Horizons of Deceit, Book 1 Read online

  Even with the weight of the men in full kit, the ladders were bucked and buffeted by the gale on their descent, and more than once Folkard had been forced to cease his climb and grip the ladder close to his body until the tempest had momentarily subsided. Yet eventually, with cheeks already chapped red-raw and facial hair peppered with frost, the party set foot on the enemy’s inhospitable turf.

  They regrouped quickly and watched as Sovereign began its mournful ascent, soon lost in the maelstrom of sleet and grey cloud. Folkard watched it until the hull became indistinct, then to the point where he was sure he would not be seeing it again. He almost raised a hand to wish her farewell, but checked himself before he could perform this sentimental gesture. Nevertheless, he felt guilty for not having said goodbye to the ship he loved so dearly, and turned to find the rest of his men with a bitter feeling in his heart.

  Enderby consulted a heavy-duty compass and a map wrapped in translucent wax paper, determined which direction was east, and the party set off in silence and single file.

  The trudge across the wasteland was a long and arduous one. With the lack of vegetation, cover was impossible; they were truly trusting to luck that they should not be spotted. At least the weather was on their side in that respect. Enderby took the lead with Folkard second, and even though the men were only a few yards apart Folkard could not see the last in line when he looked behind him. As the snowstorm worsened the cold became almost unbearable, and as much as it aided them with concealment it sapped all the energy from Folkard’s already exhausted body. It was only the thought of the Heart, and his certain reunion with Charlotte, that warmed him and spurred him on.

  After perhaps four hours of hiking, the storm lessened its assault and rough natural tracks began to appear in the terrain. More and more trees began to dot the landscape, lessening the depth of the snow on the ground, and this along with the uneven yet mercifully solid paths allowed them to pick up their pace. The paths soon became paved with large, flat, irregular stones, tessellated as much as was possible. This was the first sign of civilisation the men had seen in hours, and Folkard felt a brief surge of relief—if not amusement—at his joy upon seeing a badly-made road.

  They followed the road for another quarter mile or so, before Enderby ducked to his haunches without warning. Instantly, the rest of the men followed suit and Folkard crawled up to see what had startled the spy.

  Enderby pointed ahead of him. Just visible, standing around a dimly-glowing steel brazier, two Russian soldiers huddled against the cold. They slapped their hand against their arms for warmth, their incessant, guttural grumbling carried towards the British on the wind. Enderby and Folkard looked at each other nodded. Enderby reached down to his waist and pulled out a stiletto knife, its blade tempered black to prevent any reflection. Folkard did the same and Enderby quickly gestured: You take the one on the left, I’ll take the one on the right. Without prompting, the men behind them readied their rifles should the assassins be detected.

  Swiftly and silently, Folkard and Enderby approached the two unsuspecting soldiers until they could feel the heat of the fire on their faces. Enderby counted down on his fingers, three, two, one…and the two men sprang into action, both plunging their stilettos into the base of the soldiers’ necks with deadly, instant accuracy. The Russians fell to the ground, dead weights, and before the blood had even started to colour the ground, the four service operatives who had taken up the rear were bundling the bodies into the undergrowth, where they would be covered by snowfall in mere minutes—if the wolves didn’t get to them first.

  Knowing that the Russian presence was a very real danger from here on in, stealth became paramount. Still in single file, the agents and Folkard eased their way up the road at a crouch, scanning the horizons for any sign of trouble. A larger camp containing a small platoon of Russians was deemed to be too much of a risk, so the party once more took to the snowdrifts and skirted around the danger as if they were never there. The increase in troops surely meant they could not be far from their objective.

  Before long they came across a large stone bridge. The eaves of its impressive arches were decked with foot long icicles, the bridge itself spanning a gorge at the base of which lay a frozen river, unmoving and impassive. The cover offered by the bridge seemed a perfect place to stop, rest and assess the situation, and it was clear the men were grateful for even the briefest of respites.

  They eased their way down a shallow slope to where the buttress met the ground. There was a small stony area, neatly secluded, where the men could break out their tinned rations. Set into the large buttress was a heavy wooden door, locked when they tried it. This didn’t stop Enderby from keeping one beady eye on it as he sliced off strips of tinned ham with his knife.

  He threw the empty tin into a bush and looked to Folkard, then the door.

  “Shall we see where it goes?” he asked.

  “Why not?” replied Folkard, wiping his hands on his trousers and standing.

  Though the door was locked it was rotten with age and obviously disused, and it didn’t take much time or force to open. Inside, a dark stone staircase led up, musty, ancient and cracked.

  “Like something out of a ghost story,” remarked Folkard.

  “Then it’s lucky I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  Folkard raised an eyebrow at Enderby.

  “Trust me,” he said. “If you’d seen everything I have…”

  Instructing the rest of the group to guard the entrance, the two men made their way up the steps. There were four flights, all at right angles, and for a while in the middle the two adventurers were in total darkness. When they reached the top, a thin rectangle of light indicated the presence of another door, and Enderby pressed his ear against it to listen for a moment.

  “Nothing,” he noted. “A light step is hardly the Russian army’s forté, so I think we’re safe.”

  Once more the door proved no great obstacle, and after a brief peek through to check the coast was clear, Enderby and Folkard stepped out onto the top of the bridge.

  “Handy little short cut,” said Folkard.

  “But somewhat exposed. Look.”

  Enderby pointed across the bridge. A half a mile away, the Russian’s secret base at Severnaya sat like some great, squat beetle. The main building was a vast hangar, surely the resting place of the Russian’s terrifying new weapon of war, and around it several smaller square buildings were grouped, as if in praise or reverence. Several smaller airships were tethered to the hangar, bobbing contentedly in the sky, with cutters darting quickly between them, flies on the bellies of these great beasts of the air.

  “We’ve found it,” said Enderby. “Welcome to Severnaya, Captain Folkard.”

  3.

  BOBBING UP AND down on a horse, Annabelle felt a curious sense of nostalgia that somehow managed to override the apprehension that, by all rights, she should be feeling.

  They had left Billy and Ignatius to tend to the rest of the passengers and Annabelle, George and Bert had moved outside to greet the Indians.

  “Will we be safe, miss?” Bert had asked.

  “Trust me, Bert. These are Apaches. If they’d wanted us dead we wouldn’t have even known they were there.”

  “I’ll defer to your judgement, miss.” There was no trace of irony or fear in his voice, and Annabelle realised this man trusted her completely. She just wished he’d stop calling her “miss”…

  If Annabelle was convinced that the Indians posed no danger, her assumption was buoyed even more when she thought she recognized the face of one of the braves. She squinted at him, remembering the high cheekbones and soft brown eyes of a boy she had once known—a boy that had grown into a man.

  “Wapi!” she exclaimed.

  “Annabelle,” replied Wapi from his horse, nodding gently at her. “It has been a very long time.”

  “I’ll say!” replied Annabelle. “Look at you!”

  Wapi was dressed in a curious fusion of traditional Apache and Me
xican dress. A woven poncho covered his shoulders and bare torso, moccasin-clad feet thrust firmly into his horses stirrups. A bandoleer full of bullets crossed his chest one way, the strap of a Winchester rifle the other. She looked at his face, a face she remembered always being blessed with a gap-toothed smile as they had teased scorpions together or chased each other around the tents and campfires of their ever-nomadic home. Though his youthful looks remained, the smile had gone, replaced by a sombre seriousness that indicated their re-acquaintance, however welcome, was not a matter for celebration just yet.

  “The years have made you more beautiful as you have grown, Annabelle,” he said, and as she attempted to conceal the reddening of her cheeks she was simultaneously amused that George’s bristling behind her was almost palpable, “but now is not the time to discuss how those years have shaped you. We must ride, and quickly. There is danger in the desert. Evil men are awakening spirits that should be left to sleep.”

  “Where are we going?” asked George.

  “Wapi, this my husband George,” said Annabelle, stepping to one side to introduce George. “And Bert, our…travelling companion.”

  George stepped forward.

  “Happy to make you acquaintance, Wapi.” He held out his hand, but Wapi kept his firmly on the reins, looking down his nose at the Englishman whose arm was so comically outstretched.

  “There will be time for talk on the journey. Annabelle, you must ride with me. This husband of yours and the man in black can go with Bly and Gopan.” He paused before adding; “Whichever they prefer.”

  4.

  THEY HAD RIDDEN due south at a fast pace for what, Bedford guessed, must have been around forty minutes. After that, when they had reached a seemingly vast expanse of desert, they had slowed to allow the horses some respite from the heat of the high Arizona sun. They were heading, it seemed, to a mesa in the distance, the only landmark visible in a horizon perpendicular to the unbroken blue of the sky. Wapi led, Annabelle swaying lazily as she sat behind him, and Bedford goaded Gopan into trotting up until they were side-by-side. When she noticed his approach, Annabelle looked back and smiled.

  “Enjoying the ride?” she asked.

  “The scenery’s magnificent,” said Bedford drily. “But seriously, Annabelle, what’s all this about? It can’t be coincidence.”

  “Of course it isn’t, George my darling. And don’t be coy, you know as well as I that the only way to find out why is to follow the route we’ve been given. And find, so to speak, the root of the problem.”

  “But the attack on the train. We’ve been targeted, Annabelle, and dash it all but you’re my wife now, and I won’t see you in danger.”

  Annabelle turned to him sharply.

  “And, as I believe I’ve said before, you’re my husband. Do you think I wish to see you in danger? I trust the Apaches, and Wapi in particular. Though he may represent a time in my life you were no part of, you are a part of my life now, and a significant one at that. I can’t erase my past, however much I’d like to, so trust me when I say that we’ll both be safe if we stick with Wapi.”

  “I agree,” chipped in Bert, trotting some feet behind them. “It’s the best course of action. It seems we share an enemy. Or enemies, at least.”

  Wapi, who had been gazing off into the distance, seemed to come to out of some mystic reverie and nodded. “Our chief, the wise and revered Goyahkla, has had many visions of the deaths that may have to be dealt. On these walks inside the mind he has seen you, Annabelle, travel the sky with the same ease as a horse steps through a shallow river. On some of those occasions he has been with you in spirit, hearing with your ears and seeing through your eyes. He has told us of those worlds in the sky; those that looks similar to this, our land, and the ones that look so strange he could barely describe them, or the beasts that dwell there.”

  “Who’s Goyahkla when he’s at home?” asked Bert, with genuine interest.

  “He is better known to you,” said Wapi, turning his head once more to the horizon, “as Geronimo.”

  5.

  “OH, CORKS,” SAID Tally.

  “Corks indeed,” muttered Nathaniel.

  “Mister Potsdam, the ladder, if you’d be so kind.”

  Following the instructions of his weasely master, the brute thumped across to where the ladder lay against the rim of the pit and lifted it clear as if it were matchwood.

  “Can’t have you climbing out and ruining all the fun now, can we, Professor Stone?” said the well-dressed man, licking the tips of his fingers and using them to extinguish his cigarette with a hiss. “Although I’m sure you’ll feel happier going to you death knowing that I’m truly honoured to finally kill someone who appreciates my art.”

  “What can I say?” quipped Nathaniel. “I’m a fool for aesthetics.”

  “Now now, Professor. Let’s not get catty. You wouldn’t want to meet your maker feeling all cross now, would you?”

  “Bit late for that,” Nathaniel muttered to himself.

  “I take it you’ve used your not inconsiderable powers of deduction to work out the purpose of that delicately-hued crystal?”

  “I’m guessing it’s some sort of accelerant. There was a small amount, perhaps a few ounces, in the Horseguard’s bomb, and that seemed to imbue the device with a significant lethality…. The extent to which that power is magnified with a block this size is scarcely imaginable….”

  “Who needs to imagine! You’ll be seeing for yourself in but a few minute’s time. I would ask you what you thought, but then, what’s the point in asking questions of a bloody, vaporised mess, as my dear old mother used to say.”

  “Look,” said Nathaniel hotly, “this witty fluff and bluster is all very good but it’s starting to grate on my nerves a bit. Just who the hell are you, anyway? I caught the name of your pet brick wall—Potsdam, wasn’t it?—and yet here you are, content to remain the man of mystery.”

  “It’s funny that the doomed have such a fondness for propriety, don’t you think, Mr Potsdam?” Potsdam remained silent and stony-faced. “Still, I suppose my manners have deserted me. My name is Klopstock. KP Klopstock. Inventor, renaissance man, artiste. Also hired killer.”

  “He’s off his chops,” said Tally.

  “I’ll let that slide, Mister Cahalleret. I’m gracious like that. Nevertheless, Professor Stone, as well as its glorious ability to make things go bang that little bit bigger, this marvellous mineral you see before you has many other curious qualities. It’s quite the wonder stuff, and my employers are as keen to keep it to themselves as your government is in keeping gravitar on the QT. Which is, clearly, not working out so well for them. And so naturally, any Tom, Dick or Harry who goes poking their nose into the wrong places is bound to suffer misfortune of a rather fiery and terminal sort, thanks to my delicate art. I do so hope you like my little masterpiece down there, Professor. I put some extra work into it just for you….”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “That’s marvellous to hear. Anyway, time does fly when you’re having fun with gloating, as the saying goes. Mister Potsdam and I really must be off. I believe we have an appointment with your dear friend Arnaud in Calcutta, and he’s hardly going to explode himself now, is he?”

  Nathaniel’s face became set. His eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched, his hands unconsciously balling into fists. “I swear to you, Klopstock, I’ll be coming for you.”

  “Oh right. And how do you intend to do that, may I inquire? As a ghost? Or do you plan to reconstruct your mangled corpse by sheer force of will and shamble after me like some ungodly revenant? Come, come, Professor Stone. Be reasonable.”

  “No force on Earth will be able to stop me.”

  “Handy, seeing as the forces you’re dealing with here have no Earthy provenance anyway. Toodle pip, Professor. Do die nicely.”

  With that, Klopstock hopped up and brushed the grit from the palm of his hands. “Come along, Mister P. Places to kill, people to mangle.”

  “Klops
tock!” yelled Nathaniel. “Klopstock!”

  But Klopstock ignored him, jauntily sidling to the cave entrance with Potsdam lumbering behind him like some mythical behemoth. As the vast man ducked into the tunnel entrance, he turned around briefly and, using his unnatural and metal-infused strength, yanked at a timber beam that supported the roof. He used the length of thick wood to strike at the top of the tunnel and, ignoring the rocks that fell onto his head and shoulders as if they were no more than snowflakes, had soon totally blocked the only available route of escape.

  “Well that’s us well and truly fecked,” said Tally.

  6.

  GIVEN THE CHOICE, Arnaud may well have picked the dank and cold of that deadly underground cavern over the heat of the Calcutta sun—bomb or not. Vice-Chancellor Banerjee had sent information regarding the whereabouts of Garrecreux and the mysterious Madame Moonsinge to the hotel that Coyne had managed to procure for himself and Arnaud. It turned out, Arnaud thought bitterly to himself, that the fellow wasn’t totally useless after all.

  After they had washed and dressed and had eaten a light meal (Arnaud had declined the more exotic Indian food on offer, which looked like some sort of pungent stew served with flatbreads—though Coyne had lapped it up like a native) they left the hotel and headed in the direction of Black Town. Arnaud was still impressed by the European elegance of Calcutta’s wealthier side. He almost felt at home strolling down paved roads and comparing the similarities (and differences) of the architecture in Paris. Everyone seemed well-dressed, affluent, busy—if only there were some respite from this damnable heat.

  Arnaud saw a bench under the shade of an awning and beckoned for Coyne to stop. Coyne tutted dismissively.

  “I’m sorry,” snapped Arnaud, “but I’m just not used to this…this relentless sunshine!”

  “Which may have something to do with you sweating out three days’ worth of brandy.”

  “Couldn’t we at least hail a hansom? The tram? Even one of those death-trap rickshaw contraptions would do….”