Harvest (35 page)

Recker stepped in and heaved the door wider still, Backhaus felled the Fyrd they had caught and pulled him aside and went straight at the one who opened the door and sent him tumbling
backwards.

As he grunted with surprise, Jack went hard in, leaving the others to deal with the two now on the ground, his stave raised ready to deal with what he found.

Three down altogether, five to go.

Two of the five stood right in front of him, one with a cannikin of water in his hand, the other just standing there, shaving.

He drove his stave straight in, one to a temple, the other to the neck; they fell straight down, and the only sound was the rattle of the cannikin skittering across concrete.

Recker and Barklice moved inside to cuff and gag the four who had now been downed; Jack and Backhaus moved straight across the court to where the steps came up from the level below, flattening
themselves against the wall either side.

Five down, three to go.

Silence, an interrogative shout which Jack answered with a grunt. They heard someone mounting the steps.

Jack stepped round from his hiding place, grasped the Fyrd by the neck, heaved him up and shoved him to the ground and left him for Backhaus to deal with.

Six down, two to go.

Jack listened once more; the sound of Backhaus neutralizing the Fyrd behind him and sleepy voices below. Signalling Backhaus to follow, he headed straight down the steps, eyes alert, stave
ready.

Ten seconds later he might have been killed. He arrived as one of the remaining two Fyrd, deciding that the sounds from above were unusual, but still in his nightshirt, was trying to arm his
crossbow. The bow went flying one way, the bolt another, the Fyrd a third.

That left one, also half-dressed.

‘Deal with him,’ commanded Jack, ducking through a door to see if there was access into the bunker at the lower level that would offer a quicker way than through the great doors
above.

There was none.

‘Up the steps!’ ordered Jack, heaving the conscious Fyrd to his feet. ‘
Now!
’

Backhaus brought up the other and moments later all seven of the Fyrd were lying in the court in a nice neat row, the last of the eight still up in the wood tied to a tree.

‘Right . . .’ said Jack, ‘
right . . .’

He eyed the Fyrd grimly as he caught his breath.

The first phase of the operation was over but now came the second: how to get Arthur out of the bunker and then get away as quickly as possible. The day had lightened still more and Jack was
worried that another Fyrd unit, perhaps stationed nearby, might soon appear.

‘We need to get into the bunker,’ said Jack quietly, pulling out his dirk again. ‘
Now!
Does one of you want to tell me?’

In truth they were in various stages of grogginess, and two were still out cold. The others looked defiant, as had the one they had left in the wood.

As he approached them, one or two flinched as he considered which one to work on first. The biggest? The most defiant? The weakest-looking?

He was still making up his mind when they heard the sound of metal banging on metal from the woods above. Looking up to the high edge of the bunker’s roof, the head of Barklice
appeared.

‘I’ve found Arthur Foale,’ he called down, ‘but we need Bombardier Recker’s help to get him out . . . He’s below one of the blocked trapdoors.’

Jack considered this.

Three of them in charge of the seven on the ground were easy enough. If he let Recker go up to help Barklice that would leave two, and the danger of something going wrong increased dramatically.
Cuffs did not always hold. Get too near and one of these Fyrd could easily have them down.

Barklice could read his thoughts.

‘It’ll take no more than a moment to get the cover off,’ he called down, ‘but it needs more strength than I have.’

Backhaus said, ‘It’s good, Jack. I can handle this lot. Go.’

‘If any of them move while we’re gone, kill them. Understood?’

Backhaus unbuckled his crossbow from his belt. It was a hefty triple bolt. He loaded it fully and played it slowly over each of the Fyrd.

‘Understand,’ he said coldly

They understood as well.

Jack and Recker went back out of the gates and up to join Barklice. They checked the other Fyrd on the way. He was as they had left him and looking both furious and
apprehensive.

‘Won’t be long,’ said Jack cheerfully.

Barklice led them through the trees for fifty yards to a clump of brambles and nettles. Even close to, the vent was not easy to see but the verderer had always had a knack for such things.

He parted the brambles and there it was, a heavy rusty metal cover aslant another flimsier, corroded grille, flat to the ground, its hinges rusted.

‘I told them to stay silent until I returned in case someone else appeared who shouldn’t,’ said Barklice.

He coughed politely but loudly.

Kneeling down and putting his mouth to the small gap between cover and grille he said loudly, ‘Er, Professor, the Stavemeister is here.’

‘Jack!?’ a muffled voice shouted.

Jack laughed and banged the metal.

‘Arthur?’ he called out, delighted.

‘For Mirror’s sake, get us out of here!’

‘How many of you are there?’

‘Two,’ replied Arthur irritably, ‘now,
please
. . .’

‘Stand well clear,’ said Jack.

He and Recker heaved off the slab the Fyrd had put there.

The rusting grille underneath, which Arthur had managed to lift off a few days before, was easily lifted from above.

They peered in and the upturned face of Arthur appeared, his face grimy.

‘A moment!’ he cried, standing on the crate beneath and pushing his head and shoulders through the rectangular hole.

‘Ah! Barklice, Jack and . . . ?’ he cried, pausing when he saw Recker.

‘Introductions can wait,’ said Jack. ‘I want to get you out and away from here.’ They leaned down and hauled Arthur up.

He beamed at Jack and said, ‘I had not
quite
given up!’

He immediately knelt down himself and reached a hand back into the shaft. Blut grasped it and emerged blinking.

‘My friend Blut,’ said Arthur, who had decided that for the new Emperor’s safety it might be wise to be economical with the truth until they were certain they were in safe
hands.

Jack eyed him, sure he had seen him before but unable to remember where.

‘Have we met?’ he said.

‘Possibly,’ said Blut ambiguously.

Jack would have pursued the matter had not they heard the sudden
thut! thut!
of two bolts being shot from a crossbow.

They ran back to the spot to which Barklice had gone earlier, above the courtyard where Backhaus had the Fyrd under his guard.

Two lay a little way from the others, blood pooling around their heads on the concrete. The others lay deathly still.

Backhaus looked up at Jack and shrugged without saying a word. Jack had given his orders, two of the Fyrd had tried it on, he had killed them.

Jack’s expression did not change but the war against the Fyrd felt suddenly very real for him, and perhaps for them all.

‘We need to get out of here,’ he repeated, ‘and fast. But we must deal with these Fyrd.’

They got the one up by the tree and took him back down the steps.

‘I want one of you to open these damn inner gates,’ said Jack. ‘
Now.
’

He waited only a few seconds before looking at the Fyrd Backhaus had killed and adding warningly, ‘Lieutenant Backhaus . . .’

One of the Fyrd mumbled through his gag that he had keys.

The doors were opened in moments and Jack ordered the Fyrd inside the bunker, making them drag the bodies of their colleagues in as well.

‘I presume,’ he said to Arthur, ‘that getting back out is only possible through the shafts into the wood.’

Arthur nodded.

‘We’ll lock these doors and block that shaft up again so they’ll need help from outside to get out, like you did.’

‘What about the cowling we blew off the vents?’

Recker shook his head.

‘There are still grilles there which are impassable even if they were in reach.’

‘Any light?’

‘We had this one candle left . . .’ said Arthur, pulling a candle from his pocket.

‘Give it them.’

Arthur quickly did so.

‘Communication?’

‘There were Morse keys connected to Bochum. I have destroyed them.’

‘Good,’ said Jack.

‘Food?’

‘Plenty.’

‘Gentlemen,’ said Jack, ‘we must leave you. I suggest you stand well clear of these doors . . . !’

With that they exited the bunker and pushed the doors to. The last thing they saw as the doors closed with a heavy
thwunk
was the Fyrd with the candle desperately trying to light it with
a lucifer.

‘What was that about standing well clear?’ said Barklice.

Jack glanced at Recker and Backhaus, eyes glinting.

‘We didn’t have time to search them. They probably have a spare set of keys between them. However, the Bombardier here knows what to do.’

For the third time Recker set to work, swiftly and expertly. He set four charges in the walls adjacent to the doors, fused them and ordered everyone beyond the outer doors, only one of which he
left ajar.

‘Right!’

The four explosions were louder than before and bits of concrete drummed against the doors near them.

When they looked they were astonished to see that he had somehow managed to bring part of the walls adjacent to the inner doors down against the doors themselves which remained in situ.

‘Opening them from inside is impossible,’ he said. ‘It’ll take any rescuers a long while to clear away that mess. Even then, I expect they have been sufficiently
disturbed now not to open at all . . . Now, I’ll reseal that trapdoor in the wood . . .’

Half an hour later, the time now nearly eight-thirty in the morning, they were clear of the wood and ready to head back to Brum. They were about to set off back down the line and round to the
road where they had started when Jack stopped. Something worried him: Arthur’s friend.

‘Who is he exactly?’

‘Ask him yourself, Jack,’ said Arthur, eyes twinkling.

‘So, who are you?’ asked Jack.

Blut eyed him, took off his spectacles, cleaned them and put them back on. He did this unhurriedly as if thinking through his options. He had, they could all see, unexpected natural authority in
one who at first seemed so . . . bland.

Blut eyed Jack and said, ‘My name is Niklas Blut. I am the Emperor of the Hyddenworld. Under the Eighteenth Article of the Imperial Protocol, I claim political asylum of the City of
Brum.’

They stared at him dumbfounded, then at Arthur, for confirmation. He smiled and nodded but didn’t say a word.

‘May I make a suggestion?’ said Blut calmly.

Jack continued to stare, stuck for words.

‘It is simply that we should get to Brum sooner rather than later. I have intelligence concerning General Quatremayne’s strategy that will be more effective if acted on swiftly.

Everything, Jack realized, had suddenly changed.

‘You’re serious!?’ he said.

‘I’m afraid he is,’ said Arthur.

‘I thought Slaeke Sinistral . . .’ said Jack.

‘He has abdicated. I am his successor.’

Blut! It all came back to Jack. He had been there when they had wrested the gems of Spring and Summer from under the noses of Sinistral and his Court.

‘Are you telling me . . . ?’ began Jack, trying to get his head round the situation.

‘I am saying, Stavemeister, that the survival of law and order in the Empire depends now not upon the armies of the Fyrd, which have been temporarily taken over by one of my generals, but
upon . . .’

He looked from Jack to Backhaus, from him to Recker and Barklice and then to Arthur.

‘. . . upon us six until we get to Brum. Then we can spread out responsibility a little.’

‘But . . .’

Blut’s face grew more serious.

‘I wish you to take me at once to Brum and that is . . .’

He blinked, thought a moment, and continued, ‘. . . that is technically a command from your Emperor. But let’s just call it a polite request.’

‘Understood,’ said Jack, who understood in that moment something more.

Arthur Foale was a considerable prize, but the Emperor was something entirely different. If he could get him safely back to Brum and his intelligence was good, a mighty blow would have been
inflicted on the Fyrd before their invasion of the city had even begun.

B
y October 2nd, when Slaeke Sinistral and his party reached the north flatlands of Holland after a slow seven-day trek from Bochum, the inclement
weather of late September had worsened into driving rain and wind.

The prospect of their proposed crossing of the North Sea was a grim one; even on land, the going was already very hard. Unpleasant north-westerlies blew in across the bleak landscape and their
route now took them headfirst into them.

All they could do was hunch forward and keep going. Two of them always walked protectively in front of Sinistral to reduce wind and chill, plus one behind with a hand solicitously at his back to
try to stop him falling, which he did several times.

They wore what Fyrd infantry called ‘binnies’ – a loose outer garment made of green refuse bags used by humans – which provided camouflage and kept out all rain.

Sinistral walked erect and proud and preferred to wear no hat or head covering. His thin blond-grey hair sleeked and darkened in the rain. His face colour, initially so pale from being
underground, had improved. Even close up, his smooth, taut skin belied his age, as did his eyes, being clear and alert.

But closer still, this impression changed. His face with its myriad tiny cracks and the papery thin skin looked ready to tear at any moment. The bright whites of his eyes were patterned with
tiny red veins. When he grew tired, which he frequently did, his humour deserted him and he got sharp and cranky.