Clash of Empires (28 page)

Eventually he reaches one of the gates in the saur-wall and here he knows that his silent approach will no longer work.

He dismounts and removes the rags to give his horse a more sure footing. He watches carefully around the corner of a building.

There are four guards manning this gate. Two of them appear to be asleep, sitting against the wall with their heads lowered. The other two stand casually, their muskets propped against the guard hut.

Jack mounts the horse again. He takes a deep breath.

“Sorry, boy,” he says. Then he digs his heels deeply into his sides. Marengo is not big, but he is determined and strong, a horse fit for an emperor. He does not whinny or complain. His iron shoes make sparks on the cobblestones and he accelerates to a full gallop in what seems like a heartbeat.

Now Jack is around the corner and riding straight for the gate. The soldiers see him and there is a moment of confusion, perhaps partly due to the early hour of the morning, then a shout in French.

Jack does not respond, nor does he slow. He spurs the stallion to even greater speed.

At last the guards realize that something is wrong. Those on the ground spring to their feet; all of them grab for their weapons. But Jack is already upon them, bursting past them before any can bring their muskets to bear. The barrier in the center of the gate is merely a low hurdle for a horse like this and Marengo soars over it, racing up the road away from the city.

Now comes the first musketshot. It is too quick and poorly aimed and although Jack hears the crack of the musket, he does not hear the passage of the musketball. The next shot is closer, and the next two closer still; he hears both of them fizz past his ears.

Now the guards are reloading but by the time they finish he will be well out of range.

He hears their shouts of alarm and he knows that a pursuit will follow. But this is a fine horse and Jack is not stopping. Not for anything. Not for anyone.

He rides hard, for Gaillemarde.

 

BLÜCHER

Field Marshal Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher is an aristocratic-looking man, with a bushy but well-groomed mustache. His face bears the marks of recently healed wounds. His eyes are dark and piercing but his smile is warm. He has the demeanor of a friendly uncle.

The field marshal's headquarters are in the Caillou farmhouse, near the Waterloo battlefield. It was where Napoléon made his headquarters during the battle, Willem has learned.

Blücher is seated behind a table, one of three pushed together in the center of the dining room, on the ground floor of the two-story brick farmhouse. He sips from a glass of brandy as he eyes Willem up and down, barely glancing at Frost.

“So this is the little saur-slayer,” he says in excellent English. “We have been looking for you for many weeks.”

Willem looks at Frost, confused.

Blücher sees his expression and interprets it correctly. “We were told to be on the lookout for a boy of your description,” he says. “You had pulled off some kind of vanishing act and Napoléon was very keen to have you unvanished. I wondered then why the French emperor had such an interest in you, and it did not take long for me to discover why. You are the boy who can control saurs. And now here you are. And again I wonder why.”

“May I speak, Your Excellency?” Frost asks.

“You may,” Blücher says, turning his gaze to the young lieutenant.

“As you have been looking for us, so we have been looking for you,” Frost says.

“Fascinating,” Blücher says to his aide-de-camp. “The boy Napoléon fears more than any man alive wants an audience with me.”

“We seek an alliance with you in an attack on Napoléon's forces,” Frost says.

Blücher throws back his head and laughs. It is a meaty sound. He points to his face. “The scars of my last encounter with Napoléon have yet to heal, but you come seeking more misery for this old man.”

“We do not fear Napoléon,” Frost says. “The last time, we did not know of his battlesaurs. We will not be surprised in this manner again.”

Blücher's face grows serious. “My horse was killed beneath me, and I was nearly killed beneath it. For hours I lay trapped, thought to be dead, while cavalry from both sides used me as a doormat. I would be dead if not for Count Nostitz here.” He nods and smiles at his aide-de-camp. “Yet here I am. I tell you this so you will know that I am no coward. I have seen things that would turn most men to jelly. I have faced death. And I am afraid of Napoléon. Perhaps you should be too.”

“You have perhaps noticed that I have lost the use of my eyes,” Frost says calmly.

“Of course I have noticed and I am sorry for your loss,” Blücher says. “But…” His voice trails off and he looks at Frost with an entirely new expression. “You are the one.”

“One of many,” Frost says.

“You are the one who faced a battlesaur and brought it down on the battlefield,” Blücher says. “I find myself in the rare position of needing to apologize. You are the other saur-slayer. You have my admiration and respect.”

Frost bows his head slightly.

Blücher turns to Count Nostitz. “A British lieutenant and a Flemish boy, not even a soldier, seek an alliance with this old warhorse. The world grows more mad by the day.”

“May I explain?” Frost asks.

“You may try,” Blücher says.

“Napoléon is poised to invade England,” Frost says. “If Britain falls, then all of Europe will soon follow.”

“There is a certain inevitability to it,” Blücher says.

“Perhaps not,” Frost says.

Willem sits back and examines the room as Frost explains the situation with Ireland and the Royal Navy to Blücher.

The floor of the kitchen is paved, a rich orange color, well polished. The walls are whitewashed stone.

Frost finishes and Blücher lowers his head, glowering at them from beneath bushy eyebrows.

“You think me foolish enough to take on battlesaurs?”

“With luck they will be dead,” Frost says.

Blücher nods. “My spies have heard stories that your men have indeed escaped. So perhaps, with luck, cunning, and courage, they will be able to complete their mission. But what about the rest of the French dinosaurs? In the cave beneath the Sonian? Or do you expect me to attack the abbey also? If so, I must teach you a lesson about fighting a battle in a forest, where artillery is useless, especially in a forest protected by creatures that are most at home among the trees.”

“This matter was also of grave concern to the Duke of Wellington,” Frost says. “So much so that he tasked Willem and myself with the job of sealing the entrance to the cave, to ensure that no other battlesaurs are brought into the battle.”

Blücher laughs again. “Now I see why you are not afraid of Napoléon. How you held your nerve on the battlefield and brought down a battlesaur. You have an old heart for a young man.”

“Thank you, Excellency,” Frost says.

“But my answer is no,” Blücher says. “Even without battlesaurs Napoléon is a formidable enemy. His Grande Armée is bolstered by the Dutch, the Bavarians, and the Italians. It is a battle I fear I could not win.”

“You would not have to win it,” Frost says. “You may not even have to fight it. Just the presence of your army on the outskirts of Calais would be enough to force Napoléon to delay the invasion. He knows your reputation.”

“That is true,” Blücher says. “But Napoléon is no fool. He would call my bluff and bring the battle to me. I would have to withdraw and the repercussions against Prussia for breaking the alliance would be savage.”

“Your Excellency,” Frost begins, but he is stopped by a raised hand from Blücher.

“I must decline your offer and my answer is final,” he says.

“And what if Napoléon was dead?” A familiar voice comes from the doorway and Willem looks up to see Arbuckle, his hands bound, escorted into the room by two Jägers, swords at the ready. He is almost unrecognizable. His face is a mask of dried blood and his clothes are bloodied and torn. He is limping.

“Captain Arbuckle,” Blücher says, rising. “I might have detected your hand behind all this.” He motions for Arbuckle's hands to be untied. “A glass of brandy for this man.”

Willem is greatly surprised to learn that Arbuckle is alive, and somewhat less surprised to find that he knows Blücher personally.

As soon as his hands are free, Arbuckle salutes, and Blücher returns the salute, then takes Arbuckle's hand and shakes it warmly.

“It is good to see you, you young rapscallion,” Blücher says.

“And you, you old scoundrel,” Arbuckle says. He turns to the others. “I apologize for my delay. I was held up somewhat after we were attacked at Antwerp.”

Willem looks again at the blood and the torn clothing. He thinks that Arbuckle's “delay” has been a costly affair.

“What of the others?” Willem asks. “Jack and the saur-killers?”

“I know no more than you,” Arbuckle says. “I can only hope that they got away and are on their way to Calais.”

Brandy is duly poured and Arbuckle drains the glass in a single gulp.

“If Napoléon was dead, that would change everything,” Blücher says. “But the gods would not smile on us so brightly.”

“Perhaps the gods favor you more than you think,” Arbuckle says. “The emperor is indeed dead. Such is the word and it is spreading like flame in dry powder. I am surprised it has not yet reached your ears.”

Blücher looks startled and motions to an aide, who hurries out of the room.

“Is this one of your tricks?” Blücher asks.

“If I am wrong or right, you will find out soon enough,” Arbuckle says. “I am sure you have eyes of your own in Calais. But the man who told me believed it to be true.”

“Napoléon dead!” Blücher rises from behind his desk, crossing excitedly to a map pinned to the wall of the kitchen, if a big man of advanced years could be said to move excitedly. “If this is true, his army will be in turmoil. Forget the invasion. Bring your ships to Calais. The French Grande Armée would be a firebird without a head.”

“The army still has its battlesaurs,” Nostitz says. “And Thibault, who commands them.”

“And I will not send my men up against battlesaurs,” Blücher says. “But on the other hand, if your saur-slayers have succeeded, then there will be no better time to smash the Grande Armée.”

“You will know when you see the yellow rockets,” Arbuckle says.

Blücher ponders this a moment longer. “If the rumors are true, and Napoléon is dead, then I will move my army to Calais. If we see the yellow flares, then we will launch an attack.”

“And if not?” Frost asks.

“Then I will have no choice but to swear my loyalty to whoever now leads the French Army,” Blücher says. He turns to Nostitz. “Give the order. We move at first light.”

To Frost he says, “Wellington wanted you to seal the entrance to the cave. I am interested to know how you intend to do that.”

“It will not be easy,” Frost admits. “There are secret ways into the cave system. Willem and I have used them once before, but then we had a guide. A girl who had lived in the forest for a number of years. She came with us, but was separated from us when we were attacked.”

Blücher frowns. “A small, feisty girl? With very short hair? Looks like a boy?”

“Yes!” Willem cries. “That is Héloïse! What do you know of her?”

“I know that my guards will be very pleased if you take her off their hands,” Blücher says.

 

BREAK OUT

The brute, Private Deloque, comes to the door of the little church, blocking the meager sunlight that folds its way in through the thick trees of the forest and over the high stone walls of the abbey.

Cosette and Marie are mending uniforms for their captors. It is a choice, not a duty forced on them. Marie suggested it a few weeks earlier and Cosette agreed.
It does not hurt to be on good terms with our captors
, Marie had said.

And it passes the time.

They have been given needle and thread to do this, along with an old blunt pair of dressmaker's scissors that Cosette has sharpened by unscrewing the blades and scraping them on the stone walls of the church. She has paid particular attention to the points of the scissors.

Marie and Cosette both look up when Deloque arrives at the doorway. Cosette shudders a little. Deloque always makes Cosette uncomfortable. His eyes linger on parts of her body where a gentleman's eyes should never linger.

Today Deloque has a big dumb smile on his face. He grins stupidly at them for a moment, then turns to leave.

“Something is going on,” Marie comments quietly to Cosette.

“Private Deloque,” Cosette calls out.

Deloque looks back, but just grunts.

“Do you have something to tell us?” Marie asks.

“Nothing you will not find out soon enough,” Deloque says.

It is the most words Cosette has heard him string together in a single sentence.

Deloque turns again to leave.

“Don't be silly,” Cosette says loudly. “If there was anything worth telling, they would not entrust it to someone as stupid as Deloque.”

Deloque turns back again and scowls. “I know things that nobody knows. They thinks I don't listen but I do.”

Cosette turns to Marie. “I am not interested in what he has to say. Even if he did overhear something, I doubt he would have understood what he heard.”

“Laugh all you like,” Deloque says. “You won't be laughing soon.”

“He knows nothing,” Cosette says.

Deloque sneers. “They found that boy,” he says. “They killed him.”

“What boy do you mean?” Marie asks carefully.

“The one who killed the saur,” Deloque says, and he gives a short laugh.

Cosette is unable to breathe. Her heart seems to have jammed in her chest. Her feelings must show on her face and it makes Deloque grin.