Battlesaurus (15 page)

He leads the way across the river and the four of them merge into the trees.

Willem scans the forest around the river. He can see nothing, but any of the trees could hide a saur.

Monsieur Lejeune reappears, followed by the others. He shakes his head.

“We found the nest,” he calls softly. “But it is deserted.”

The sound of the rushing water calls to Willem and he steps quietly along the riverbank, his shoes trembling over rounded stones, toward the brink of the cliff.

“Then we return home,” Monsieur Claude says.

“We continue our search,” Monsieur Lejeune says.

Willem stands next to the fall. It seems louder and stronger than he remembers it, thundering out over the precipice.

“It is after midday,” the mayor says. “We must return now to be back before nightfall.”

“The return trip is mostly downriver,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “The journey will be a faster one.”

“You risk our lives with your bravado,” Monsieur Claude says. “The English army has many soldiers, well trained and well armed. We are but a few with rusty muskets and old swords.”

“You are the mayor of our village,” Monsieur Lejeune says, his voice growing louder. “Perhaps your concern should be more for your citizens and less for your own skin.”

“You overstep yourself,” Monsieur Claude says, his voice also raised. “My concern is for my village. I love these people as brothers and sisters.”

“And some of them even more,” Monsieur Lejeune says, “judging by the state of my brother's wife's belly.”

Into the angry silence that follows, Willem says quietly, “I have found the firebird.”

When there is no response he repeats it. “I have found the firebird.”

The others move up alongside him. They see it too. It lies on a blood-spattered rock by the side of the river at the bottom of the cliff. It is not moving.

The mighty firebird. So terrifying in life. So resplendent in death. For all its feathers and wing-like arms, it could not fly.

“Our job is done,” Monsieur Claude says. “It has slipped and fallen to its death.”

“How could it have fallen?” Jean asks.

“Perhaps it has thrown itself over the edge in its grief over the eggs,” Monsieur Poulenc says, a weak attempt at humor.

Willem shakes his head, but says nothing.

“We will return home. But first we must check that it no longer breathes,” Monsieur Lejeune says.

“There is no need,” Monsieur Claude says.

“It is a long way around,” Monsieur Lecocq says.

“There is a path down the face of the cliff,” Willem says.

“I will go,” Jean says.

“I will show you the way,” Willem says.

When Fran
ç
ois does not offer to join them, Willem hands him the canvas bag with Pieter, still unconscious, inside.

Willem leads the way down.

At the base of the cliff he reaches up to steady Jean as he clambers over the last of the rocks.

Looking up, he sees muskets trained down on the saur from the clifftop, just in case.

“Stay back,” Jean says, the crossbow held in front of him.

Willem allows him to approach the beast first, although it is clear that the animal is dead. Its neck has been almost severed, and this is where most of the blood has come from, leaking out of the shattered body and staining the rock on which it lies. The blood is wet, and oozing down the rock.

“It is dead,” Jean says, poking it with the stock of his crossbow. “We should take its head back to the village as a trophy.”

Willem squats by the dead animal and examines it. The feathers are thick and the skin is leathery except under the chin, where the deepest wounds are. He presses on the skin around one of the puncture marks, surprised at how soft and supple it is, compared to the scaly leather of the rest of the creature.

“It is dead,” he agrees eventually, “but not from the fall.”

Jean looks at him silently.

“Look at the neck,” Willem says. “It is almost parted from its body.”

“I do not take your meaning,” Jean says.

“See the feathers,” Willem says, pressing his fingers into them. They are coarse and bitter to his touch, and the ends are sharp, crushed and broken.

“What is this?” Jean asks.

“Teeth marks,” Willem says. “This creature did not fall. It was flung from the cliff.”

“By what?” Jean asks.

“I do not know,” Willem says. “But whatever it was, it has nearly bitten the firebird's head off.”

“Your imagination takes flight,” Jean says. “Even the bear and the wolf fear the firebird. There is nothing in these forests large enough to do this.”

“Until now,” Willem says.

*   *   *

The climb up the cliff face was easier than the climb down, and strong hands hauled them up over the edge. Now the others are circled around them, disbelieving faces turning slowly to looks of horror.

“The firebird is dead,” Willem says. “But it was not the firebird that attacked our village.”

“You seek to cleanse yourself of blame,” Monsieur Delvaux says.

“Willem speaks the truth,” Jean says. “A firebird could not have pushed through the saur-fence. A firebird could not have flown, or climbed, to attack Monsieur Antonescu in the church tower. Whatever killed the firebird is what attacked Gaillemarde.”

“You cannot know this,” Monsieur Delvaux says.

For answer Willem reaches inside his smock and brings out a bunch of feathers from the dead saur below. He holds them out toward the dogs, who sniff at them indifferently.

“It is not the firebird's trail that we have been following,” Willem says.

“Then what?” Monsieur Lejeune asks. “What could challenge a firebird?”

“A new kind of meat-eater?” Monsieur Claude utters the words as though it is a preposterous idea.

“One from the Africas, perhaps,” Willem says. “We have all heard the tales of packs of vicious raptors that roam the savannas.”

“One that can fly?” Monsieur Lejeune asks.

“I do not think it flew,” Willem says. “I think it climbed the tower.”

“Where is it now?” Monsieur Beauclerc asks with a nervous glance around.

“If it can climb a church tower, then it can climb a tree,” Willem says. “We have been searching the forest floor. Perhaps we should have looked higher.”

All eyes immediately rise to the trees around them, scanning for movement. Leaves shift in the breeze and shadows creep between the branches. Every tree may be hiding a monster.

“The firebird's blood is fresh,” Jean says. “The attack was recent. Whatever flung it from the clifftop stood here, where we now stand, and not many hours ago.”

“It is time to return to the village,” Monsieur Claude says, and for once Monsieur Lejeune does not disagree.

When they reach the boat, the dogs start barking and sniffing along the riverbank.

“What is it?” Monsieur Lejeune asks.

“A new trail. A fresh one,” Monsieur Beauclerc says.

“It was here,” Monsieur Claude says. “While we were up at the waterfall,
it was here
.”

The dogs race along the wide pebble bank until the bank narrows. There the scent trail once again disappears into the water.

“Hurry!” Monsieur Lejeune shouts, running back to the boat, grasping the stern and pulling it toward the water. Others scramble to help.

“What is it?” Jean asks, wide-eyed.

“It hunts,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “It follows our trail.”

He does not have to elaborate. Their scent will lead the raptor back to the village.

Frantic hands grab the sides of the boat and drag it into the river.

With eleven people it is low in the water, but stable enough. Stringy muscles stand out in Monsieur Lecocq's neck as he hauls on the sculling oar.

There are paddles in the bottom of the boat and Monsieur Lejeune is the first to add the strength of his arms to their flight.

Willem had sculled the boat upstream, and the going had been hard. Now the boat surges along on the river flow, the bow rising with the dipping of the paddles and the thrust of the sculling oar.

Nobody speaks.

*   *   *

When they reach the village it is still light, although the sun has gone below the horizon.

The saur-gate is open, and although that initially causes a swell of concern in the boat, they soon see people walking down to the river for water, and children playing inside the fenceline.

“Where is the saur?” Monsieur Lecocq asks.

“It is a night hunter,” Monsieur Lejeune says. “It waits till dark.”

 

SMALL BEER

The Wood brothers are busy converting their blankets into tents when the lieutenant arrives. Not having muskets or bayonets, they are achieving this using branches and rocks. Ben, the elder brother, is convinced that heavy rain is expected. Lewis says that his brother is always right about the weather.

Not that there is any sign of it. The skies are warm and clear, the sun just resting a little above the horizon.

If it does rain, Roberts, the sergeant, will drape his blanket over the nine-pounder and bivouac under the gun carriage. The rest will fight for places at nearby trees.

“Good evening, men,” Frost says, drawing his horse to a halt. “Everything all right?”

The men stand, but do not salute, as they are not wearing their helmets.

“This small beer,” Wacker says, holding up his tin mug, “tastes like muddy water, sir. How's a man supposed to get drunk on this?”

“Have you considered, Wacker,” Frost says, “that His Grace does not want you to get drunk? That when you are pointing your cannon, Wellington wants you sober enough to point it in the right direction?”

“If he could point his cannon in the right direction, there wouldn't be a puddle around the toilet bucket every morning,” Richardson, the ventsman, says, to laughter.

Townshend, the firer, stops laughing quickly. “What toilet bucket?”

“That one,” Richardson says, jerking a thumb behind him.

The others peer over his shoulder. There is a silence.

“That's the water bucket, you pillock,” Roberts says to groans from the crew.

“I thought the water tasted funny in Flanders,” Wacker says.

Frost swings a leg over his saddle, handing the reins to Jack.

“Lovely horse, sir,” Jack says, stroking the muzzle of the mare. “What's her name?”

“Molly,” Frost says. “Don't go scaring her now, Sullivan.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, sir,” Jack says.

Frost pulls a silver hip flask from an inside pocket and offers it up. A flurry of mugs present themselves and he pours a quick tot of clear rum into each, then sips briefly at the flask, pursing his lips and sucking in air afterward, his young palate clearly not used to the strength of the alcohol.

“Some'at's up,” Wacker mutters, swirling his mug to mix the rum with the beer.

“Very generous of you, sir,” Roberts says. “Are we by any chance moving out for Paris in the morning?”

Frost shakes his head. “There's no word on the invasion yet. In fact I heard a rumor that it will be postponed until July.”

“July?” Townshend asks. “What are they trying to do? Give Bony enough time to build up another grondee armee?”

“Is one a little impatient, Townshend?” Frost asks.

“One is a little bit, sir,” Townshend says. “I've heard a lot about the Frenchwomen. Can't wait to meet them.”

“Problem is,” Wacker says, “they've heard about you an' all. They'll run a mile.”

“We should go now, sir,” Roberts says. “Before he's ready.”

“Unfortunately we're not ready either,” Frost says. “Our orders are to maintain a defensive position on this side of the border, until the Austrian and Russian troops arrive. Then we will invade in full force and hammer that little Corsican corporal into the ground.”

“So why the rum, sir?” Richardson asks. “What are we celebrating? Is it your birthday?”

“Yes, he just turned twelve,” Wacker mutters so Frost can't hear him.

“Don't you like rum?” Frost asks.

“Indeed I do, sir,” Richardson says. “In fact I'd accept another tot, if it was offered, sir.”

He holds up his mug.

Frost smiles and ignores it. “There is to be a ball next week,” he says. “The Duke and Duchess of Richmond have invited all the senior officers.”

“Are you going, sir?” Townshend asks.

“As a matter of fact I am, Townshend,” Frost says. “I received a special invitation.”

“Helps to have an uncle on Wellington's staff,” Wacker mutters.

“What is that, Corporal Wacker?” Frost asks.

“I said, it helps, a tot of rum, when you're swilling this draught,” Wacker says, holding up his mug cheerily.

 

NIGHT

Someone has decided to blockade the bridge, to prevent the meat-eater from crossing it. Willem thinks the idea is stupid but does not voice his opinion.

This creature uses the rivers. Blockading the bridge is useless. But it gives people something to do.

They barricade the bridge with a wagon, turned on its side, tied in place with long ropes that loop around and under the stonework. The execution of the blockade is as stupid as the idea. Have they already forgotten that this creature can climb?

Other villagers go about different tasks. Everybody finds something to do.

The church tower has not one but two sentries, one watching the river, and the other scanning the farmlands to the south and east, in case the beast comes from either direction.

And it is coming.

Some want to kill it. Others just want to keep it out of the village.

The mayor has assembled those with muskets into a small squad and is making them march in unison back and forth along the edge of the square. There are four muskets altogether, the three from the hunting party, plus one that had remained to protect the gap in the saur-fence.