For A Few Souls More (Heaven's Gate Book 3)

by Guy Adams

  Satisfied, she went looking for Forset. He was hiding in his room at the hotel, hyperventilating.

  “I can’t abide this sort of thing,” he wheezed, “ceremonies and handshakes. I was tempted to crawl under the bed and stay there.”

  “I’m not exactly brimming with enthusiasm either,” she admitted, “but if I have to suffer so do you.”

  She led him out of his room, he still fussing over his tie as they descended the stairs.

  They met Elisabeth and Billy in the foyer.

  “You look very respectable,” Elisabeth told her father, pulling his hands away from the knot of his bow tie. “But stop trying to choke yourself.”

  She readjusted it for him.

  “I don’t suppose either of you have seen Popo?” Billy asked.

  “Certainly not,” said Agrat. “I make a point of avoiding doing so wherever possible.”

  “You wouldn’t have had to try hard for the last day or so, nobody’s seen hide nor hair of him.”

  “No doubt he is soiling some poor creature’s bed linen,” she replied before snapping at Forset, “Are you coming or not?”

  “Of course, of course...” he gave Elisabeth a grateful kiss on the cheek and followed Agrat out of the building.

  Agrat had drawn to a halt, looking up and down the street. “Where in damnation’s name is he?” she wondered aloud.

  “Who?” Forset asked,.“Popo?”

  “Of course not!” she muttered to herself and began striding towards the edge of town. “He’d better already be there, that’s all I’m saying.”

  Forset decided against cross-examining her, she was clearly singularly disinterested in his having the first idea what she was talking about and he had enough to worry him already. With a fatalistic sigh, he followed the sound of her chattering frock and began mentally rehearsing what one said to Presidents when one met them.

  3.

  HICKS MISSED HIS horse. He just wasn’t built for getting anywhere fast on foot. He looked around the ramshackle group and wondered if he might convince any of them to carry him. Perhaps he could feign some sort of ankle injury and throw himself on their mercy. Then he saw the kid who was striding on with nothing but fresh air and flies where his stomach should be and decided a sprained ankle probably wouldn’t cut it. These people made corpses on a battlefield appear in good shape.

  It wasn’t far, that was some consolation. The confidence with which he had claimed to know the route to Wormwood had been somewhat exaggerated—when you found yourself outnumbered and disadvantaged you made yourself indispensable, that was his thinking, and it had saved his neck several times. Not that the last time he’d played that particular hand it had fared him so well, he decided. He’d been heading towards that elusive damn town, with Henry Jones and his band of outlaws in tow, and earned a bullet in the head for his trouble. While it hadn’t been Jones or his damned hoity-toity wife that had pulled the trigger they’d not exactly leaped to his defence. In fact, the last words to pass through Hicks’ head before the bullet swept them away had been Harmonium Jones wishing death on him. Well, as much as he might miss the feel of her scrawny neck between his thighs as she carried him around, he could at least reassure himself that she’d had a considerable time to regret making him her enemy. Nothing quite enriched the soul like emptying your bowels over the back of someone you hated.

  For all his concerns over the precise location of the town—and quite how he’d avoid a beating, at best, when his fellow travellers realised he didn’t have its precise location to hand—things had worked out just fine. They’d bumped into a man on the outskirts of Sepulchre Heights who had given them precise directions. Quite why the man, a strangely refined gent for that part of the Dominion, had been so eager to tell them the way, Hicks didn’t know. They’d stopped for some provisions when the man had suddenly walked up to them and begun listing the route, step by step, answering a question that nobody had asked. Hicks wasn’t complaining, and would have offered thanks towards the divine if there was such a thing anymore. He’d made a good show of agreeing with the man’s advice, pretending he was only being told something he had already known, and they’d carried on their way, following the man’s directions to the letter.

  “We’ll be there in an hour or two,” he said to Kane, who was also struggling with the pace, dragging that fatty carcass mile after mile. “Then we can both get some rest.”

  “We’ll rest when we’re on mortal soil,” Kane replied, “and not a minute before.”

  “Fine,” said Hicks, “you do that. Me, I’ll just be glad to see another town, book myself a bed and someone compliant to lie in it with me.”

  They continued to walk and, after a short while, the landscape grew emptier around them, the landmarks falling away so that their surroundings became more insubstantial.

  “We’re on the cusp of it!” Hicks shouted, “can you feel it? We’re crossing over from the Dominion.”

  Kane, who certainly could feel something, beyond the usual gnawing in his ever hungry gut nodded. “Come on!” he shouted, determined to be the one who was seen to lead, rather than their wizened little guide. “We’re almost there! Follow me!”

  4.

  ATHERTON’S BULLET WENT wide as a polished boot nudged the stock of his rifle.

  “God damn you,” Atherton said, turning his rifle towards the newcomer.

  “No,” the man replied. “He’s beyond such things. You’re still pointing your gun in the wrong direction.”

  The man was English, Atherton noted. Was he one of the people who had travelled over here with the monks?

  “I was sent by Admiral Clemence,” the man said, adjusting his cuffs, as if nothing were more important out here in the middle of nowhere than maintaining a civil appearance. For some reason, this ludicrous affectation helped convince Atherton as much as the accent. There would always be a certain breed of Englishman abroad that considered the state of their tie of the utmost importance.

  “Where are the others?” he asked. “I was led to believe there was to be a sizeable party arriving.”

  He had lowered his rifle but not yet discounted the notion of using it. He wasn’t about to let his moment in authority pass painlessly. If this man was from the ministry then he’d adjust his plans, but quickly. Once the diplomats took over his window of opportunity would be closed.

  “They’re still en route I’m afraid,” the man replied. “I came ahead. Shipped up from Mexico where I’ve been keeping an eye on Diaz. A little interim assistance, if you will.”

  “Don’t need any,” Atherton replied. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Not a criticism old chap, it’s just that I have new orders.”

  “Let me guess, you want me to set up talks with these things?”

  The man frowned. “I hardly think that’s a good idea, we want them wiped out not befriended.”

  Atherton’s hand loosened on his rifle. Was it possible that his lack of faith in his employers had been unjustified?

  “Even more importantly,” the man continued, “we need to ensure that the Americans don’t try and form an alliance. The last thing this troublesome country needs is friends of that calibre.”

  “So what are the orders?”

  The man nodded at Atherton’s gun. “First we want your people to stage an attack on the town.”

  “Already planned,” said Atherton, relishing the fact. “Though they don’t stand a chance, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

  “Naturally not, but their noble sacrifice will make excellent reportage for the gathered press, there’s quite a representation down there by now.”

  “Second?”

  “Ah... well the second part of the plan involves you and that rifle,” the man nodded at the weapon, “and the very important targets we wish you to point it at.”

  5.

  AGRAT AND FORSET had taken up position on a large wooden bench just outside the barrier to the town.

  It seemed to Forset that
they were sat on a stage, their audience the gathered crowds of journalists and spectators that now filled the plain outside the town in anticipation of the President’s arrival. He had never felt quite so uncomfortable in all his life. Including, he decided, during the several recent instances when he was being shot at or threatened with immolation.

  A large party of workmen had constructed a tent housing a meeting table and refreshments, the venue where the President and his colleagues would sit down with the Governor of Wormwood and his chosen representatives and discuss exactly what the future held. It was no great surprise that the President refused to enter the town itself. That, it had been accepted, would be a security risk too far. Better, his people had suggested, that the initial meeting took place out here in neutral territory, where initial discussions could be carried out in an open and friendly manner.

  Forset was quite sure that the gathered crowd would be as unwelcome to the President as it was to him—he knew of no politician that relished such delicate conversations being carried out in the public eye—but this situation had gone past the point of secrecy. The world was hearing all about Wormwood, better then that the American government seemed to be conducting itself in as open and frank manner as possible, both for the confidence of its people and the fears of foreign governments.

  The notion of the plain being a place of neutral safety was, of course, an utter nonsense. Several divisions of infantry were surrounding the area, their guns not quite pointing directly at the town. “Security,” one of the officials had said, “you know how it is.”

  Indeed, Forset did. He had no doubt that those guns would be aimed more directly at the very moment the men commanding them felt it necessary.

  Perhaps they thought that such a show of strength would intimidate the people of Wormwood. Forset, knowing the sort of strength that lay within, and indeed beyond, that small town, knew better. Not that it reassured him particularly. Knowing that the mortal army could not win the day didn’t mean they couldn’t clock up a few casualties in the attempt. Forset was not a man who enjoyed the experience of having a gun pointed at him. Though even that was preferable to the lens of a camera, several of which were aimed in his direction, ready to pounce. He made a point of crossing and uncrossing his legs as frequently as possible, worried that if he sat completely still one of the photographers would take advantage of the fact.

  “Do stop fidgeting,” Agrat told him, “you’re aggravating my dress.”

  Unsure of quite where such aggravation might lead, Forset did as he was told.

  There was a distant shout and he saw one of the lookouts signalling to those gathered below.

  “I imagine that means he’s nearly here,” Forset said.

  “Hooray,” Agrat replied, with very little enthusiasm.

  6.

  “ALMOST THERE, SIR,” said Oliver, peering out of the carriage window. “There’s quite a crowd.”

  “Naturally,” said Harrison. “This is a piece of theatre as much as it is politics.”

  “Is there ever really a difference?” asked Levi Morton, Harrison’s vice-president.

  Harrison sighed into his beard. “Perhaps not.” He tugged at his jacket, trying to make himself look as presentable as possible. Morton always looked so damned dapper, he thought, whereas he could never quite shake the feeling that someone had altered the fit of his suit overnight, making it pinch and bulge in all the most uncomfortable places.

  “Historic times,” said Morton.

  “Historic indeed,” Harrison agreed, “and the problem with history is that it will always be judged by those who follow. Let us hope what we do today is judged fairly.”

  “There will be those who consider us heroes and those who consider us villains,” Morton replied. “That, at least, will never really change.”

  7.

  FATHER MARTIN WATCHED as the people from the camp began to descend the mountain, nigh-on a hundred and fifty souls, all ready to fight for something they believed in. Ready, perhaps, to die for it. On one hand he was distraught at the idea of the impending violence, on the other he found he envied them their conviction. He watched them recede down the mountainside, likely never to return. Behind him were the remains of the Order of Ruth, excluded from the fighting due to their age and the few fragile convictions they had left. Some were praying, the others just stood silently, as lost as their superior.

  “What is my purpose?” Father Martin asked, no longer expecting an answer.

  “Well,” came a voice from behind him, “I would say it’s the same as the rest of us: to be a better man.”

  Father Martin turned to see Patrick Irish. In the writer’s arms was Popo, barely conscious, his wounds leaking onto Irish’s shirt and pooling in the ground at their feet.

  “Patrick? You came back?”

  “Temporarily. I am, for once in my life, committed to tidying up after the mistakes of others.” Irish lay Popo down on the ground. “You need to bring whatever medical supplies you have. Clean water, dressings, whatever you can find.”

  Father Martin stared at Popo. “That’s... the creature we...”

  “Nearly killed, yes. But you’re going to learn to be a better man than that and you’re going to look after him. You’re going to help him heal and then you’re going to take him home.”

  “I am?” Father Martin stared down at Popo, at his bright red, bloodied face, the skin torn to reveal the muscle beneath, and he remembered the visions that had plagued him on his journey to Wormwood. The red-faced man that had appeared to him nightly, taunting him—or so he had thought—an omen of the very worst to come. He looked down at Popo and realised that the omen had always been about him, about the horror he would not only witness but endorse. Oh Martin, he thought to himself, you lost your way so long ago, I only hope there’s time for you to find your way back. “I am,” he repeated, “of course I am. Fetch everything you can find!” he shouted at the monks, “this man needs our help.”

  8.

  THE PRESIDENT’S CONVOY arrived on the plain and the barely restrained chaos that had held sway for the last hour or so finally burst. The reporters and spectators were shouting and crowding around the carriages as the army did their best to hold them back. Orders were barked, shots were fired into the air, defensive formations were struck and somewhere, at the heart of it all, two middle-aged politicians stepped out into the sunlight and wondered what the Hell lay ahead.

  “Spare any change?” asked the demon who had taken up residence on the edge of town, restraining a sneeze that would set his facial fronds into a financially disastrous mess of mucus. Nobody even heard him—though a few had given him a wide berth when he’d ambled over earlier, bowl held out hopefully towards the gathered members of the mortal public.

  Jolted by a small gang of reporters, he tumbled to the floor, his bowl spilling its pathetic contents. Cursing under his breath he tried to retrieve his funds; at least he hoped they were funds, being new to the world of dollars and cents he was a little baffled by some of what he’d been given. Retreating to a safe distance he shoved the mixture of coinage, buttons and small stones into his pockets and sat back to watch the pageantry unfold.

  Agrat and Forset were on their feet and making their way towards Harrison and Morton, the crowds finally forced back by the enthusiastic efforts of the military.

  Harrison looked at Agrat and her chattering frock as if he were about to be buttonholed by a glamorous, six foot shrimp.

  “My name is Agrat,” she said, “the other creature is Lord Forset, we have been sent to welcome you on behalf of the Governor of Wormwood.”

  “Charmed,” said Harrison taking her hand.

  Agrat looked to Morton. “Is this your wife?” she asked.

  “Vice-President Levi P. Morton, ma’am,” Morton said, giving a polite bow.

  “You didn’t answer the question...”

  “Not wife, no,” said Forset, nerves having robbed him of all but the most vital words. “Pleased to meet you,
gentlemen,” he said to Harrison and Morton. “I have agreed to assist the governor in diplomatic matters, as I hope has been explained. I do not represent my home country in any way, I speak on behalf of Wormwood only.”

  “Understood,” Harrison smiled. “I’m sure we’re grateful for your assistance.”

  “These are complicated times, sir, I’m just hopeful they can be turned to everyone’s benefit.”

  “You and me both.”

  They moved towards the tent that had been constructed for their talks, a sea of shouted questions washing over them as they approached it.

  “That’s an interesting gown, ma’am,” said Morton, looking at the roving hem with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

  “Just mind it doesn’t go for your fingers,” she warned him, “the threads get a trifle unruly in crowds.”

  He took a slight step back, unsure whether she was joking.

  “Unruly or not,” he said, “it’s most...”

  He didn’t get to finish his sentence. A rifle shot rang out and he was startled to note a blossoming of red on the front of his shirt. “Oh Lord,” he said, “I think I’ve just been...”

  A second shot, and this time Harrison was the target. Later, when the gathered representatives of the press tried to evoke that moment they would write of that startled face, his thinning hair flicked skywards, the blood covering half of his face, the eyes that spoke only of confusion. None of the descriptions were printed, many were not even accurate, dramatising after the fact. At the moment that the shot was fired—the second shot that would change the world—the panic was so widespread, the confusion so total, that nobody really had the first idea what was happening.