Harvest

by William Horwood

  ‘Stort help SW453268 AF URG’

  They each got a different bit of it simultaneously.

  ‘AF is Arthur Foale!’ cried Stort.

  ‘SW453268 is a grid reference,’ Said Jack excitedly.

  ‘. . . and URG,’ they said together, ‘is urgent!’

  They were right. The reference was the one Arthur worked out from the Ordnance Survey map he had examined so carefully in the canteen in the bunker. The Embroidery was forgotten and they set off at once to Marshal Brunte’s headquarters because it was there, Jack knew, that Ordnance Survey maps might be found that would allow them to use the grid reference to plot Arthur’s location very precisely indeed. To within one hundred yards, in fact.

  29

  LEAVING

  The former Emperor Slaeke Sinistral had found new peace. He had finally learnt the lesson that eternal beauty is not found by clinging to a false eternal mortal life, but in the graceful acceptance of inevitable death, without fear and in a spirit of compassion for self and all others.

  Sinistral had grown wise.

  His abdication in favour of Blut so that he could retreat into the Remnant tunnels to think and to ponder the musica was the best decision he ever made. More and more he was able to rest again in his chair to reach out with his mind and search through threads of sound for that same thing which Bedwyn Stort now sought and which the Shield Maiden needed soon: the gem of Autumn.

  Each, in their own way, was seeking the same thing.

  ‘Finding this gem,’ he told himself pragmatically, ‘cannot be done without these others. What we have to combine to do is make sure that those of selfish intent do not lay hands on it. Meaning . . .’

  Meaning he did not know what, but he found as his mind explored the melodic threads of sound to places far beyond Bochum that there were certain inconsistencies, which were disharmonies, and these formed shards of imagery which added up to . . .

  To . . .

  It took him days to work that out.

  ‘Just now,’ he finally cried out. ‘It adds up to General Quatremayne.’ He levered himself out of the chair and waited for the bilgesnipe to come and clean him, tend him, feed him and ready him to leave.

  ‘Where’s Slew?’ he called out into the wet, teeming musical dark. ‘Where is he when he’s needed?’

  ‘Lord,’ murmured the flabby blind bilgesnipe, ‘you ordered the Master of Shadows to serve your successor.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Sinistral, ‘perhaps it seemed that way to you but it will not have done to Blut. He knows my needs better than I myself. He will send Slew back and Slew will come because . . . he knew the gem of Summer, he stared with me into the starry night holding it in his hand and a yearning woke in him. He will come.’

  ‘When, my Lord?’

  The bilgesnipe heard movement, felt it, reached chubby fingers into the strands of the musica that flowed about them both. It was like the caress of a lover’s tresses.

  Three hours later Sinistral replied.

  ‘He is on his way,’ he said. ‘I can smell the salt sea spray.’

  ‘Me too,’ said his bilgesnipe aide, ‘sharp as that fresh air I’ve heard about but never tasted.’

  ‘You mean smelt,’ said Sinistral.

  ‘To us it is the same thing, my Lord.’

  They were right, Slew was on his way. He was halfway across the wild North Sea, tossed and turned in Borkum Riff’s famous black-hulled cutter.

  ‘Tell me nothing of your mission, Master,’ rasped Riff, eyes like the darkest seas, ‘but this: is the Emperor’s hand in it?’

  ‘Which Emperor?’

  ‘There’s only one.’

  Slew laughed.

  ‘Yes, that hand is in this work,’ he said. ‘He’ll want you for the return journey.’

  Borkum Riff stood his great strong bulk to the wheel, leaning this way and that with the craft and the seas, fingers like iron pinions on the varnished oak.

  ‘Be your mates trustworthy, Master?’

  ‘They are. One wasn’t; killed him.’

  ‘That’s what I would do.’

  They disembarked at Emden, north Germany, but Riff said he’d do the pickup at Helledore.

  ‘Why? Easier? Wind? Currents?’

  Borkum Riff shook his head.

  ‘The Emperor will know why and that Riff remembers. It’s harvest-time across the sea, Master of Shadows, not just across the land. Time my Lord sees for himself what he sowed.

  ‘Master, you weren’t sick last time and nor this, but your mates were. They can clear it up before they leave my cutter.’

  ‘We already have,’ replied the two Slew had brought from Englalond for the mission, Harald and Bjarne shakily. ‘We have.’

  Two days later they were in Bochum, readying themselves for the Emperor’s emergence.

  Days after that, on Level 18, Sinistral uttered a cry and up on Level 2 Slew heard it as he glowered at Court life while the two Norseners made free with the ladies.

  He gathered other Brethren to him, as he called his followers, commanding them to be armed and packed for travel.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘when the Emperor appears he may be weak, he may be strong; he may talk sense, he may talk gibberish. Whatever he is or does I shall kill any among you who show the slightest disrespect towards him.’

  He took only Harald down to 18, even then leaving him by the lift.

  Then he advanced into the Chamber and eyed his Lord Emperor Slaeke Sinistral, tall and blond, thin and shaky.

  ‘My Lord . . .’ began Slew.

  ‘Yes, yes, it is I. Let us begin. I have nothing to take but what’s in my heart and head. Is it day or night toppermost?’

  ‘Dusk and the first day of October, and Samhain but four weeks off – a good time for travel. Better not to be seen or the word will get out and you’ll be mobbed. You are much loved. We have all your needs: garb and such. Take my arm, Lord.’

  Which Sinistral did.

  In the lift going up Slew said, ‘Borkum Riff brought me over the sea.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I presume we are sailing to Englalond.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Riff awaits us in Helledore.’

  ‘Aah . . . yes. Reason? The winds I presume.’

  ‘No, Lord, he mentioned harvest-time.’

  ‘Did he now? Well, well, Slew, Riff is as subtle as the currents in the sea and as unstoppable. Harvest, eh?’

  They emerged at Level 2, behind the Chamber, and took the way out which Stort and the others had but weeks before when they escaped with the gems.

  ‘Has my beloved Leetha come?’

  ‘No, my Lord Sinistral, she has not.’

  ‘Did you summon her?’

  ‘Blut told me to, so I did.’

  ‘She’ll find me when she needs to. She always has. But you and Blut had no need to ask her; I told the Shield Maiden I needed her.’

  The Brethren joined them, nodding respectfully. Sinistral, taller than all but Slew, ignored them.

  The feral dogs that lived on the surface above Bochum came ranging and snarling among the vast and stinking rubbish tips, circling them. Sinistral was not afraid, nor Slew, but the others were.

  ‘Leave them to me,’ said Sinistral, detaching himself from Slew’s arm and advancing straight at the largest of the red-eyed dogs, a bitch. He stared at her and she shivered, the others whined and they all soon backed away.

  That was Sinistral’s guard of honour as they left the confines of Bochum; panting dogs, tails low under their bodies in obeisance, eyes downcast, flanks shaking with fear.

  My Lord Slaeke Sinistral was nothing less than the Angel of Death to them, and Witold Slew his shadow.

  ‘To Englalond,’ he said.

  ‘To Englalond,’ the Brethren all repeated dutifully.

  One of them, Stuber, winked at one of the others disrespectfully when Sinistral stumbled on old tin cans.

  ‘Stuber,’ purred Slew, pulling him back as the others went
on and the dogs caught up, ‘come here. You’re not on this mission any more.’

  The dogs, sensing blood, nipped at Stuber’s legs.

  ‘But, Master . . .’

  The Master of Shadows turned and sent the stubby end of his stave into Stuber’s stomach and winded him so badly he fell to his knees, clutching at air.

  ‘Goodbye, Stuber,’ said Slew and followed after the others.

  One dog caught Stuber’s right hand, another his left and before they had pulled him down the others were ripping at his guts.

  Goodbye Bochum . . .

  Sinistral did not look back at what had been his home for more decades than most ordinary mortals live. His exit was through piles of rubbish, to the stink of foul and poisonous waste and the sound of scrabbling hounds ripping a hydden apart. He was finally leaving his past behind.

  Soon they were clear of the tip, into fresh air and a gathering night.

  ‘I’m going home to Englalond,’ said Sinistral again, ‘and not before time.’

  They helped him along, step by step, on through the night as he stared at the stars, talked of this and that, laughing sometimes, and they began to understand why, tyrant though he had been, he never lacked for people who loved him.

  ‘How’s Blut?’ asked Sinistral in the dead of night as they rested for a time.

  ‘He is well, Lord, well. But under siege by Quatremayne, without a friend.’

  Sinistral laughed again, ready to lie down but not to sleep. He had had enough of that.

  ‘I doubt that Blut is without a friend,’ said Sinistral. ‘I think, Slew, you mean yourself.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Remember when we looked at the stars, that gem of Summer in our hands?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Look at the stars again now. You don’t need a gem any more to know you have a friend. You’ve grown.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Slew. ‘What did Riff mean about harvest-time?’

  Sinistral laughed gently in the dark and moved shoulder to shoulder with Slew.

  ‘You’ll soon find out. We sow, we tend, we reap, we die. It is the time for reaping now. That’s what Riff meant, as you’ll see.’

  30

  BEHIND ENEMY LINES

  Jack took the news of Arthur’s call for help to next morning’s War Council to seek support to mount an immediate rescue bid. It seemed to him the perfect use of his particular skills and abilities and the kind of way Brunte had said he was best deployed.

  He delayed raising the idea until he had Festoon and Brunte alone, with Barklice and Pike to back him up. He wanted both to come on the mission with him.

  ‘Arthur Foale is certainly well known to many of us,’ said Festoon cautiously, ‘and better informed about matters cosmological than anyone I’ve ever met. Stort thinks that may be of importance. To have him at our side in the present crises posed by an angry Earth and threatening Fyrd can only be advantageous. But if your mission is a failure, Jack, and we lose you and whoever goes with you, then it be the very opposite of a boost to us all!’

  Brunte eyed Jack shrewdly.

  ‘I take it you need some additional support?’

  ‘Your aide Lieutenant Backhaus helped logistically with our mission to Bochum on which, of course, Meyor Feld came and proved he was indispensable. I’d like to think . . .’

  Brunte shook his head.

  ‘I cannot spare Feld. He has created our defences and knows them better than anyone. Nor would I like to see Mister Pike here leave Brum just now. The stavermen respond to his leadership better than to mine . . .’

  ‘But . . .’

  Brunte raised a hand.

  ‘Before you protest, what I was going to add was that Backhaus has been behind a desk too long for his own liking. He is hungry for a mission. So he needs an outing and this mission may be ideally suited to his skills . . . we can agree from the maps that Professor Foale is in some kind of bunker?’

  ‘Seems so.’

  ‘So it’s a quick in–out hostage situation?’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ replied Jack.

  Backhaus was summoned.

  It was several months since Jack had seen him. He looked as though his hair had been shorn for duty five minutes before. He was all neat and tidy with shiny buttons, a clipboard and a pencil at the ready.

  ‘Marshal?’ he said.

  ‘Sit. Stavemeister, please explain the situation.’

  As Jack did so he appraised Backhaus. He looked very fit, carried himself with confidence and had a sharp and calculating seriousness which instilled both liking and respect. He was quick to grasp the nature of the mission.

  When he asked a couple of questions he retained the formalities and addressed Jack as ‘Sir’. Jack liked that. Backhaus looked the kind of hydden who liked to keep his distance and stay professional.

  ‘So, how can I help, sir?’

  ‘I’ve suggested you join the party, Backhaus,’ said Brunte.

  Backhaus look surprised but pleased.

  ‘Your logistical expertise may be needed and I’m sure the Stavemeister could do with your rather special combat skills.’

  Backhaus nodded and fell briefly silent.

  ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Who’ll make up our unit, sir?’ he asked Jack after a pause.

  ‘Myself and Mister Barklice here. He is our best route-finder and a master of all modes of transport. I had thought of Mister Pike but Marshal Brunte prefers he stay in Brum.’

  Backhaus nodded.

  ‘He’ll be needed if the Fyrd launch a surprise attack. How much do we know about where Professor Foale is being held?’

  Jack told him what they knew.

  ‘If it’s a bunker made by humans we will need specialist help. May I suggest someone?’

  They nodded.

  ‘Bombardier Hans Recker is a munitions and explosives expert . . .’

  ‘Bring him,’ said Jack.

  ‘One other thing, sir. How did you get the intelligence concerning the Professor’s whereabouts. Is the source reliable?’

  Jack explained about how Stort had received the message and investigated it.

  ‘May I . . . ?’

  ‘Ask anything.’

  ‘Have you been able to verify the message is genuine and originates from the Professor himself? The Fyrd are good at playing tricks. They use Morse all the time. We pretend we don’t understand it, but we do.’

  ‘And this helper,’ asked Brunte, ‘the one who relayed the message. Who is he?’

  ‘We don’t really know. Stort only has a code name for him so far. Whoever it is sounds human and must have thought the message was also from a human.’

  ‘That’s probably good,’ said Backhaus, ‘but we’ll check for the reassurance we need. I suggest that if it is affirmative the mission should proceed.’

  ‘In any case,’ said Brunte, ‘such a mission will gain intelligence from behind the Fyrd line and on that basis alone may be worthwhile.’

  ‘When do you want to leave?’ asked Festoon.

  ‘Before dark today,’ came Jack’s reply.

  They left at dusk, their point of departure being a container depot known to Barklice, who had used it before.

  ‘The Fyrd now control the railways, which rules them out,’ he explained. ‘Trucks have their virtues if you know what you’re doing, and I do. Empty ones travel to and from all points east from this depot, including other depots. There is one east of Coventry, which is where the bunker is located, so it’s just a question of finding the right truck. Follow me . . .’

  They dodged under massive vehicles, hid in the shadows of wheels, hurried between great corridors of stacked containers and arrived eventually at a truck rather smaller than the rest.

  ‘We hide under tarpaulins in the back, entrance through the side panels. Come!’

  They followed him, used the back wheel to clamber up, and hid under a tarpaulin until the truck departed.

  Then, safe in the knowledg
e that they would not be disturbed again until the vehicle stopped, they came out into the rattling, shaking darkness into which the lights of street lamps above, headlights behind and vehicles passing on the other side came as a kaleidoscope of yellow, white and red.

  Jack and Barklice were dressed in shadowed green, their portersacs empty of all but absolute essentials. Backhaus and Recker were in black fatigues and might have been mistaken for off-duty Fyrd.

  ‘Deliberate,’ said Backhaus. ‘Might be useful.’

  Recker was wiry thin, with wrinkly eyes that shone and smiled in the dark. His portersac seemed disproportionately large but he had no difficulty toting it.

  ‘Gear,’ he said ambiguously. ‘For all eventualities.’

  They spent most of the journey with their backs to the rear wall of the truck, ’sacs between their feet, staves beneath to stop them rattling, weapons on their belts, except for Barklice, who had none. Escape and hyddening was his defence.

  ‘. . . and not getting caught in the first place . . . now, sleep.’

  Darkness fell, the journey became monotonous; they dozed, trusting Barklice would wake to tell them when to disembark.

  The truck stopped twice.

  The first time Barklice just listened and muttered; the second he got up to check, peering outside.

  ‘Next stop, be ready, it’ll be a short one. Follow me. The Lieutenant first, the Bombardier second and Jack last. Fasten your ’sacs tight, don’t want no loose noise. Watch the staves and watch the stop: it’s sudden. Then out you go, one at a time, nice and neat. Ten minutes to go.’

  They stood up, heaved on their ’sacs and stood one behind the other behind Barklice, using their staves to keep their balance, and fell silent. The lorry turned off the road right on cue and, despite the warning, its sudden stop sent them lurching forward.

  Barklice was out at once and down to the ground, using his stave to hold the tarpaulin open for Backhaus.

  They dropped down easily enough, Backhaus steadying Recker, who carried the heaviest ’sac, as he landed. As Jack followed after them, Barklice set off into the shadows beyond the lay-by in which they had stopped and they were away and out of sight before the lorry driver had even opened his door to get out.

  A few yards on they found themselves on the edge of a vast ploughed field, the noise of the busy road muted by the trees and shrubs through which they had come.