He was so winded he couldn’t spare the breath.
He had seen what they’d done to the Parsons.
And every man he’d left behind to guard the mansion had fallen.
As he came around that final curve in the driveway, the followers heard the stomping footsteps of nigh on seventy men in hobnailed boots and turned to face them. No matter what happened now, Bruno and his men were committed. There was no need for a command, every black-coat could see the enemy; a force they outnumbered more than two to one. Bruno let the machete drop into his right hand and raised it in the air.
With what breath they had left in their lungs, Magnus’s men released their war cry and fell upon the acolytes of the Prophet.
When the growling stopped, they tensed and dug their fingers into each other’s skin. They bit their lips against the fear. They heard grunts and felt movement. Heavy footsteps dragged past them. The footsteps stopped not very far away. In the background they could hear shouting; a crowd of men swearing and pushing each other. There was a sound like their mother opening a heavy drawer of cutlery in the kitchen and the uproar from far away became much louder.
Then they heard the voice, the terrifying voice that wheedled and cajoled and commanded. The voice of the man that wanted so much to hurt them. In the darkness, still safe, they didn’t know what to do. Was it time to run? Would he hear or see them?
‘What should we do?’ asked Harsha as quietly as she could.
‘Don’t know.’
‘Maybe we should just have a look.’
Harsha went to push the lid of their hiding place open and Hema grabbed her arm.
‘It’s okay,’ said Harsha. ‘We’re only looking. We don’t have to run yet.’
As silently as they could manage they shifted around until they could both peep over the lip of their secret place.
They saw the hairy man, naked and yelling, with his back to them at the window. They looked at each other. Words weren’t necessary now. This was their chance to escape. They crawled up and out as quietly as snakes but Harsha, believing Hema had hold of the coffer’s lid, let it go. The lid slammed shut hard. The hairy man jumped and began to turn.
A look passed between them and they both remembered the courage of the brothers in the story their father had told them. Instead of running away, they ran at the hairy man. Ran at him as hard as they could, arms outstretched in front of them, palms spread wide.
Magnus woke with a start to the sound of boots stomping gravel and the cries of men in battle.
He grunted and tried to get out of bed. Even simple movements like this were getting harder and harder. Finally he hauled his bulk upright and slid his legs over the side of the bed. The noise from outside was furious. Bodies and blades fell against the spiked railings that surrounded the main building. Right below his own bedroom window he could hear men cursing and roaring as blows landed and pain blossomed.
There were shouts of frustration and failure.
He pushed himself upright and staggered. Reaching out a hand he steadied himself against one of the bed’s four posts until the dizziness receded enough for him to walk. His legs were weak and unsteady as he shuffled to the great window.
Outside, his men were lashing themselves against the enemy like the sea against the rocks. He felt a brief swell of pride over them. These were his best and they were fighting for Magnus and everything he stood for. The pride faded quickly as the reality of the situation became clearer.
His men were tired. Their lunges and attacks were no longer crisp and sharp. They moved heavily, the more effort they put in, the slower they seemed to move. Great, wide, sweeping arcs of machetes missed their targets by inches or feet. Punches didn’t land or were ineffectual. Kicks were easily avoided. His guards outnumbered the opposition by more than double but already they were hitting the ground, felled by blows so swift they might have been imaginary but for the damage they inflicted.
And this enemy! They looked so thin and tattered they might have been beggars from the streets. But they didn’t behave like pitiful vagrants. He had seen this kind of movement before and he knew what it meant. These were Collins’s followers, his fighters. They were fast. They gave no quarter. As he watched, more of his men fell to their birdlike hands. The odds evened.
He had to do something. Struggling with the weight of it, Magnus pushed up the sash window. His men needed encouragement. They needed direction and he could see a way for them to land more telling hits if only he could speak to them. With the window fully open, he wedged it in position with a block of wood and leaned out.
‘Bruno! Timing, man! It’s all a matter of changing your rhythm.’
He saw that Bruno had heard him, but the man dared not look away from his opponent. He watched as Bruno backed out of range and then darted in with a light left jab. The man he was fighting took the bait and blocked but Bruno was already swinging his machete. Even with a head start and the ragged man off balance, the blade only caught his jaw and not his neck as Bruno had hoped. The machete opened the man’s face to the mandible and there was a brief flash of white bone before the blood flowed.
Unheeding of the wound and turning immediately into the attack, Bruno’s opponent hit back with strobing hands. Magnus wasn’t sure he saw the blows connect until Bruno stumbled backwards, his mouth a crimson grimace.
‘Don’t stop!’ shouted Magnus. ‘Take the initiative!’
The man did not close on Bruno, letting him regain his composure instead. Bruno’s pride was wounded worse than his face. He seemed not to notice that he’d been given a chance and he advanced as though upon a child he intended to whip. All around the gravelled driveway, men in long black coats were crumpling; their frustrated blades still clean.
‘Fucking imbeciles,’ Magnus muttered. He began to think ahead a little. What if they got into the house? How many men did he have left inside?
He heard a sound like a heavy wooden door slamming behind him and the patter of feet over carpet. He turned to face the intruders but never quite finished the manoeuvre. Instead he felt small hands pushing him back.
As he lost his balance, he heard giggles.
Then he was falling.
Twenty-five
Collins wasn’t used to fighting but it didn’t make any difference. A kind of pulse thrummed between all of them and somehow their movements were coordinated. They fought as if they were a single being, each part communicating with every other. The pulse had a rhythm and, in most cases this rhythm moved them out of sync with those they faced. The result was the enemy got hurt but they didn’t. It was like a dance. Only the bad dancers were struck.
He felt nothing for the enemy. No pity or respect. He knew none of his followers did either. The people that opposed them were a lower order of humanity. They’d have done better to step aside.
When Rory Magnus fell from a second floor window of the mansion, Collins caught the movement like a shimmer across one side of his body, peripheral vision of his very skin. He kept fighting but his black-coated opponents were suddenly distracted and moments later, all the fight went out of them. Their leader hung by impaled legs upon the spiked railings that surrounded the house; a means of protection that had turned against him. As Magnus’s men fell back towards the house and the fighting stopped, Collins took in the scene.