The Place of Dead Kings (22 page)

Rao stood still. His fingers gripped the handkerchief tighter. His eyes flicked from the porters to the soldiers to Jack.

Jack said a Hail Mary in his head. He prayed Rao would make the right decision.

Finally, Rao inhaled sharply and addressed the crowd. ‘Listen to me. I will release this man on the understanding nothing like this ever happens again. But see here.’ He pointed at the porters, the handkerchief dangling from his hand. ‘You are all to obey me when I command you. Any further insubordination will be punished severely.’

The Saxons released Robert’s comrade and stepped away from him. The man circled his shoulders, twisted his neck and straightened his tunic, as if he were a proud lord who’d been manhandled by commoners.

The porters all visibly relaxed, their shoulders slumping and their faces softening.

‘Come on, lads,’ Robert said. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

The gathering broke apart and the men trudged off to continue packing away the camp.

Jack breathed out and realised his heart had been thumping furiously. That had been a close thing. Thank God Rao had seen sense and hadn’t listened to that idiot Parihar.

Wulfric, however, stood nearby with his hands on his hips, immobile even as the porters, soldiers and officers drifted away. His single eye bored into Jack, unblinking, still and cold as the moon.

It was late in the morning by the time the expedition set off. The mist had thickened and they found themselves marching through whorls of heavy fog. Ahead of Jack, the column blurred and vanished. Knolls and copses reared up out of the murk, then disappeared as he went past. At times he felt as though he were walking through a dream.

The mist was cold as metal and left a film of moisture on his face.

The relief he’d felt that the incident at breakfast hadn’t spilt over into anything more serious quickly faded. The party might have held back from fighting itself, but it was unlikely the savages had left, and it would be impossible to see them coming in the mist. Of course, the haze would hinder the natives as well, but this was their land, they knew the territory.

At least he had the loaded pistol with him, hidden, as always, in the satchel.

Shortly before midday, the mountainsides drew closer, becoming darker in the mist. As the valley narrowed, the men were forced to trudge along a shallow river, skidding and sliding on the wet rocks. The wagon wheels ground against the stones and sprayed water.

The slopes steepened until the party was passing through a gorge. Sheer cliffs rose on either side, while the river churned in between. The white rapids were phosphorescent in the dim light and the rushing sound echoed in the confined space.

Jack looked up. The drifts of mist obscured the cliff tops. This was a good place for an ambush.

A very good place.

He shivered. They were being watched. He was sure of it, even though he couldn’t see anyone up there. He had a tracker’s sensitivity to his surroundings and an army scout’s understanding of dangerous terrains.

It was madness to march through a place like this.

He had to do something.

‘Wait here,’ he said to Saleem and the others.

He waded forward, the water swilling about his knees. He edged himself past the oxen pulling the statue wagon, smelling the thick scent of the animals’ wet hides. Then he dodged around the men, beasts and vehicles of the rest of the baggage train.

When he was about halfway to the front of the column, with the Saxons just visible ahead in the fog, he spotted Wulfric.

He pushed his way through the stream and shouted over the gurgling water. ‘Sergeant!’

Wulfric seemed not to hear and didn’t turn round.

Jack slipped on a rock, steadied himself, and floundered forward until he was right behind Wulfric. ‘Sergeant! We have to turn back. We’ll be attacked—’

Wulfric whirled round and slapped Jack in the face with his leather strap. Jack slid back. His cheek stung but he was startled more than anything.

‘It’s time I taught you a lesson, scum.’ Wulfric stepped forward and swung his strap again.

Jack reacted quickly and raised his left hand to protect himself. Wulfric’s arm slammed into his. Both of them slipped and had to step back to rebalance themselves.

Wulfric’s eye gleamed in the dim light. His face, damp from the mist, glistened like limestone. He beckoned with his finger. ‘Come here.’

What was Wulfric playing at? He wanted to fight now? When they were all probably in danger?

Jack felt his face go hot. Wulfric was an idiot. A bloody-minded idiot. All Jack wanted to do at that moment was punch the Sergeant in the face.

Someone up ahead cried out. More shouts followed.

Wulfric frowned and turned.

Jack stared into the mist and made out soldiers darting about in the small space of the gorge. Were the Saxons under attack?

Wulfric strode forward through the bubbling water, swinging his arms wide from his body.

Then a man nearby gasped. Jack swivelled and saw a porter with an arrow in his chest stagger forward. Blood welled from his wound and soaked his tunic red. He coughed and vomited more blood, then toppled over and splashed into the water.

Suddenly arrows hailed down from the bluffs. Missiles thudded into men and animals, dashed the water and skipped off carts and wagons. Porters screamed, choked, stumbled and flapped about in the river. An arrow nailed one man’s hand to a cart. Another speared a porter in the eye. The oxen roared and wrestled to free themselves from their yokes.

Jack crouched down instinctively, although with the arrows coming from all directions there was little point. He snatched a look at his surroundings. The cliffs were steep and there was nowhere beneath them to take cover.

They were trapped.

And soon they would all be dead.

Behind him, he heard the crackle of muskets and smelt the acrid scent of powder smoke. The Saxons were retaliating, but there was little hope of them hitting any of the savages while they were hidden by the mist.

An arrow whistled past in front of Jack’s face.

His heart hammered and the fire flickered in his chest.

What to do?

His only thought was to get back to Saleem and the others and then get the hell out of the gorge.

Still crouching, he sloshed his way back downstream. The baggage train had come to a standstill and the porters were either flailing about in the water in their attempts to flee or cowering beneath wagons and carts. A team of oxen bolted and stampeded straight at Jack, arrows sticking out of their backs like pins. He leapt to the side as the animals and wagon careered past.

He waded forward again, dodging bobbing corpses. By now many porters had come to the same conclusion as him. They pushed and shoved as they fought to get back to the end of the gorge. Jack caught an elbow in his ribs, then someone yanked his tunic so that he almost fell. Grunts and cries surrounded him.

The sound of pipes and war cries floated through the mist.

Arrows streamed down, picking off men. And now even rocks and stones plummeted into the gully as the savages hurled whatever they could at the column. A large slab slapped the river next to Jack and sprayed him with water. Another smacked into the head of a porter, flinging out blood and splinters of skull.

The water boiled and turned bright red.

Ahead of Jack, a wagon and a team of oxen had tumbled on to their sides. Several of the animals were dead, but the others thrashed and groaned as they struggled to free themselves, the water frothing about them. Jack swerved out of the way and stumbled on.

Someone pushed him from behind. He slipped, tried to grasp a man nearby for support, missed and splashed into the river. He rolled out of the way of the rushing crowd, grabbed a rock jutting out from the cliff and hauled himself back up again. He was drenched, but worse than that, his pistol would have been soaked and was unlikely to fire now.

Damn it. Just when he needed a weapon.

He surged ahead again and finally found Saleem crouching beneath a slight overhang in the rock face. The lad’s features were frozen in fear and his eyes were rimmed with red.

But he was alive. Thank God.

Jack squatted and grasped Saleem’s shoulder. ‘Where are the others?’

Saleem’s bottom lip trembled and he nodded at the water beside him. Jack looked across and saw two of the lads from Shropshire floating in the river, arrows in their torsos and clouds of blood drifting around them.

Christ. Two more of their little group gone.

He shut his eyes, clenched his teeth. It was hard to see young men die so easily. But they’d believed in the crusade and done what they thought was right.

He was proud of them.

He opened his eyes again. ‘What about the other three?’

Saleem looked down. ‘They ran off. Said they’d had enough. I wouldn’t go with them.’

Jack pursed his lips. He couldn’t blame the three lads for fleeing. It’d been brave of them to come even this far.

‘Jack!’ a voice called behind him.

He spun round and saw Robert bounding through the river.

The big man crouched. ‘We’re all getting out of here.’ He nodded towards the end of the gorge. ‘The Saxons are being slaughtered. We’ll all be dead if we stay here.’

Jack grasped Robert’s sleeve. ‘You sure about this?’

‘You’re not staying here, are you?’ Robert said.

‘I have to.’

Robert scowled. ‘You’re mad.’

Jack sighed. He didn’t want Robert to go. The big man had been an asset on this expedition and, more than that, he’d become a friend. But Jack understood his decision.

Jack smiled. ‘We always knew it was a mad journey.’

‘Aye.’ Robert’s eyes twinkled and his beard creased as he gave a wide grin. ‘We did that.’

‘You be careful. It’ll be a hard journey back.

‘Better than what you’ll be facing.’

That was probably true. ‘God’s grace to you, then.’ Jack slapped Robert on the shoulder.

‘And to you, wee man.’ Robert put his hand on Saleem’s shoulder. ‘And you too, Sultan.’

The big man stood, blocking out most of the light for a moment, then loped away into the mist, the river bubbling around him. The fog broke apart as he passed, and then slid silently back together again.

‘The arrows have stopped,’ Saleem said.

Jack glanced around. It was true, no further missiles fell in this part of the gorge. All the surviving porters had fled. Corpses, arrows and scraps of canvas drifted in the swirling water. A lone pack mule stumbled about, as if in a daze. Carts stood abandoned and riddled with arrows. One of the oxen yoked to the fallen wagon still squealed and lashed the water with its hooves.

From further up the gorge, Jack heard the stutter of muskets, shouts and the ring of steel. He frowned. It sounded like hand-to-hand fighting.

The last thing he wanted to do was go upstream and find out what was going on. But what else could he do? If there was any chance of the party surviving, any chance of them still travelling to Mar, he had to make sure he was with them. He couldn’t turn back now when he was so close.

He looked at Saleem. ‘You go with Robert. Quickly now. You can catch up with him.’

‘What?’ Saleem looked as if Jack had slapped him in the face. ‘No. Not this time. I’m not running away.’

‘Robert was right. It’s mad to stay here. I have to go on. But you need to live. Get back to Shropshire. Look after your mother and—’

‘No.’ Saleem bashed the water with his fist. ‘You left me behind in London. I won’t let you do that again.’

Christ. Saleem was being an idiot. Jack didn’t have time for this. He grasped Saleem’s tunic. ‘You want to die? Is that it?’

‘Do you?’ Saleem glared at Jack, his gaze unwavering. He was panting hard and his jaw was tight.

Jack searched Saleem’s eyes. He couldn’t see a single trace of hesitancy there. The lad had made his mind up and Jack would have to accept it. He imagined Saleem would follow him wherever he went anyway.

He let go of Saleem’s tunic. ‘All right. If that’s what you want.’

‘It is.’

Jack’s throat tightened. Feelings, hard to place, welled in his chest. He wanted the lad to be safe, but at the same time wanted him to follow his conscience.

It was similar to the way he felt about Elizabeth.

‘Good lad.’ He patted Saleem lightly on the shoulder.

He opened his wet satchel and pulled out the pistol. The weapon was damp and slick. He reached back into the satchel, took out the cap tin and checked the caps. At least they’d stayed dry. He pressed fresh caps on to two of the nipples, pointed the pistol in the air and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked down and the first cap gave a bang, but nothing else happened. He cocked the hammer, which rotated the cylinder, and fired again. Still nothing. As he’d thought, the powder was wet.

Damn it.

He would have to pull the bullets out and clean the weapon before he could use it again. But that could take fifteen minutes or more, and he had to get moving immediately.

He tossed the pistol back into the satchel, fished out the brass flask and tipped a little powder into his hand. The grey-black grains were dry. At least he still had powder and bullets, even if he couldn’t use them at the moment.