Blaze of Glory

by Michael Pryor

  When the loader had trotted off, George raised an eyebrow. 'We've lost interest in shooting?'

  Aubrey ignored him. He dropped into a crouch and examined the ground. 'George, what do you make of this?'

  'Sorry. Can't see a thing.'

  'Good. That means it's definitely magical.'

  'Magical?'

  'Spoor, traces. I've been following it for a while. Something magical has been moving through this area.'

  'Stymphalian birds?'

  'No. Something altogether different.'

  Aubrey straightened. The magical traces were fuzzy blotches, a deep almost-indigo colour that he was only seeing because his senses were magically attuned and trained. He wiped his hands together. The trail unsettled him. There was something about it that made his skin shiver unpleasantly. As he watched, the colour of the blotches changed, skating across purple, black and brown, as if it couldn't hold on to any single hue. It was powerful magic that had thrown off these spatters, but it meant the spell's parameters needed tightening.

  The sounds of the shooting party receded. Shotgun reports, dogs barking, cries of delight and exasperation became background as Aubrey tried to make sense of what he was seeing. He rubbed his chin. All this pointed to something dangerous being in the vicinity. For an instant he wondered about calling attention to the magical traces, but his curiosity won. I can always call them later, he thought and he began to follow the magical spatters.

  Gradually, the trail grew clearer, leading off towards the edge of the shooting ground. 'This way,' he said. He set off towards higher, tree-shrouded ground.

  'What is it?' George asked.

  'I'm not sure, but it seems fresher up this way.'

  No-one hallooed or called them back. Aubrey walked with his head down, shotgun broken over his arm, following the indistinct trail, only occasionally looking up to see where they were heading. He found that if he held one hand out in front of him, palm down, he could feel the magic of the spatters, almost as if he were holding his hand over a hot stove.

  They forged through a line of bushes, then were in the undergrowth proper. A matter of a few yards further on and they were among old trees – oaks, beeches and alders.

  For ten or fifteen minutes they scrambled over huge roots and trudged through slippery leaves. Aubrey followed the trail to a gully with a tiny stream at the bottom, and they had to jump across. On the other side, the trail led them up a gradual slope.

  They came to a gnarled oak tree with a waist-high buttress root. Aubrey propped his gun up against the root and peered ahead.

  He saw a stony outcrop, a tumbled collection of boulders. Moss had turned them into a mottled grey-green, somewhat scabrous-looking. The trees around it were thinner than those they'd trudged through, competing in the shade thrown by the ancient, established trees.

  A fine position for observing the shooting ground, Aubrey thought and, as he leaned against the rough wood, a wave of fatigue swept over him. For a moment, his stomach felt as if it had disappeared and he found he was trembling. The physical exertion on top of the lack of sleep was making things difficult.

  'Are you all right, old man?' George said.

  Aubrey closed his eyes. 'It will pass.' I hope. He put a hand to his head and massaged his temple.

  'Is there anyone up there? On the rocks?'

  Aubrey opened his eyes and sighed. 'Let's find out, shall we?'

  'Grand.' George vaulted the buttress root and helped Aubrey clamber over.

  They scuttled up the slope towards the rocky rise and Aubrey found time to be grateful that he didn't have a full pack on his back this time. The shotgun was awkward enough and he bit his lip when he slipped forward, jamming his fingers between it and the rocky ground.

  The closer they came, the more clearly Aubrey saw that this position had an almost unimpeded view of the entire shooting ground. Some time ago, a swathe had been cut and trees had been felled, leaving only stumps extending down the slope to where he could see the tweedy folk going about their business.

  The ghostly glowing trail led to the outcrop, but Aubrey couldn't see any movement. He motioned to George that they should approach from the rear.

  Every slip they made, every footfall, made his heart lurch. He tried to divide his attention between the uneven ground ahead and the boulders that were their target. The carpet of fallen leaves made the going difficult, and soon the legs of his trousers were covered with leaf mould and mud.

  When they had skirted the boulders, Aubrey saw that the rocks opened up in a rough horseshoe arrangement, bending back up the slope at either end. He estimated that they stood some twelve or fifteen feet at the highest point.

  'What do you think?' Aubrey whispered as they paused near the first of the rocks.

  'A good observation post. Fine view.'

  Aubrey nodded. He'd thought the same. It was a perfect position for someone to watch the shooting party, keeping an eye on proceedings. The perfect place, indeed, for one of the men who were taking such good care of the Prince. But . . .

  'Then where's the observer? And why is the trail leading this way?' Aubrey chewed his lip. Something was not quite right here. 'You have some cartridges?'

  George raised an eyebrow, but dug in his pocket and held out a handful. Quietly, Aubrey and George loaded their guns.

  Aubrey nodded, then he darted off, running bent-kneed, staying low, following the magical trail, George close behind.

  Aubrey reached the rocks, then wound his way upwards as if they were stairs. He felt the prickling of magic and the trail grew stronger. The awful purple beat at the back of his eyes, setting his teeth on edge.

  He squeezed between two tall rocks and stopped. All the breath ran out of him in one, long sigh.

  The sight of death affected him even more since his accident. It reminded him too clearly of the precarious nature of his own existence, of how close he was to that final, irrevocable journey. He put out a hand and steadied himself against the rock, shaken.

  'What is it?' George said. 'Oh.'

  Aubrey watched the flies buzzing around the pool of blood. The young man's corpse was stretched out on a flat part of the foremost rock, the ideal observer's position. He looked like a toy that had been flung aside by an irritable child. Aubrey was grateful he couldn't see his face. The remains of an untouched meal was strewn around him – paper-wrapped sandwiches, a bottle of ginger beer, an apple. The ordinariness of the food, the humble, everyday items that were now not needed made Aubrey sag.

  He stared at the body and the reality of his own mortality struck him, unbidden and unlooked for, like a fist in the dark. It's the thought of not being, he thought, of life going on without me, that hurts.

  George cleared his throat. 'This is not good,' he said and his hands made small, fumbling motions. Aubrey could see that his friend had blanched. 'Not good at all.'

  'True. But we can help best if we can learn something.' Aubrey gathered himself and approached the body. 'Field glasses,' he said, picking up the binoculars. The lens on the right was shattered. He stood his gun against a nearby rock, squatted and studied the corpse.

  He was wearing a black uniform, streaked with orange mud. Army boots, no mistaking them, but apart from that, no identification, no regimental badge.

  Aubrey was certain the unfortunate soul was another of the Special Services men who were swarming all over the estate.

  His dark hair was matted with blood and Aubrey studied the wound for a time before looking up. 'What do you think happened here, George?'

  George looked around. 'It could be that he slipped on the mud and struck his head badly. Bled to death.' He glanced at Aubrey. 'You don't think this likely?'

  'No. Not likely at all. You see, there are two wounds. One on the front of his head, and one on the back. He wouldn't have fallen forward, killed himself, then fallen backwards again. Besides, where did the mud come from? His boots are clean.' He rubbed his forehead. It was aching. 'I wonder what happened.'

&nb
sp; 'I've never known you to leave well enough alone, but can't you this time? Let's go and get help.'

  Aubrey sighed. 'George, do you remember the Law of Resonance?'

  'You're not going to do more magic, are you? You're not in a good way.'

  Aubrey ignored him. He straightened, then dusted his hands. 'The Law of Resonance states that actions and objects can, in certain circumstances, leave an imprint on their surroundings. They can resonate through time.'

  'I know. And I know that working with that law is difficult, uncertain and taxing.'

  'Ah,' said Aubrey lightly, 'but what isn't?'

  Aubrey took a piece of chalk from his pocket, glad that he'd come prepared to do magic. He surveyed the area, his gaze skimming over the body of the unfortunate young man. Humming tunelessly, he walked around the observation post, an area about five or six yards across.

  As he walked, Aubrey was estimating the area of effect he'd need and how best to limit it. A geometrical focusing figure would work best, he decided, hexagonal to fit the surface area of the rock. For good measure, he thought he'd reinforce it with some boundary curves which would interweave with the straight edges. Just to be on the safe side.

  He bent, drawing around the corpse and the site of the disturbance. While he completed the figure, he was sorting through elements and creating the spell he'd need. It would require more than just applying the Law of Resonance, he concluded. He'd need to integrate aspects of the Law of Relevance and the Law of Permanence, to make sure he captured the right moment. And of course he had to be precise with the extent of the spell. He didn't want it going back too far. Perhaps an isolating element as a terminator to the spell? The Endorian language had some useful terminators and he went through them in his mind before selecting one.

  He stood and stepped outside the ring. For a moment, while he ran over the spell in his head, he studied the focusing figure. At this stage, it wouldn't do to leave any part of it incomplete.

  He took a deep breath. He'd gained his second wind, but he knew he was exerting himself – perhaps unwisely.

  Aubrey broke the chalk into small pieces, his fingers working rapidly. He placed them in the palm of one hand and closed the other over it. Grimacing, he ground the pieces of chalk together.

  When the chalk was ground finely enough, Aubrey brought his hands up to his lips, spoke the spell in an unforced sequence of liquid syllables and blew through a small hole he'd allowed between his thumbs. Two long strides, then he flung the chalk dust high into the air over the circle, where it burst in a flare of light.

  Dizziness hit him like a sock full of sand to the back of the head. He staggered backwards into the arms of George, who had hurried to him. 'Are you all right, Aubrey?' his friend asked.

  'It's working,' Aubrey whispered.

  Inside the circle, a scene was unfolding. It was faded, as if all the colour had been washed out of it, but figures moved slowly, clearly.

  'Ghosts?' George asked.

  Aubrey shook his head and immediately regretted it. Pain rolled around inside his skull and he felt as if he were about to vomit.

  Inside the circle, the corpse of the young man could no longer be seen. Replacing it was a night-time scene, with the young man healthy and unconcerned. He stood in the dark, with the field glasses up to his eyes. His untouched meal was near his feet.

  Coming up over the edge of the rock, behind the young man, was another figure. Even though the scene was faint, there was no doubt of the malignity of the stealthy intruder. It hunched, then slowly raised itself until it was standing, still undetected.

  This second figure made Aubrey shudder. Naked, it seemed out of proportion, with arms that were too long, hanging almost to its knees. Its head was bulbous, hairless, the size of a football.

  It moved with terrifying speed. The young man only had time to turn, drop his glasses and his attacker was on him. A blur of motion as the creature swung and the young man was caught a stunning blow on the forehead. He fell backwards like a sawn-off tree, his head hitting the rock with such force that it made George turn away.

  The vision faded, and once again Aubrey was looking at the lifeless form of the unfortunate young man.

  'A golem,' he said. He knew that only an extremely powerful sorcerer could work such magic. But to what ends? 'Someone has made a creature out of clay to do his bidding.'

  George raised his gun and held it in his arms. 'Where is it?'

  'Still around here somewhere.'

  'And so is the Prince.'

  'Really, George, you do have a penchant for pointing out the obvious.' Aubrey was recovering a little, feeling surer on his feet. He walked over to the body and squatted beside it. After some silent contemplation, he reached out and dug some of the thick, orange mud from the young man's uniform. He rolled it between his fingers, making a marble-sized ball, and tucked it into his pocket.

  He picked up his shotgun and stood. 'Now, if the golem isn't close by, then where would it be?'

  George looked around. 'Aubrey, there's no time for this. We have to get back to the party and warn the Prince.'

  'Of course. Just a moment or two.' Aubrey stood there, trying to think like a golem. Or, at least, its master. 'This position is compromised, George. Once it found our unfortunate guard here, it couldn't use this location for whatever it was planning. It's probably looking for somewhere else.'

  'Aubrey, stop this!'

  He looked around. Trees blocked his view on all sides, apart from the cleared swathe down to the shooting ground. 'As far as I can see from here, there's nothing with quite so sweeping an aspect as this place. So where would it go?'

  'Aubrey!'

  He had it. 'Come, George, I think I know where our missing golem will be.'

  Aubrey led off, limping slightly.

  'Aubrey, this is no time to be trying to be a hero.'

  He paused on the edge of the climb down. 'Heroes, George, are generally people who don't know what they're doing until afterwards. I, however, always know what I'm getting into.' I hope, he added to himself.

  Aubrey hurried through the gap in the woods towards the shooting ground. He trotted through the fallen leaves, down the gentle slope, doing his best to look in all directions at once.

  It couldn't be accidental, a murderous golem just happening to stumble on the perfect position to observe a royal shooting party. Aubrey had no doubt that this one would still be seeking to fulfil its mission. Somewhere.

  Ten minutes later, after scrambling through brush, thicket and straggling undergrowth, Aubrey lunged for the cover next to the fallen trunk of a giant beech tree. George rolled in next to him. 'Have you seen anything yet?'

  Aubrey shook his head. He peered over the top of the log, surveying the dense stand of saplings ahead. 'At least tell me what you're looking for,' George whispered.

  'Vantage points. I think we're looking for a sniper.'

  'A sniper!'

  'It's perfect. The sound of a rifle wouldn't be heard today with all the shooting out there.'

  'Can a golem be taught to shoot?'

  'Oh, yes. They're nerveless, never get tired while waiting, never have second thoughts. If they weren't so difficult to construct, I'm sure there'd be armies of them defending countries around the world.'

  George took Aubrey's arm. 'Aubrey, I insist we go and tell the others. It's our duty.'

  Aubrey gnawed at his lip while he scanned the trees. What would happen if Bertie was hurt? Aubrey had known the Crown Prince for as long as he could remember. His playmate had grown up into the sort of intelligent, thoughtful young man that augured well for when he assumed the throne. Many people wanted that sooner rather than later, to put an end to some of the erratic behaviour of his father the King.

  Aubrey sighed. 'Duty, George. It's your turn to play that card, is it?'

  'Well, I've heard it often enough from you, old man. Seems to work.' George slapped him on the back. 'Shall we go?'

  Together, they struggled down the slope, sl
ipping over rocks hidden beneath fallen leaves, weaving between the young trees, heading back to the shooting ground where the guns were still making themselves heard.

  At the bottom of the slope stood a vast, spreading oak. It was in a small clearing, a natural dell that opened out onto the shooting ground. As the slope levelled out, Aubrey walked towards the oak in silence, gun cradled in his arms.

  When they reached the massive tree, Aubrey put a hand to the back of his neck. The skin there was prickling, the ominous sensation that signalled magic was in the area.

  He cast around and a trail of purple blotches led to the trunk of the oak tree. He held up a hand, catching George's attention. George raised an eyebrow and Aubrey pointed up, towards the dense canopy of the oak tree.

  Aubrey thought quickly. While not as good a vantage point as the rocky outcrop, the oak tree overlooked the whole shooting ground. Aubrey could see the guests spread out in clumps. It seemed as if some had retired towards the Big House, while more than a few were sitting on blankets near the tents, enjoying the refreshments.

  Aubrey searched for Bertie, hoping he'd gone back to the house, but knowing that he was another who would always do his duty and would be out until the last of the shooters had grown sick of blasting brass birds.

  George pointed. The Prince was with a small party of perhaps half a dozen people. He seemed to have moved on from the Holmlanders to some of Professor Hepworth's colleagues.

  He was only thirty or forty yards away.

  George started towards the shooting field, but Aubrey seized his arm. He put his mouth close to George's ear. 'You move or call out and the golem will shoot.'

  The Prince appeared to be listening to one of the researchers, who was holding up a stalk of a plant. It looked more like a nature ramble than a hunt.

  George bent and whispered into Aubrey's ear. 'You have a plan?'

  'I'll shoot the golem out of the tree.'

  Aubrey was rather pleased at the surprise on George's face.

  He dug into his pocket and held up the marble of clay he'd taken from the dead guard's uniform. 'Golem mud,' he whispered. 'Remember my plan to improve my aim? To make the shot desire to go in a desired direction? This will do the trick. Now, I need some shot.'