The Graveyard Game (12 page)

Joseph gave Lewis a bright inquisitive look.
I bet there really
were notes, in fact I’d bet there was a completed first draft. Gee, I wonder what could have happened to it?
He opened the mints and popped one in his mouth.

I had nothing to do with her accident, if that’s what you’re implying
, Lewis said sharply.
I simply got there before her executors did
. He pressed a ten-pound note into the lady’s hand. “No, keep the change for the museum fund. Please. Is there any kind of tour one can take? Any guidebook to the real-life locations?”

The lady shook her head. “It’s shameful, but there really isn’t. Someday, I just know there will be, but right now—” She lowered her voice. “It’s this country. Don’t get me wrong, I love England and all, but there’s just no initiative here. You know what I mean? I mean, haven’t you noticed that?”

“Absolutely. Is there anybody local we could pay to show us around?” said Joseph.

At this moment a youngish man shouldered open the door, puffing with effort because he was quite stout. He set down the cardboard boxes he’d been carrying and straightened up to glower at the two immortals. He wore black and more Neolithic-styled jewelry, and had cultivated a little sinister beard and mustache to rival Joseph’s.

“Jeffrey, these men are interested in a tour of the trilogy sites,” said his wife hopefully.

“And we’ll pay,” added Joseph.

“Well then,” Jeffrey said, drawing himself up. “Five pounds apiece, just to cover the gas, okay? I’ll take you in the Land Rover.”

“Deal,” Joseph said. Lewis fished out another ten-pound note.

Ten minutes later they were rumbling along a cow path in an old Land Rover, listening to Jeffrey talk. Jeffrey spoke sonorously, pontifically, and at great length, and if either Joseph or Lewis had been actually interested in the trilogy, Jeffrey would have been a great guide, because he clearly knew the books by heart. As it was, they were able to hold a fairly uninterrupted subvocal conversation during his narration, only pausing now and then to murmur appreciatively when he emphasized something with a dramatic silence or sweeping gesture.

They wobbled past the semiruined Swaledale Anti-Farm, acres of weedy earth and a few stone buildings, “the site of Audrey Knollys’s magnificently daring Nonhuman experiment”; they visited various chattering becks or heathery hillsides that had inspired scenes where unforgettably heroic beasts had loved, suffered, and/or died; and at last they charged bumping up a great hill, following its ridge as along the spine of a beached whale. At the highest point Jeffrey turned off the motor, set the emergency brake firmly, and announced:

“We’re getting out here, gentlemen.” He swung open the driver’s door and stepped into a roaring blast of wind.

“Er . . . I don’t like to seem overcautious, but isn’t this spot rather exposed to lightning?” Lewis said, clambering from the Land Rover after him. Joseph followed even more reluctantly. They stood there with their coats whipping behind them as Jeffrey struck an attitude.

“Now,
this
is my favorite spot. From this point you can see just about every important place mentioned in the entire trilogy, except for the parts set in Leeds, of course. But, see? Back there is the Anti-Farm, and Silverbell’s Copse is clearly visible just over there, and . . .”

Lewis was smiling and nodding, pretending to follow the lecture attentively even as his teeth chattered. Joseph wasn’t watching. He was staring fixedly into a place just below where they were standing, a smooth depression in the flank of the hill, more than a ledge, less than a valley. It was the sort of place where exhausted hikers might sprawl before going on to the top, or perhaps where a handful of desperate men might make a last stand, unable to go any higher.

This is what he was remembering:

W
ELL,
THIS
ISN’T GOING
to work,” said Ron, staring down at the last of the Brigantes, who had noticed their retreat. He was very, very big—all six of the “Cimmerians” were very, very big men with dun-colored hair and light blue eyes. They also shared other distinct and unusual physical characteristics, which was why the Company had felt it advisable to slip them into the legion as auxiliaries from a nonexistent northern race. Joseph came to peer over the edge and backed away, pale.

“Do you think they’ll try to come up here after us?” he asked, groping for his short sword.

“Oh, yeah,” said Bayard, coming to stand beside Ron. “As soon as they’re done mopping up down there. Poor old Ninth. Ouch! They just took out Gaius Favonius. That’s it. The last of the Syrians are running like hell.”

“Are they getting away?” Gozo and Albert came to watch. The four giants stood there a moment in silence, staring, before Ron said briefly:

“Nope.”

Bogdan and Pancha, who had been scanning the hilltop above the ledge, gave up and joined them, and after a moment’s hesitation Joseph edged close again. He looked out on the carnage below and shuddered. “I’m sorry,” he said desperately.

To a man, the Enforcers shrugged.

“It was their fate,” said Ron. “Soldiers kill, soldiers get killed. Don’t feel bad. You can take some revenge on the Brigantes, if you want. They’re going to be up here any minute.”

Joseph’s blade trembled in his hand, and Gozo burst out laughing.

“Don’t sweat it.” Leaning down, he knocked playfully on Joseph’s helmet. “We’ll do our job, centurion baby. We got what the Company wanted, didn’t we? You were able to observe the whole thing. Now this event shadow’s filled in, Dr. Zeus knows what happened to the original Ninth, and all we’ve got to do is clean up.”

“There’s still the goddam Brigantes,” said Joseph through his teeth, pushing his helmet back on his head.

“You can say that again.” Ron’s voice sharpened as he stepped back. “Here they come. Joseph, stay down, and we’ll keep them off. You’re the observer; just keep those cameras rolling. Axes, guys!”

Joseph sheathed his sword and crouched down, fighting every programmed instinct to wink out in hyperfunction and not touch ground until he was a good five miles away. He obeyed his orders, which had not come from Rome; he held his tiny patch of ground and kept his eyes open, recording what he saw.

The Enforcers cast away the little round oval shields and drew from their cases the particular native weapons of their own unit. These were not blades, nor were they slings or curved bows. They were flint axes of enormous size, bound to oak hafts in leather thongs, beautifully worked, heavily weighted to crush with the blunt ends, slice like razors on the edge. Each Enforcer had two axes.

“Hhhhaaai-ai-ai!” Bogdan said reverently. “Death!”

“Ready them,” said Ron. “Hand-to-hand in thirty seconds. Shit, look at that. Down axes, prepare for javelin cast! Take out that front line!”

Joseph dragged himself to the edge and looked down. The Brig-antes were coming, not swiftly. Winded from the fight below, they advanced almost lazily, chatting among themselves as they came up
the face of the hill. They were followed by the fresh reinforcements that had just arrived, walking easily through the mutilated bodies and the ruined baggage train. He estimated their number at a hundred and six.

The foremost looked up at the ledge, and Joseph saw their eyes widen slightly. Then he heard the noise behind him, the creak of leather armor on six bodies bending all together like the great machines they were, just before they fired in perfect unison and with inhuman force.

No mortal eye could have seen the flight of spears, so swift it was; but Joseph watched them hurtling down the hill and through the Brigantes. Literally through, men two and three deep were falling, shrieking, with gaping wounds front and back as the spears shot on downward, clattering to rest at last on the stones of the little stream below.

The advance halted. The barbari looked at one another big-eyed, drew into groups, muttered together, stared up at the ledge uncertainly now. Joseph turned to look too. The Enforcers had taken up their axes and come to the edge and were just standing there, six very big men, motionless as mountains.

Joseph could see the Brigantes looking, turning to each other and mouthing,
Is that all?
and shrugging at last and beginning the cautious advance again, flatfooted up the hill, keeping their eyes on the very big men.

Ron drew a deep breath.

“Father of battles,” he moaned. “Lord of justice, drink the blood of the unjust!”

The whole line of the Enforcers began to sway together, in that eerie unison with which they had launched their javelin cast. Their pupils had dilated enormously. To a man, they were smiling now as they rocked in place and contemplated the advancing mortals. First one and then another began to chant, softly at first, apparently disconnected phrases in a language forty thousand years old, a chaos of harmonies that unified into descant on a single melody, beautiful and
terrifying, sweet tenor voices from those monstrous chests, those thick necks.

Joseph remembered the language. It was a very simple song: its meaning was only that the wicked must be punished so the innocent might live in peace.

Albert and Bogdan stepped forward and began to walk down the hill, still singing, swinging their flint axes in either massive hand.

The Brigantes halted, gaping; then someone screamed, and they charged, swarming up the hill.

Almost at once Albert and Bogdan vanished in the press of mortal bodies. You could see the axes rising and falling, though, and occasionally catch a glimpse of a great red hand or arm. Pancha and Bayard were walking down now, reaching out almost casually to knock in the skulls of the first Brigantes to reach them, disappearing in their turn under the screaming mob. Ron and Gozo waded in after them.

It didn’t last long. The fighting moved back down the hill, for the simple reason that none of them could keep their footing, everyone was sliding in the blood and mud. Not only mortal blood, now; Joseph saw a lucky blow take off Albert’s head, the trunk fountaining scarlet as it fought on a full ten seconds before dropping in fugue. Bayard was down, he’d been damaged. Brigantii were all over him like flies on a corpse, desperately trying to knife him where he lay, but his arms still rose and fell, rose and fell like machines, beating and breaking any mortal thing in range. The terrified mortals were stabbing frantically at the other Enforcers, delivering wound after wound with dagger or sword or spear, and the big men slowed as their blood ran down, but they did not stop killing.

Then it was over, all at once. Ron was the last one standing. He staggered back and sat down heavily. Joseph heard him sigh. There was a silence, except for the wind coming up the valley. There wasn’t a Brigante left alive.

Joseph was on his hands and knees then, scrambling and crawling down the hill to Ron’s side.

Ron blinked sleepily, not even looking at the mess that had spilled into his lap, though he was making an effort to hold it in with one hand. He was bleeding from wounds on every exposed surface of his body, from little thin scratches to the worst one in his neck, which had a short sword rather comically still protruding from it. It looked like a party novelty.

“That was close,” he told Joseph, and spat out blood. “Got ‘em all, though.”

“The other guys are all down,” Joseph meant to say firmly, but it came out in a whimper. “Don’t worry. The retrieval team will be along any minute. I’m so sorry.”

“Aw, don’t be,” Ron said. He looked down at the hideous carnage with a fond expression. “Damn, that was fun. That was like old times. How long has it been since a bunch of the Old Guard have been able to get together for a party like this?” He coughed and spat out a piece of something; Joseph avoided looking to see what exactly. “And I’ll bet that’s about the last time we get to mix it up. We look too different now from the mortals. I ain’t looking forward to being demobilized, I can tell you.”

Joseph shook his head. “They won’t stick you behind a desk. They’ll have to find something better for you. Maybe you can fly transports or something fun like that.”

Ron smiled at him. “Company’ll manage. They made us like killing. Maybe they can make us like something else. Just reprogram us, I guess.” He shrugged and winced; putting his hand up in bewilderment, he encountered the sword sticking out of his neck. His incredulous giggle turned into a roar of laughter.

“Look at this stupid thing! How long were you going to wait before telling me some mortal left his sword in my neck? I wonder when that happened?” He took a firm grip and pulled it out. A gout of bright blood followed.

“Uh-oh.” Ron’s face grew still suddenly. “Not good. Blood loss unacceptable. Going into fugue, I guess. Bye-bye, Joseph. See you sometime . . .”

He closed his eyes and sank backward, like a tree going down in a storm.

Joseph got unsteadily to his feet. Panting, he looked around at the desolation. After a long moment he sighed and went down the hill, slipping and falling a few times in unspeakable muck, to retrieve Albert’s head where it had rolled into a gorse bush. He had even nastier work over the next few minutes, locating the other Enforcers under piles of chopped Brigantii and hauling five enormous bodies up the hill to lay them out beside Ron.

He was standing there, gasping, watching Albert hopefully to see if the head might reattach where he’d set it on the neck stump—he didn’t think so, the process of fugue was too far advanced, already the wounds had exuded the antiseptic ichor and sealed themselves over—when he heard little bells ringing. He turned.

Winding its way along the crest of the hill above him was a pack train of mules, bells on their harnesses announcing their approach. They were led by an immortal he vaguely recognized, accompanied by two maintenance techs.

“Facilitator Grade One Joseph, I presume?” called the leader cheerily. “Nennius, Facilitator General for the Northern Sector. Another successful mission, eh?”

“I guess you could call it that,” Joseph said. He watched as they negotiated their way down the steep slope. “I thought they’d send an air transport.”