The Witch Watch (47 page)

Alice smiled. “Well, we’re doing our best to turn the tables. We’re probably going to get killed in the process. Are you willing to help?”

“Miss White, I know you’d never side with this newcomer,” Archer said, clearly for the benefit of his fellows, who gave their approval when they heard this. “So I’m sure we’ll be glad to help any way we can. I suppose you’ll be wanting horses?”

“No,” Alice said. She turned to Gilbert and took the rifle that was slung over his shoulder, ignoring his protests. “I want you to take this rifle, and come with us to Buckingham Palace.”

Archer’s eyes widened at the sight of the firearm. He stopped to ask if the others would be willing to cover for him if he abandoned his post, but they practically shoved him in the direction of the Palace when they heard his assignment. A few others tried to join, and Alice had to discourage them.

Archer wanted to inspect the clearing before the crowd assembled, so the party toured the grounds discreetly while Alice recounted their recent adventures.

The palace garden was filled with a great number of trees and poles which provided little in the way of cover for a marksman but many opportunities to spoil his shots. To the east were the formidable palace walls. To the north was a great stretch of forest. To the west was a manmade lake. To the south were the foot-paths that led to the street. This was where the attendees would enter. The garden was reportedly beautiful in the summer, but in November it was cold, pale, and joyless.

“The coronation will take place at sundown,” Alice said once they had completed the circuit.

“An odd time for a coronation,” Archer remarked. “So your plan is to attack the usurper as he comes to address the people? Who am I going to be shooting?”

“You will be shooting anyone who tries to kill Simon or myself,” Alice said.

“But not Gilbert?”

“Correct. If he’s discovered, our foes are free to attempt his demise for as long as it pleases them. The longer they do so, the better our chances will be at escaping the scene with the vigor. It’s possible that the moment Mordaunt falls, his followers might scatter or surrender. It’s also possible they might try to avenge him. The crowd might rally to our aid. They might flee. Your job, I think, is to shoot whoever might be trying to kill me. Gilbert will also defend me. I’ll gather the vigor, and Simon need only keep out of sight. If all goes well, we can escape with the vigor and plan our next move. I expect Mordaunt’s followers will unravel quickly with his passing.”

They separated and waited for nightfall. Alice and Simon lost themselves in the growing crowd. Archer stood among the other soldiers in the garden, but avoided speaking with them, not knowing which side they might be on. Gilbert lurked in the sparse woods north of the clearing, some distance behind the stage.

The crowd grew. The lanterns were lit, shining on the gay flags and grim faces. The decorations told that this should be a celebration, but the citizenry were attending a funeral. They looked shocked and confused. They seemed to be here just to see that what they’d been hearing was really true. There was no revelry, no singing. A band had been hired, and played incongruously upbeat music, which nobody cared to dance to.

Alice moved as close to the stage as she dared and gripped the crystal in her trembling hand. She looked for her friends among the crowd, but couldn’t see any of them.

Archer knelt down among a group of fellow soldiers and set to work checking his firearm. Alice had given him the standard Martini-Henry rifle, a venerable device carried by nearly all common soldiers. He longed for any one of the hundreds of Lee-Metfords he’d tested at the workshop in the days before his assignment to the Witch Watch. Someday that design would be perfected, and British Soldiers would find out what it was to hold the firearm of the future.

This Martini-Henry was in respectable condition. The action was clean, suggesting that either the abomination had meticulously cleaned it or (more likely, he thought) the weapon hadn’t been fired at all. The lever was in good condition and didn’t show any signs of dangerous wear, which could lead to the jamming for which the rifle had received a (undeserved, in his opinion) bad reputation. The stock had been mildly scorched, but not in a way that would impact the performance of the weapon.

Someone bumped him with their boot. It was one of his fellow soldiers. “What about you?” the man said. “Are you still following your mum?”

Archer recognized this as some gentle hazing. These men had recognized him as a newcomer, and were going to push him a bit to see if he had any spine.

“I am my own man,” he said with as much bravado as he could. He expected the men to challenge him in some way. Perhaps they would begin an exchange of insults, or arm-wrestling, or pose some dare. Instead they cheered his answer and went back to ignoring him. He returned to his task.

While his rifle was in acceptable condition, he was not so lucky with regards to ammunition. The rounds he’d been given were the old rolled brass type that was still unfortunately in circulation, and not the newer drawn brass. However, this was really only a serious problem when it was hot. It was now November and he was a long way from Africa, so he didn’t suspect that heat would be an issue. The rounds had been poorly kept. They had been touched by greasy hands, and the surface was smeared with grit and ash. Who had handled these? A mechanic? Archer took out each round and cleaned them on his shirt-tail.

As he worked, Archer listened to the men. They were speaking ill of the soldiers that had been assigned to guard the other side of the field, calling them, “mother’s children” and likening them to newly weaned babies.

Suddenly it became clear to him. The ‘mother’ they were talking about was the Queen Mother. The other soldier hadn’t been questioning his manhood, he’d been asking Archer where his loyalties were. The soldiers had divided themselves according to which monarch they followed, and Archer was standing among the men loyal to the lich.

He considered crossing over to the others, but they might refuse him now that he’d been embraced by Mordaunt’s men. And if they did refuse him, he wouldn’t be able to return to these men either.

The two sides were at peace now, but it was clear that they were simply waiting for the opportunity to begin shooting at one another.

He was slightly comforted to see that the numbers were on the side of Queen Victoria. Her soldiers outnumbered those favoring Mordaunt by at least 2 to 1. Or at least, this would be comfort if he wasn’t standing with the weaker side, and if the civilian crowd didn’t occupy a great deal of the space between the two.

While scheduled for sundown, the Dead King didn’t appear until the sky was almost fully dark. First came his entourage, which consisted of three grim-faced men in dark robes. These would no doubt be the rest of the Four Horsemen. When Alice saw these she briefly wondered if Brooks had succumbed to his wounds. Then came the crown bearer, flanked by many guards. Alice swallowed hard. These men would certainly be fiercely loyal, and could easily prove too many for their small group. The crown was placed on a dais on stage, and the Crown Guards stood between the crowd and the stage. After the crown bearer came many important men and dignitaries. She recognized many of the faces from Brooks’ party, and burned at their ready betrayal of the Queen.

The crowd had fallen quiet. There was no jeering, but neither was there any applause. They were silent witnesses.

Mordaunt appeared. He was not a tall man. He walked alone, and not even his loyal servants came within six paces of him. He wore a porcelain mask, most likely in the image of his original face. It wore a disturbingly beatific expression.

Mordaunt walked into the open beneath the lamplight, and Alice held her breath.

The crowd had begun to shove. A great many people seemed to be elbowing their way to the front, and Alice was jostled again and again. Finally a pair of young men shoved her to one side and took spots in front of her.

“Excuse me!” she hissed with rage, but they ignored her. She tried to push her way past them and was shoved back by a strong elbow. She was about to speak again when she looked down and saw the men were wearing red sashes.

“Oh no,” she muttered. She looked to one side, and saw many more red sashes.

As Mordaunt approached the stage the Red Sashes ran forward with a great cry, drawing out knives and swords.

“No!” she screamed.

The Crown Guards drew their weapons and a fight ensued. The Red Sashes were poor swordsmen, but the numbers were on their side. The crowd was now a boiling kettle of confusion. The people near the front wanted to escape, and the people in the back wanted to move forward to see what was happening. Some British Soldiers tried to contain the people to prevent a stampede.

Finally the Red Sashes broke through and stormed the stage. As the last of the Crown Guards were slain, a ball of fire fell on the wooden platform. Half of the red sashes perished in a single brilliant flash of light. Flames engulfed the stage, and the Red Sashes who survived the blast ran towards the lake, screaming and in flames.

A woman was screaming. She had been pushed too close to the stage by the rioting crowd, and had been caught in Mordaunt’s fire. Alice made a gesture and drenched the woman in water.

Mordaunt levitated above his entourage and began striking the fleeing Red Sashes with bolts of lightning.

A single gunshot rang out, and the porcelain mask was shattered, revealing the corrupted face beneath. Unlike Gilbert, the Viscount had not been carefully preserved, and his face was little more than a skull.

More gunshots came in answer. Behind her, two groups seemed to be inexplicably shooting at one another.

Gilbert had watched the battle unfold in complete bafflement. He saw Alice shove her way free of the throng just in time for the stage to explode, drawing a curtain of flame between himself and her.

He watched in frustration as Mordaunt dispatched the Red Sashes and Simon’s fine work was reduced to ash. Their plan was ruined. Should he withdraw?

He didn’t dare cross near the fire to leave, so he planned to go north and circle around the castle to rejoin the others at the agreed meeting place. As he turned to go, he saw that Simon had been discovered. The grey-robed men had grabbed him and dragged him into the light.

He was terrified for Simon’s safety, but he was also just a little relieved. He had dreaded returning home again without striking some small blow against their foes. He drew out his sword and gave a battle cry that turned the faces of Mordaunt’s entourage to him.

“I apologize that this is nearly two months late!” he laughed cheerfully as he ran the first of them through.

“Master!” screamed the other two, using voices usually reserved for small girls and not aged men. Gilbert’s sword flashed, and one of these fell silent.

“Gilbert!” screamed Simon in warning. He was looking at something behind and above Gilbert.

Rather than turning to look for himself, Gilbert simply grabbed the remaining man by the robes and spun around, holding the man out like a shield. There was a flash of white light and a stunning boom, after which Gilbert found himself to be holding a flaming corpse.

“Run!” Gilbert screamed to Simon. Then he advanced into the group of cowering officials that had come ahead of Mordaunt in the procession. Gilbert didn’t see how he could hope to extricate himself from this battle, so instead he decided to secure Simon’s escape and make a worthy end for himself.