The Place of Dead Kings

by Geoffrey Wilson

  ‘Could be true.’ Jack stared into the thicket of trees the men had apparently run into. ‘The soldiers wouldn’t want to chase them too far at night. We only saw one body.’

  ‘Aye,’ Robert said. ‘An unburied body.’

  The others present grumbled at this. Wulfric had decreed that the deserters would receive no burial rites and said their bodies had been dumped in the forest for the crows to feed on.

  With breakfast finished, and the camp packed away, the column moved out once again. As before, silence seemed to oppress the party. The men only spoke when necessary, the Saxons didn’t sing and Jack spotted many men glancing nervously into the surrounding hills and mountains. The doleful tick of the drummer’s beat drifted over the party.

  At midday they paused for lunch. Porters set up the awning as usual and Robert was instructed to aid the batmen. Jack and his men ate a spare meal of barley soup. Supplies were running low and they hadn’t seen a single village to trade with since they’d reached the Highlands.

  If the natives would even want to trade.

  In the afternoon, they wound their way higher into the mountains. A cold wind spiralled down from the snow-dusted peaks.

  The line of fire in Jack’s chest came and went. It was never more than a throbbing ache, but it was a reminder of what was to come.

  There were just over two weeks left before Kanvar’s cure faded.

  How accurate was Kanvar’s estimate? Could Jack die sooner? Later? Could he have another month?

  He drew his hood tighter about his face as the breeze plucked at it.

  As they descended from a high saddle, a skirl of pipes twisted down from the mountainside. The hairs stood up on the back of Jack’s neck and Saleem gasped and scurried to hide behind the wagon.

  One of the soldiers fired his musket up the slope and the pipes went silent.

  ‘Keep moving!’ Wulfric shouted. ‘Don’t stop, you idiots!’

  The drivers cracked their whips and shouted at their animals. The oxen kicked up clods of earth and the pack mules trotted more quickly, their loads swaying on their backs. The Rajthanans paced up and down the column on their horses, surveying the mountainside through their spyglasses.

  After around fifteen minutes, they finally left the open ground and zigzagged down through a birch forest. Jack felt relieved to reach the relative cover of the trees. Finally, in the late afternoon, the guide led them into a wide valley where high grasses waved in the wind. The ground was soft and even, and they made good progress. But after thirty minutes the wail of pipes rolled down from a mountain to their right.

  Jack searched the heather and scrub on the slope, but saw no sign of movement. Saleem bit his bottom lip and fiddled with his sleeve.

  ‘Don’t slow down!’ Wulfric bellowed.

  The sound of the pipes continued to swirl down. And then further pipes began squealing from the other side of the valley. The two drones rolled around the hills and seemed to beat like a weapon against the party.

  They all marched as quickly as they could. Jack’s legs ached with tiredness but he hardly noticed. Looking around the valley he could see they were horribly exposed. There was almost no cover, and if the natives decided to fire arrows at them they would be in a difficult situation.

  The cries of the pipes spooked the animals and the mules often shied or bucked. The oxen drawing the statue wagon roared, grunted and at one point tried to bolt. They were only stopped when two drivers yanked at the yoke of the front two animals.

  After an hour, the pipes suddenly fell silent. Jack kept thinking he heard a trace of the squealing, but when he listened closely he realised he must have imagined it. The sound had definitely vanished.

  ‘Thank God almighty,’ Robert said. ‘That was giving me a headache. And I’m a Scot!’

  The porters nearby chuckled, but Jack was still wary. He squinted at the slopes and although he still saw nothing, he couldn’t believe the natives had given up. They might well be watching the party at that very moment, discussing what to do next.

  By the time dusk thickened, the party was still in the valley and still just as exposed as before. But as it was too dangerous to travel in the dark, they were forced to make camp out in the open.

  The wind whipped the campfire as Jack sat slurping his thin broth with the others. On the far side of the camp, the two remaining batmen scurried back and forth between the cooking enclosure and the dining tent, carrying covered silver thalis, goblets and bowls full of food.

  ‘Officers are still eating well,’ muttered one of Robert’s gang.

  ‘We should be out hunting for food,’ another said.

  The first man lowered his spoon. ‘We should be running.’

  ‘Keep your voices down.’ Robert nodded in the direction of a pair of sentries standing about twenty yards away. ‘That’s dangerous talk. You saw what happened to the last lot who tried that.’

  ‘If we don’t try something we’ll be dead in days anyway,’ the man said.

  A glimmer in the distance caught Jack’s eye. ‘Whatever you do, I wouldn’t go anywhere now. Look.’ He pointed at the light.

  The group shifted on their haunches and stared into the pitch black. A yellow glow flickered high up from the ground. It looked as though it were floating in the sky, although it must have been on a mountainside. At first Jack thought it was a bonfire, but then, as he stared harder, it coalesced into a distinct shape.

  A cross.

  On fire.

  A murmur rippled through the small group.

  ‘God’s cause.’ Robert tugged at his beard. ‘What are they playing at?’

  Disquiet spread across the camp and porters and soldiers pointed up at the eerie light. Wulfric blew his whistle several times and ordered further soldiers to take up positions as sentries. The Rajthanans stood in a small group outside the dining tent, peering into the darkness through their spyglasses.

  Jack glanced at Saleem, who was staring at the distant fire without blinking. Jack patted the lad on the shoulder and whispered to him, ‘You stay strong. We’ll just keep our feet marching along the right path.’

  Saleem swallowed and nodded, but Jack wasn’t sure whether his words had given him much comfort this time.

  The savages were out there in the dark. The savages were watching and waiting.

  11

  A wall of mist surrounded Jack. He paused for a moment and stared into the swaying fronds. The soldiers’ tents were pale blurs and the officers’ marquees red smears. The world beyond the camp was invisible, the white fog completely blotting out the valley, trees, hills and mountains.

  He shivered from the cold and returned to the task at hand – securing the statue. He was standing on the back of the wagon, pulling a section of rope tight over the canvas-covered figure. The other porters were packing away the camp and stamping out cooking fires.

  As he tied the rope to the sideboard, he heard Robert calling out behind him, ‘Hey, you lot! Come quick!’

  Jack looked around and saw the big man running out of the haze. As usual, Robert and his comrades had been helping to prepare the Rajthanans’ breakfast.

  ‘What is it?’ Jack asked.

  Robert stopped near the wagon, panting. ‘One of the lads is in trouble. Come on.’ He turned and set off into the fog again.

  Jack leapt to the ground and jogged with Saleem and the others over to the Rajthanans’ marquees. A small crowd of porters and soldiers formed ahead in the mist. As Jack drew nearer, he saw four Saxons holding on to a porter to prevent him from fleeing. The man was one of the two who’d been helping Robert in the cooking enclosure.

  Wulfric stood in front of the porter, his hands balled into fists. Rao and Parihar had abandoned their breakfast, left the awning and now stood nearby.

  ‘Scum!’ Wulfric bawled. ‘Dirtied the officers’ food. Ruined it.’

  The trapped man’s face was slightly flushed and his eyes were shiny. He looked ready to fight if he had to, but for the moment he held hi
mself back. ‘I didn’t touch the food, sir.’

  ‘Didn’t touch it!’ Wulfric’s eye opened wider. ‘Don’t need to touch it. Your shadow, see. Even your shadow’s filthy.’

  Jack understood instantly. Even a European’s shadow, if it passed over a Rajthanan’s food, could defile it. The man must have walked too close to the awning without realising it. Bad luck, as there were barely any shadows at all in the dim light.

  ‘Didn’t know anything about shadows, sir,’ the man said.

  ‘Too late.’ Wulfric stepped closer. His head was bare and his bald scalp shone faintly. ‘You’ve done it now.’

  Parihar spoke to Rao in Rajthani. ‘He’ll have to be flogged.’

  Rao looked at the porters crowding around him and pressed his handkerchief to his nose. ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘You have to treat these natives firmly,’ Parihar said. ‘It’s the only thing they understand.’

  Rao hesitated, then nodded. ‘Very well. Go ahead.’

  Parihar put his hands on his hips and addressed the gathering in English. ‘This man is found guilty of intentionally defiling an officer’s victuals. He is hereby sentenced to be flogged.’ He turned to Wulfric. ‘Sergeant, three hundred lashes.’

  Wulfric gave a slow grin, rolled up his sleeves and spoke to the soldiers restraining Robert’s comrade. ‘Tie him up on one of the wagons. I’ll do this myself.’

  A murmur of disquiet flickered through the crowd. Most of the porters had by now congregated near the awning. All the Saxons had massed behind Rao and Parihar.

  Jack’s heart beat faster. Three hundred lashes was a severe punishment. The man would barely be standing after that and would need hospital treatment. He wouldn’t be able to wear clothes on his back, let alone continue marching.

  The gathering of porters muttered and drew closer together, blocking the way to the rest of the camp. Robert stood near the front of the group, glaring at Wulfric.

  Wulfric looked into the crowd and narrowed his eye. ‘Out of the way, scum.’

  The porters didn’t move. They stared back with eyes that were tired but determined. Their clothes were tattered and filthy, their faces were haggard, but they weren’t prepared to back down.

  Jack was pleased the men were standing up for Robert’s friend. But how was this going to end?

  The soldiers shuffled into a loose row facing the porters. Those who had their muskets to hand snapped out the knives.

  There were around sixty porters, all unarmed, save for a few who carried kitchen knives or rocks. They faced sixty-three trained soldiers, some of them armed. It would not be an even fight and the Saxons would undoubtedly win. But it would be a bloody scrap.

  The mist swirled about the two opposing groups, hemming them in, as if this one spot were now the only place that existed in the world.

  Wulfric took two steps towards the porters. He stood alone, facing them all, eyeing the front row of men one by one. He spoke in a slow, cold voice. ‘I said, out of the way.’

  The porters shifted and fidgeted. Some glanced at each other.

  But none moved.

  A batman jogged over to Rao and Parihar and handed them pistols. Parihar took a weapon, pointed it into the air and fired. The crack reverberated across the valley.

  Several of the porters flinched, but they remained where they were.

  Parihar’s nostrils flared and he puffed out his chest. ‘Insolence.’

  Jack could see this was heading towards a disaster. He had to do something.

  ‘Captain Rao.’ He stepped out from the crowd of porters. ‘There’s no need for this, sir. This man made a mistake. He’s not familiar with your customs. He meant no harm.’

  Parihar turned to Jack, his eyes flashing. ‘That is no excuse, you pink bastard.’

  ‘Sir, please.’ Jack kept his eyes on Rao. ‘We’re all stuck out here in the middle of nowhere. We have to pull together. Otherwise the savages will have us. If you spare this man, we porters will go back to our work.’

  Jack was uncertain whether he really could make this promise. He didn’t speak for all the porters, but he suspected they would be happy to avoid a fight so long as their colleague wasn’t flogged.

  Rao pressed his handkerchief harder against his face, as though he’d smelt something particularly disgusting.

  ‘How dare you speak to the Captain like that,’ Parihar said.

  ‘That’s it.’ Wulfric strode towards Jack, pointing his finger. ‘You’ve said enough now. I’m going to do what I should have done a long time ago.’

  ‘Wait.’ Rao lowered his handkerchief. ‘Leave him, Sergeant. He’s talking sense. There’s no point us fighting amongst ourselves.’

  ‘You can’t show weakness,’ Parihar said in Rajthani. ‘You have to show them who’s in charge.’

  ‘And get us all killed?’ Rao replied.

  ‘They’ll back down as soon as we kill the first few of them,’ Parihar said.

  Rao stood still. His fingers gripped the handkerchief tighter. His eyes flicked from the porters to the soldiers to Jack.

  Jack said a Hail Mary in his head. He prayed Rao would make the right decision.

  Finally, Rao inhaled sharply and addressed the crowd. ‘Listen to me. I will release this man on the understanding nothing like this ever happens again. But see here.’ He pointed at the porters, the handkerchief dangling from his hand. ‘You are all to obey me when I command you. Any further insubordination will be punished severely.’

  The Saxons released Robert’s comrade and stepped away from him. The man circled his shoulders, twisted his neck and straightened his tunic, as if he were a proud lord who’d been manhandled by commoners.

  The porters all visibly relaxed, their shoulders slumping and their faces softening.

  ‘Come on, lads,’ Robert said. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  The gathering broke apart and the men trudged off to continue packing away the camp.

  Jack breathed out and realised his heart had been thumping furiously. That had been a close thing. Thank God Rao had seen sense and hadn’t listened to that idiot Parihar.

  Wulfric, however, stood nearby with his hands on his hips, immobile even as the porters, soldiers and officers drifted away. His single eye bored into Jack, unblinking, still and cold as the moon.

  It was late in the morning by the time the expedition set off. The mist had thickened and they found themselves marching through whorls of heavy fog. Ahead of Jack, the column blurred and vanished. Knolls and copses reared up out of the murk, then disappeared as he went past. At times he felt as though he were walking through a dream.

  The mist was cold as metal and left a film of moisture on his face.

  The relief he’d felt that the incident at breakfast hadn’t spilt over into anything more serious quickly faded. The party might have held back from fighting itself, but it was unlikely the savages had left, and it would be impossible to see them coming in the mist. Of course, the haze would hinder the natives as well, but this was their land, they knew the territory.

  At least he had the loaded pistol with him, hidden, as always, in the satchel.

  Shortly before midday, the mountainsides drew closer, becoming darker in the mist. As the valley narrowed, the men were forced to trudge along a shallow river, skidding and sliding on the wet rocks. The wagon wheels ground against the stones and sprayed water.

  The slopes steepened until the party was passing through a gorge. Sheer cliffs rose on either side, while the river churned in between. The white rapids were phosphorescent in the dim light and the rushing sound echoed in the confined space.

  Jack looked up. The drifts of mist obscured the cliff tops. This was a good place for an ambush.

  A very good place.

  He shivered. They were being watched. He was sure of it, even though he couldn’t see anyone up there. He had a tracker’s sensitivity to his surroundings and an army scout’s understanding of dangerous terrains.

  It was madness to march thr
ough a place like this.

  He had to do something.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said to Saleem and the others.

  He waded forward, the water swilling about his knees. He edged himself past the oxen pulling the statue wagon, smelling the thick scent of the animals’ wet hides. Then he dodged around the men, beasts and vehicles of the rest of the baggage train.

  When he was about halfway to the front of the column, with the Saxons just visible ahead in the fog, he spotted Wulfric.

  He pushed his way through the stream and shouted over the gurgling water. ‘Sergeant!’

  Wulfric seemed not to hear and didn’t turn round.

  Jack slipped on a rock, steadied himself, and floundered forward until he was right behind Wulfric. ‘Sergeant! We have to turn back. We’ll be attacked—’

  Wulfric whirled round and slapped Jack in the face with his leather strap. Jack slid back. His cheek stung but he was startled more than anything.

  ‘It’s time I taught you a lesson, scum.’ Wulfric stepped forward and swung his strap again.

  Jack reacted quickly and raised his left hand to protect himself. Wulfric’s arm slammed into his. Both of them slipped and had to step back to rebalance themselves.

  Wulfric’s eye gleamed in the dim light. His face, damp from the mist, glistened like limestone. He beckoned with his finger. ‘Come here.’

  What was Wulfric playing at? He wanted to fight now? When they were all probably in danger?

  Jack felt his face go hot. Wulfric was an idiot. A bloody-minded idiot. All Jack wanted to do at that moment was punch the Sergeant in the face.

  Someone up ahead cried out. More shouts followed.

  Wulfric frowned and turned.

  Jack stared into the mist and made out soldiers darting about in the small space of the gorge. Were the Saxons under attack?

  Wulfric strode forward through the bubbling water, swinging his arms wide from his body.

  Then a man nearby gasped. Jack swivelled and saw a porter with an arrow in his chest stagger forward. Blood welled from his wound and soaked his tunic red. He coughed and vomited more blood, then toppled over and splashed into the water.