TimeBomb: The TimeBomb Trilogy: Book 1 (19 page)

‘Right?’ Agreed Jana.

Thomas clenched his fist tighter around the handle of his cudgel and raised it slowly into the air. ‘For God’s sake speak the King’s English, and tell me what you know of my daughter,’ he said again, struggling to get the words out.

‘Your daughter is alive and well,’ said Jana, obviously choosing her words with great care. ‘Dora was with us only half an hour ago ago. She ran off into the village looking for you.’

All the questions he needed to ask, all the anger and fear and joy that were mixed up inside him so that he did not know whether to cry or shout or dance, were all swept aside in an instant by what happened next.

There was a roar from the direction of the village green, as of a group of assembled men cheering.

Then a piercing scream. He recognised it instantly.

‘Dora,’ said Thomas.

He lifted his cudgel high and ran out of the woods towards the noise, with no thought to the consequences.

‘Oh crap,’ said Kaz.

‘Come on,’ yelled Jana. Without waiting for acknowledgement she ran after Thomas. She could hear Kaz’s heavy footsteps behind her as she broke from the treeline and scurried between the houses on to the lane that ran through the village. Thomas was ahead and to her left, racing for the green.

‘Get your gun ready,’ she shouted to Kaz as she pulled the laser out of her pocket. She hared after the determined baker, who, she was certain, was about to get himself killed. As she rounded the final cottage the village green spread out before her. To her right was a huge oak tree around which crowded a gaggle of soldiers cheering as a struggling peasant was hauled off the ground by the rope around his neck. Ahead of her, three soldiers were dragging Dora towards the church, which sat on the far end of the green. Dora was screaming and crying as her feet dragged behind her. Thomas was halfway to the men, cudgel still raised. They had not yet seen him.

Jana made a lightning calculation of the odds. If Thomas could silence the three soldiers quickly enough, there was a chance that the main body of men, distracted by their lynching, would not realise Dora had been freed until they made good their escape. She checked the gun was still set to its lowest measure. At this power it worked like a taser, delivering an electric charge that would disable rather than kill. She did not have any compunction about killing the soldiers, but she did not want to use up the charge needlessly.

There was a yelp from up ahead and Jana raised her eyes to see one of the soldiers stumbling away from Dora, nursing his wrist. Jana smiled. Good on Dora; she’d bitten him hard. Thomas, who was nearly upon them, took advantage of this distraction and ran straight at the wounded man, swinging his cudgel in a huge arc and smacking the soldier square on the temple. The soldier never even saw his assailant. From ten metres away Jana heard the wet crack as the cudgel connected and the soldier collapsed in a heap.

The two other soldiers dropped Dora and stepped away as she sprawled on the grass between them. One drew a sword, the other a pistol. Jana raised her own weapon and fired, taking the swordsman out of the equation with a single, precise beam. The soldier with the pistol stood dumbfounded. He had only one shot in his weapon, and two attackers bearing down on him. He did the sensible thing and ran as hard as he could. Unfortunately he ran back towards the lynch mob, yelling at the top of his lungs. Thomas took a swing at him as he ran past, but the soldier dodged easily and kept going, shouting for aid.

Jana took careful aim at the fleeing soldier but her concentration was broken as Kaz ran between them, reaching Dora before Thomas. He scooped her up and kept running, almost without breaking stride. Thomas fell in behind him, cudgel still raised. Jana thought it likely he’d fell Kaz if he got the chance so she gave chase, letting the other soldier run.

She did not look around to see what was going on at the oak tree, but she could picture the soldier’s arrival, the realisation that they were under attack, the hue and cry that would come after them in mere seconds. Thinking fast, she turned and dropped to one knee, spinning the gun’s setting to maximum. She could see some members of the crowd at the tree turning to look in her direction, but not as many as she had feared, because the peasant’s death throes were so entertaining. She could make out his legs, kicking and wriggling as his airway was slowly crushed and the process of strangulation began.

Jana used her eye-mods to zoom in on the lynch mob. She took a deep breath, released it and squeezed the trigger. A bright white beam of light crackled from the gun and held steady, like an impossibly long knife. She swept it slowly to the right, cutting through the rope that held the struggling man. He tumbled to the ground and the soldiers gave a roar of disappointment. The angle was so fine that Jana accidentally let the beam slice into the oak tree. Neatly bisected, the top half of the tree slid sideways and then tumbled to the ground, bursting into flames as it did. The huge mass of burning foliage and thick, heavy oak fell onto about half the crowd of soldiers, who found themselves pinioned beneath exploding branches. There was an awful lot of screaming.

Those soldiers not trapped and burning milled around waving their arms, wishing to free their comrades but unable to brave the inferno.

Jana released the trigger, rose to her feet and ran after Thomas, Kaz and Dora, who had now almost reached the sanctuary of the church. She had bought them some time, she only hoped it would be enough.

If she was secretly enjoying her second gunfight of the day, she made sure to give no outward sign of it.

In the doorway of the church, Dora pushed Kaz and her father away. She did not want anybody near her. She felt unclean, disgusted with herself and the world. She wanted to bathe in scalding oil but knew not even that could wash away the shame of what her own base fear and cowardice had made her do, or burn away the knowledge of the unfeeling monster that had replaced the brother she still, somehow, loved. A distant, disconnected part of her mind knew that Kaz and her father were trying to help, but she could not use that knowledge to guide her actions; it was as if she had been reduced to something feral and desperate.

She felt arms trying to enfold her, a voice, familiar and deep, saying her name over and over again, but she screamed and kicked and pushed the arms away. Jana ran up to them, panting.

‘I bought us some time,’ she said, smiling and waving back at the green.

Dora saw the burning tree, the crowd of men milling around it. She also saw a group of ten soldiers hurrying across the green towards them, swords and pistols drawn.

Her gaze fell upon something she could use. She held out her bound hands and nodded to Kaz, then at the knife sheathed on his belt. Kaz understood and cut her free.

Before the ropes even hit the floor, Dora grabbed the gun from Jana’s hand, turned and flung herself past her momentarily stunned companion. Barely conscious of what she was doing, unaware of the frantic pursuit of her friends, still crying out loud in fear and humiliation, Dora ran to the lychgate, raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

The bright white beam lanced forward across the village green, burning into empty space. Then with one swift move, screaming in rage, Dora swept the beam across the green like a searchlight.

With a single, dreadful cry of agony, the ten soldiers who were running towards her fell to the grass.

In twenty pieces.

He had built his career on luck, but Richard Mountfort was pretty sure that it had finally run out. As the rope began to bite he desperately looked to the edges of the green in hope of rescue. His interrogation had been short but simple. The soldier who had captured him, whose name he had learned was James, had not wasted time with questions. He had got straight on with the urgent business of kicking, punching and, shortly thereafter, cutting the truth out of him.

Mountfort had little intelligence to offer. He had been sent by the king to sound out Sweetclover, to see whether he would join the fight. Rumours of black magic had reached exalted ears, and it was whispered that the king would dearly love to recruit a wizard to his cause. Mountfort had never reached the hall, so he could not tell James whether Sweetclover was for Parliament or the king, nor could he confirm or deny the stories of devilry. His ignorance made James angrier, and for a while Mountfort had been sure that the next cut would end him. When James’ superior officer had finally intervened, Mountfort had initially been relieved. Now he knew he had been saved only so he could provide sport and entertainment for the bloodthirsty mob that crowded around as he was hauled skywards by his neck.

He had always thought he would die in bed or battle. Being strung up from a tree in a muddy, out-of-the-way Cornish village was about as ignominious an end as he could imagine.

The rope pulled tight, pressing hard against his throat. A second later he was dangling, feet kicking desperately for purchase that would not come, as his vision faded and the roar of blood in his ears blotted out all sound.

Then there was a flash of heat from above him and a crunching impact as he tumbled back to the ground. His hearing faded back in as he took desperate breaths and tried to gather his wits. He lay, floundering like a fish on a beach, hearing the hubbub of disappointment and confusion generated by the soldiers who had, only moments before, been looking forward to his execution. The word ‘witchcraft’ featured prominently, and Richard wondered whether the girl he encountered before his aborted execution had indeed turned out to be a witch. Maybe she had interceded to save him. If that were so, he would gratefully pledge allegiance to Satan and all his sulphurous hordes, for nothing he could imagine would ever be as welcome to him as the sweet breeze at the back of his throat.

He had begun to consider his next move when there was a tremendous crash and the screaming began. He looked up to see that the tree trunk now ended in an angled lateral line about ten feet off the ground. The top half of the tree was lying on the green, burning fiercely even as it pressed down on a horde of dying soldiers. Before he could work out what to do next, the nearest soldier fetched him a crippling kick to the gut with his mud-encrusted boot. Mountfort felt all the air he had so gratefully gulped down expelled forcefully again as he doubled over in agony. The kicks came thick and fast, raining down on him as he curled up and raised his arms to protect his head. He felt a rib crack as one particularly hefty blow caught him.

Once again he felt his senses begin to slip away and he thought ruefully that he had exchanged one pathetic death for another.

Then, miraculously, the kicking stopped as a thick bough of burning oak crashed to the ground beside him, showering him with sparks.

He cracked open a swollen eye and found, to his amazement, that he was no longer surrounded by men determined to kill him. In fact he seemed to have been entirely forgotten. Behind him stood the oak tree, blazing like a beacon, surrounded by soldiers who sallied forward to try and pluck their friends from the fire before retreating with their eyebrows singed.

Realising that, against all odds, he had been presented with a chance to escape, Richard held his bound wrists out and leaned forward until the rope was positioned above the flames that rose from the burning bough. He cried out as the fire licked his skin, but after a moment the ropes fell apart and he pushed himself away from the conflagration. Ignoring his searing flesh, he undid the rope around his ankles, jack-knifed himself upright, and took off as fast as he could away from the fire, making for the safety of the church. Oddly, there was already a group of soldiers ahead of him, racing, swords and pistols drawn, in the same direction. He glanced beyond them and saw a group of people approaching the church. It seemed that this small group of soldiers was pursuing these escapees, while the remaining men were doing battle with the fire. Abandoning the church, Richard broke right and headed for the cottages. If he could reach them, he could perhaps find a horse and make his escape.

He ran hard, his lungs burning. His chest ached as the broken ribs ground against each other with every agonising step, but he did not slow down until he reached the lane that ran through the cottages away from the green. Finally he reached the shelter of the structures and allowed himself to glance back. He was not being pursued.

Thanking God most fervently, he hobbled away from the green.

But as he did so he heard marching feet ahead of him. He looked up to see a line of ten men, short and stocky, dressed head to toe in what looked to be black-dyed leather. Their hair had been coated with thick, coloured pastes and teased up into spikes, and their faces were etched with complex indigo tattoos. They carried weapons that he did not recognise – small, white pistols with no obvious flintlocks. When he tried to look into their eyes, they did not acknowledge him; all he saw were the reflected flames of the burning tree.

His mouth dropped open in astonishment as they began walking towards him in eerie unison. He spun on his heels and ran to the door of the nearest house. Finding it unlocked, he pushed through the downstairs, out the back door and made his escape into the woods. A few moments later he heard a new and strange sound rising above the commotion of the fire. It sounded like the screams of hell itself, but it was cut short, stopping abruptly in a manner most chilling.

Richard ran on without looking back.

Strong hands grasped Dora’s shoulders and she fought to throw them off. She kneeled on the hard, cold ground, weeping uncontrollably, the gun forgotten, discarded by her side. She could not say why she wept, whether for shame at her cowardice, for the loss of her brother’s love and its replacement with cruel zealotry, or for the innocence she had lost when her panic and grief had led her to strike down ten strangers in cold blood. She was absent of all conscious thought, a fourteen-year-old girl reduced to a storm of overwhelming emotions trapped in a shaking, traumatised shell.