B00DW1DUQA EBOK (14 page)

He stood up. His cheekbones ached as he clenched his jaws tight. He forced himself to breathe deeply. He was being ridiculous. He needed to relax. It was OK.

The trumpet-call cut through the warm air, sending birds racketing off through the branches.

When it had faded away he looked back down at the dog, who stood as if nothing had changed, waiting for them to continue their walk. Of course, she had no experience of the Ironclads, had no idea what their arrival meant. And what did it mean? Perhaps they were still tracking Diane, even after all this time. Or perhaps Connor or Shireen were masters now, and they’d returned. The thought filled him with both delight and dread. Still, he had to know. Had to find out why the Ironclads were here.

‘Come on, Badger,’ he said. ‘I think we have to go.’

They were waiting for him at home. He saw the horses as he came around the turn in the lane. He thought about running there and then. But they couldn’t have come for him. He kept telling himself. His father had promised him he was safe. They couldn’t have come for him. His father and mother would explain everything, sort everything out when he got home. Badger kept glancing up at him as they approached, unsure what it all meant. The horses were tethered to the fence, just as they had been for Shireen. They were smaller than he remembered, but still massive in their black and silver armour.

There was silence as he opened the door and walked inside. His father sat at the table, his head in his hands, face invisible. Two Ironclads stood behind him. His mother was filling a canvass backpack and wiping tears from her eyes as she did so. She strapped the patchwork blanket from his bed to the top. The master stood behind her, with two more Ironclads beside him. The master was young and handsome, with straight, blond hair sticking out like straw. Only the mocking look in his eyes spoiled things. He smiled.

‘Finn,’ his mother said and rushed toward him to squeeze him tight. ‘Finn, Finn. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

Looking over his mother’s shoulder at his father he could see, now, that there was blood on his father’s hands. He was covering a wound on his forehead. What had happened? Had he tried to fight the Ironclads?

‘Father? Are you alright?’

‘His father looked up, squinting through the pain. He held a rag to his forehead, soaked through with blood.

‘I’m fine, Finn.’

‘You said they wouldn’t take me. I don’t understand. Tell them, they can’t take me.’

He had never seen his father crying before, but there were tears on his cheeks now, rolling down to lose themselves in his great, bushy beard. He didn’t speak again. All he could do was shake his head, clutching the rag.

His mother released Finn enough to look into his face.

‘We’ll put together everything you’ll need,’ she said.

Within an hour they were lumbering down the lane. Finn could hear only the clanking and tinkling of the Ironclads’ armour and the occasional snort of a horse. His mount was already uncomfortable, her great flat back too wide for his legs. The shackles on his wrists prevented him riding properly. He already felt bruised, and each step of the horse sent another bang of pain through him.

His mother and father, his house, his garden – it all shrank away behind him. He would never see them again. But that was a nonsensical statement, too big to take in. It wasn’t possible. He twisted his head back to watch them, his mother and father standing together, not moving, arms around each other. Badger was tied to the gatepost behind them, straining at the rope to follow Finn down the lane. It looked as if his father was holding his mother up, stopping her from sagging to the ground. They’d been allowed a few minutes only, a few words, before he was lifted onto the horse.

‘Keep your head up, son,’ his father said. ‘Don’t take any messing from anyone.’ He’d wanted to say more but couldn’t. His wound still bled, a line of fresh blood running down the side of his face.

His mother had held onto Finn’s hand as they started moving, walking with them. ‘I’ve packed your hat, and your warm jumpers, and everything you might need. Will you be alright, Finn?’

He didn't have a voice just then. He nodded, looking down on his mother’s upturned face. Her eyes were raw.

‘Here.’ His mother gave him a boiled sweet to suck; a taste of honey that would always remind him of her. ‘I’ve slipped a bag of them in. Take them with you. Perhaps they'll last you all the way there.’

Finn nodded again, not able to understand what was happening.

They picked up speed and his mother had to trot to keep up, still clutching Finn’s shackled hand.

‘Finn, I…’

An Ironclad, riding alongside, reached out to knock his mother’s arm free. With a jerk of his helmet he told her to stop, go back. Obeying, disbelief on her face, she walked to a halt and then stood, the rest of the Ironclads passing around her. It looked to Finn as if she was moving away from him, receding backwards into the past, into his former life, with each jolt from the horse.

He watched as she disappeared around a bend. He looked at the ground, at the hedges. Everything he could see was utterly familiar. He knew each boulder in the ground, the twist of each trunk in the hedge. They were his world, seen and not seen thousands and thousands of times. He told himself once more he would never see any of them again. He still could not grasp it. He watched a stump in the hedge slide by, a stump that always looked to him like an old woman’s face, creased and wrinkled. Old Mrs. Hampton, he thought. He had never pointed it out to anyone. He never would, now. He wanted to cry but he felt too stunned, the feelings too vast to squeeze through his eyes.

Up ahead, Mrs. Megrim stood at the side of the line, at the foot of the Switch House path. He thought she was going to shout something to him, but when they were near she stepped out in front of the master on the lead horse. She looked tiny and frail standing there, as if the gentlest wind would blow her away. Wisps of grey hair swirled around her head. She would surely be crushed by armoured hooves the size of dinner-plates. But she refused to yield. Her eyes were black pebbles. The master and the Ironclads reined in.

Saying nothing, she picked her way between the horses. She stopped in front of Finn, put her hand on his leg. Making sure no-one else could see, she showed him the folded square of paper she held in her hand. He couldn’t take it with his hands tied behind his back, so she slipped it into the pocket of his trousers. The look in her eyes made clear what he already knew. This was important. He mustn’t forget. It was a look he was well used to. He tried to smile at her.

The master at the head of the column goaded his horse into action with a jab of his heels, then, reasserting his authority over the troublesome old crone. The spell broken, the others lurched forwards to follow. Mrs. Megrim had to scurry to the side of the lane between the flanks of the horses. Finn’s last sight of her, turning his head backwards, was of a crumpled huddle of black in the dust at the side of the road where she had fallen.

They walked on, past the crossroads and Three Tree Hill. On and on, down and out of the valley.

They rode like that for three days, Finn shackled to his horse or, at night, either to one of the Ironclads or to a post hammered into the ground. They took turns to watch him. He saw no chance to escape.

They were soon farther from home than he’d ever ventured before. The buildings and trees looked more and more strange. They resembled those he knew, but had different shapes and formations, as if someone had taken his familiar world and jumbled it up.

Whenever they passed through a village, the people stopped to watch them go by, saying nothing, sullen eyes staring. Finn knew from their faces what they were thinking.
Don’t stop here, don’t stop here
. Or perhaps,
thank the stars, they’ve already taken someone. They haven’t come for one of ours
.

He slept little. Again and again, he slipped into memories of his old life, awaking with a sickening shock to his surroundings each time. Sometimes it seemed his memories were real and solid, and the relentless plodding of his horse was a nightmare he repeatedly slipped into. He would fall sleep, only to jerk awake again as he slumped forwards. Occasionally an Ironclad leaned over to prod him with a gauntleted finger. No-one spoke to him. He was an object, a package, a sack, to be delivered to Engn.

They were passing through a stand of trees early one evening when he finally succumbed to sleep. He found himself falling sideways off his horse. He was still attached by the shackles behind the saddle so that he was left dangling by his arms, face near the ground and the great stamping legs of the horse, his shoulders pulled at a painful angle.

The master called a halt and came over. He dismounted and looked at Finn for a time, amused at the sight of him. The sharp pain in Finn’s arms grew with each second.

‘Is that how you ride where you come from?’ the master asked. There were snorts of laughter from the Ironclads, a rare sound from them. ‘It’s an interesting technique.’

‘I fell off,’ said Finn.

‘Ah, did you? You’re supposed to hold on, you see. With your knees. A shame no-one explained to you.’

‘I fell asleep.’

The master sighed. ‘Oh dear. I didn’t realise it was past your bed time.’ He took a key from his robe and, reaching up, unshackled Finn from the horse. Finn crashed to the ground face-first, unable to get his numb arms down to save himself in time. There was the immediate taste of blood in his mouth and a sharp pain in his nose. He spat out soil and turned over.

The master stood over him, shaking his head.

‘We’re going to get nowhere at this rate. We’ll stay here tonight. Tomorrow we’ll meet up with the Eagle column down at Fiveways. They should have room in their engine for you.’

‘Their engine?’

‘They have a moving engine. I believe you’ve seen one before?’

‘Please, no. I can ride properly. I can stay awake, I promise I can.’

The master shook his head. ‘You can sleep all you like in the engine. Right now you should stop your nose bleeding. You’re making a mess of the woods.’

He turned away to instruct the Ironclads to begin setting up camp.

They rode a short way the following day, to a point where five lanes met. A finger of the woods came close to the road here, but there were no buildings. There was only a wooden signpost indicating where each road led. The other Ironclads were already there: six of them with a master and, steaming and hissing, one of the wheeled engines. It might have been the same one he’d seen all those years ago.

The two masters conversed for a while. Then Finn’s master returned. He nodded to the Ironclads. ‘Put him inside.’

Finns struggled, trying once again to rip his hands free of the shackles that held him. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Please, no!’

He was still struggling as the Ironclads grasped his limbs and carried him to the waiting engine to hurl him inside.

*

The jumble of white buildings sat alone in the middle of the wide, green plain, at the junction of their track and numerous others that ran crossways. A single yew, the only tree Finn had seen since they left the mountains, towered over the walls, as if carrying them under its great wide arms.

Beyond, towards Engn, the country changed. Earth and stone had been heaved up into great mounds, as though someone was trying to construct a new mountain-range. Here and there he could see piles of broken, rusting machinery. Pools of oily water reflected the mounds like mirrors. The air smelt of oil.

‘What is this place?’

‘The Halfway House,’ said the master. ‘We’ll stay here the night.’

Behind them, the moving engine ticked and clanged as it cooled. The Ironclads had left them, leading the steaming horses to a stable-block that adjoined the Halfway House. Finn and Master Whelm stood alone in the courtyard. The master seemed subdued, reluctant to follow the soldiers inside. ‘Why is it called that?’ asked Finn. ‘We’re nearly at Engn now.’ The great machine loomed behind the Halfway House, looking close enough to touch. He’d felt the thrumming of it through his feet as he climbed out of the moving engine and stretched life back into his limbs.

‘When the foundations were laid five hundred years ago and the first wheel was put into the En, this place
was
halfway to the mountains,’ said the master. ‘Engn has grown since then.’

‘And when we get there tomorrow … what will happen to me?’ asked Finn.

The master turned to look at him. With the wind hugging his purple cloak to his body, he looked smaller and thinner that usual.

‘Your father was a blacksmith?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Who you are counts for a lot. I mean, who your people are. Shouldn't but it does.’

For once, the master seemed willing to talk. It occurred to Finn that no-one talked much to Master Whelm, either. The Ironclads kept to themselves and the master rode in silence. He was free, of course, and people did what he told them to. But still, it must be lonely.

‘What did your family do?’ Finn asked.

The master shook his head, dismissing the question. He spoke quietly. ‘Nothing grand, anyway.’

‘My friend Connor was the Baron’s son. He was taken to Engn a few years ago. Do you know him?’

‘Engn isn't like that little hamlet of yours, boy. There are thousands and thousands of people there. But the son of a Baron won’t be stuck on the Seventh Wheel for the rest of his life, you can be sure of that. That’s the way it works in Engn, lad.’

Finn thought about the master’s words. That was good news. If Connor could work his way into a position of influence, perhaps into this Inner Wheel, then surely he would be able to find some way to sabotage Engn. He would be there even now, working on his secret plans. There was hope.

‘And what about you?’ asked Finn. ‘Will you stay once we get to Engn?’

The master stared at the Halfway House or, possibly, at the smoke and stone, the glinting metal of Engn beyond it. He still looked unhappy.

‘Enough talk, boy,’ he said, his old sneer returning. ‘I’ll shackle you in the stables with the animals. We’ll leave at dawn.’