In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers (26 page)

“But they need their technology. Without electricity and oil, they’re helpless. That’s a weak spot.”
 

“You could be right,” Adam said. “But it’s getting darker and colder by the day. Better hope your friend Tugon comes soon or this winter will take a lot of good men.”
 

 
That evening, as the women brought food, Conall noticed bruises on Heather’s face, scratch marks across her neck. He tried to catch her eye but she looked away. He waited until the meal was done and she fetched Rufus to the washing tubs. “What happened to you?”
 

She turned from him, hiding her bruises in the dark. “It’s nothing,” she said.
 

“Was it the guards?”

“It was your brother,” one of the women said as she passed with an armful of plates.
 

“Faro did this? Why?”
 

“He made me offer,” she said. “A way out.”
 

“What did he offer?”
 

She hesitated. “I said no.” She handed him Rufus, turned and ran.
 

“Leave her,” said the woman with the plates. “She’s had enough of men for one day.”

≈≈≈≈

After six weeks in the camp Conall was settled into the rituals of the place, the routines and habits. Then one cold morning, as the men ate a meagre breakfast in a drizzle of rain, everything changed. The guards bellowed orders, getting the slaves ready early. “Take them to the new site,” the supervisor shouted.
 

The men gathered near the gates. There were more guards than usual, and they seemed on edge, checking guns, keeping an eye on the hills all around. The slaves shuffled, grumbling as the rain fell on their unprotected heads.
 

Conall pushed through the crowd of men to reach Bagatt. “What’s going on?”

“Damned if I know. Ask the old one. You talk to him often enough.”
 

The gates creaked open. The supervisor cracked a whip and yelled at the men. Their usual route to the mine took them inland, heading steeply uphill from the camp, a walk of eight miles or more. But the guards led them to a different path, along the coastline, past the remains of a long deserted town.
 

Conall worked his way forward, jostling through the throng of slaves until he reached his father. He fell into step beside him, his face to the floor, watching his own feet and keeping his lips hidden from the eyes of the guards. “Do you know where we’re heading?”
 

“Got a good idea,” Adam said. “That old town we went past was Longyearbyen, capital of Svalbard in the old days. This is the road to the old airport.”
 

“What’s out here now?”
 

His father paused, jaw bones thrashing around under sunken cheeks, chewing over what to say. “Out here is where they captured me.” He gave Conall a meaningful stare. “The slavers saw me out there, searching.”
 

So the treasure was out here. “You think they know?”
 

“Must do,” his father said. “Can’t see any other reason to bring us all this way. Has to be something important. It’s exposed out here. Wild.”
 

“And sacred.” Conall almost whispered the words.
 

“Some would see it like that, for sure.”
 

The Oduma would come. They’d strike to protect their sacred place and the treasure of Spitsbergen. “The slavers must know how important it is, to the wildmen.”
 

“That they must.”
 

“A trap?”
 

“Might be. Unless.”
 

Conall waited, but his father said nothing more. What did he mean? Unless what? Then he had it. Unless the slavers had something new. Something that would lead them straight to the treasure.
 

Conall slipped back through the throng to join the men of
The Arkady
. This time he slipped into step alongside ‘Bones’ Bagatt. “Keep your eyes open.”
 

“Always do,” Bagatt said. “What we looking for?”

“Tall man, straggle of a beard hanging off his chin. Walks with a cane, though he don’t need to.”
 

“Really?” Bagatt sounded impressed. “More to you than meets the eye, Mr Hawkins. I hope you’re right. It might not be to his advantage, but me and the crew would be mighty pleased, round about now, to set eyes on Jonah Argent.”
 

As the procession of slaves neared the mouth of the fjord, they came to a flat stretch of land surrounded by a scattering of brick and concrete buildings. Conall had seen similar remains on Shetland. He and Faro had explored them, swapping tales of the old times and what it must have been like for men to fly.
 

The old airstrip had been built on low land next to the sea. To the south, the landscape was bare and rocky, rising sharply towards a high hill. Nothing grew here, no grass or trees. There was no soil for them to cling to. But the works of men littered the hillside.
 

 
Half way up the slope stood an ancient concrete building. Tall, cramped and thin, it resembled a doorway more than a structure in its own right. It stood at a angle, leaning to one side, as if the earth had shifted underneath, threatening to topple it onto the hillside. Conall had seen that shape before, on the map Jonah Argent took from
The Arkady
. And if the map was right, inside there were tunnels that led deep into the mountain, to the treasure rooms.

He scanned the hillside. Fifty yards from the building stood a circle of standing stones. They had those on Shetland, too, impossibly ancient, built by men thousands of years in the past. But these stones couldn’t be that old. No men lived here in ancient times. The land had been covered in glaciers and snow many feet deep the year round.
 

The monument had been surrounded by four raised wooden guard-towers. Slavers with guns scanned the surrounding land as if they expected an attack at any moment. They had brought generators to power search-lights and built defences from sandbags.
 

In the centre of the monument, inside the two circles of standing stones, stood an altar of rock. On it, gazing across the fjord, like a king surveying his domain, stood Jonah Argent. The first mate leant on his cane, but from the way he stood, with his wrists and ankles together, it was clear the man was in chains.
 

“Looks like Jonah got himself in a spot of trouble,” Bagatt said. “Don’t know how you knew, Mr Hawkins. You two been conspiring?”
 

“Just a hunch.” Conall stared at Argent and scowled. If the slavers had Jonah, then they had the captain’s maps. They’d find the treasure, seize it as their own and carry it off.
 

Where was Tugon? On top of the hill stood a group of slavers. Conall caught a glint of reflected sunlight. Faro, with the binoculars. He too was watching for the wildmen, anticipating an attack.
 

The guards ordered the slaves up the hillside. They brought out thick metal chains and tied them around one of the stone monuments. The slaves were lined up along ropes and chains ready to pull it down and drag it away. A groan went up from the Oduma slaves as they realised what the company men planned to do. Conall watched the faces of the Oduma, wild with anger. “They won’t do it. They’ll fight and die first.”
 

“They don’t sound happy, for sure,” Bagatt said. “What’s wrong with them?”
 

“This place is sacred.”
 

“Not worth a massacre though.”
 

“We should help them, strike together, all of us.”
 

“Hold still,” Bagatt said, “do nothing. It’s not the time or place, not out in the open, in daylight, and not a weapon among us.”
 

Conall looked for his father. Adam Hawkins stood at the heart of the remaining slaves, urging them to calm. He glanced across at Conall, his eyes imploring him to do nothing. He made a downward motion with his hands, indicating they should take no action.
 

His father was right, Bagatt was right, but it felt abject to stand by and let the Oduma fight alone.
 

The guards shouted at the slaves, ordering them to pick up the ropes and pull. But why move the stones? They had the map. The entrance to the tunnels was in that building. It made no sense.
 

The guards yelled their orders once more, but no one moved. All eyes were on the wildmen. The tribesmen had gathered into a huddle of a hundred or more men. Slavers with whips yelled at them, threatening. One cracked a whip, the sharp snap echoing across the fjord. The Oduma didn’t move. The whip cracked again, slashing across the back of one of the wildmen. The man shrieked in pain and fell to his knees. A guard kicked him, lifting the butt of a rifle, ready to smash it into his head.
 

As one, the men of the Oduma broke from their huddle and charged the guards, screaming their fury. It was a death cry, and the slavers closest to the wildmen were crushed under the stampede. The guard with the rifle was dragged to the floor and beaten. The slaver with the whip disappeared under a sea of tribesmen. But then the guns opened up, the slavers safe in the guard-towers picking off wildmen at will. They couldn’t miss, and the men of the Oduma were cut down.
 

Conall dropped the rope he’d been holding, intending to join the fight, but before his legs could move, Bagatt and two other crewman had pulled him to the ground.
 

“No you don’t, Mr Hawkins,” Bagatt yelled down his ear. “Intend to keep you alive, if it’s all the same to you. There’s nothing you can do except die with them.”
 

One of the crewmen sat on his chest, pinning him down, helpless as he listened to the howl of gunfire and the groans of fallen men.
 

The guards focused their fire on the wildmen, leaving the other slaves unharmed. But they were merciless to the Oduma. They kept firing, long after the wildmen had given up the battle. Barely twenty out of more than a hundred were left uninjured when the sound of gunfire stopped abruptly.
 

The hillside was scattered with the dead, dying and injured. He heard Faro’s voice as his brother ran down the slope towards the scene of the massacre, shouting orders, giving commands. But Faro wasn’t ordering his men to save lives. He was concerned with restoring order, getting the work started, not wasting too many slaves.
 

Twenty yards away, one of the Oduma writhed in pain, bleeding from his shoulder and thigh. But the man was alive. Conall ripped his own shirt from his back as he ran. He tore the shirt in half and pressed it against the man’s wounds. Across the hillside, men followed his lead rushing to help the injured. The guards hesitated, not knowing what to do. Conall looked up towards Faro, his eyes imploring his brother to help these men, not leave them to die. Faro met his gaze for an instant, then turned away. But he waved to his guards to let the slaves treat the wounded. “Save any that can still work,” Faro shouted. “Dispatch the rest.”
 

As the slaves raced to save lives, the guards picked through the bodies, dragging off those who were dead, or nearly dead, and throwing them onto the same pile.
 

Kneeling on hard rock that stung his knees, Conall bandaged the wounded wildman as best he could. He stopped the bleeding, but the man was still unconscious and needed more care than Conall could give. All around, the slaves tried to save the injured, but few of them knew much medicine or first aid.
 

An ancient truck wound up the road heading for the scene of the massacre. The vehicle was used to transport coal from the quarry to the port, the only working vehicle on Spitsbergen according to his father, patched together a thousand times and kept running through a mix of ingenuity and stubbornness. Conall had never seen the like of it on Shetland. Even the slavers in Russia hadn’t possessed trucks, relying on the muscle power of slaves and horses.
 

The truck clattered over the uneven road and rumbled to a stop below the stone circles. “Load the injured,” Faro shouted to his guards. “Treat them at the camp. Get the rest back to work.”
 

The guards brought a stretcher from the truck and a group of slaves carried off the wounded. The dead were rolled down the hillside into a loose pile. Conall turned away from the sight of so many corpses. The smell of blood kindled a memory, buried deep, of a day on Shetland when the townsfolk hunted foxes, blaming them for taking livestock. They killed without mercy, using dogs to tear the foxes to pieces. They hung the remains as trophies on a fence outside the town. He’d stood with Faro, mourning the dead animals, both of them horrified at the ease with which men can kill. He remembered Faro’s rage at the people of Lerwick, how he condemned their cruelty, even vowed to take revenge.
 

One of the slavers cracked a whip, a signal to get back to work.
 

“I want these stones down, today,” Faro shouted. “Clear the site.”
 

Conall kept his head down, mingling with the other slaves, unable to look at his brother. He took hold of a rope, braced his legs, and waited for the shout. When it came, the men took up the slack and hauled. The first stone fell with a crash that echoed across the hillside and out over the fjord.
 

Fifty to a rope, the slaves pulled the small stones away with ease, dragging them off downhill. Conall moved closer to see how they had been put up. The stones weren’t set deep into the earth, but balanced on hard rock, easy to move, and within four hours, the smaller stones had all been hauled off and the guards ordered a break.
 

On the hillside a hundred yards from the stone circle stood a pile of rubble, discarded either by the builders of the monument or the men who created the strange building. Here the slaves sat to eat their meagre meal, Conall on a rock next to his father, chewing on a lump of dry bread. He gestured back towards the stones. “You see the man standing there, in the centre of the circle.” Conall kept his voice low so no one else would hear, only his father. “He’s the man from
The Arkady
.”