by Paul Finch
“Ye gods!” Sam said with sudden excitement.
He darted forward. Tom tried to hold him back, but there was no stopping Sam now. Gathered around the bronze figure’s feet were dozens more urns.
“We’re rich, Tom-Tom!” Sam shouted, his voice echoing through the subterranean corridors. “We’re bloody rich!”
He tore away the veils of webbing, snatched up an urn and smashed it on the paved floor. Gold coins scattered in every direction. He hooted with glee.
“Sam!” Tom said tightly; he’d only dared come a few yards from the door, but now felt intensely as though they were being watched. “Sam, what’s making that light? Is there a flame in there?”
Sam had crouched right in front of the bronze figure, and was again stuffing his breeches. He regarded its face, which was blank and emotionless – a classical visage etched in metal. Then he glanced down at the light it held.
“Don’t know what it is, Tom-Tom. It’s a strange colour, almost blue.”
“Sam!” Tom screamed. But he was too late.
At first he’d thought the movement he’d suddenly seen was a trick of the light, a dancing shadow as Sam continued to grab up handfuls of gold. But the impact of the weighted sceptre on Sam’s skull was real enough. It thudded like meat hitting a butcher’s block, and Sam flopped down.
Tom’s spine froze by degrees as he watched what happened next.
Stiffly, the bronze figure raised its head and looked directly at him. Then, with a sound like a whirring of wheels and clicking of gears, it rose slowly to its feet.
At first Tom was too terrified to move, but when it advanced towards him, stopping only once – to place a foot on the side of Sam’s head, and press down until bone audibly cracked – Tom’s animal instincts took over. He spun around and hurtled towards the T-junction, staggering around the corner, from where he’d have a clear run back to the world of sanity – except that he didn’t.
Another figure was blocking his way, silhouetted on the small patch of daylight.
Tom slid to a halt. A shriek burst from his chest, and he ran on along the transverse passage, the phosphorescent glow stealing up from behind as, with a series of clunking footfalls, the first of the horrible things advanced out of the ornate room. Its light lit an archway ahead but nothing of the space beyond it – Tom blundered straight through, only to find that he was surrounded on all sides by more blank-eyed figures.
He shrieked and shrieked, pivoting around helplessly. They gazed at him with still, soulless faces; in some cases their hands reached towards him. And still the light increased and those heavy feet with their bell-like impacts were approaching. Frantic, Tom blundered against one of the figures, and it fell, shattering into thousands of pieces.
Statues – that was all they were, dozens of classical statues.
But his terror didn’t ebb. The silver light was approaching the entrance. He staggered towards another doorway on the far side. This too was arched; beyond it there was opaque blackness. He bolted through – only to step over a precipice and fall maybe six feet, before hitting a flat, unyielding surface, which struck his kneecaps like two hammer blows. In normal times it would have been an agonising jolt. But now Tom scrambled forward, panting, whimpering. Light flooded in behind him. He turned, wild-eyed. He’d fallen into a rectangular pit, tiled along its sides. Its floor – the section that his body had cleared of dust – was inlaid with a mosaic depicting sea creatures. It was a communal bath, he realised; a very large one.
His bronze pursuer had now come fully into the room, and walked slowly along the the bath-side, its footsteps ringing. The globe of light, which winked with each pillar it passed behind, was bright enough to screen the monstrosity from view, rendering it an awkward shadow moving with a steady, jerking gait. Again, there was a nightmarish whirring and clicking of gears. Tom watched in disbelief as it veered towards the edge of the bath, at the point where a flight of tiled steps led down. It knew was it was doing! This wasn’t just some automaton, some terrible clockwork toy gone wrong – it knew this place, and had a plan to defend it.
Hysterically, Tom fled to the far side of the bath and tried to climb out. But at a little less than five feet tall, he could barely reach the upper rim. With a clank, the monster put its first foot on the topmost step. Tom whirled around, jamming his back against the bath wall. He still couldn’t see it properly, but sensed it watching him from beyond that glaring light. And he knew that it still clasped that weighted sceptre, now no doubt smeared with Sam Clegg’s bashed-in brains.
*
“Sam Clegg!” Corporal Flint roared. “Tom Caxton! What in thunder are you idiots playing at?”
Flint was bemused by what he’d just seen. To be confronted first of all by Tom Caxton, who’d screamed like he was facing every devil in hell and gone racing off into the depths of this weird place, was difficult enough to understand. But now someone else – someone Flint hadn’t quite seen properly, but who’d looked as if he was encased in bronze armour, and carrying a light – had gone lumbering in pursuit of the boy.
“Caxton!” Flint shouted again, advancing. “Caxton, what the devil … ?”
Bytes had come into the mound behind Flint, but was hanging back a little because he’d spotted the coins scattered from the smashed urns. Even at first glimpse, their lustre suggested they were gold. He eyed them greedily. The temptation to start scooping them up was almost irresistible, but Bytes controlled himself. The penalty for looting in war-time was death. In peace-time it was less severe, but it would be still be brutal and inconvenient. As with the many occasions in Spain, Portugal and France, when he’d robbed houses, shops and even churches, he wouldn’t take unnecessary risks. He watched Flint’s back carefully, waiting for the rangy corporal to move out of sight. However, now a figure came into view at the end of the passage. There was an archway there, with a T-junction beyond it; it was from the right-hand route that the figure appeared. It was the armour-clad shape again. Or was it armour-clad? Flint and Bytes were baffled by what they were seeing. Whoever this fellow was, he was tall – well over six feet, and so broad at the shoulder that he almost filled the passage. With each step he took towards them, there was a shuddering metallic impact.
“Sam Clegg?” Flint said uneasily, though both he and Bytes knew already that this was neither of the missing youngsters.
As the figure emerged into the daylight, its dimensions became visible. The two men were astounded by the sculpted bronze face with its blank eyes and imperious nose, by the huge shoulders and deeply curved chest, by the massive limbs crammed with sinew, and by the sound of its innards – turning and clicking with mechanical precision. Bytes backed slowly away. Flint’s response was to draw his pistol and take aim.
“Stay where you are! Declare yourself!”
The thing continued to approach.
“Declare yourself!”
When it was five yards away, he fired – only for the pistol-ball to ricochet from its left breast, leaving no more than a dent.
“We should get out of here!” Bytes shouted. “Damn the bloody ’prentices!”
Flint didn’t agree. Wielding his pistol like a club, he advanced again. “What’ve you done with my lads?”
The monster parried the first blow with a cudgel of its own. Then, dropping its glowing globe – which exploded like a rocket flare – it grabbed Flint’s throat with its free hand. Flint choked as he was picked bodily from his feet and flung against the nearest wall. Bytes watched the struggle, fascinated, but with no inclination to assist. His mind was working feverishly. Whatever this thing was, as long as it kept Flint busy the treasure could be gathered. He crouched, sweeping up coins – checking their weight, biting them. They felt and tasted like gold; this was almost too good to be true.
Flint gave a gargling scream, which sounded like a death-thro.
Bytes glanced up again. The bronze horror had dragged Flint through one of the side doors and both were now out of view. Bytes crept forwar
d and glanced around the jamb. His eyes attuning to the dimness, he saw a room of sorts: once luxurious wall-hangings were visible. There was also furniture in there – what looked like a sideboard with silver plate arrayed along the top; again, it was all buried in the dust-wadding of centuries.
In the centre of the room, Flint was still being throttled by the bronze figure, beating at it with his right fist until his knuckles were bloody and raw. With his left, he clung to the wrist of the hand in which the bronze titan wielded its sceptre, trying to prevent it raining blows on his skull. Still he was suspended, his feet kicking empty air. His eyes goggled in a face already bruised and flushed with blood. Vomit and spittle daubed his gaping mouth. Bytes’s gaze shifted back to the silver plate. Gold coins – especially of the ancient vintage – might be difficult to spend. But he knew a fence in Southwark who could move plate with indecent speed. The problem was getting to it. Flint and his assailant blundered back and forth across the room. When the bronze figure swung Flint around and threw him on top of the sideboard, it collapsed all too easily in a mass of dust and rotted timbers, burying the plate beneath it.
Even though dazed, Flint recovered his feet with a speed that would have surprised anyone who hadn’t been at Mont St. Jean, where he’d been ridden down by a French cuirassier, only to jump back up and unhorse the bastard from behind using a ramrod from the gun. Now, as then, he sought to improvise a weapon. He seized a handsomely carved chair, but on raising it and throwing it, it flew to pieces before making contact. And then the bronze man struck with his sceptre, and impact was finally made. Bytes didn’t see how hard or clean the blow, but Flint went down as though pole-axed.
Less than a second passed before the bronze figure turned back to the entrance, but it was long enough for Bytes to cross the main passage and dart through the facing doorway, into a place so dark that his eyes couldn’t at first make out anything. Face prickling with sweat, he flattened himself against the wall and listened to the heavy, ringing treads as the bronze man came back into the passage. A chilling silence followed. Did it know he was here? Would it come searching for him?
Even facing the cavalry charge at Waterloo, Bytes hadn’t felt such fear.
It moved again. At first he thought it was coming towards him, and almost swallowed his tongue – only to realise that the footfalls were growing fainter. Still he didn’t move, glancing around instead, trying to work out where he was. Rather than another room, this appeared to be a second passage, but it was wider than the first, and with more doorways leading off it. It also contained more of the urns – many more. They were ranged along the floor on the right-hand side; at first glance alone he counted thirty, maybe forty.
Dreadful though the danger was, Bytes knew that he’d stumbled upon the chance of a lifetime. However ancient these coins, however difficult to exchange, if they were genuine gold someone would want them. There had to be a fortune in this place, a king’s ransom. He poked his head back into the main passage. There was no immediate sign of the monster, but now Bytes began to wonder why the daylight down at the entrance seemed to be fading. He squinted to see better – and almost shouted when he realised that it was being blocked up. The bronze man had moved down there and, clump by clump, was restoring the turf and rubble knocked through by the roundshot.
Bytes’s blood ran cold. After the elation of several seconds ago, when he’d envisaged a life of decadence and squander, now he envisaged a life in here, entombed alive with this mindless monstrosity. He’d have panicked on the spot, gone hysterical, had he not suddenly heard a voice of salvation.
Not that he’d ever have expected such from an illiterate ruffian like Dominic Grubber.
Initially it sounded as though Grubber was expressing astonishment – but not fear. Clearly he, and whoever else was with him, had found the entrance, or what remained of it. Bytes strained his eyes to see what was happening at the far end of the passage. Two figures – the second one looked and sounded like Alker – were climbing in through the narrowed gap. There were further exclamations, and this time he could tell what they were saying.
“Put the fear of God into me,” Grubber guffawed.
“It’s only a statue.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Three metallic knocks sounded; Bytes pictured them testing their knuckles against the bronze man’s breastplate.
“Fancy enough thing, and it’s heavy …”
“Hardly what we’re here for. Corporal Flint! Bytesey!”
The voices drew nearer. They were venturing along the passage – leaving the entrance and its motionless guardian behind them. It would have been easy to warn them to get out, tell them to bring others, to bring every gun they could. Instead, Bytes slunk back into the darkness. Within a few moments they’d almost come alongside him. They sounded nervous now, wary, especially Grubber, who, though a good artilleryman, hailed from the rural border country with Scotland and was always fearful of the unknown.
“We sure they’re even in here?” he asked.
“Where else could they be?”
“Wouldn’t they have answered us?”
“Depends how far they’ve gone in.”
“Christ loves a Christian, into a faerie mound like this?”
“It’s a burial mound.”
“So in God’s name what are they doing here?”
“Grubber, I don’t know. Corporal Flint!”
Fresh sweat speckled Bytes’s brow. He slid further into the darkness. If they found him, it would be difficult explaining why he was hiding.
“Doorways,” Grubber said. “Which way?”
“Place is bigger than it looks,” Alker replied. “We should split up.”
“Say that again and I’ll split your head.”
“In that case, straight on.”
“We need a light.”
“Go back and ask for one. See what that officer says when you tell him you wouldn’t look because it was too dark.”
“We’ve looked already, haven’t we?”
Their voices faded as they proceeded. They’d soon be reaching the T-junction, and would be out of sight. But Bytes didn’t allow himself to relax – a short while later, as he’d expected, he heard something marching in pursuit of them: heavy footfalls, and a whirring of wheels and gears. He didn’t dare look out as the hulking shadow passed by. It was several seconds after it had gone before he even allowed himself to breathe. As such, he only just suppressed a shrill screech when a hand reached from the darkness and clutched his wrist. He spun around, jerking himself free – and stared into the white, sweat-soaked visage of Tom Caxton.
“Jo-Joshua!” the boy gibbered. “Joshua! Have you … have seen it?”
Bytes grabbed him by the shirt lapels. “Miserable little shit!” he hissed. “What are you doing sneaking around?”
“Did you see it?”
“Of course I saw it.”
“What in the name of God … ?”
“What does it bloody matter!”
A wild shouting erupted from further up the main passage.
“The … the others!” Tom stammered. “It’s found the others!” The shouting continued, and there was a crash of breaking furniture. “Joshua, we have to help them!”
Bytes nodded thoughtfully. Then head-butted the boy between the eyes, before gripping him around the throat and throwing an almighty punch. The smack of fist on bone would have echoed through the derelict passages had it not been for the cacophony of battle already raging.
Bytes wasted no more time; he snatched up as many urns as he could – it was gratifying to hear the coins inside them clinking – and scrambled back down the main entry. After the dankness of the underground lair, the fresh air was invigorating; the sunlight caused him to shield his eyes. He placed the urns down and set off back, this time collecting an armful from the entry itself. These he also placed outside. He now had nine in total. Surely he could get more? – but suddenly the roars and screams inside the
mound subsided. There was an uncanny silence, until a haughty voice said: “Do my eyes deceive me?”
Bytes twirled around, and saw that pious dandy Lieutenant Silverwell seated on his horse, one hand at the hilt of his straight-bladed infantry sword.
“Aren’t you under orders at this moment?” Silverwell asked in an incredulous tone.
“Sir, I … “
Two more horses appeared through the trees. They were drawing the supplies wagon. Sergeant Kilgariff was at the reins.
“What the bloody hell, Bytes!” Kilgariff shouted, jumping down. He’d buttoned up his blue tunic, and was now fixing his crimson sash. “The entire exercise has been delayed. Every crew’s waiting on you.”
“The exercise has been delayed, gun commander,” Silverwell said, “because this fellow here, and presumably the rest of your wretches, have been pillaging.”
“Mr. Silverwell, sir … it’s not how it looks,” Bytes stammered. But he knew the game was up. He’d been caught in the act, and no amount of excuse-making would save him.
Silverwell swung down from the saddle. He took another long look at Bytes, then glanced at the urns. “Are these items of contraband?” he asked. “Or are they not? And look me in the eye when you answer, fellow. I can tell a liar from fifty paces.”
“Nobody owns them,” Bytes said.
Silverwell kicked at the nearest urn and it shattered, disgorging another heap of coins. Full daylight provided the final proof that they were gold. No matter how many millennia they’d been buried, they hadn’t tarnished in the least.
Silverwell nodded. “Your crimes grow by the minute.”
He was about to say more when there came a renewed shrieking from inside the mound, accompanied by a roar of exploding masonry. Silverwell and Kilgariff gazed at the entrance in astonishment.
“What in the name of Heaven …?” Silverwell said.
Bytes clamped his mouth shut. Suddenly there was nothing he desired more than that they should both go inside to investigate.
