The Devil in Green (15 page)

'I had a look around earlier. There's a spot not far from the gate where
we can slip over the wall. When we come back we can give the guard some
bullshit about being on a secret mission or something. He's bound to let us
in.' Miller didn't look convinced, but he allowed himself to be swayed by
Mallory's confidence.

The camp was still as they made their way past the gate. But before they
could climb the ladder to the runway around the top of the wall, the sound
of running feet and frantic raised voices rapidly approached from the other
side. Mallory pushed Miller back into the shadows.

An insistent cry hailed the guard. Mallory couldn't make out what was
said, but the guard responded by hand-winding an old-fashioned klaxon
before opening the gates.

Nine knights rushed in through the widening gap, the blue flash on their
shoulders clear in the flickering flame of the torch mounted above the gate.
Their swords were drawn as they constantly scanned all around with their
army eyes.
They were in a terrible state, their uniforms torn and charred,
their bare skin covered with cuts and bruises; some had bound deeper
wounds with makeshift bandages torn from their shirts, the material now
stained black. Their faces were grim with determination.

In the middle of the group, two knights hauled what Mallory at first
thought was burned log. It was only when he saw its rolling white eyes that
he realised it was a man, his skin seared black; Miller turned away from
the smell of cooked flesh. The knight was still alive, but he wouldn't be for
long.

The ones at the rear gathered around one of their number who had
a wooden box clutched tightly to his chest. They drove hard into the compound then yelled at the guard to close the gates.

A group of five men hurried from the direction of the cathedral to meet
them. The only one Mallory recognised was Stefan, his balding head
gleaming like a skull. Ignoring the suffering of the wounded knight, he
went directly to the captain and said something in hushed, insistent tones
that Mallory couldn't make out. The captain nodded, motioned to the one
with the box; Stefan barked an order to his four assistants and then the
whole group moved speedily in the direction of the cathedral.

When they'd gone, Miller whispered dismally, 'That poor man!'

'Looks as if he stood a little too close to the barbecue.' Mallory stared at
the silhouette of the cathedral blocking out the stars, trying to make sense
of what he'd seen. 'What was in the box?' he mused to himself. 'What was
so important?' After a moment, he set off for the ladder. 'Ah, who cares?
Come on, let's hit the town.'

They climbed quickly, keeping one eye out for the guard. When they
reached the top, Mallory led Miller to a part of the wall that was lower than
the rest where they could easily drop down to the street. They paused for a
moment at the foot of the wall, and when they were sure no one had seen
them, they ran towards the town, keeping well to the shadows.

Once the walls had been swallowed by the dark at their backs, Miller
heard Mallory's voice floating back to him as they ran. 'You know how you
get that little tingling sensation when something's going to end in tears? Or
is that just me?'

'Just as children seem foolish to adults, so humans seem foolish to the gods.' -

Heraclitus

Salisbury's streets were oddly otherworldly in a flood of light from flaming
torches that had been attached to the now-useless lampposts; their sizzling
pitch added a spicy quality to the cooling air. More people milled around
than Mallory would have expected with the encroaching night. Many
shops remained open, their trade carried out by candlelight. Friends
chatted beneath the crackling torches, freed from the rigour of days that
had become unduly hard. Children played in the gutter without fear of
cars or buses, although the occasional horse-drawn cart moved by them
at an alarming clip. Outside the Maltings shopping centre, a teenager
strummed on a guitar while his friends danced or drank home-made cider.
Others flirted or kissed each other in the shadows.

The population had adapted remarkably well to the inversion of their
lives. Indeed, from the good humour evident all around, they appeared to
be relishing it. Mallory and Miller moved through them, watching silently,
enjoying the normality.

Near Poultry Cross, where tradesmen had hawked their goods for
centuries, a man with lank grey hair to his shoulders stood on an old
kitchen chair and preached passionately to a small detached crowd. He
seemed to be proclaiming the glory of a god that lived at the bottom of his
garden. Further on, three women prayed silently around a picture of
George Clooney framed with wild flowers. At the marketplace, there were
more, individuals preaching to no one at all, or large groups singing of the
wonder of some deity or other.

'They're crazy,' Miller muttered.

'Your God's more real, is that it?' Mallory noted.

'Yes.' Miller knew Mallory was baiting him but couldn't resist responding. 'He's been worshipped for millennia, not ten months.'

'So in a couple of thousand years, old Clooney—'

'Oh, shut up.' Miller tried to stop there, but he couldn't. 'There's a
whole coherent philosophy behind Christianity—' His ears burned at
Mallory's laughter. 'There is!'

'You don't have to sell it to me, Miller. Just don't try pretending you're
better than these poor sods.'

They continued to wander, exploring the sights. As a new city,
Salisbury had the benefit of being planned on a rectangular chequerboard
pattern like some Roman metropolis. Most people gathered in a small
square that ran from the market to the Makings and up to Crane Street
and New Street, a continuous thoroughfare that was the closest to the
cathedral.

As Mallory and Miller wandered along the path at the side of the
culverted river, watching the trout, grayling and dace swim in the light of
an occasional torch, they were disturbed by the sounds of a scuffle coming
from further along the lonely path where no light burned. Mallory was
ready to ignore it, but when Miller jumped to investigate he felt a weary
obligation to follow.

Barely visible in the gloom, three men were hunched over a still shape
on the floor. Before Mallory could utter a caution, Miller was already
yelling, 'Leave him alone!'

Against his better judgment, Mallory ran in behind Miller, who was
rapidly closing on the three. The gang half-heartedly squared up to him,
then saw Mallory behind and decided it was too much trouble. They
turned and ran off into the dark, but not before Mallory saw that they were
all wearing black T-shirts marked with a bright red
V
from shoulders to
navel.

'Have you lost your mind?' Mallory said.

Miller was kneeling next to the shape on the floor: a young man
crumpled in a growing pool of blood. 'We're knights. We're supposed to
help people in trouble.'

'I'm going to have to have a word with you about the difference between
fantasy and reality.' Mallory checked the victim's pulse. 'Dead.'

'Poor man. Who shall we tell?'