The Place of Dead Kings (20 page)

Jack and Saleem tramped between the rocks towards a pile of sacks that had slipped from the back of a mule. The animal had run about two hundred yards before the load had fallen off and Jack and Saleem had been sent to recover as much as they could.

‘What’s that?’ Saleem pointed at a lump lying amongst a cluster of thistles to the left of the sacks.

Jack frowned. Maybe it was some further piece of baggage. ‘Let’s take a look.’

They strode over to the thistles and Saleem gasped when they saw the shape was a Scot. At first the man looked dead, but then his eyelids flickered open. He had a tangled mop of ginger hair, a thick beard and skin so pale it seemed to glow against the black mud. He wore a filthy, shaggy cloak that was wrapped about his body like a shroud and his feet were bare, the soles covered in a crust of yellow calluses. Incredibly, the man seemed to have survived in this climate without boots.

There were two bullet holes in his chest and the blood had spread and hardened into two circles on his cloak.

The Scot’s eyes focused as Jack and Saleem looked down. He reached out to them with his hand and opened his mouth as if to speak, but only a low hiss came out.

‘Out of the way.’ A Saxon strode across the slope. He slung his musket from his shoulder and released the catch, the knife snapping into place. He stood over the Scot, paused for a second, then slammed the knife into the man’s chest. There was a squelching sound as the blade slid into flesh and a line of blood squirted up.

‘Come on.’ Jack drew Saleem away. There was no point staying to watch, and it would do no good to plead for the man’s life either. He would have died soon from his injuries anyway. It was kinder to kill him quickly.

They walked over to the baggage. There were too many sacks to be carried all at once, so they each lifted one, staggered back to the track and loaded them both on to a cart. As they turned to head back up the hill, Jack caught a voice nearby saying that word again:
Brahmastra
. He stopped and made out men speaking in Rajthani.

‘You go on,’ he said to Saleem. ‘I’ll catch up in a minute.’

Saleem trudged off, while Jack ducked down behind a row of boulders – he didn’t want anyone to notice him eavesdropping. Staying crouched, he scrambled along the line of rocks, reached a gap and peered around the corner.

Rao and Parihar were sitting on a slab of stone. The Lieutenant was polishing his scimitar with a cloth, while Rao was staring glumly at the ground.

‘We can’t turn back now,’ Parihar said.

‘Without Atri . . .’ Rao shook his head. ‘We won’t be able to deal with Mahajan or the Brahmastra.’

Parihar lifted his blade and admired his handiwork. ‘We still have swords and firearms. Always been enough for me.’

Rao pressed his handkerchief to his nose. ‘Wish I had your confidence.’

‘Look, my friend. We’ve come this far. We’re close. It won’t look good if we give up. Let’s at least find Mahajan and see what he’s up to. If we can’t deal with him, fine, we’ll turn back and report our findings.’

Rao nodded slowly. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘You have Atri’s notes?’

Rao patted a satchel sitting on the rock beside him. Jack recognised the black leather bag – he’d often seen Atri retrieving his notebook from it.

‘Right.’ Parihar stood and sheathed his scimitar. ‘What’s your decision, Captain?’

Rao put away his handkerchief and sighed. ‘We’ll carry on.’

‘Excellent. You’ve made the right choice.’

Rao stood and the two men set off back towards the track.

Jack turned and leant against the rock.

Atri’s notes. They must contain something important if Rao and Parihar thought it necessary to hold on to them. Jack would give anything to know what. But it would be difficult to get his hands on the notebook – and, in any case, he wouldn’t be able to read the writing.

And the Brahmastra? What was that?

Brahma was a Rajthanan god. In Rajthani,
astra
meant some sort of weapon, as far as he could remember. That was interesting. Brahma’s weapon. Was that it? Was that what Mahajan was working on?

Jack rubbed his forehead. So many questions and so few answers.

The statue swayed as the wagon bounced up the rocky slope. Jack and his men had secured the murti with chains and ropes, but none of them dared walk immediately behind.

The party was silent. No one spoke unless they had to, and when they did, they kept their voices low. Even the animals seemed quieter.

The column was smaller than before. Only sixty-three Saxons marched uphill, followed by just under seventy porters and a diminished number of carts, wagons and pack mules. And the men looked tired and dishevelled. How would they fare if the savages attacked again?

Saleem shivered and stared out at the hills. ‘You think they’ll come back?’

‘The Scots?’ Jack shook his head. ‘Think they’ve been scared off for now. They won’t have seen muskets before.’

All the same, Jack found himself scouring the area for any sign of movement. He wasn’t as certain as he sounded.

They were all exhausted by the time they reached the top of the scarp and Saleem was stumbling and panting. But as they continued down the far side of the hill, a cool breeze revived them and Jack was certain he could sense everyone’s relief as they left that desolate battlefield behind.

They made camp beside a long, narrow lake. The wind had strengthened in the late afternoon and now whistled across the open ground. The soldiers struggled to erect their flapping tents, and porters wrestled with the yards of canvas that made up the Rajthanans’ marquees.

As Jack was helping Robert and his gang build a fire, Wulfric appeared from the semi-dark.

Jack stood up straight. What now?

Wulfric grunted, but hardly gave him a second look and instead cast his eye over the group of porters. His gaze finally settled on Robert and a couple of his gang. ‘You three. Come with me. They need help with the officers’ dinner.’

Robert glanced at Jack.

‘Come on!’ Wulfric shouted. ‘The officers are hungry.’

There was little Robert and the others could do but agree, and they loped off after the Sergeant.

Jack was puzzled. The officers’ dinner? Normally only Rajthanans served officers. Unless they’d been blessed by a Rajthanan priest, Europeans were considered too impure to cook food for the higher jatis. Still, there were only two Rajthanan batmen left alive now and no doubt they would be stretched trying to prepare meals for the officers.

Jack and his men ate with the remainder of Robert’s gang. The supply of barley was running low and they made only a thin broth rather than hearty pottage.

As they finished eating, Robert and his comrades appeared from out of the darkness, sat quickly and demanded their share.

As Robert slurped his meal, Jack asked, ‘So, what happened to you?’

Robert looked up and grinned. ‘Och, they’re mad, those Rajthanans. We had to help the batmen with dinner, but we weren’t allowed to touch any food. All I could do was wash pots and knives, throw away scrapings, that sort of thing.’ He shook his head and took another spoonful of food. ‘Mad.’

They sat around talking for a few minutes and then silence settled over them. Jack thought again about the three Shropshire lads lying buried in this strange land. No doubt the others would all be thinking of their own fallen friends.

Jack glanced out into the dark. He made out the sentries’ lanterns dotted around the perimeter of the camp. The lights seemed small and fragile in the vast night.

A gust of wind moaned and Saleem’s eyes widened.

‘You think they’re out there?’ Saleem asked.

Jack paused. The savages might well be out there, but it was best not to think about that.

‘We’ll be all right.’ He took a final look into the pitch black pressing all around them, then pulled his hood over his head and stood. ‘Let’s get some sleep. It’s been a hard day.’

The sound of a musket shot rolled across the valley.

Jack’s heart jumped and he bolted to his feet. The crack of the firearm seemed to echo in his head before trailing off into a whisper.

‘What was that?’ Saleem sat up, his eyes faint glints.

The other five Shropshire lads also leapt up from where they’d been sleeping.

The thin sliver of the moon was blacked out by cloud and Jack couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead of him. Squinting, he made out the huge blot of the Ganesh statue. To the left of that, sentry lanterns wove about in different directions.

Another shot rang out, followed by shouts.

‘Savages.’ Saleem reached for his hidden knife.

Jack grabbed his arm. ‘Wait.’ He squatted down. ‘All of you, wait.’

The others crouched beside Jack and stared at him intently, their faces pale moons in the dim light. Saleem was breathing heavily and Jack noticed the lad’s hand was shaking slightly.

The shouting continued but no further shots were fired.

‘We’ll stay here for the moment,’ Jack said. ‘If we’re attacked we’ll defend ourselves. Stay close to the wagon so we don’t get split up in the dark.’

His comrades nodded seriously and they all sat with their backs to the vehicle.

A whistle blasted and Jack heard Wulfric bellowing orders. Dim figures rushed about the camp, only visible as they flickered past the white tents.

Saleem gave a loud yelp and sprang away from the wagon.

Jack’s heart flew. He wrenched the pistol from the satchel and spun round.

‘God’s cause, will you calm down.’ Robert’s bushy head was poking out from underneath the wagon. He must have crept across from where he’d been sleeping.

Jack exhaled and grinned.

Robert crawled out and gave Jack a curious look. ‘Quite a weapon you have there, wee man.’

‘Aye.’ Jack put the pistol away. ‘And I’d appreciate you keeping quiet about it.’

‘Don’t you worry.’ Robert’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’ll keep your little secret to myself.’

‘Is it the savages?’ Saleem motioned to where the lanterns were still bouncing about in the dark.

‘No, Sultan.’ Robert’s forehead creased. ‘Some of the lads have run off.’

‘Run off?’ Jack peered into the dark. Were they mad? They weren’t soldiers, but they could still be shot for deserting. ‘How many?’

‘Ten or so,’ Robert said. ‘No more than that.’

The darkness seemed to thicken as Jack stared into it.

Only ten men? That was a desperate move. Even if they escaped the camp, the Scots would easily pick them off.

Wulfric’s whistle blew several more times and after a couple of minutes a horn blower sounded a series of notes.

‘What’s that about?’ Robert said.

‘It’s the call to assembly,’ Jack said. ‘Come on.’

They stood and walked towards the centre of the camp. Even with his exceptional eyesight, Jack found it difficult to pick his way in the dark. He tripped on a guy rope at one point and Saleem stuck his foot in a pot.

They found a congregation of Saxons and porters standing in the open space around the flagpole. Several soldiers carried lanterns, which sent light swaying across the grass. Wulfric stood in the middle of the group. He’d obviously dressed in a hurry as his tunic buttons were undone, he wore no cap and he hadn’t tied on his puttees. A lantern lay tilted at his feet, the light casting his face skull-like.

With one hand, he gripped the hair of a corpse, holding it up in a sitting position.

The dead man was a porter – Jack recognised the man’s face, although he’d never spoken to him. The man’s eyes stared into the distance and his arms hung limply at his side. Blood encrusted the front of his tunic.

‘God almighty,’ Robert whispered and crossed himself.

Jack sensed the men about him bristle. Porters murmured to each other and glared at Wulfric.

‘This is a traitor.’ Wulfric shook the head of the dead man. ‘You all look at him. This is what happens if you try running off like a coward. Don’t think you can get away. Old Wulfric has his eye on each one of you! Old Wulfric will hunt you down if he has to himself!’