The Place of Dead Kings (3 page)

He slapped and spurred his charger into a gallop. Yusuf yelped and did the same. The horses battered across the grass, hooves throwing up chunks of turf.

Saleem looked back and saw the avatars still racing over the summit. At least the horses were outrunning the creatures.

‘What now?’ Yusuf shouted.

A good question. Saleem didn’t have a clear answer. They’d been about to fight and die with Drake and the Amesburys, and yet now they were in fact riding away from the battle and towards the looming forest. Beyond the trees, the hills led down to the plains . . . and then Saleem’s village.

If they turned back, they would most likely die with Drake and his men. That would be the honourable thing to do. On the other hand, if they pressed on as they were, there was a chance they could escape, get back to the village, warn everyone there to flee. They could get word out to the neighbouring villages too – and with any luck save as many lives as possible.

Was it better to flee?

What did it say in the Quran about such matters? What would his father have told him to do?

He had no idea. You needed to be a scholar who’d studied the Quran for years in order to reach a decision. And Saleem was no scholar. He couldn’t even read – and, unlike his father, he hadn’t memorised large sections of the sacred text.

He would have to decide for himself what to do.

Allah is great. Allah is great.

Now his eyes fell upon a pale line that cut across the hillside – it was a path, leading into the woods and away from the battlefield.

‘Down there.’ Saleem pointed at the track.

‘What?’ Yusuf shouted back.

‘We’ll follow that. We have to warn the villages. There’s nothing more we can do here.’

Yusuf glanced back at the avatars fanning over the slope. He shivered, clenched his jaw and nodded at Saleem.

The horses thundered on to the path, charged towards the woods and then rushed through an opening in the line of trees. Shadow slammed over them. The canopy clasped overhead and arcades of tree trunks receded into the gloom. The pounding guns were muffled to a heartbeat and the horses’ hooves sent echoes whispering through the leaves.

Saleem noticed that his hands were shaking and his heart was bashing inside his ribcage.

The hiss of the avatars and the smell of sattva had faded. He and Yusuf had got away. Escaped. He felt like laughing or cheering for a moment, but then he remembered his comrades, who were fighting at that very moment. While he was riding away, they were dying.

He tightened his grip on the reins.

Had he really decided to flee just to save his family and the village? Hadn’t he, in fact, been afraid all along? Hadn’t he wanted to avoid the fight?

How could he ever have thought to call himself a knight?

Yusuf gave a strangled shout. Saleem shot a look at him.

‘There’s something there.’ Yusuf pointed into the black wall of branches flickering past to his right.

Without slowing his pace, Saleem peered into the shadows, listening carefully. At first he noticed nothing, but then made out a faint, cold clicking and smelt a trace of sattva. His skin crawled.

‘Ride,’ he said to Yusuf. ‘Fast as you can.’

The avatars swept from the right, boiling up from the ground and bubbling over the tree trunks, flowing like a cloud shadow on a bright day. Saleem saw the tiny metal beasts scurrying across the branches overhead. Their piercing hiss drowned out every other sound.

Saleem slapped the side of his charger frantically, shouting at the animal to run faster. His horse was quicker than Yusuf’s and he started to pull away.

A black pool of avatars spilt across the path ahead. With no alternative, Saleem spurred his charger towards them. The pool darkened and deepened as more of the creatures slipped out of the woods. But Saleem pressed on, aiming for the left side of the track where there were fewer of the creatures. His horse squealed, rolled its eyes and galloped into the mass of squirming beasts, smashing several beneath its hooves.

And then the horse was through, leaving the avatars behind.

Saleem glanced to either side. Were there any creatures on the horse? Any on him? He saw none.

Allah is great.

Yusuf cried out.

Saleem looked back and the ground seemed to drop.

Yusuf was still sitting astride his horse, and the horse was still charging along the path, but both Yusuf and the animal were covered in clumps of avatars. The beasts swirled around Yusuf’s legs, streamed over his torso and twined about his neck. He shrieked and swatted a few of them away, but more kept rippling up from the horse’s flanks.

Saleem yanked at his reins and circled his charger round. He was about to ride back along the path when he saw the avatars engulf Yusuf’s face. Yusuf began a scream, but it was choked off by the creatures surging into his mouth. Both Yusuf and his horse were now completely smothered. The horse stumbled and fell forward, Yusuf tumbling off over its head. As rider and steed struck the ground, the avatars smashed off them, leaving nothing behind but gleaming bones.

Saleem felt a cry boil inside him.

Bile rushed up his throat, but he hurriedly fought it down because the mass of avatars was still hurtling up the track and was now less than ten yards away.

He swung the horse in the opposite direction and spurred away. The dark branches rippled past to either side, the rutted path streamed below and the wind tore the skullcap straight off his head.

Tears welled in his eyes. His face felt hot.

Yusuf.

Loud hissing sprang up to his right. Another wave of avatars flooded from the darkness and shivered over the trees.

There seemed to be no end to the creatures.

He slapped the horse hard, shouted until his voice cracked and repeated the words ‘Allah is great’ over and over again in his head. He had to escape, had to get to the village, had to save his family.

But the mass of avatars was folding about him like a giant hand.

As the shrill clicking beat in his ears and the smell of sattva wedged itself in the back of his throat, he began to realise he wasn’t going to make it.

He shut his eyes and whispered, ‘Allah is great.’

J
ack Casey clasped the pommel of the scimitar hanging at his side. The metal felt cold and reassuring. The weapon had a fine blade, perfectly curved to land a deep cut with minimal effort. It had been forged in the Rajthanan military sword-mill at Christchurch, and you could always trust Rajthanan military blades.

He hoped he wasn’t going to have to use it.

He stared at the eleven men standing in a semicircle in front of him. Several bore sputtering torches that flicked sparks at the dark night. Others rested their hands on arming-swords or pistols. They eyed Jack like crows around a lump of meat.

‘The girl stays here,’ Jack said.

The men’s leader, Constable Henry Ward, stepped forward. His face was flat and his eyes were dark as obsidian. His rough beard climbed high on both of his cheeks, but above this his skin was rubbed raw by the cold. He wore a white surcoat bearing the red cross of St George – the mark of the Crusader Council of Shropshire.

Henry’s breath misted around his mouth. ‘She’s a witch. She must return to Newcastle for punishment.’

The young woman gave a muffled whimper. Jack glanced at her standing slightly to the side and behind him, her face shiny with tears, her jaw quivering and her eyes wide as a trapped animal’s. The freckles on her skin stood out like pox blisters.

How old was she? Someone had told Jack, but he couldn’t remember now. She looked no older than fifteen. A child.

Jack’s daughter, Elizabeth, put her arms around the girl, gripped her shoulders tightly and whispered something comforting in her ear. Elizabeth then raised her head, jutted out her chin and glared at Henry and his men as if she could set them on fire with her eyes.

Near to her stood her husband, Godwin, looking particularly ineffectual tonight as he shuffled about and flexed his fingers around the grip of a longsword that was far too large for him. Behind Godwin, in a loose arc, were fifty men and women – almost the entire adult population of Folly Brook village. They carried pitchforks, hoes, scythes and other farming implements, but few true weapons. Their eyes darted about and many shivered, no doubt not just because of the cold.

Jack wondered how far they would back him. He was their reeve and wore the white surcoat of office. But Henry was the representative both of the local lord and the Council. Would the villagers really be prepared to make a stand against him?

Jack turned back to Henry. ‘The girl is under my protection while she’s in this village. I say she stays.’

The girl had fled from the town of Newcastle-on-Clun two days earlier and taken shelter in Folly Brook with her aunt. Jack knew what would happen if she went back – she would be burnt at the stake, like any other witch. And he would never let that happen. He might live in the native state of Shropshire, where his backward countrymen continued with the barbaric practice, but in Folly Brook, where he was in command, he’d banned it.

Henry paced across the ground in front of Jack, boots crunching on the hard ground. He lifted his chin and stared at the villagers, seeking each out with his eyes, questioning them, testing them.

What kind of calculation would he make? Jack had fifty people on his side, but they were poorly armed civilians. Henry had only ten men, but they were hardened soldiers with swords and firearms. The soldiers could win in a fight, but would Henry want the blood of ordinary peasants on his hands? How would he explain that to his commanders?

No doubt Henry was hoping the villagers would simply buckle and give in to his demands. If they did, there would be little hope of Jack preventing the girl being taken.

A line of pain wormed its way across Jack’s chest and his breathing became more laboured. His old injury. Why did it have to flare up now? He did his best to hide any sign of weakness in his face.

Henry stopped walking and squinted at Jack. ‘What gives you the right to question our age-old customs? We have lived according to these laws for hundreds of years. And yet here you are, in your arrogance, deciding which laws to follow and which to ignore.’

‘If something’s wrong it doesn’t become right just by being an ancient custom,’ Jack said. ‘We need to change. Learn. We’ll never defeat the Rajthanans otherwise.’

‘Learn, eh? That’s what you do here, isn’t it? Learn the secret ways of the heathens. What do they call it? Yoga. Well, I call it something else.’ He fixed his gaze on Jack. ‘I call it black magic.’ A piece of spittle flew from his lips.

One of Henry’s men roared and unsheathed his sword, the blade ringing.

Jack heard clattering and rustling behind him. Glancing back, he felt a surge of warmth in his chest as he saw the villagers drawing together and lifting what weapons they carried.

They weren’t going to back down. They were still with him.

Jack faced Henry again. ‘You raise your arms against common folk?’

Henry scowled and his face reddened. He gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles whitening.

Everyone went silent. The only sound was the rustling of the trees.

The wound in Jack’s chest tightened and he fought not to wince.

Henry’s eyes blazed for a moment, but then he gestured at the soldier who’d drawn the sword. The man stepped back and slid the blade into its scabbard.

‘I’ll be speaking to Sir Alfred,’ Henry said.

‘Do so,’ Jack said. ‘And send him my good tidings.’

Sir Alfred was the leader of the local arm of the Crusader Council. The old man was an ex-soldier, like Jack, and had risen to Sergeant Major in the Rajthanans’ European Army. After serving with the Indians for so many years he was more open to Jack’s ideas than most. Jack was certain he still had Alfred’s blessing.

Henry’s face twisted, then he spat, wiped his mouth and turned away. He and his men trudged back across the grass towards their horses, their burning brands dwindling in the dark.