The Place of Dead Kings (35 page)

‘You’re going to have to eat that,’ Jack said.

Rao blanched. ‘I can’t.’

‘You have to. Things might turn nasty otherwise.’

‘There must be some—’

‘Now.’

Rao looked around at the Mar, who all continued to stare at him. He licked his lips and swallowed. Then he breathed in sharply, shut his eyes and spooned the food into his mouth. He chewed slowly and deliberately, fighting to keep the look of disgust from his face.

The Mar cheered and began talking amongst themselves again. Domnall beamed and slapped his thighs.

Rao almost gagged, stopped himself and swallowed the meat.

‘Better keep going.’ Jack nodded at Rao’s overflowing bowl. ‘Wouldn’t want to disappoint the Chief.’

Rao shuddered and shut his eyes for a second. ‘Shiva.’

Then he opened his eyes, glared at the stew as if it were his enemy and began spooning it into his mouth.

He ate almost half his food, before he gagged again, put down his spoon and pushed the bowl away. ‘Enough.’

Jack wondered whether Rao had eaten enough to satisfy the Chief, but Domnall was busy talking and laughing with his subjects and paying little attention to the Great Shee for the moment. A Mar woman soon took away the Captain’s bowl.

Next, a thin man with a wispy beard strode out into the open ground beside the fire. The Mar quietened and the Chief said a few words to the man.

‘This bard,’ Cormac said. ‘Tonight will tell story of Place of Dead Kings.’

Jack sat up straighter, his interest piqued. He wanted to find out all he could about the place where Mahajan was hiding out.

The gathering was completely silent now. Even the numerous dogs sat still.

The bard looked up into the sky and began singing in a clear voice. Now that Jack listened closely to the native tongue, he was reminded a little of the sound of the language some spoke in Wales.

Cormac translated, explaining that long ago, the ancestors of the Mar, Cattans and other tribes in the region had been extremely rich and powerful. They built huge buildings unlike anything seen in the Highlands these days. They lived in vast towns that stretched for miles and they had huge numbers of cattle and sheep, so that no one went hungry.

Their main town was in the valley beyond the Mountain of the Old Trees, and in the centre of that town was a castle, underneath which they buried their kings. This is why this area is still known as the Place of Dead Kings.

God was very happy with these people. They worshipped him and did not give in to the temptations of the Evil One. But then a king named Matain, who was arrogant and reckless, came to the throne. The Devil sent a serpent to whisper in his ear, telling him he could be greater than all the kings before him, greater even than God himself. With this in mind, Matain decreed that a tower be built – the tallest tower in the world. It would be so high it would reach the moon, and Matain himself would sit at its top and rule the world as God from there.

So, the people began to build the tower. They laboured for years, heaping stone upon stone. And the tower grew until it was taller than any of the other buildings in the land, then taller than the tallest hill and then the tallest mountain. Finally, it reached up into the sky.

Matain climbed to the top of the tower and looked up at the moon. It seemed so close now, he could almost reach out and touch it.

‘I will be higher than God once I reach the moon,’ he said. ‘I will take his place and rule the world.’

The builders continued to work on the tower and it grew higher even than the clouds. But every time Matain climbed to the top, the moon was never quite within reach.

He became angry and commanded his labourers to work harder and faster. He enlisted more workers and drove them to build both day and night.

But still the moon lay beyond his grasp.

One night, at the top of his tower, the icy wind in his hair, Matain railed against God and demanded to be allowed to reach the moon. At that moment the tower shook. A crack ran up its side. The tower had been built too tall and could no longer support its own weight. The stones crumbled and the entire structure collapsed, burying Matain beneath it.

The King had been killed by his own arrogance.

After that time, the kingdom fell into decline. The people realised that in following Matain they had let themselves drift away from God. They stopped putting up huge towers, stopped dreaming of ruling the world and reaching the moon. And so they returned to God and left behind the temptations of the Devil.

When the bard finished, the crowd roared with delight and clapped loudly. Many began singing, while others stood and danced about the flames.

‘A strange sort of story,’ Rao said to Jack. ‘What do you make of it?’

Jack shrugged. ‘Just a legend, I suppose.’

Rao rubbed his moustache. ‘There’s truth in legends sometimes. These people, they once had cities and towns. I read that.’

‘I heard that too.’

‘This story about the tower. Maybe it’s their way of explaining why they stopped building castles and the like.’

‘Could be.’ Jack yawned. He wasn’t much interested in what the story was about. He’d been hoping to learn more about the Place of Dead Kings as it was in the present.

He sat watching the dancing Mar for another fifteen minutes or so, yawning repeatedly. This seemed to set off Rao, who began yawning himself. Noticing this, Cormac asked Chief Domnall for permission for the Great Shee to retire and then led Jack and Rao over to a hut. It was a simple, circular structure, like most of the others in the village. A cairn topped by a river-worn rock stood beside the entrance and a twig had been tied to a stone above the door.

‘Rowan.’ Cormac pointed at the twig. ‘Stop witches.’

Jack glanced at the branch. It was not so different from the charms the English used. Did the Mar burn witches too? Sadly, he suspected they did.

He ducked through the doorway and entered a smoky chamber lit only by a fire in the centre. Two piles of bracken lay on the floor, and while these beds were basic, they looked more comfortable than anything he’d slept on for days.

Cormac crouched beside the hearth, smoothed out the embers with a stick and smothered them with ash and several bricks of peat. The covered embers smoked and glowed through the ash, but the peat didn’t catch fire.

‘Leave like this.’ Cormac pointed at the hearth. ‘Will burn all night. Not let go out.’

‘Why not?’ Rao asked.

Cormac’s expression went solemn. ‘Very bad luck. Great evil will come.’ He gestured repeatedly at the fire. ‘Not let go out.’

‘All right.’ Jack raised his hand. ‘We’ll leave it like that.’

Cormac nodded, slipped over to the entrance and bowed. ‘Good night, oh Great Shee.’ Then he stooped, left the hut and scraped the door back into place.

Jack took the scimitar from his belt, levered off his mud-logged boots and collapsed on the bracken. He sighed. ‘Think I could sleep for a week.’

‘What is this?’ Rao was examining the stack of bricks beside the fire.

Jack rolled over. ‘Peat. From the ground.’

Rao frowned, picked up one of the black blocks and studied it. ‘The ground?’

‘Yes. Some people use it in England.’ Jack lay on his back again and stared up at the dark roof. ‘Dig it up, dry it out and burn it.’

‘Never heard of such a thing.’ Rao replaced the brick.

Jack pulled a blanket over himself and shut his eyes. Sleep rushed at him almost instantly, but as he drifted off he heard rustling and scratching nearby. He creaked his eyes open. Rao was sitting cross-legged in a shaft of moonlight that pierced the door. Atri’s notebook lay open in his lap and he was scribbling in the back pages, stopping at times to dip his pen in an ink pot.

Was Rao adding to Atri’s notes? Did he know more about Mahajan than he’d let on?

‘What are you doing?’ Jack asked.

‘Oh.’ Rao pointed with the pen at the book. ‘Just writing. Some thoughts.’

‘About what?’

Rao gave a slight smile. ‘Some notes on the Mar, in fact.’ He lifted the page he was working on and Jack could just make out sketches of the natives’ amulets, along with lines of spidery writing. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. Apart from Mahajan, no one has ever been here. I’ve decided to write down my observations.’ He lowered the book into his lap. ‘Perhaps publish a monograph when I get back.’

Jack rolled on to his back again. Perhaps Rao didn’t know much about Mahajan after all. ‘I forgot. You’re a poet.’

Rao rubbed his moustache and laughed nervously. ‘Yes. I told you that, didn’t I?’

‘Nothing to be embarrassed about. You told me a sad story. About your father, and your sweetheart.’

Rao cleared his throat and fidgeted with the pen. ‘I perhaps spoke indiscreetly. I thought I was dying.’

‘So did I.’ Jack shut his eyes. ‘Don’t worry about it. For what it’s worth, I hope you do get back to Rajthana and tell your father to go jump off a cliff.’

Rao coughed. ‘I can’t do that!’

‘I would.’

Rao paused for a few seconds. ‘Yes, I believe you would . . .’

But even as Rao was speaking, Jack was already slipping off to sleep.

Jack heard a shout. His heart lurched and he sat up. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was, but then he saw a suggestion of the hut’s walls in the glow of the buried fire. He heard another muffled cry and what sounded like a scuffle coming from Rao’s side of the room.

Christ. They were under attack.

He grasped the scimitar, went to stand and then heard a woman speaking rapidly in Gaalic. As his eyes adjusted, he made out Rao sitting up on his bed. A Mar woman crouched beside him, grasping his sleeve and saying repeatedly in broken English, ‘My name Eva. Chief daughter.’

Jack put down the scimitar. ‘Looks like you’ve got your hands full there.’

Rao spluttered. ‘I have no idea what she’s doing here. I felt her grab my hand and I woke up.’

‘Eva, do you speak English?’ Jack asked.

‘Learn few words.’ Eva brushed her long brown hair behind her ear. ‘Cormac teach.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Chief daughter.’ She pressed her hand to her chest. ‘Chief daughter.’

‘All right, you’re the Chief’s daughter. But what do you want?’

‘Chief send.’ She gripped Rao’s sleeve. ‘We marry.’

‘Shiva.’ Rao sprang to his knees. ‘No.’

Jack couldn’t help smiling. ‘You don’t want to anger the Chief, Rao.’

‘What?’ Rao wrestled his arm free. ‘No. Look, Eva, I can’t. No marry.’

Eva frowned and pouted. She looked about twenty years old, as far as Jack could tell in the dim light.

‘No.’ Rao struggled to find the right words. ‘Don’t be upset. You see, I can’t marry, because . . . I’m already married.’

Eva didn’t seem to understand and grasped Rao’s sleeve again. ‘We marry.’

Jack thought he’d better come to Rao’s aid. ‘No, can’t marry.’ He pointed at Rao. ‘Already marry. You understand?’

Eva let go of Rao and stared at him. ‘Already marry?’

Rao cleared his throat. ‘Yes.’

Eva lowered her eyes, stuck out her bottom lip and nodded glumly.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rao said.

Eva swept her cloak about her, slipped over to the door, looked back once at Rao and then vanished into the night.

‘Shiva.’ Rao stared at the door. ‘What next?’

Jack did his best to stifle a laugh, but couldn’t hold it back.

‘You might find it funny,’ Rao said. ‘But you’ll be next.’

‘I don’t think so. I’m not the Great Shee with the brown skin.’

Rao snorted, shook his head and then chuckled himself. ‘What a place. Where on earth have I ended up?’

‘C
aptain Rao. Jack. Come quick.’

Jack sat up, blinked and saw Cormac squatting in the hut’s entrance. Judging by the light outside, it was well after dawn. The fire still smouldered and traces of smoke seeped up from between the peat bricks.

Rao rose and scratched his bare head.

Jack rubbed his face. ‘What is it?’

‘Cattans coming.’ Cormac shifted on his haunches. ‘Coming to village.’

Jack scrambled to his feet, yanked on his boots and grasped his weapons. Rao threw aside his blanket and buckled on his belt. They scurried out of the hut and followed Cormac towards the edge of the village.