Black Hand Gang (35 page)

"Gordon!" cried Atkins, pushing men aside.

The little rodent lay bleeding and whimpering, impaled by one the barbs. His nose twitched as he sought comfort in the musty smell of fresh lice he would now no longer taste. He looked up at Atkins, pitifully, and was then still. Atkins sighed briefly and stood up.

Once the smoke and flame had dissipated, the chamber beyond stood revealed amid a circle of glowing cinders. The faces of about twenty men looked back at them.

There were brief cheers and backslapping as the parties were reunited.

"Where's Jeffries?" Everson said.

"He escaped, kidnapping the Nurse. It turns out his real name isn't Jeffries."

Porgy pushed his way though the huddle, Lewis gun slung from his shoulder. "Edith!" he called "Edith?" He found a tearful Nellie Abbott trying to staunch the bleeding from Napoo, who was lying wounded beside her. "Where is she? What the hell's happened here?"

"He's taken her! He's going to do her in, I know he is. You have to save her!"

Atkins exchanged a glance with Everson. He'd known there was something fishy about Jeffries. Their findings in his dugout had aroused his suspicions, now the latest events had confirmed them.

"Edith said he was that murderer, Dwyers," one of the Tommies said.

"Dwyers the Diabolist?" said Everson.

"The same, sir," replied the Lance Corporal.

"We've got to save her, sir!" said Porgy.

"Damn!" muttered Everson. "Hobson, start moving these men out. Hopkiss go with him."

"But sir!"

"That's an order. Atkins, with me."

Hobson and Ketch began handing out weapons from the sleds and a chain quickly formed as the men passed them on. Gutsy carefully lifted a semi-conscious Half Pint so they could get to the rest. Poilus helped lift Napoo onto the empty sled.

Everson found Grantham slumped against the wall, muttering to himself.

"Sir!" he said, shaking the officer.

Grantham looked up at him blankly. "Jeffries."

"I know," said Everson. "We need to leave. Now, sir."

Grantham shook his head. "I've served my men badly, Everson. Funked it. If I go back, it's a court martial for me. At least here, I can do something useful. Give me a gun. I can buy you some time, watch your back."

Everson studied the man carefully. He didn't have the time or the inclination to talk him out of it. He was a bad officer, but if he wanted to buy himself some dignity, so be it.

"Sergeant, get the Captain a Lewis gun and magazines. Leave him some grenades and an Enfield, too."

"Thank you," Grantham whispered.

Everson caught sight of the Corporal. "Ketch, follow me!"

Ketch fell in behind him and glanced at Atkins, barely managing to suppress a sneer.

"Hobson," called the Lieutenant, "we'll meet you in that fungus farming chamber where we got the sleds. Maybe you can rally some of those captive Urmen to rise up, give Jellicoe a chance to exorcise his Labour urges. I think we could use a General Strike after all."

Porgy grabbed Atkins' forearm as he left with the Lieutenant. "Save her," he said. "And make that bastard pay!"

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"While You've a Lucifer..."

"D'you think it's true then, sir, Jeffries is that bastard Dwyer?" asked Atkins as he jogged to keep up with Everson. He'd promised Porgy he'd save Edith. But what could he do up against someone of the likes of Frederick Dwyer? He was infamous, the Most Evil Man in England according to the
Daily
Sketch
. As a hate figure, he was second only to Kaiser Bill. Half the stories that were in the press you didn't know whether to believe or not, they were so far-fetched. And even though they had been thinking that maybe the Chatts had brought them here to this god-forsaken place, what if it had been Jeffries... Dwyer... whatever, all along? Could he do that? The papers had been full of sensational stories of his past, the adventure magazines doubly so. Had he really made a pact with the devil?

"Well he's as good as admitted it, by all accounts," said Everson. "Even if he isn't, he's still in a hell of a lot of trouble. If those papers are anything to go by that's fraudulent enlistment, impersonating an officer, at the very least. Not that any of that matters a jot against a death sentence. Chap was going to swing before we ever came across him."

"I can't believe it," said Ketch. "He seemed like such an upstanding bloke."

"Well, he would to you," said Atkins. "Man after your own heart by the sound of it."

"Watch your mouth, Atkins, I'm still your NCO and don't you forget it."

"How could I?" muttered Atkins. "You never bloody let me."

Behind him, Atkins heard the rattle of the Lewis gun and the confused squealing of Chatts as Captain Grantham covered their escape.

Everson halted at a junction. Ahead, the passage branched. There was an opening to their left, decorated with some kind of hieroglyphs. After the unadorned, functional nature of the rest of the edifice, this struck him as something important, at least to the Chatts.

"Damn! I think Jeffries has given us the slip."

The excited clicking of alien jaws and joints alerted them to another approaching troop of insect soldiers ahead.

"Heads up, chaps," Everson warned as he backed against the wall, pistol arm extended. Ketch stopped beside him, dropped down on one knee and raised his rifle. Atkins fell in behind him, rifle at the ready. The troops of Chatts skittered round the corner, some carrying lances, others carrying short swords and spears.

"Wait for it," said Everson. "Fire!"

Atkins and Ketch fired and cycled, fired and cycled. The Chatts went down in a hail of bullets.

"Well Jeffries obviously didn't go that way," said Everson, and looked again into the dark opening to his left.

The distant sound of the Grantham's machine gun had stopped. It was replaced by several rifle shots, followed by several high-pitched squeals. There was a brief silence then a defiant shout. "Come on you bastards. I'll show you what backbone is. For the Pennines!" The tunnel echoed to the sound of a roar of rage and, following closely on its heels, a drawn out wail of anguish, pain and terror, punctuated by the explosions of Mills bombs.

"Sir?" said Corporal Ketch, looking at Everson expectantly.

"We can't help him."

A muffled pistol shot rang out from somewhere beyond the ornate doorway.

"This way!" said Everson, reloading his revolver before advancing cautiously. Behind him, the two soldiers slotted fresh magazine cartridges into their rifles.

Jeffries strode confidently through the dark high space of the temple, his hand tightly around Edith's wrist, dragging her along like a recalcitrant child. A large scentirrii in a silk scarlet tabard approached him with a spear. Jeffries shot it in the head. In the shadows, he saw dhuyumirrii and acolytes withdraw, melting into the shadows, clicking in agitation. He only had a few rounds left in his pistol but he only had to make it to the chamber where the Khungarrii had deposited their trench equipment. But his main priority was Chandar's little heretical collection.

"Please, stop," said Edith. "Whatever you thinking of doing, please don't!"

"What?" he said distracted. He stormed into the library chamber of niches where he saw again the scriptural jars filled with their holophrastic scents. "Chandar!" he called, waving his pistol and swinging Edith brusquely round in front of him for a shield, like a clumsy dance partner.

The acolyte Chatts backed away. He shot a jar, taking delight in the Chatts' alarmed reaction as it shattered, leaving a sticky sour smelling unguent to drip thickly from its niche. "Chandar!" he bellowed at a cowering insect. "Chan-dar, you arthropodal cretin! Where. Is. He?"

The old, maimed Chatt appeared. "What is this? We had an agreement."

"We did," said Jefferies. "Change of plan. I'm afraid it's off. However, if you want my men they're yours. Keep them, cull them, it's all the same to me."

"This trait of disloyalty is one we know runs through Urman culture, but you took the Rite of GarSuleth. How can you do this?"

"It's called individuality. You should try it sometime," said Jeffries.

He pushed the pistol into the holster of his Sam Brown and flung Bell to the floor before picking up a jar of sacred unguent. He swirled it around and watched particles of aromatic compound dance in a thick suspension of what he surmised was some sort of oil. He pulled the stopper from it and sniffed cautiously.

"It contains a distillation of ancient proverbs," explained Chandar.

"And this?" Jeffries asked, indicating another jar.

"The commentaries of Thradagar."

"And this?"

"The Osmissals of Skarra."

"And this?"

"The Aromathia Colonia."

All Jeffries could smell was rotting plums, pine sap and a hint of motor oil. It was intensely frustrating. All this knowledge and no way to access it. He pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief from his trouser pocket and poured some of the oil onto it, soaking the cloth before stuffing the handkerchief into the neck of the bottle. From his pocket, he withdrew a battered packet of gaspers, put one in his mouth, took out a packet of Lucifer matches and struck one against the box. It flared brightly.

Chandar staggered back, awed by the sight, and watched nervously, its eyes locked on the jar.

"What are you doing?" The pungent smell of phosphor drifted around the room, which seemed to alarm and frighten the other Chatts, who backed up against the wall, all except Chandar.

Jeffries casually lit his cigarette, took a deep draw, and smiled before holding the lit Lucifer to the corner of the oil-soaked cloth. He hurled the improvised petrol bomb down a gallery where it smashed with a splash of flame, catching other containers which quickly combusted. Jeffries watched in satisfaction before making another makeshift bomb, this time ripping a strip of cloth from Bell's already torn dress to use as a wick.

"What have you done?" cried Chandar, his mouth parts slack with horror.

"I've done you a favour," said Jeffries, pulling his pistol from his belt once more. Thick heady smoke coiled against the roof of the Receptory chamber and began to sink down. He grabbed a coughing Bell and a shocked Chandar, bereft at the sudden brutal loss of its precious scent texts. He urged them at gunpoint down the interconnecting passage that led to the Chatt's alchemical work chambers, closely followed by tendrils of smoke.

The smell of the smoke had already alerted the Chatts in the Olfactory, where they worked their strange mixture of theology and alchemy. They were running hither and thither in great agitation as Jeffries shoved Bell and Chandar into the room. Jeffries casually surveyed the space and chose his target.

"No! You can not," wheezed Chandar.

"Dwyer, you're mad!" said Bell. It earned her a vicious slap across the face and she staggered back, stunned.

Taking the lit cigarette from his mouth and touching it to the oil-soaked wick, he watched the flame lick up the cloth before casting the bomb into a workshop beyond. It smashed in a spray of fire amongst the volatile distilling jars, prompting soft
whooffs
of combustion whose gentle sound belied their ferocity.

Waiting only long enough to watch the fire catch, Jeffries took a last drag and flicked the glowing Woodbine into the strengthening blaze, before pushing his hostages on.

In the chamber beyond, where the Chatts had stored the trench equipment, Jeffries reloaded his pistol and picked up a webbing belt of Mills bombs. Keeping a wary eye on Bell and Chandar he hastily emptied boxes of small arms ammunition into haversacks along with tins of Machonochies, Plum and Apple and bully beef. Using webbing, he tied them together with several rifles and, as gently but hastily as he could, lowered them out of a window opening on a length of rope. He could hear the rifles clatter against the face of the edifice below. Then the rope ran short and he had to drop his load to tumble down onto a midden heap far below. He could only hope it wasn't all damaged beyond use once he retrieved the items.

He noted the trench mortar 'Plum Puddings' and smiled to himself. They should go up nicely. There would be little danger of pursuit after that. And after his sacrilegious arson a state of such enmity should exist between the Khungarrii and the Pennines that there would be no chance of a ceasefire. They would be locked in a cycle of mutual attack and counter attack. Everson and his men would have stepped from one war only to find themselves in another, leaving him free to follow his own path unchallenged. All he needed was that map.

"Take me to your Urman artefacts," he ordered Chandar. Gripping an increasingly dishevelled Bell by the unravelling bun at the nape of her neck he dragged her along impatiently as Chandar led the way, leaving the sounds of explosions and dying Chatts in his wake.

Outside the artefact chamber he beckoned Chandar to open the plant door. Inside, Jeffries swung Bell around and flung her against the wall. She dropped to the floor, dazed by the impact. He jerked his chin and ushered Chandar over against the wall beside her. Bell felt the back of her head and examined her hand, blinking incomprehensibly at the blood she found there.

"You know, until I met you I'd begun to lose all hope," said Jeffries, addressing Chandar, as he glanced around at the priceless archaeological treasures.

He strode straight to the niche containing the map, lifting it from its bark backing where it had been pinned like some entomological specimen. He folded it along well-worn creases and thrust it into his tunic.

Jeffries wheeled about, his eyes sweeping across the niches and exhibits of Chandar's collection. He walked to the wall and swept several items into the open maw of his haversack.

"So you were aware of these things? They do have meaning?" said Chandar.

Jeffries had the feeling the Chatt was learning more about 'Urmen' now than it had done in all its studies and it didn't like what it was seeing.

"Oh yes," said Jeffries. "More than you can ever know. I will be eternally grateful to you. I'm sure you'll be eager to know that you've served your part as an instrument of Croatoan."