held it up for a second and wiped it on his sleeve.

He looked upstream. The cliffs and the frothing river receded into the mist. Shouts, cries, chimes of metal and the occasional burst of a firearm reverberated between the bluffs, but he couldn’t see anything through the fog.

‘Right, then.’ He glanced at Saleem. ‘Let’s get going.’

Saleem nodded and drew his knife.

Then they both stood and strode out into the river.

J
ack and Saleem splashed through the burbling water, avoiding the drifting corpses and animal carcasses. They passed a couple of porters who were still alive but groaning and lying half submerged in the river. Saleem hesitated, but Jack grabbed his arm and pushed him forward. The men were severely wounded and there was nothing anyone could do to help them.

Jack slowed as they passed the vehicle carrying the Ganesh statue. The oxen were all dead and lying on their sides. The animals were peppered with arrows and gouged by wounds where they’d either gored each other or smashed themselves against the cliff. The wagon was tilted and wedged against the rock face, the wheels on one side lifted out of the water.

The statue had partially slid off the back and the base now rested in the river, the current swishing around it. The giant figure was still wrapped in canvas, but one arm, holding a stylised axe, had slipped out between the folds in the material.

Jack paused for a moment. They’d toiled for weeks to cart the murti through the wilds. Andrew had died because of it.

What a waste.

And all because of bloody Captain Rao’s stupidity.

A man screamed up ahead, the cry suddenly cut short.

Jack forged on through the rapids. They passed several dead Saxons, then clambered up an incline where the water guttered down in a series of shallow waterfalls. Then suddenly they’d left the gorge, the cliffs opening out to slopes that were indistinct in the mist.

They found themselves standing in a pool that came up to their knees. In every direction, both in the pool and around its edges, Saxons tussled with savages. Only those nearby were clearly visible – the others were shadow puppets behind the mist. Men shouted, steel rang and now and then muskets blasted, the flashes momentarily lighting up the haze. Pipes wailed in the distance.

Jack only had a moment to take all this in before he heard a shrill cry to his right. He turned just in time to see a savage leaping at him. The man’s eyes were wild and his bearded face was twisted with fury. His arms were outstretched and in one hand he held a crude knife. His cloak fluttered like wings behind him, while his legs and feet were bare. Jack caught a glimpse of an emblem on his chest, but had no time to take it in.

Jack’s heart shot into his throat. He spun to the side, slammed his knife upwards and slashed the savage’s side. At the same time, the man smashed into his shoulder and knocked him backwards.

The savage smacked into the water, while Jack staggered back a few paces until he regained his footing. The man surged upright again, but he was now clutching a red wound in his abdomen. Dripping, he glanced at his injury and then glared at Jack. His cloak flopped open, revealing the insignia stitched to his chest.

A white skull on a black background.

The savage shrieked and dived at Jack.

Christ. The man seemed to have no fear.

Jack slipped easily to the side, swung his knife straight up and skewered the man in the gut. The force of the man’s weight knocked Jack backwards and he splashed into the water. He gasped, jumped back to his feet, went to swing the knife again, and then saw the savage lying face down in the water, blood circling out from him.

Saleem was standing rigidly in the pool, shifting his grip on his knife and staring wide-eyed at the dead man.

‘Over here.’ Jack waded to the edge of the pool. They had to get out of the melee. The Saxons could deal with the savages as far as he was concerned. There was no reason for him and Saleem to get involved unless there was no other option.

They hauled themselves on to the rocky bank and clambered up a steep slope covered in trees and thick undergrowth. Saleem went first, with Jack just behind. The ground was muddy and covered in fallen leaves. Both of them slipped to their knees a few times. Jack grasped a bramble bush by accident and winced as the thorns impaled his hand.

Then something grabbed his ankle and yanked him back. He fell, slid downhill a few feet, twisted over and saw the grinning face of Sergeant Wulfric.

Wulfric’s cap had fallen off and his bare scalp glistened with moisture. Dirt streaked his tunic and trousers and what look like blood splattered one of his sleeves, although he appeared unharmed. In one hand he held a red-stained scimitar, which he must have picked up when an officer dropped it, but he didn’t appear to have any other weapons.

In a voice like cold honey, he said, ‘There you are, scum.’

Jack shook his foot in an attempt to free it. ‘What’re you playing at?’

Wulfric gripped the ankle firmly. ‘No, you don’t. Old Wulfric’s been waiting for this.’

Jack still held the knife in one hand. Had Wulfric noticed? He tensed his fingers around the handle. ‘You’ll be shot.’

Wulfric grinned even wider, exposing a row of yellow teeth. ‘No one’s going to miss one filthy Englishman.’

Wulfric raised the scimitar behind his head. His single eye blazed.

Jack kicked but couldn’t free his leg. His heart battered in his chest. He was going to be hit. There was no way out of it.

Then a rock slapped Wulfric in the face. The Sergeant grunted, let go of Jack and staggered backwards. Blood gushed from his nose and ran over his lips. He grunted more loudly and put his hand to his face.

Jack scrabbled out of Wulfric’s reach and twisted round to see Saleem standing a couple of feet up the slope. The lad’s eyes were frozen wide, his bottom lip quivered and he was panting so hard his shoulders rose and fell with each breath.

‘Run.’ Jack’s voice was cracked.

Saleem clambered back uphill on all fours. Jack followed, slipping, grappling with vines, and grabbing at twigs and bracken.

He heard a roar behind him and the snap of breaking branches.

Wulfric was following.

His heart stuttered and his breath was short. He could hear the Saxons and savages fighting, but the sounds were distant, coming from another world. The only thing on his mind was the task of clawing his way up the slope.

He trod on a loose stone, which skidded away from under his boot. He lost his footing, slid down and dug his hands into the soil to stop himself falling further. He managed to ram his foot into a tree root and use that to propel himself forward again.

But something tugged at his ankle for a second and wrenched him back.

He heard Wulfric growling right behind him.

Christ.

Rather than make the same mistake as last time, where he’d lain helpless at Wulfric’s feet, he instead swung round and let himself plunge back. He saw Wulfric standing directly beneath him. The Sergeant widened his eye when he saw Jack flying towards him. Jack hit Wulfric in the chest and the Sergeant let out a loud wheeze. They both tumbled down, rolled a short distance and jolted to a stop against a bush.

Jack landed face down and got a mouthful of dirt.

Wulfric roared, scrambled to his knees and swung the scimitar wildly. Jack ducked and the blade whistled over his head, shredding the leaves of a shrub. Wulfric stuck out one leg to brace himself and sliced the blade downwards. Jack rolled to the side and the scimitar thumped into the mud.

Now Jack saw an opening. Wulfric’s side was exposed as he knelt with his scimitar stuck in the ground. Wulfric went to lift his weapon again, but Jack shifted his grip on the knife, leapt and thrust the blade into the Sergeant’s flank. The knife slipped easily through cloth and skin and into the wet flesh beneath.

Wulfric looked down and saw the knife stuck into his abdomen. He snarled and jabbed backwards with his arm, raising the scimitar at the same time. His elbow smashed into Jack’s mouth. Pain flooded Jack’s face, darkness puffed before his eyes and his ears whined. He stumbled back, still holding the knife, which was now slick with blood.

Wulfric’s face seethed and his eye flared brilliant white. He whirled round, swinging the scimitar, but the attack was far too high and Jack easily ducked out of the way. The blade whacked deep into a tree trunk.

And then it was stuck.

Wulfric growled and struggled to pull the blade free. But it was wedged in firmly.

Jack pounced immediately, knocked Wulfric to the ground and clambered on top. Without pausing for a second, Jack rammed his knife into Wulfric’s chest. Wulfric wheezed and his eye opened so wide Jack thought it would pop out. The Sergeant raised his arms to fend Jack off, but the strength seemed to have gone out of him and he could do no more than flail uselessly.

Jack stabbed Wulfric repeatedly in the chest, blood flicking all around him. Finally, he stopped. Panting hard, he stared at Wulfric’s face. The Sergeant, amazingly, was still alive, although only just. He tried to lift his head and glared back at Jack.

‘Scum,’ Wulfric whispered. Then his head dropped back and he gave a final sigh as the life went out of his bulbous eye.

Jack crossed himself, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, turned to the side and spat dirt from his mouth.

There was nothing good about killing a man. Even a man like Wulfric. Jack wasn’t proud or pleased. He just felt numb and dazed.

He lurched up, stuck the knife in his belt and grasped the scimitar. He yanked and wriggled it until the blade finally came free.

Good. At least he had a better weapon now.

He looked up the slope and saw the gouges in the earth where he and Wulfric had slid downhill.

There was no sign of Saleem.

It was good that the lad had kept running, but it was going to be difficult to find him now. He went to shout Saleem’s name but then paused. The gully had gone silent. He no longer heard cries, musket shots or pipes, only the distant gurgling of the river.

Strange.

Then he noticed voices off to his right. It sounded like several men talking.

Someone suddenly cried out, ‘No.’

Jack went cold and the ground seemed to drop an inch. That last voice was unmistakeable.

Saleem.

Jack gave an involuntary hiss and struck off through the mist in the direction of Saleem’s cry. The sound hadn’t come from further up the slope, but instead almost at the same level as him.

He went as quickly as he could, but at the same time tried to make as little sound as possible. In an instant he was an army scout and a tracker once again. His feet found the stable spots of ground and avoided the twigs and loose stones. All his senses quivered into life and he took in every tree branch and shrub about him, searching for the telltale signs of movement.

After about a minute he heard the voices again, but this time they came from below. He crouched and concentrated on the sound. There were three men – or was it four? And they were speaking in the strange tongue of the savages.

Saleem gave another muffled shout.

The lad was still alive. Thank God.

Jack stared hard into the mist, but couldn’t see further than forty feet at the most.

He set off down the hill. The voices grew louder and now he could also hear the crunch of the men stepping on leaves. They were close, perhaps only sixty feet away.

His breath shivered and his heart trembled. He couldn’t make a mistake now, couldn’t make a sound. He didn’t have a plan yet, but whatever he did, the element of surprise would be key. He flexed his fingers around the scimitar’s grip, his palms so wet with sweat he was worried he’d drop the weapon.

He paused for a second and took a deep breath.

He had to get himself under control. How many times had he crept up on enemy forces when he was in the army? Countless times. So why was he faltering now? He had to focus, just like the old days. Fears about Saleem might be coursing through his head, but he had to block these out.

Your mind is a rippling pool. Still it.

Now he heard more voices. The men seemed to have met further savages and were speaking rapidly to them.

He crept downhill, crouching and trying to stay behind the thickest clumps of undergrowth. Within a few seconds the mist parted enough for him to see the silhouettes of around twenty figures standing at the bottom of the hill. He froze, ducked behind a thorn bush and strained to make the men out more clearly.

Most of them were savages – he could tell by the distinctive shape of their long cloaks. But with them were three other men who wore tunics and trousers, and a further figure who was on his knees.