Land of Hope and Glory (2 page)

Harold locked eyes with the European soldier. The man’s face was twisted with battle fury and he was panting so hard Harold could smell his stale breath.

‘Bastard heathen,’ Harold managed to say, and spat in the soldier’s face.

Then the Sergeant Major roared and punched the man on the side of the head. The soldier stumbled sideways, his round cloth hat flying off. The musket slipped out, tearing an even greater wound in Harold’s shoulder.

Harold shivered. He could see the Sergeant Major kicking the fallen soldier in the face, but the scene was becoming blurry and strange.

He had to stay awake. He couldn’t let the heathens beat him.

‘You all right?’ The Sergeant Major was suddenly standing before him.

Harold nodded. Sickness welled in his stomach and his arm was like ice. He shuddered and stumbled, but the Sergeant Major caught him and helped him up on to the nearby horse.

The Sergeant Major then swung himself up behind and fired his pistol in the air. ‘Knights, ride!’

Harold felt the charger galloping. He slumped forward against the animal’s mane and clung on as tightly as he could with his one good arm. His six remaining comrades bounced along to either side, stray musket and pistol fire flying after them.

Something was wrong. Grimacing at the pain, he looked back and saw that the tower was still standing. Had the fuse gone out? Had the heathens found the powder sack?

Then the top storey of the tower blossomed into a red and yellow flower that lit the whole valley for a moment. A baritone pulse rushed out and rippled through his bones. Chunks of stone whistled in the dark and soldiers scrambled for cover. The horse stumbled slightly, but didn’t fall.

Harold smiled. That was for his brother.

The Sergeant Major lifted his fist in the air and gave a defiant cheer. The other riders joined him.

But their celebration was cut short by the sound of shots from the darkness off to the left. Around a dozen horsemen were riding from the camp and bearing down on them.

‘Hurry, knights,’ the Sergeant Major shouted, and they spurred and slapped their horses onward.

They turned into the trees at the end of the gully and the horses scrambled over an embankment. Then they sped on through the mottled gloom of the forest. Branches and leaves leapt in front of them. Shrubs appeared and disappeared like clouds of dust. The horses whinnied and rolled their eyes.

Every jolt sent a wave of sickness through Harold and he could hear himself groaning.

After what seemed a long time, they came out on to a grassy slope. They zigzagged up, the horses skidding and kicking up clods of earth. They took around ten minutes to reach the summit, where they paused and looked down.

Harold blinked. The cloud had lifted now and he could see a wide sweep of the countryside rolling away in great folds and buckles, like the ocean at night. The knots of forest, indistinct valleys, open hills and heaths were all powdered by the moon.

‘Down there,’ hissed Smith, pointing to the line of trees they’d left earlier.

Harold could just make out the enemy cantering along beside the woods several hundred feet to the left.

The Sergeant Major snapped open a spyglass and followed the horsemen for a moment. ‘Must have lost us in the forest. Don’t think they’ve seen us yet. Come on.’

They turned and galloped down a short slope before reaching a further stretch of trees. They followed a track that wound through the undergrowth, leaves slapping against the horses’ sides.

Harold felt himself slipping away, then shook his head and managed to pull himself back.

After a few minutes, the Sergeant Major called a halt, dismounted and walked to the rear of the group.

Dizzy with pain, Harold looked back over his shoulder and watched as his leader sat cross-legged on the ground, rested a hand on each knee and closed his eyes.

The Sergeant Major breathed slowly and deeply. Apart from the rise and fall of his chest, he was still. The sound of insects swirled and an owl hooted in the distance.

Then Harold noticed the faint, sweet scent of incense – the smell of sattva, that mysterious vapour the Rajthanans used for their machines and avatars and unholy powers. He was leery of it, as he was of all the Rajthanans’ devilry, but the Sergeant Major had some skill with it, and Harold had grudgingly come to accept that it had its uses.

Sometimes you had to fight black magic with black magic.

Harold’s comrades shifted in their saddles – they were just as nervous of sattva as he was.

The Sergeant Major blew gently and a strange breeze seemed to emanate from his body and flow back along the path with a hiss. But it wasn’t so much a breeze as a warping of the scene itself. Tree trunks, branches and the leaf-littered ground all rippled, as if reflected in a pool of water into which stones have been cast. Slowly, the horse tracks on the path disappeared, as if sinking into the earth. The twigs and small branches that had snapped as the horses passed, regrew. The wind rose in strength and then faded, the whorls and eddies subsiding. All evidence that the riders had been there had now vanished.

The Sergeant Major stood, chuckled and rubbed his hands together. He walked back to his charger and said to Harold, ‘You still with us?’

Harold tried to speak, but couldn’t form the words. He grunted as he fought back the vomit stinging his throat.

‘We’ll get you back soon.’ The Sergeant Major mounted and looked across at the riders. ‘Well done, knights. Our land is in darkness, but our crusade will bring light. God’s will in England.’

‘God’s will in England,’ the others said in unison.

As they moved off, Harold felt as though the night were thickening and suffocating him. If he drifted off he was sure he would die. And yet he had to stay alive to keep up the fight against the Rajthanans.

The pain in his shoulder seemed to be the only thing he could cling to – he concentrated on it, sensed the swell and ebb in its intensity. But even that was fading now.

He had to hold on . . . but he was letting go.

PART ONE

THE TRACKER

1

DORSETSHIRE, 617 – RAJTHANAN NEW CALENDAR
(
1852
–
EUROPEAN NATIVE CALENDAR
)

J
ack Casey crept through the trees near the front of the house. It was after nine at night, but it was summer and the sky still suspended trails of blue within the darkness. He could see the lantern beside the front gate and make out the new guard, Edwin, leaning against the wall beside it, picking at something in the sole of his boot.

Jack stepped on a twig, which gave a loud snap. He froze.

Damn. He was out of practice.

The trees rustled in the slight breeze. Faintly, he could hear people talking back in the house, the tinkle of glasses and the rattle of plates being cleared away.

Edwin didn’t react at all.

Jack shook his head, then advanced, hardly making a sound now – he hadn’t completely lost his touch.

Edwin was still oblivious to the approaching danger. Jack stood poised in the darkness, just a few feet away from the lad, then stepped out. ‘Bang – you’re dead.’

Edwin jumped and fell back against the wall. ‘Christ! You nutter.’

‘If I was an intruder, you’d be lying there dead and I’d be on my way to the house.’

Edwin sniffed. ‘But you’re not an intruder. There are no intruders. Nothing ever happens around here.’

‘And that’s the danger. It’s quiet. You get lazy. Then – pow – you’re dead.’

‘You’re mad, you are. We’re in the middle of the country. There’s no one around.’

Jack smiled darkly, his weather-beaten features creasing more deeply. He had a triangular face that seemed to emphasise his eyes and his craggy brow. His eyes were narrow and pale, the irises almost white in the dim light. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he wore a brown, knee-length tunic that was spotlessly clean.

‘That’s what you think.’ He looked about as if there were enemies in the trees. ‘There are thieves and vagrants. You get bandits in the hills.’

‘Bandits? How often have they tried to get in here, then?’

‘They know we’re here watching. If they come, they see us and go on to the next farm. But if they see us dozing, that’s when they’ll strike.’

‘If you say so.’

Jack shook his head. He was too soft on the boy. That sarcastic attitude would have been beaten out of him within one day in the army.

‘Did you hear about the Ghost?’ Edwin asked. ‘Struck again last night. Knocked out the sattva link to Bristol.’

‘That so.’

‘They can’t stop him. He’s there one minute, gone the next. I heard he’s a sorcerer.’

Jack snorted. ‘Don’t you believe everything you hear down the market. The Rajthanans are a lot stronger than you

think.’

Edwin looked sideways at Jack, then spoke more softly. ‘Word is, the rebels will win.’

‘Watch your mouth, lad.’ Jack glanced over his shoulder.

‘The master hears you talking like that, he’ll fire you. If you’re lucky.’

‘I’m not scared of him.’

‘Well, you should be. You’re talking treason. You’ll get yourself reported to the sheriffs.’

Edwin looked down and scuffed the ground with his boot. ‘It’s still true.’

‘The Rajthanans rule all of Europe, and a lot of other places besides. You really think a few mutineers in England can beat them?’

‘They’ve got London now, and the whole south-east.’

‘Once the Rajthanans have built up their army they’ll smash those mutineers to pieces.’

Edwin muttered something inaudible.

‘Listen, lad. I’ll give you some advice. Forget about this Ghost or the mutiny or whatever other rubbish is filling your head. There’s an order to things and there’s no point in fighting against it. Some people rule, others follow. That’s the way of it. The Rajthanans rule here and we follow. Now, you look sharp and keep your eyes peeled. And don’t you dare fall asleep.’

Edwin bowed with his hands pressed together, as if Jack were an army officer. ‘Namaste, great master.’

Jack rolled his eyes and walked off into the darkness to continue his evening rounds. Edwin had no idea what he was talking about. The rebels might have won a few battles, but that was only because there were hardly any foreign troops in England – there had never needed to be. Now the Rajthanans were bringing in French and Andalusian regiments, and even soldiers from Rajthana itself. Once they’d built up their army in the south-west they would crush the rebellion. It was as simple as that.

He followed the stone wall for a few feet, went through a gap in the trees and came out on the front lawn. Before him stood the house. It was two storeys high, more than a hundred feet wide, and built in the style of a Rajthanan palace with miniature spires and domed towers. In places, lacy detail in bas-relief lined the rust-coloured walls. The leaded-light windows glowed and cast a series of bright blocks across the grass.

Through an arched window, he could see the dining room, where silver thalis and bowls glinted on the table. Dinner had just finished and Shri and Shrimati Goyanor had risen and were gesturing for their three guests to join them in the drawing room. Shri Goyanor – a short, plump man – wore his usual beige tunic, while his wife stood tall and elegant in an emerald sari. The children had probably already been sent to bed. Servants in white were busily clearing the table.

Shri Goyanor was obviously in a good mood – he beamed and rubbed his stomach as he spoke. He was a good-hearted man. He could be sullen, but then so could anyone. The main thing was that he always kept his word, and Jack valued that. It was like in the army. You trusted your officers because they treated you fairly, and in return you would lay down your life for them if they asked you to.

Jack went on around the side of the house and past the line of palm trees that Shrimati Goyanor insisted on trying to grow. He met Tom, the nightwatchman, coming the other way.

‘Evening,’ Jack said.

Tom raised his lantern and nodded back. He didn’t speak much and Jack approved of this. Tom was a reliable man, who’d been at the house for eight years – almost as long as Jack himself. During that time Jack had never caught him shirking or sleeping on the job, although perhaps he did like a drink a little too much.