Blaze of Glory (35 page)

'War,' he repeated. 'Tremaine wants a war.'

'But how does he stand to benefit from conflict like
that?' George asked. 'Is he working for Holmland?'

Jack jumped in. 'Or is it money? Does Tremaine own
armaments factories? Is he going to get rich from the
blood of the workers?'

They all looked to Aubrey for an answer. 'No,' he said
eventually, 'Tremaine's game is more subtle and more
terrifying than that.' He took a deep breath, then let
it out. 'War as sacrifice. With Holmland and Albion at
war, the whole Continent will be drawn into it.' Aubrey
went on, hoping that speaking his thoughts aloud would
expose holes in his reasoning, but knowing it was the
only answer that made sense. 'Millions will die. With
modern weapons, the Continent will be a slaughterhouse.
If Tremaine can harness this blood sacrifice in
the correct way, he will have enough death, enough souls,
to conduct the Ritual of the Way.'

'Immortality,' von Stralick breathed.

Aubrey looked sharply at him. 'How do you know about
the Ritual of the Way? Are you a magician as well as a spy?'

'No magician, just a good reader. I study history. I
know that the Ritual of the Way is a theoretical method
of gaining immortality, but no-one has ever worked out
how to arrange enough deaths.'

'The ritual is meant to grant immortality and power,'
Aubrey said. 'Enough for an eternal reign.'

Von Stralick appeared to come to a decision. 'Fitzwilliam,
look to Banford Park. Tremaine was head of that
facility and we have reliable intelligence to suggest that it
is not totally shut down, as was announced.' He pounded
the wall with his good hand. 'Tremaine must be stopped!'

Aubrey agreed. An immortal ruler who was prepared to
sacrifice millions for his own good? One who thought he
was beyond petty considerations such as human life? He
shuddered. A nightmare was unfolding in front of them.

At that moment, many things happened in quick
succession. One of Jack's cats went out through a hole in
the wall, then hissed and hurried back, confronted by the
rain. The sodden animal wore an expression of utter
distaste. Just as it reappeared, Oscar shifted his weight,
easing his massive feet off the ground for relief then
placing them back down again. Unfortunately, his left
foot settled on the cat's tail.

The cat gave an ear-splitting screech and Aubrey
thought, at first, that someone had launched a demon
into the hovel. Oscar was startled and tottered backwards.
He put out a hand to steady himself, but the flimsy wall
offered no support. With the crunch of breaking timber,
he toppled right through the wall and into the only other
room of the tiny dwelling. He lay there, blinking.

Jack sprang to Oscar's side, then was torn between
helping his friend and his spitting, hissing cat. When he
saw the cat was sitting in a corner washing its tail, he left
it alone. 'Oscar, are you hurt?'

Oscar sat up, smiling and wiping dust from his chest
with both plate-sized hands. 'Righto, Jack. Righto.'

Aubrey smiled, but Caroline seized his arm. 'Von
Stralick, he's gone.'

Aubrey turned to see the open door. George peered up
and down the street. 'No sign of him.'

'Right,' Aubrey said. 'No help from that quarter, then.'

'What's the best course of action, old man?' George
asked.

'I still have to get my father back.'

'And how are we going to do that?' Caroline asked.

'By finding Tremaine. Von Stralick's suspicions about
Banford Park make very good sense to me. Tremaine has
had plenty of time to set up equipment there since it
was shut down, readying it to act as a base for his plotting.'
He hummed a little, then grinned. 'Can anyone fly
an ornithopter?'

'Y
OU'RE
SURE
YOU KNOW HOW TO FLY AN ORNI
-thopter?'
Aubrey asked.

'Of course.' Caroline reached up and tested one
of the wing struts. 'I learned years ago.'

'One of your father's friends taught you?' George
guessed.

'My mother taught me,' Caroline said. She'd abandoned
her beggar's rags, revealing that underneath she'd
been wearing the loose black outfit she'd had on when
confronting the Black Beast at Penhurst. Aubrey admired
the cut of the garments as she opened the door into the
cabin, mounted the three steps and disappeared inside.

'An interesting family, the Hepworths, wouldn't you
say, George?'

'Extraordinary.'

With Jack Figg as a guide, they had gone from the Mire
to Ashfields Station in under twenty minutes. Along the
way an excited urchin joined them – one of Jack's friends
– and reported that the Magisterium had left the burnt
church at speed, desperately pursuing a tall man who was
wrapped in shadows.

At four o'clock in the morning, the ornithopter port
was deserted and quiet, as was the dirigible landing field.
The only sound came from the neighbouring railway
yards, where the noise of the wheel-checkers and bogie-riders
rang out.

Jack left them, fading back into the night, and then it
was up to Aubrey. He used a sleep spell he'd honed over
years at Stonelea School, utilising the contagious nature
of yawning and drawing on the Law of Sympathy, to send
the two nightwatchmen to sleep.

The wrought-iron gates that led to the flight platforms
were bolted, but not locked. They slipped through and
found an ornithopter waiting for them.

For a moment, Aubrey stood and admired the intricate
machine. Its hinged wings were beaten brass and made of
a thousand separate, jointed pieces. The fuselage looked
fragile, a network of metal mesh and glass, long and
tapering. The whole, marvellous construction looked like
a dragonfly eager to soar.

'Well?' came Caroline's voice. 'What are you waiting
for? Climb aboard.'

Aubrey leaned against one of the four great metal legs.
They were bent, bringing the body of the ornithopter
close to the ground. 'After you, George.'

Inside the ornithopter were six seats. Aubrey took the
one next to the pilot and gave Caroline the thumbs-up.

'Seatbelts,' she ordered.

Aubrey had flown in an ornithopter before, an experience
that was a mixture of exhilaration and terror. He
knew that it was magic that allowed ornithopters to
work, for the flapping, twisting action of the wings would
cause any material not magically enhanced to fall apart.
Applications of the Laws of Sympathy and Correspondence
allowed the metal wings to beat in the same way
as the wings of birds. Other spells enhanced the power of
the legs of the ornithopter, which provided the initial
impetus to hurl the craft into the air.

No magical ability was required to pilot such a craft,
simply skill, daring and good reflexes.

'Hold on!' Caroline said.

Even though he was ready for it, Aubrey's stomach
was left behind as the four powerful legs flexed and
kicked the ornithopter upwards.

George let out a whoop, but it was lost in the deafening
whoosh
of the wings as they began beating. The
ornithopter lurched left, stalled, then levelled, before
mounting upwards in a series of stomach-bouncing steps,
wings thrashing the air.

'Higher!' Aubrey cried, grinning. Metallic clamour
filled the small craft, making it sound like the inside of a
foundry.

Caroline glanced at him and grinned back. Her hands
and feet moved quickly over the controls and Aubrey
could see no indecision, just joy. Her eyes were bright,
reflecting the lights on the instrument panel. She'd tied her
hair back with a piece of string and Aubrey could see her
long, slender neck and the wisps there. She glanced at him
again and pointed to a small box on a rack in front of him.

Inside were sound-deadeners, small yellow pieces of
magically enhanced wool. He poked one into each ear,
sighing with relief when the sound of the wings faded to
a dull whirring, then handed the box to George.

Caroline pushed forward on the controls, sending the
ornithopter swooping. Then she banked right in a
sweeping arc which had Aubrey straining against his
seatbelt. He found himself looking down on Ashfields
Station, then Sandway, then the river.

Aubrey promised himself that he would learn to fly an
ornithopter.

A
FIFTEEN-MINUTE FLIGHT LATER, THEY REACHED
B
ANFORD
Park. Caroline set the ornithopter in a long, gliding circle
while Aubrey looked down.

The research facility was surrounded by a forest that
extended for miles. Penhurst was to the south-west, a
hike through the woods. A single road led into Banford
Park, where a collection of prefabricated huts stood
well separated from each other, no doubt to prevent
magical interference patterns from ruining experiments.
A single, squat, stone building – Banford – faced a pond
in the middle of the facility. All was dark and silent. The
place looked as if it had been deserted for years.

'I'm going to glide in,' Caroline said. Air whistled over
the rigid wings. 'Quieter.'

But more dangerous
, Aubrey thought. Nothing he'd seen
made him doubt Caroline's skill, but he knew that
ornithopters were more responsive when the wings were
beating. He tightened his seatbelt.

Caroline brought the craft around, killed some speed
by raising its nose, then feathered the wings slightly. It
swooped over the pond, around the stone immensity
of Banford, past the research huts, then she deliberately
stalled and the machine dropped onto its legs. They
flexed, then steadied, and they were down.

Aubrey looked at Caroline. Even in the darkness and
the dim light thrown by the instruments, he could see her
cheeks were flushed and she was breathing heavily. 'Well
done,' he said.

'Let's find your father,' she said briskly, after she'd
composed herself.

Aubrey stumbled out of the ornithopter and crouched
in the shadow of a rose bush the size of a house.

George joined him. 'What's the penalty for stealing an
ornithopter?'

'Less than the penalty for failing to save one's country.
Or one's father.'

Caroline slipped out of the flying machine. Aubrey
noticed that her bare feet were tiny. 'Where now?' she
asked.

Aubrey chewed his lip. 'I was sure there'd be lights.'

'Maybe there's no-one here,' George said. He looked
to the east. 'Dawn can't be too far away. We could make
for the station. We'd be well away from here in a few
hours.'

'Wait,' Aubrey said. 'Let me see what I can feel.'

Aubrey spread his hand and placed it flat on the chill,
damp grass. He pressed, trying to get as close to the earth
as he could.

He could feel stirrings of magic close by, but the traces
were stale, most likely the residue left behind by the
researchers when the facility was disbanded. He sensed
tiny remnants of old earth magic, forgotten charms from
people long ago.

Then he felt a strange magical vibration tingling in his
hand. It was muffled, shielded by subtle spells. Aubrey
only sensed it because it was familiar. It had the flavour of
the magical residue the golem assassin had left, and was
very close in texture to some of the spells cast at the
burnt church. 'It's underground. Under there.' He stood
and pointed at Banford. 'A bunker, I'd say.'

'How are we going to get in?' Caroline asked.

'You don't have any other skills you haven't told us
about?' Aubrey replied. 'Picking locks? Breaking and
entering?'

'We could go and see if the place is open,' George
suggested.

Aubrey shrugged. 'As long as we do it quietly.'

The double wooden doors of the main entrance to the
stately Banford were locked. Both side doors were locked.
The rear door was locked. None of the windows was open.

Frustrated, Aubrey stood before the front doors again.
'Dr Tremaine is under here. That's where the magic is.'

'How do you know?' Caroline asked.

'The magical traces lead right through every entrance.
And they're fresh, a few hours at most.' Aubrey put his
hand on the smooth wood of the doors. He grasped the
brass handle. 'The doors have been enchanted, too. I can
feel it.'

'So we need magic to get inside,' George said. 'Do you
know any good unlocking spells?'

'Tremaine wouldn't want to use a spell every time he
went in and out. Too tedious.'

What would he use?
Aubrey asked himself.
He'd want
something efficient, elegant, automatic . . .

He'd want the doors to recognise him.

Aubrey knew that good preparation was the key to
successful spell-casting.
But in this case
, he thought,
I'll
have to make it up as I go along. Again.

He hummed a little and slapped his pockets, eyebrows
raising when he felt a hard, round shape in his inner
jacket pocket. He reached into it and pulled out Dr
Tremaine's pearl. He stared at it. 'Remember the illusion
spell I cast back in Professor Hepworth's workshop?' he
said softly.

'The Law of Something or Other, no doubt,' George
whispered hoarsely. 'Whatever it is, old man, I'd get on
with it if I were you.'

Aubrey moved to one side of the door and cleared his
mind, readying himself. He took a deep breath and began.

Having cast it so recently, the spell came to Aubrey
easily. He used the pearl as a focus, as it had been so
close to the Sorcerer Royal for so long. Each syllable
he chanted set the parameters of the illusion, while the
specific sequence of terms circumscribed the effects,
limiting them to Dr Tremaine's physical appearance.
He shuddered at the thought of taking on any of Dr
Tremaine's personality. That wouldn't do at all.

He had time to adjust the spell a little, to make it even
more convincing. Aubrey's inversion of two syllables at
the end of the spell, and the elimination of the falling
terminal utterance, added what he thought was some
flavour
of Dr Tremaine's being. He hoped it might help
deceive the guardian spells waiting for them.

He let out a deep breath and turned to his friends.
Caroline stared and hissed, her hands curling into fists.

'Well done, old man,' George said in a strained voice.
'Dr Tremaine has a twin.'

Aubrey didn't feel any different, but when he looked
at his hands they weren't his own. They were long,
powerful and bore several wicked scars. 'Let's hope the
door thinks so.'

'That's better,' Caroline said. She stood more easily.
'You can't possibly be Dr Tremaine with that voice.'

'Good,' Aubrey said, but he felt vaguely insulted. 'Stand
behind me.'

Aubrey spread his arms wide and presented himself to
the entrance. He grinned when the door opened with
no hesitation. 'Quickly, let's find the stairs down to the
bunker.'

It was easier than he expected. Behind the grand staircase
which led to the upper floors was a narrower flight
of stairs leading down. Soft buttery lights began to glow
as they descended, triggered by their presence. At the
bottom of the stairs was an iron door and it, too, opened
as they approached. A short corridor led to another iron
door which swung back as they neared.

Inside was a drawing room. Aubrey blinked. Except for
its having no windows, the room would not have been
out of place in Penhurst or Maidstone. The carpet was
richly patterned Olchester, the furniture was solid, darkly
polished wood and leather. Glass-fronted bookshelves
were crammed with expensive-looking volumes. A harp
stood in one corner. The paintings were landscapes full of
riders, peasants and haywains.

Across the room, sitting motionless on one of the large,
wing-backed chairs was Sir Darius. Next to the chair
stood a tall, dark figure in an extravagant fur coat.

'Father,' Aubrey breathed. 'Dr Tremaine.'

'Ah, good to see you all here!' the Sorcerer Royal said,
beaming. 'I was just explaining to Sir Darius how I'd
change the lbw law if it were up to me, but that can wait.
Take a seat. And cancel that illusion, young Fitzwilliam.
Devilishly handsome though I am, it's a mite disconcerting
seeing myself across the room.'

A three-syllable utterance was all it took to cancel the
illusion. Aubrey stared at his father. 'What have you done
to him?'

Sir Darius was sitting stiff-backed, both feet on the
floor, arms on the armrests of the chair. His face was
impassive, drained of life. The only part of him that
moved was his eyes, which met Aubrey's gaze.

Dr Tremaine chuckled. 'A simple spell. An inverse
application of the Law of Animation, as I expect you've
already guessed. Much safer than tying him up.'