The Place of Dead Kings Read online

  Table of Contents

  Also by Geoffrey Wilson

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part Two

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part Three

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part Four

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part Five

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Part Six

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Geoffrey Wilson

  Land of Hope and Glory

  About the author

  Geoffrey Wilson was born in South Africa, grew up in New Zealand and then backpacked around the world before eventually settling in the United Kingdom.

  He studied Hinduism and Buddhism at the University of Canterbury, New Zealand, and has been fascinated by India since travelling there in the early 1990s.

  He worked in IT for several years, eventually starting a web development business with three friends.

  THE PLACE OF DEAD KINGS

  Geoffrey Wilson

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2012 by Geoffrey Wilson

  The right of Geoffrey Wilson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  eBook ISBN 978 1 444 72114 0

  Hardback ISBN 978 1 444 72113 3

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For my parents, Gail and Harry, and my brother, Edward

  Prologue

  Saleem al-Rashid scrambled through the tangled woods. The night was so dark he could barely see the way ahead, the forest nothing but a suggestion of interlocking branches. Thick bracken grasped at him, twigs scratched and vines snared his legs.

  But he stumbled on. He had to deliver the message to Colonel Drake. And he had to do it quickly.

  Artillery fire punched off to his left. He saw the momentary flare of the blasts through the trees.

  A round shot whistled overhead, then thrashed through the leaves like a giant bird. Another shot cracked through branches and thumped into the earth. The missiles were falling all around him, but he couldn’t see them in the dark, just hear them shrieking and slashing at the forest.

  His heart pounded and sweat filmed his face.

  Would he be hit? There was no point thinking about it. There was nothing he could do to protect himself anyway. He had to keep running. That was all.

  ‘Allah is great,’ he whispered under his breath in Arabic. ‘Allah is great.’

  ‘Saleem,’ Yusuf called behind him.

  Saleem spun round. His comrade stood more than thirty feet back, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

  ‘What is it?’ Saleem shouted.

  ‘My foot’s stuck.’

  Foot’s stuck? What was Yusuf talking about? Here they were on an important mission, with shot falling all around them, and now Yusuf had trapped his foot. They would both be smashed to pieces. They wouldn’t get the message to Drake. The enemy would overrun them all and march on through Wiltshire—

  A ball shredded the foliage directly above. Twigs and scraps of leaves twirled down.

  He had to stay calm.

  Allah is great. Allah is great.

  And he shouldn’t think badly of Yusuf. His comrade was a fellow soldier and a fellow Muslim. Saleem’s father had always taught him to respect others, to show self-restraint, and to be patient even in the most trying situations. These things were laid out in the Quran, and you had to follow the Quran even in the middle of a battle.

  Saleem took a deep breath and hurried back. Yusuf was crouching and frantically trying to pull his leg out from where it was trapped between a pair of tree roots.

  Yusuf looked up. A gun rumbled on the far side of the valley. The glare fingered its way through the branches and lit up his face for a moment. His skin was pale and shone with sweat, while his wild eyes darted around constantly as if the enemy were about to appear out of the shadows at any moment.

  Yusuf was eighteen, only a year younger than Saleem, but this would be his first taste of combat. Saleem found it strange to realise he was a veteran by comparison. Three years ago he’d fought at the Siege of London, surviving a bombardment worse than that being hurled at the forest now. Remembering this somehow reassured him. Made him feel more like a real soldier. A knight.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Saleem put his hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘I’ll get you out.’

  Saleem bent and investigated Yusuf’s leg. The foot had somehow forced its way into the hole and now refused to come free. Saleem stood again, tensed, then slammed the sole of his boot into one of the tree roots. The root shifted a little but not enough. Saleem leant back, then kicked again. The root cracked and Yusuf yanked his foot out, tripping backwards.

  ‘You all right?’ Saleem asked.

  Yusuf put all his weight on the foot. ‘It’s fine.’ He glanced up and smiled. ‘Let’s get moving.’

  Saleem grinned back. But then felt a twinge of shame. Hadn’t he been arrogant in thinking he was a veteran? Did he think taking part in one battle three years ago made him a knight? Did he think he was so much better than Yusuf?

  The Quran taught humility – his father had often told him this – and yet he’d let himself get carried away with thoughts of grandeur. He looked down, feeling his face redden.

  They set off again, fumbling through the mesh of undergrowth. Saleem’s knife-musket bounced on his shoulder and snagged on bushes.

  Ahead, a speck of fire streaked down through the canopy and slapped into the ground. A flash lit up the moss-covered trees for a moment, then a sheet of flame erupted from the earth. The roar shook the woods and flying metal screamed in the dark, lashing branches and clipping leaves.

  Saleem ducked and pulled Yusuf down with him. He heard a large chunk of metal whirl past overhead.

  Yusuf stared at Saleem, eyes even wider than before.

  ‘Shells,’ Saleem explained. ‘Bombs.’

  Yusuf swallowed hard and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

  They peered
over the brush and saw fire crackling where the shell had struck.

  ‘Come on.’ Saleem pulled Yusuf to his feet. ‘Keep going.’

  They pressed on, clambering up a slight incline while the guns continued to rumble. Further shells hurtled down like tiny comets and smacked into the earth. The bright blasts sent the shadows dancing and the whiplash of metal fragments echoed deep in the forest. Flames hissed as they engulfed trees and spat sparks into the night.

  Allah is great.

  Saleem’s father had taught him those words. Saleem’s father had taught him all about praying and worshipping Allah, including the five daily prayers and the proper times for performing them. He’d insisted on the Arabic words being pronounced clearly and correctly, and he’d clipped Saleem on the head whenever he’d made a mistake.

  Saleem felt a stone in his throat. His father had died more than a year ago, after collapsing suddenly for no apparent reason. The old man, who had seemed so tall and strong and implacable and stern, was gone. And that left Saleem alone to look after his mother and five sisters.

  He reached the top of the slope and came to the edge of the woods. Figures crouched in the undergrowth around twenty yards ahead. For a moment Saleem wondered whether they were enemy troops, but then he saw they wore civilian tunics and hose. They were rebels, like him. Most people called them crusaders, but Saleem could never bring himself to use that term. The word was enough to put many Muslims off joining the struggle. Before he died, Saleem’s own father had often told him not to fight for the Christians. But Saleem knew he had to fight. He was an Englishman and he would defend his country.

  Saleem ran towards the huddled soldiers. With the trees opening up, he could see he’d reached the summit of the hill.

  A scene of terrible beauty unfurled before him.

  A grassy slope rolled down to a dark valley, on the far side of which rose a further hill, indistinct against the black sky. An unholy thunderstorm seemed to crackle across the hill’s crest. The enemy guns flickered like sheet lightning, streaking the clouds above orange. The deep booms rocked the valleys and gullies. And from somewhere behind, Saleem heard the pounding of the rebel artillery returning fire.

  The sky seethed with sparks and flashes. Shells darted across the valley like fireflies on a summer evening, while explosions roared and tore open the night. Specks of flame wheeled overhead.

  Saleem swallowed, slowed his pace for a second and then ran on.

  One of the rebels – a tall man with a musket slung over his shoulder – stood up and shouted, ‘Greetings.’ Then he glanced at the skullcaps on Saleem and Yusuf’s heads and his expression shifted, like the subtle movement of sand on a dune.

  Saleem knew that look well – he’d seen it all his life. It was a mixture of surprise, distaste and suspicion. The expression of a Christian seeing one of the old enemies of England.

  ‘We’re looking for Colonel Drake,’ Saleem shouted.

  ‘Drake?’ the soldier said. ‘He’s with the Amesbury Battalion. About half a mile down there.’ He nodded along the line of the forest. ‘Why?’

  ‘Got a message from Colonel al-Hasan. Vadula’s army is marching on our position. They aren’t attacking from the west.’

  The rebel forces had been retreating for days as the much larger army of Mahasiddha Samarth Vadula advanced into Wiltshire. Earlier in the day, Saleem had fled with the other rebels to their position on the hill. The rebel commanders had planned to hold the ridge, expecting an attack tomorrow in the west. But as Saleem waited in the east with his comrades in the Muslim Battalion, sentries spied a large party of Rajthanan and Andalusian troops crossing the valley. Vadula had obviously decided on a surprise night-time attack where the rebels were weakest. The Muslims were outnumbered three to one, and had no artillery.

  Colonel al-Hasan had hurriedly summoned Saleem and Yusuf and sent them to call for urgent reinforcements from Drake. If they couldn’t get word to Drake in time, their Muslim brothers would be overwhelmed and Vadula’s forces would sweep across the ridge, attacking the rebels in the flank.

  The soldier frowned and cast a wary look at the firestorm over the valley. ‘You’d better run.’ He looked back at Saleem and a blast lit up his face for a moment. ‘If those bastards attack from the east we’ll do our best to hold them.’

  Saleem nodded. Then he and Yusuf sprinted off down a path that followed the summit and the edge of the woods. At times, he spotted rebel soldiers crouching in groups behind whatever cover they could find. Ahead, in the distance, the slope dipped towards a saddle that was hidden in shadow. Drake and his men must be down there somewhere.

  A round shot thumped like a thunderbolt into a tree just ahead of Saleem. The trunk split in half and scraps of bark went flying. A broken branch swung past over his head.

  The gunfire was intensifying. Shot and shells swarmed across the sky.

  ‘Down here,’ Saleem shouted to Yusuf.

  He led the way deeper into the forest, where he hoped they would be at least slightly more protected.

  They fought their way through brambles and briars, and all the while a storm of missiles threshed the trees. Explosions glimmered in the darkness and splashed the undergrowth with livid orange. Fires billowed. Twigs, leaves and shards of metal swirled in the air.

  For a moment Saleem pictured his mother and sisters cowering together back in his home village, which was barely three miles away. His family would be able to hear the steady stomp of the artillery, probably even see the blasts lighting up the horizon. If Vadula’s men took the ridge, they would sweep on towards the village. They would torch huts, rape, loot and kill. And only Saleem could stop them by getting word to Drake.

  Allah is great. Allah is great.

  His foot struck something. He found himself flying forward and skidding through the leaf litter. He gasped and scrambled back to his feet.

  Had he been hit? Was he injured?

  No, he felt fine.

  Behind him, Yusuf gave a loud shout.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Saleem said. ‘Just slipped.’

  But when he turned, he saw Yusuf had backed himself against a tree and was pointing at something on the ground. Saleem looked down and now he saw what he’d tripped over – a human skeleton. The bones had been completely picked clean, and yet they gleamed a brilliant white, as if they’d just been placed there rather than lying in the forest for weeks.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Saleem straightened the musket on his shoulder. ‘Come on.’ He’d seen skeletons three years ago – many of them. Once he would have reacted in the same way as Yusuf, but not any more.

  ‘But what’s that thing?’ Yusuf asked.

  ‘What thing?’

  Then Saleem noticed something the size of a finger crawl out of one of the skull’s eye sockets. It looked like a large ant, except it was made of metal that had a greasy sheen in the dim light. Its head was a deformed mass of feelers and mandibles, with what looked like gills flickering on the side. It emitted a clicking sound, and a faint, shrill hiss.

  A chill crossed Saleem’s skin. He’d seen something like this before in London. It was one of the Rajthanans’ infernal creatures. An avatar.

  The beast stood on the edge of the skull, facing Yusuf. It raised itself up and flicked its feelers through the air. It seemed to stay poised for a long time, although it must have only been a second.

  Saleem knew well what the thing would be capable of. He’d seen avatars in London kill men within seconds. He had to do something quickly, but he felt frozen, transfixed. He stood still, gazing at that glinting body with the glimmer of a tiny fire beneath the carapace.

  Then the avatar squealed and darted forward. It rippled over the skull and shot across the leaf-strewn ground towards Yusuf. Yusuf cried out, but the creature was so fast he had no time to flee.

  Saleem found himself moving without thinking, as if possessed by a djinn. He plucked a rock from the ground, bounded forward and flung the stone at the avatar just before it reached Yu
suf’s boot. The rock struck. The creature shrieked, buzzed against the stone, and splintered into metal fragments. The head spun across the earth, the feelers and mandibles still whirring.

  Yusuf yelped and jumped away. He gave small cries and danced from one foot to the other as if to avoid a swarm of invisible beasts.

  ‘It’s dead,’ Saleem shouted.

  When Yusuf continued jumping around, Saleem grasped him by the collar and yelled again, ‘It’s dead.’

  Yusuf stopped moving, his chest heaving up and down. Finally, he managed to say, ‘What was it? A demon?’

  ‘A type of demon, yes.’ Saleem couldn’t think of any better way to describe the thing. It was a monstrous creation of the Rajthanans’ black magic. That was as much as he knew. As much as he wanted to know.

  ‘Come on.’ He turned to lead the way forward.

  ‘Wait a moment.’

  Saleem turned back. What was Yusuf playing at now? ‘What?’

  ‘Why are there no guns here?’

  Saleem was about to tell Yusuf to stop talking nonsense when he realised that his comrade was right – no shots struck the forest and not a single shell explosion was visible in any direction. The gunfire continued but it was more distant now, coming from the area they’d just travelled through. Without realising it, they’d passed into a part of the forest where there was no fighting.

  ‘I think it’s a good sign,’ Saleem said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Vadula’s attacking to the east. Why would he send artillery to the west? He wouldn’t, would he? That means we must have come far enough to find Drake. He must be around here somewhere.’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  They set off again, Saleem leading the way back uphill. He knew that once they reached the summit they could follow the edge of the woods down to where Drake and his men were encamped.

  They struggled through a thicket. And then the undergrowth cleared and the trees thinned, allowing them to move more quickly. The flashes of the distant artillery filtered through the leaves and provided enough light for Saleem to see the way ahead more clearly. When the scarp tapered to a gradual incline, they began to jog.