Battlesaurus (36 page)

The rise in the roof and the slope down to the entrance have created a dome-like effect in the top of the tunnel, and rising firedamp has accumulated here. The flame burns even higher and bluer with sudden bright sparks shooting off like miniature fireworks. The air is thick and muggy with the fumes and Willem can feel his head swimming. He and H
é
lo
ï
se back away from the black creature, just visible in the thin light that ekes its way up from the entrance. The entrance: so tantalizingly close, but so very far away.

The demonsaurus cannot smell them; the air is too thick. It cannot hear them, so silent are their footfalls on the stone ledge. But it can see them, silhouetted by the light from the entrance behind and below them.

The demonsaurus cocks its head from side to side and the spines on its back rattle, that awful, blood-chilling sound. It takes a step forward.

Willem raises the pistol, knowing he cannot fire it. Not here. Not in the midst of the firedamp. If he can get lower, where the air is clearer, he might have a chance.

“Willem,” H
é
lo
ï
se says. “Go.”

“We go together,” Willem says.

“No. Then it will attack. If I stay here, you may get clear.”

“No, H
é
lo
ï
se.”

“Do not argue,” she says. “I return a favor, long owed.”

The demonsaurus takes three quick steps forward and Willem involuntarily backs away. H
é
lo
ï
se does not.

Willem takes another step and that is the cue for the saur to attack. It rushes at H
é
lo
ï
se, who raises up her arms to defend herself from it, and stumbles backward, falling into the channel, into the gray-green flow of effluent that runs down to the sea.

The demonsaurus is above her now, raising its claws to plunge them into her chest, and Willem hears himself scream. The demonsaurus looks up at the sound, and even as its eyes flick toward Willem there is a hand on his shoulder pushing him sideways and a sound that Willem remembers from a long time ago.

The crossbow bolt buries itself in the chest of the saur, which throws its head back in an enraged howl of pain that echoes off the walls, filling the tunnel with sound. But it does not stop. It slashes at H
é
lo
ï
se, but she has rolled to the side of the channel and its claws rake only sludge. It traps her with its back foot and raises its claws again.

Beside him Fran
ç
ois is desperately trying to draw the crossbow string and fit another bolt. But there is not enough time.

“Run!” Willem screams, shoving Fran
ç
ois backward down the pipe. Willem takes three quick steps forward, bringing him face-to-face with the creature. He raises the pistol to its head, covers his eyes with his hand, and pulls the trigger.

The boom of the pistol is followed by an unbearable heat and flash of light and he spins and dives backward into the nauseating flow in the channel, soaking himself in it as the insides of his eyelids turn bright red and a great sheet of flame gushes over the top of him.

For a second there is no air in the tunnel, then it rushes back in a strong gust, bringing with it the fresh smell of the sea.

Willem sits up, coughing and gagging, reaching out for H
é
lo
ï
se. He cannot find her, until a small hand latches on to his collar from behind, helping him to his feet. He looks around. The demonsaurus is dead, a crossbow bolt in its chest and a bloody, ragged hole in its head. Its spines are on fire.

Farther down the tunnel, Fran
ç
ois lies on the slimy ledge beside the channel. He looks shocked. Whether that is at finding himself alive, or at seeing Willem and H
é
lo
ï
se, Willem can't tell.

The pistol is gone and Willem does not wish to search for it. Even if he found it, it would be soaked and useless.

Fran
ç
ois picks himself up and waits for them, and together they walk down the slimy bricks to where the two British soldiers wait for them in the fresh air outside.

They are almost at the lip of the entrance when a voice comes from the side.

“Hold there, Pieter Geerts.”

A French officer emerges from a side tunnel, a pistol in one hand, a saber in the other. Beside him are two French saurmasters, one stocky, one tall. They both also have pistols.

“Move no farther,” Thibault says.

 

MERCY

“You have led us on a merry chase,” Thibault says. “But it is now over. The emperor wants you alive. Myself, I have less desire to see breath in your body when you are taken to the royal chambers. Of course we may have to do something about the smell.”

“The breath of the Ruien is nothing in comparison to the stench of your evil,” H
é
lo
ï
se says.

“So it can speak?” Thibault says. He glances up the tunnel at the now-blackened roof and walls.

He shakes his head with disapproval. “What have you done with my demonsaurus?”

“One is dead,” Willem says.

“And the other?”

“It is behind you,” Willem says.

The two saurmasters glance backward into the night of the tunnel. Thibault does not take his eyes off Willem.

“He lies,” Thibault says. “This one is full of trickery.”

“Are you sure, sir?” the stocky man says, with another nervous glance behind. There is nothing there.

“You can't see it,” Willem says, “but I can hear it.”

“He is trying to fool you, Bolcque,” Thibault says. “There is nothing behind you.”

But there is.

With a sudden scream and a flurry of movement, the saurmaster disappears backward into the indelible darkness.

*   *   *

“What time did they leave?” Baston asks.

“Need I remind you that I am a commandant, and you are a captain?” the commandant of the garrison says. “You will rephrase your question in a more decorous and appropriate manner.”

“I will phrase my question however I damn like,” Baston says. “General Thibault answers directly to the emperor and he is missing. As for your rank, I suspect it is likely soon to be that of a common infantryman, if you still draw breath when this is over.”

The commandant regards him for a moment, his jaw tight, about to retort, then clearly thinks better of it.

“The general took … those saurs, and went to investigate a break-in at a sewer tunnel,” he says. “It was nearly six.”

“Two hours ago,” Baston says. “And you did not think to check?”

“He had two of my men with him,” the commandant says. “Good men. Plus he had the two that work with the saurs. He is in no danger.”

“Why would the general investigate a problem with a sewer?” Baston asks.

“The old tunnels lead down to the docks,” the commandant says.

“And you have done nothing since that time?” Baston asks.

“And what would you have me do?” the commandant asks.

“What a good French soldier would do,” Baston says. “Have you alerted headquarters?”

“The emperor and his staff are no longer here,” the commandant says. “They have moved to the fortress at Breskens while we mop up the last of the British.”

“Then what happens is up to us,” Baston says. “I want a full company of men ready immediately. They will come with me to the wharves. In the meantime, you will take a platoon to check these sewers, starting at the break-in.”

“I will not, Captain,” the commandant says, with emphasis on Baston's rank.

“Then your replacement will,” Baston says, drawing his pistol.

*   *   *

The taller saurmaster, dead or unconscious, lies half in and half out of the tunnel where it joins onto the main outlet. The body of the other man lies facedown in the stream, which is slowly staining red.

Thibault sits astride the back of the beast, pinning it to the ground, one of its front legs twisted up behind its neck. The other leg scratches at the ground, but is not strong enough to dislodge the soldier. Thibault's sword lies nearby, knocked from his grasp. He stretches out for it, but cannot reach, and with the shifting of his weight, the demonsaurus is almost up from under him. Quickly he leans back, keeping his weight on the arm that pins the creature. It snarls and snorts. Its back feet flail on the slippery surface, sending rancid water and foul muck spraying against the walls.

“Come on,” Willem says, climbing out of the mouth of the tunnel, onto the ledge that leads up to the dock.

“In the name of God, have mercy,” Thibault says.

“No mercy,” H
é
lo
ï
se says.

“Fran
ç
ois!” Thibault calls out, but Fran
ç
ois looks away.

“No mercy,” H
é
lo
ï
se says.

Thibault's pistol lies near him, discharged without result, and now useless against the beast. Willem eyes it for a moment, then climbs back into the tunnel, picks it up, and places it in his canvas bag.

“It makes no difference for you,” Thibault shouts. “You cannot escape. The wharves are swarming with my men.”

“Then we must hurry,” Willem says.

They leave the two predators locked in a final battle that neither can win, and exit the pipe into the clear morning sun.

 

REFUSE

Antwerp's two docks, the Bonapartedok, and the larger, adjoining Willemdok, named after the emperor of France and the king of the Netherlands respectively, are separated from the tidal estuary that is the Western Scheldt by a lock, the gates of which are closed during low tide.

But it is nearly high tide and the gates are open, jutting out from the stone wall that protects the dock area from the sea.

A narrow rocky shore runs along the base of the wall, contracting by the minute as the tide continues to rise.

H
é
lo
ï
se strips naked, unconcerned by the eyes of the others. Fran
ç
ois immediately averts his gaze, muttering to himself in what Willem assumes is a prayer. Out of politeness, Willem also finds something to look at. Jack just stares.

H
é
lo
ï
se wades into the water and bathes, rinsing her smock at the same time. The estuary water does not look particularly clean, but it is certainly better than what they have recently been soaking in.

“What is happening?” Frost asks, hearing the splashing. He still seems dozy to Willem, and his voice is thick, but he is improving constantly.

“You don't want to know,” Willem says. But H
é
lo
ï
se's idea is a good one, and after placing his bag carefully on a flat rock, he wades into the estuary also, fully clothed, sitting down in the water and thrashing his arms and legs about to rinse his clothing as thoroughly as possible.

When he gets out, H
é
lo
ï
se, still naked, is wringing water out of her smock. Willem stands in his saturated clothes and wonders which of them is really the more civilized.

They follow the shore, looking for steps up to the docks. There are none, but they find a kind of ladder: a column of rusted metal rungs in a wooden post not far from the outer lock gates.

Willem risks a quick climb and eases his head over the top. There are sailors and shorehands going about their business, but no soldiers, apart from a small group checking wagons on the road that leads to the south. They are looking the wrong way, although he knows it would only take one to turn around and he would be spotted.

“Thibault's soldiers aren't here yet,” he calls down to the others. “We may yet escape if we are quick.”

The others climb up after him and they walk as quickly as they can, without attracting attention, past a series of small wooden buildings, and one large stone one. After that they must cross the road in full view of the barricade, but the soldiers' attention is taken by a row of wagons waiting to pass through, and they do not see the five fugitives walking casually across behind them.

There is no sign of the brigantine here, and they turn onto a wide central pier that divides the two docks. At the end of the pier they turn again, and there they find her, a sleek and modern two-masted vessel. There is a man up the mainmast with a spyglass.

Tied to the stern is a small dory, a flat-bottomed boat, almost as narrow at the back as at the front. It does not look very stable to Willem. Aft of center, a number of items, rectangular in shape, are covered by a tarpaulin.

The skipper of the brigantine is a heavily bearded man with a strong Dutch accent.

“Willem?” he asks, as they arrive.

“Yes,” Willem says.

“We must hurry,” he says. “There are a large number of French troops heading toward the docks.”

“We are ready,” Willem says.

“Have you filed the papers with the dockmaster?” the skipper asks.

Willem shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“If you do not, then they will close the lock gates on us as we try to leave,” the skipper says. “You must file the papers. I would do it for you, but we must get ready to cast off, and I fear we do not have long, with Napol
é
on's men on the march.”

“I will do it now,” Willem says. He opens the bag and retrieves the papers in their oilskin wallet.

“The office is in the stone building by the lock,” the skipper says. “Be quick.”

“We just passed that,” Fran
ç
ois says. “I will take them.”

“No, I will do it,” Willem says.

“In soaking-wet clothes?” Fran
ç
ois asks. “That will look suspicious. And you still smell worse than I do.”