What Alfie wouldn’t give for Norman and one of his music-hall magic tricks, or for the Ivanhoe to come crashing through the undergrowth like a wrathful god.
AS THE REST of the clan watched, eyes wide in awe at the sky-being, Tarak helped him onto the litter. This was his doing. He was responsible for bringing this fortune upon the clan. The pride was evident in the young urman’s face.
“For me? You shouldn’t have,” said a resentful Alfie.
Four urmen picked the litter up to a great shout from the rest of the clan.
“So,” said Alfie, though clenched teeth and pain. “Where are you taking me?”
“To Croatoan’s Heart,” said Tarak, as if that explained everything.
“Right,” he said, none the wiser.
Holding his useless musket aloft, like an army band major, Ranaman led the procession out of the stockaded village. Two urmen with burning torches joined him. Behind them came urmen with metal-tipped spears and metal swords, then Alfie in his litter, while the rest of the clan fell in at the rear, blowing horns and banging hollow gourds.
The urmen in front chanted as Ranaman led them along a narrow, but well-worn path. Tarak walked proudly beside the litter, where every misstep of the litter bearers transmitted itself to Alfie’s broken leg, amplifying every jolt and jar.
“Oi, take it easy,” he berated the litter bearers. “Bloody hell, I got a smoother ride in the Ivanhoe, and that was with bleedin’ Wally driving!” Another jolt of pain seared up his leg. “Jeeeesus!”
The urmen with spears cut their way through the writhing lianas crossing their path. Great fleshy plant pitchers turned as they passed, as if watching them.
Tarak pointed above the trees ahead of them, where a tall minaret pierced the sky. “There. The Heart of Croatoan,” he said, proudly.
“Great.” Alfie smiled weakly, his mind racing, as every jar and jolt of the litter carried him nearer to his death. If he closed his eyes, he could see Nellie standing, feet astride, hand on hips, scolding him. “Alfie Perkins, don’t you dare sit there and accept your own death. You’ve got a brain. Use it.”
There had to be a way out that would save him and the lad.
The procession filed into a clearing, dominated by an ancient domed building, from the centre of which rose the minaret, a hundred feet into the air. Worn and weathered, the building had seen better days and had fallen into some disrepair. It had been built from clay brick, which lay exposed where the painted clay daub had crumbled away. Only a few stubborn patches remained. Around its circumference, small, regularly-spaced, unglazed windows were set into it; like loopholes, Alfie thought.
The men carrying his litter placed it on the ground and Tarak hauled Alfie to his feet.
Ranaman’s warriors unbarred the great wooden door, while urmen holding torches entered ahead of the chieftain, their chants echoing round the space within.
Tarak held onto Alfie’s arm tightly, as if aware that his life depended on him. Alfie tugged it experimentally. The youth did not look at him, but his grip tightened, perhaps fearing Alfie was about to fall, or escape.
Ranaman reappeared and approached the pair. He placed a paternal hand on Tarak’s shoulder and spoke to Alfie.
“You fell, as Croatoan once did. It is a powerful omen. Today you will talk with our dead. And from you we will learn their will.”
Alfie blanched. How would they do that, exactly? Through some sort of divination? Perhaps it wasn’t his still-beating heart they were after; maybe it was his entrails. Alfie felt his stomach lurch. The day just gets better and better, he thought.
They escorted him inside. It was gloomy and bare, lit by a circle of flaming sconces. At the centre of the domed temple, beneath the minaret, was a boulder the height of a man, a fracture down its middle cracking it in twain. There was enough space between the two halves that a man might walk between them. This was the Heart of Croatoan, Alfie assumed. A broken heart, as Ranaman had told him.
Alfie’s heart felt like breaking, too. It was beating hard, loud, and far too fast in his chest. He could feel its pulsing echoes in his neck, his leg and his ears. He could feel panic tightening its grip on him, but it was a fear he knew. It was an old friend to a soldier.
The clan filed into the temple behind him, moving out around the edge of the space, encircling the broken rock in the centre, their shadows dancing on the floor beneath flickering sconces.
His chances of taking them on and getting out of there alive were slim now. Even Alfie could see that. Nonetheless, he strained his ears, hoping to catch the clanking rumble of the Ivanhoe, but heard nothing.
Just him, then.
Damn.
Two urmen stepped forward and took him from Tarak. The lad smiled at him as they took his arms and began to drag him towards the fractured rock. He cried out in pain, but his agony was lost in the rhythmic chants echoing around him. Shafts of light from the minaret focused on the rock, like spotlights on a Zeppelin.
He struggled to look back over his shoulder at Tarak who, not comprehending his situation, looked on proudly, his chest falling and rising as he joined in with the chant.
Ranaman waited for him in the space between the rocks.
“No, wait…” said Alfie, seeing reddish stains on the surface of the boulders, thinking they were signs of previous sacrifices. Then he realised the rocks, the Heart of Croatoan, were composed of iron. This must have been where they got their knives and spearheads. The lad Tarak thought the ironclad Ivanhoe was the same thing. Another sky rock. Alfie groaned. Hoisted by his own petard.
Ranaman walked between the two halves to the back of the temple. Two warriors held Alfie by the arms, his back to the rock. He couldn’t see what Ranaman was doing. He had a sudden urge, a need to know. He tried to twist his head to see over his shoulder, but all he could see was the rock.
Panicking now, Alfie was turned round so he was facing the narrow gap between the rocks. As he was turned, he caught sight of Tarak watching with a fierce pride. The flanking warriors took Alfie’s arms and held one hand on each half of the shattered boulder.
Ranaman returned through the cleft towards him, carrying a large ornately carved wooden box; the kind, Alfie thought grimly, that you would keep a ceremonial dagger in.
The chanting rose to a crescendo and then ceased.
“The time has come,” Ranaman called out.
He opened the box and Alfie steeled himself for death.
GAZETTE HAD HIS ear to the wall of the gaol chamber by the door. Denied the use of his keen sniper’s eye, he’d resorted to his hearing. He’d had his ear there for a while and his greasy ear prints stained the gritty hardened earth of the wall. “They’re taking another lot,” he said.
The others rushed to the wall of the chamber, pressing their own ears to the hardened earth.
Everson heard sounds of scuffles and angry protestations as scentirrii dragged other Fusiliers from their chamber.
“Get your hands off me, you filthy chatt!”
“Knocker, no!”
There was a charged crackle, a stunned groan and a heavy thump.
“You bastards!” yelled Mercy, thumping the side of his fist against the wall.
The Tommies vented their anger with shouts and threats, but at length turned despondently from the wall, as the Padre offered up an Our Father, the quiet liturgical tone calming them. Porgy and Tonkins joined in quietly.
Everson looked around at them. If there was any bunch worth being stuck with, it was Corporal Atkins and his Black Hand Gang. They’d had more experience of this planet than most others had and were still alive to tell the tale, which gave them the edge.