TimeBomb: The TimeBomb Trilogy: Book 1 (23 page)

‘Help me clear this away,’ said Dora as she rolled up her sleeves and began pulling the undergrowth from the bank.

Jana and Kaz looked at each other, shrugged, and joined in. Within a couple of minutes they had uncovered a small, square wooden door.

‘Let me guess,’ said Kaz. ‘Hobbits?’

Jana slapped him on the arm but smirked.

‘This is the ice house,’ explained Dora. Seeing that her companions were none the wiser, she explained. ‘In winter, they collect the ice from the pond and lay it down in here with straw, to use in the summer.’

‘OK. But how does that help?’ asked Kaz. ‘I’d love a cold drink but …’

‘There is a tunnel that runs from inside the ice house to the undercroft of the hall,’ said Dora. ‘If we can get this door open, we can sneak inside and nobody will know.’

Kaz stepped forward and examined the door. About four feet high, it was made of heavy oak. There was a round handle which he tugged, but the door didn’t budge. He turned and shrugged. ‘Stuck.’

Jana gently pushed him aside. ‘Leave this to the experts,’ she said, sorting through the various pieces of pistol kit attached to her belt. First she selected the powder horn, popped open the metal stopper on the thin end, and poured the black contents into the keyhole. Then she took a strip of cloth, which she explained to Kaz and Dora was patch material, normally used to help a musket ball sit safe in the barrel. She rolled it into a thin taper and inserted that into the keyhole too, to act as a fuse.

‘Now I have to prime the pan,’ she said, biting her lip as she poured a measure of gunpowder into the pan on her pistol. ‘No powder or shot in the barrel, though. Don’t want to make too much noise.’ She grinned at Kaz and Dora, and gestured for them to stand back. Then she placed the pan of the pistol next to the makeshift fuse, drew back the flintlock and pulled the trigger. The pan flashed as the powder ignited, setting fire to the fuse in turn. Jana stepped back and shielded her eyes as the fuse burnt down and, with a soft thump, ignited the powder in the keyhole.

‘Try it now,’ she said.

Although the hinges had almost rusted shut, the door swung open on the first tug. It gave an awful grinding squeal as it did so. They stood silently for a moment, waiting for someone to come and investigate. When no one did, they relaxed.

‘
Voilà
,’ said Jana smugly, taking a bow then rearranging her gun belt.

‘Come on,’ said Dora, leading the way by squeezing through the narrow gap into the cold, damp interior of the brick-lined ice house. Kaz pulled the gas lamp from the backpack, clicked it alight and followed. Jana brought up the rear, pulling the door closed behind them.

Damp straw squelched underfoot as Kaz shone the lamp around the room, which was a perfect sphere. There was a hatch in the roof, and another door on the wall opposite the one they had entered through.

‘Where’s the ice?’ wondered Dora.

‘Maybe they don’t need it any more,’ replied Kaz as he walked over to the interior door. ‘They have drones and laser guns, I think maybe a fridge is not beyond them.’

‘I know what a fridge is, that’s one of those cabinets that keeps things cold,’ said Dora, pleased with herself.

‘You got it. How would it be powered, though? Batteries, maybe? No solar panels on the roof, no wind turbines …’ Kaz stopped when he noticed Jana had stopped walking.

‘OK, you know what?’ she said. ‘The more I think about drones and guards and massacre, the more stupid walking into this place seems.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Kaz.

‘I mean, what kind of security system is watching us now? What chance they’re waiting for us? And are we really sure this is right thing to do?’

‘We agreed …’ began Dora, but Jana cut her off.

‘We did,’ she said. ‘Before Pendarn Green. This Quil is very ruthless, and probably expecting us.’

‘You have flintlocks,’ said Dora.

‘And they have lasers. And big, scary guard men with blue faces.’ Jana shrugged. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here. What are we doing?’

‘One minute you want to confront our enemy, the next you want to run away and hide. Will you please make up your mind?’ said Dora.

‘Hey, look, I’m only seventeen, OK?’ she said. ‘Not a ninja. You’re not a spy, either. You’re a fourteen-year-old girl who should be in school. Kaz is … I don’t know what he is. Dropout. Farmhand. Loser. But time-travelling James Bond? I don’t think so.’

‘Hey!’ said Kaz.

Jana stared at her feet, Dora pouted.

Kaz had been expecting something like this. Nobody could witness what they had and not be affected by it. He was feeling a little shaken himself. He had expected a freakout from Dora, but she seemed to still be in a kind of delayed shock – articulate and helpful but somehow dead behind the eyes. Kaz had no doubt that a meltdown was coming but it didn’t seem imminent. He was kind of impressed by the girl’s emotional stamina. It took a lot of courage to go sifting through a pile of dead bodies the way she had. So it was Jana who was losing her cool instead.

‘Do you have an alternative suggestion?’ asked Kaz.

There was a long pause before Jana reluctantly said, ‘No.’

‘Look, I understand the cold feet, really I do. But back in the cavern, you were right. Yes, we’ve seen something horrible, but it hasn’t changed the fundamental situation. We need to stick together and hold course. I think we’re way past the backing-out point. We could hold hands now and … what? Where would we go? We can only travel together. We know there are people waiting for us in my time. And I’d be amazed if those guys who attacked you on the way to school were a coincidence, so we’ve got to assume they’re waiting for you in your time, too. So yeah, going in here is risky. But really, what choice do we have?’

Jana studied him for a moment, then swore loudly and colourfully. ‘I hate this,’ she said.

Kaz punched her in the arm. ‘Hang in there, champ,’ he said, ‘we’re nearly there. Can you get the door?’

Jana walked towards the internal door and reached for her powder horn. This lock was equally easy to break but the hinges were even more rusty and it took the combined strength of all three of them to pull it open wide enough to slip through. Kaz went first, holding the gas lamp. Dora and Jana followed. The tunnel was low and narrow, lined with stone and with an arched ceiling that dripped dank water on their heads as they crept down it.

‘No one’s used this for years,’ said Kaz as he led the way. ‘How did you know about it, Dora?’

‘My brother and I would play in these woods when we were younger. We weren’t supposed to go this far from home, but on long summer days we used to take the chance. We found the ice house one day, unlocked. It was magical. We played a game here in which we pretended to be exploring the ice cave wherein Merlin was frozen. I played Morgaine and James …’ She trailed off.

‘What exactly happened with James, back in Pendarn?’ asked Jana after a moment. ‘You told us he was one of the soldiers, but …’

‘I do not wish to talk about my brother,’ said Dora firmly.

‘As you wish.’

They continued walking through the damp, dark tunnel, the only sound their feet on the cold earth. After a few minutes they came to another locked door. Jana squeezed her way past Dora and Kaz then performed her gunpowder trick once more.

They pushed through into the undercroft of Sweetclover Hall.

Sweetclover was floating in the hinterland between wakefulness and sleep when he heard the scream.

Screams were not uncommon in his house, but he preferred it when they emerged from his bedchamber, and were accompanied by laughter or moans of pleasure. This scream was high, loud and piercing. He sat upright in bed, blinking himself awake.

‘Did you hear that?’ he asked.

The coach master’s daughter, who lay beside him, snored softly.

Sweetclover fancied the scream had the timbre of the new scullery maid’s voice. He could not recall her name but she was young and comely. If she were in some distress, it might not hurt for him to come to her aid. He liked to make a good impression upon young ladies.

Sweetclover jumped off the bed, pulled a gown about himself, and hurried to the door. He grabbed a sword from his sideboard as he left the room, just in case.

The corridor was cold and the floorboards creaked beneath Sweetclover’s feet as he made his way to the top of the staircase. He peered over the balustrade, but could see nobody. He thought he heard a distant sound, as if somebody was speaking, but he could not determine its origin.

He began down the stairs and had reached the landing when a bright flash of brilliant red illuminated the entire stairwell. Sweetclover raised his hand to shield his eyes as he felt a flutter of fear. That was no earthly light. Fearing witchcraft, he paused on the landing for a moment, uncertain. If his house was under attack, it was his duty to defend it. His father had always drilled it into him that duty was not to be neglected. So he raised his sword and ran down the stairs, following the fading glow to its source, which seemed to lie down the corridor to the kitchens.

When he reached the undercroft door, which hung open, he heard a soft rasping sound drifting up from below. He leaned through the doorway and peered down the stairs, sword held out before him ready to give any scheming witch a taste of cold iron. There was a single candle lying on its side on the top step, still burning. In its dim light he made out a figure lying motionless on the steps. There was something odd about her, but he could not see clearly. He stepped through the doorway and onto the top step, bending down to pick up the candle.

The shape of the prone figure was womanly. The tattered remains of her burnt clothes were smouldering and the arrangement of her limbs told of many broken bones. Her face was so badly burnt he could discern no familiarity in it. Her chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly, her breath drawn in with only the greatest of effort.

This strange woman, who had no place in his house, was dying, and there was nothing Sweetclover could imagine that would save her.

He stood there considering her for a moment, utterly bewildered as to his next move. Then, as if on cue, there was a second violent red flash, this time at the foot of the undercroft steps. Sweetclover stepped back and shouted in alarm as the unnatural light burnt his retinas. He raised his sword again and peered down the stairs, his vision slowly returning as the scorchlight faded.

‘Boy, you gave me a shock.’

The woman who had spoken bled into Sweetclover’s sight as he blinked away his temporary blindness. She was tall, with dark brown hair that cascaded past her shoulders. She wore trousers of a most uncommon fashion; cut straight and narrow, they accentuated the length of her legs and the womanly curve of her hips. Above that she wore a red velvet jacket of the kind a pageboy in a fashionable London salon might wear, above a simple white blouse.

Her height, dress and unexpected arrival were not the most unusual aspect to this visitor – her face was entirely covered by a plain white mask, broken only by two ovals for her shadowed eyes and a row of smaller holes denoting a mouth.

She peered up the stairs at Sweetclover and shook her head in a manner that seemed overfamiliar and fond. ‘Honestly, Hank, you are a sight,’ she said in an accent that Sweetclover did not recognise.

Sweetclover stood, facing this frankly terrifying witch over the soon-to-be corpse of another woman, barefoot, in a gown, unkempt and fresh from his bed. He brandished his sword and adopted his most impressive baritone in an attempt to salvage some dignity.

‘Begone, witch, from this place,’ he said.

There was a long pause, then the woman snorted and began laughing. ‘Oh, man,’ said the woman, bowing her head, her shoulders shaking. ‘That’s … I don’t have the words. Priceless.’

‘I said begone,’ he said again.

The woman shook herself once and took a deep breath to stop her laughter, then strode up the stairs to the woman who lay between them. She looked the woman over and gasped in what seemed to Sweetclover to be both horror and revulsion. ‘My God, look at me,’ she whispered.

Ignoring Sweetclover, who stood directly above her, still waving his sword, the woman in the mask pulled a strange object from her pocket. Like a thick black plate, it was six inches in diameter, with vicious-looking spikes pointing up from the edges. The masked woman turned it so that the spikes pointed down and she slapped it hard into the unconscious woman’s back. The woman spasmed once and cried out, but did not regain consciousness. The disc began to hum softly and the woman’s breathing became easier and more regular.

Then the masked woman looked up and said briskly, but not without a hint of amusement, ‘My name is Quil. I am a witch, but I’m friendly. Please don’t be disturbed by the mask, but as you can see’ – she gestured to the unconscious woman on the steps – ‘my face is badly burned. I am going to ask you to help me now, and because underneath it all you are basically a lovely guy, kind to small animals, that sort of thing, you will do so without complaint.’

Sweetclover found himself lowering his sword and mutely nodding. Was he bewitched? Had she cast a glamour upon him?

‘No,’ said Quil, as if reading his thoughts. ‘I have not put a spell on you. You’re just the kind of guy who’d rather help a stranger than run her through with a big sword. Now, I’ve stabilised my condition. Could you help me carry me down … no, that’s confusing you, isn’t it? Please help me carry this poor woman – who is obviously not me – downstairs.’

Quil grabbed the woman’s ankles and looked up at Sweetclover expectantly.

Sweetclover didn’t know what to do. His head was swimming. ‘I, um …’ was all he could manage.

‘Come on, Hank, time’s short,’ said Quil impatiently.

‘My name is not Hank,’ he said, still trying to retain some measure of dignity. ‘It is Lord Sweetclover.’

‘Your first name is not Lord. It’s Henry. And where I come from, Henry is Hank. But right now this lady is dying and unless you want to try and explain a dead body as well as a missing scullery maid, then you’d better help me get her downstairs.’