Blaze of Glory (13 page)

Caroline stared at him. Then she handed her gun to the
loader, who had been doing his best to appear invisible.
She turned and marched off towards the tents.

George strolled up. 'Nice chat?'

'What?' Aubrey closed his eyes for a moment and then
opened them. 'Fascinating.' Aubrey couldn't remember
the last time he'd made such an inane response. He didn't
blame her for walking off.

'Bagged myself a bird,' George said. He held up a
handful of feathers. 'When you manage to drop one, they
vanish and leave these behind. Nice souvenir.'

Aubrey made admiring noises. He turned to go after
Caroline and explain that his gaucherie wasn't usual, that
he was usually much more lucid than that, almost always
putting two or three words together in the correct order,
but George caught his arm. 'Not now. Not a good time,
I'd say.'

Aubrey nodded. He took a deep breath and let it out,
then looked around.

To judge by the infrequency of shots, the flights of
Stymphalian birds had lessened. Aubrey shaded his eyes,
but couldn't see anything.

The head gamekeeper stepped out of the woods,
slapping at his jacket. After he'd dislodged a cloud of dust,
he waved his bowler hat over his head.

Sir William appeared to have been waiting for this. He
waved back. After a moment, he managed to get the
attention of all the shooters. 'The birds have gone to
ground. Time to do some walk-up shooting.'

Aubrey took a gun from Collins. 'Bertie will like this
much better,' he said to George. 'At least there's some
exercise this way.'

George exchanged his gun for a loaded one. 'Always
seemed like better sport to me, anyway. Just waiting for
game to be driven one's way feels a bit lazy.'

'Stay alert. We might hear some interesting discussions
in Holmlander.'

'I don't speak Holmlander.'

'It may be time to learn.'

The ground ahead of them was a mixture of open
country, heath, scrubby bushes, and a scattering of forlorn,
wind-blown trees. Aubrey and George formed part of a
long line of shooters, walking slowly towards the woods.
Soon, Stymphalian birds were everywhere – being flushed,
diving on people, climbing high into the sky. The reactions
of the shooters were a source of amusement for Aubrey.
Some people seemed to forget all about their guns and
ran, stooping, trying to protect their heads. Others were
firing away, grinning as they were handed reloaded guns.

Aubrey saw one young man pick himself up from the
ground. He had a sour face as he tried to brush mud from
what had been expensive and neatly pressed clothes. His
friends were laughing at him and consoling him all at
once, and they didn't seem to notice the contradiction
in this.

Some people were simply spectators, watching and
commenting on how the others were coping. A few of
them were drinking from hip flasks. Aubrey made a
mental note to keep away from those particular individuals
if they started shooting again.

They were skirting a low thicket of thornbush when
Aubrey stopped. 'Collins,' he said, 'George and I will be
fine from here. Why don't you go back and get something
to eat?'

Collins frowned. 'Beg your pardon, sir? Is it something
I've done?'

'No, nothing. George and I have lost interest in
shooting. We'll just ramble along after the others. Keep
up appearances, that sort of thing.'

Collins frowned. 'I'll be taking the spare guns, then?'

'That's it. We'll keep one each, though. Thank you,
Collins.'

When the loader had trotted off, George raised an
eyebrow. 'We've lost interest in shooting?'

Aubrey ignored him. He dropped into a crouch and examined
the ground. 'George, what do you make of this?'

'Sorry. Can't see a thing.'

'Good. That means it's definitely magical.'

'Magical?'

'Spoor, traces. I've been following it for a while.
Something magical has been moving through this area.'

'Stymphalian birds?'

'No. Something altogether different.'

Aubrey straightened. The magical traces were fuzzy
blotches, a deep almost-indigo colour that he was only
seeing because his senses were magically attuned and
trained. He wiped his hands together. The trail unsettled
him. There was something about it that made his skin
shiver unpleasantly. As he watched, the colour of the
blotches changed, skating across purple, black and brown,
as if it couldn't hold on to any single hue. It was powerful
magic that had thrown off these spatters, but it meant the
spell's parameters needed tightening.

The sounds of the shooting party receded. Shotgun
reports, dogs barking, cries of delight and exasperation
became background as Aubrey tried to make sense of
what he was seeing. He rubbed his chin. All this pointed
to something dangerous being in the vicinity. For an
instant he wondered about calling attention to the
magical traces, but his curiosity won.
I can always call them
later
, he thought and he began to follow the magical
spatters.

Gradually, the trail grew clearer, leading off towards the
edge of the shooting ground. 'This way,' he said. He set
off towards higher, tree-shrouded ground.

'What is it?' George asked.

'I'm not sure, but it seems fresher up this way.'

No-one hallooed or called them back. Aubrey walked
with his head down, shotgun broken over his arm,
following the indistinct trail, only occasionally looking
up to see where they were heading. He found that if he
held one hand out in front of him, palm down, he could
feel the magic of the spatters, almost as if he were holding
his hand over a hot stove.

They forged through a line of bushes, then were in
the undergrowth proper. A matter of a few yards further
on and they were among old trees – oaks, beeches and
alders.

For ten or fifteen minutes they scrambled over huge
roots and trudged through slippery leaves. Aubrey
followed the trail to a gully with a tiny stream at the
bottom, and they had to jump across. On the other side,
the trail led them up a gradual slope.

They came to a gnarled oak tree with a waist-high
buttress root. Aubrey propped his gun up against the root
and peered ahead.

He saw a stony outcrop, a tumbled collection of boulders.
Moss had turned them into a mottled grey-green,
somewhat scabrous-looking. The trees around it were
thinner than those they'd trudged through, competing
in the shade thrown by the ancient, established trees.

A fine position for observing the shooting ground
, Aubrey
thought and, as he leaned against the rough wood, a wave
of fatigue swept over him. For a moment, his stomach felt
as if it had disappeared and he found he was trembling.
The physical exertion on top of the lack of sleep was
making things difficult.

'Are you all right, old man?' George said.

Aubrey closed his eyes. 'It will pass.'
I hope.
He put a
hand to his head and massaged his temple.

'Is there anyone up there? On the rocks?'

Aubrey opened his eyes and sighed. 'Let's find out,
shall we?'

'Grand.' George vaulted the buttress root and helped
Aubrey clamber over.

They scuttled up the slope towards the rocky rise
and Aubrey found time to be grateful that he didn't have
a full pack on his back this time. The shotgun was awkward
enough and he bit his lip when he slipped forward,
jamming his fingers between it and the rocky ground.

The closer they came, the more clearly Aubrey saw that
this position had an almost unimpeded view of the entire
shooting ground. Some time ago, a swathe had been cut
and trees had been felled, leaving only stumps extending
down the slope to where he could see the tweedy folk
going about their business.

The ghostly glowing trail led to the outcrop, but
Aubrey couldn't see any movement. He motioned to
George that they should approach from the rear.

Every slip they made, every footfall, made his heart
lurch. He tried to divide his attention between the
uneven ground ahead and the boulders that were their
target. The carpet of fallen leaves made the going difficult,
and soon the legs of his trousers were covered with
leaf mould and mud.

When they had skirted the boulders, Aubrey saw that
the rocks opened up in a rough horseshoe arrangement,
bending back up the slope at either end. He estimated that
they stood some twelve or fifteen feet at the highest point.

'What do you think?' Aubrey whispered as they paused
near the first of the rocks.

'A good observation post. Fine view.'

Aubrey nodded. He'd thought the same. It was a
perfect position for someone to watch the shooting party,
keeping an eye on proceedings. The perfect place, indeed,
for one of the men who were taking such good care of
the Prince. But . . .

'Then where's the observer? And why is the trail
leading this way?' Aubrey chewed his lip. Something was
not quite right here. 'You have some cartridges?'

George raised an eyebrow, but dug in his pocket and
held out a handful. Quietly, Aubrey and George loaded
their guns.

Aubrey nodded, then he darted off, running bent-kneed,
staying low, following the magical trail, George
close behind.

Aubrey reached the rocks, then wound his way upwards
as if they were stairs. He felt the prickling of magic
and the trail grew stronger. The awful purple beat at the
back of his eyes, setting his teeth on edge.

He squeezed between two tall rocks and stopped. All
the breath ran out of him in one, long sigh.

The sight of death affected him even more since his
accident. It reminded him too clearly of the precarious
nature of his own existence, of how close he was to that
final, irrevocable journey. He put out a hand and steadied
himself against the rock, shaken.

'What is it?' George said. 'Oh.'

Aubrey watched the flies buzzing around the pool of
blood. The young man's corpse was stretched out on a flat
part of the foremost rock, the ideal observer's position. He
looked like a toy that had been flung aside by an irritable
child. Aubrey was grateful he couldn't see his face. The
remains of an untouched meal was strewn around him –
paper-wrapped sandwiches, a bottle of ginger beer, an
apple. The ordinariness of the food, the humble, everyday
items that were now not needed made Aubrey sag.

He stared at the body and the reality of his own
mortality struck him, unbidden and unlooked for, like a
fist in the dark
. It's the thought of not being
, he thought,
of
life going on without me, that hurts.

George cleared his throat. 'This is not good,' he said and
his hands made small, fumbling motions. Aubrey could
see that his friend had blanched. 'Not good at all.'

'True. But we can help best if we can learn something.'
Aubrey gathered himself and approached the body. 'Field
glasses,' he said, picking up the binoculars. The lens on the
right was shattered. He stood his gun against a nearby
rock, squatted and studied the corpse.

He was wearing a black uniform, streaked with orange
mud. Army boots, no mistaking them, but apart from
that, no identification, no regimental badge.

Aubrey was certain the unfortunate soul was another
of the Special Services men who were swarming all over
the estate.

His dark hair was matted with blood and Aubrey
studied the wound for a time before looking up. 'What
do you think happened here, George?'

George looked around. 'It could be that he slipped on
the mud and struck his head badly. Bled to death.' He
glanced at Aubrey. 'You don't think this likely?'

'No. Not likely at all. You see, there are two wounds.
One on the front of his head, and one on the back. He
wouldn't have fallen forward, killed himself, then fallen
backwards again. Besides, where did the mud come from?
His boots are clean.' He rubbed his forehead. It was
aching. 'I wonder what happened.'

'I've never known you to leave well enough alone, but
can't you this time? Let's go and get help.'

Aubrey sighed. 'George, do you remember the Law of
Resonance?'

'You're not going to do more magic, are you? You're
not in a good way.'

Aubrey ignored him. He straightened, then dusted his
hands. 'The Law of Resonance states that actions and
objects can, in certain circumstances, leave an imprint on
their surroundings. They can resonate through time.'

'I know. And I know that working with that law is
difficult, uncertain and taxing.'

'Ah,' said Aubrey lightly, 'but what isn't?'

Aubrey took a piece of chalk from his pocket, glad that
he'd come prepared to do magic. He surveyed the area,
his gaze skimming over the body of the unfortunate
young man. Humming tunelessly, he walked around the
observation post, an area about five or six yards across.

As he walked, Aubrey was estimating the area of effect
he'd need and how best to limit it. A geometrical
focusing figure would work best, he decided, hexagonal
to fit the surface area of the rock. For good measure, he
thought he'd reinforce it with some boundary curves
which would interweave with the straight edges. Just to
be on the safe side.

He bent, drawing around the corpse and the site of the
disturbance. While he completed the figure, he was
sorting through elements and creating the spell he'd
need. It would require more than just applying the Law
of Resonance, he concluded. He'd need to integrate
aspects of the Law of Relevance and the Law of Permanence,
to make sure he captured the right moment.
And of course he had to be precise with the extent of
the spell. He didn't want it going back too far. Perhaps
an isolating element as a terminator to the spell? The
Endorian language had some useful terminators and
he went through them in his mind before selecting one.