Kit saw a flash behind the struggling Giles as the slap of another report reached him. The glint of steel in Burleigh’s hand warned Kit that another blast was coming. “Stay down!” he cried. “He’s got a gun!”
A third shot ripped the dirt at his feet, and Kit skidded to a halt.
“Run!” cried Giles, waving Kit away.
Burleigh was on his feet now and moving forward, arm raised, hand extended.
Kit, caught between helping Giles and fleeing, hesitated.
“Mina will see to me,” shouted Giles. “Go!”
A fourth shot decided the issue. As the bullet whizzed past Kit’s head and the report split the air, Kit spun and ducked, instinctively heading back into the brush at the side of the road. He ran blindly, his only thought to lose himself in the lightly wooded roadside margin. Behind him he heard Burleigh calling, but ran on, heedless of all but the need to escape.
When the first fury of desperation had passed, he paused to catch his breath and collect his wits. The river was to his back; before him lay a field of grain. He considered diving into it, but the prospect of escaping on hands and knees through the barley held little appeal. He held his breath to listen. Above the sound of his own rapid heartbeat he could hear voices on the road and assumed that the townsfolk had met up with Burleigh and the pursuit would now resume.
A hasty estimate determined that he was still a little less than halfway to the lane that marked the ley line described by Wilhelmina, which he reckoned was now his best chance of escape. Keeping the road and river to his right, he proceeded through the wood in the direction of the lane. Behind him, he could hear voices and sounds of men thrashing through the undergrowth, searching for his trail. Others remained on the road; he could hear them, too, soon overtaking him and moving on ahead.
Kit, grim and determined as death, worked steadily along, dodging the boles and branches of trees and shrubs, trying to remain silent and invisible in the dying light. All at once, a clear, loud voice sang out-urgent, confident, assured-it rang loud in the silence and was quickly joined by others. Kit knew his trail had been found.
Fighting down the urge to bolt blindly into the darkening wood, he doubled his pace. But despite his best efforts, the voices behind him grew louder by degrees. When next he paused to catch his breath, he glanced back to see pale globes of glimmering light wavering through the trees: someone had brought torches.
Realising he only had scant minutes before he was seen and captured, he snaked a hand into his pocket and brought out the brass homing device that Wilhelmina had given him. The little curved row of holes on the top were dark. Still running towards the line, he held the thing before him, urging it mentally. Work, you blasted thing! Work!
To his amazement, the small oval object began to glow-a faint fitful flicker through the tiny holes. But as he waved the curious instrument before him, the gently wavering lights strengthened and took hold with an increasingly bright blue glow. Clutching the ley lamp, Kit drove on, flying through the brush, dodging branches as he went.
The chase was getting closer. His movement through the brush alerted the pursuit, and soon the surrounding wood was echoing with cries of the townsfolk. Amongst the shouts and sounds of crashing feet he thought he heard Burleigh’s voice raised above the tumult, urging his search party to greater speed.
Every now and then, Kit glanced down at the homing device, and saw the little row of lights still lit and shining ever more brightly. It’s got to be here somewhere, Kit told himself. It’s close.
There came a loud crash behind him, and he looked back to see Burleigh, back in the saddle, burst through an opening in the trees a hundred paces or so away. The earl saw him in the same instant and with a swift, assured motion drew the pistol from his belt. Holding the reins in one hand, he extended his arm to fire. Kit did not wait for him to pull the trigger, but ducked low and dived into the brake. A second later a shot shivered the branches and ripped through the leaves above Kit’s head.
He scrambled fast on hands and knees. Wilhelmina’s ley lamp grew warm in his palm-enough to let him know that he was not imagining it. He looked around and saw that he had plunged into a narrow game trail: a single rutted line that stretched away on either hand, straight as an arrow’s flight.
Another small explosion sent a bullet tearing through the screening brush, shattering a nearby branch, and Kit, clutching the device, started running down the track. As a third gunshot sliced the air a mere step ahead of him, he stopped, turned, and started back the opposite way. But the surrounding wood had already faded into the shadowy deeps of an all-pervading darkness.
Kit managed another step and yet one more before he tumbled headlong out of one world and into another.
CHAPTER 27
The language of the angels allows no earthly utterance,” Friar Bacon explained. “Therefore, it cannot be spoken by mortal tongues.” He emphasised this point with a solemn shake of his tonsured head. “That is not to say that it cannot be understood. With the proper application of intelligence and logic the meaning can be deduced. It can be made to speak to us.”
“What does the book tell you?” asked Douglas. After waiting almost three days while Roger examined it, his endurance was at an end.
“Patience, my friend. All in God’s good time.” The renowned scholar returned to his perusal of the parchments on his worktable. “First we must prepare the soil so that our understanding can be correctly seeded.”
“Of course,” muttered Douglas. “Forgive me, brother, if I seem overanxious.”
The priest brushed away the apology with a sweep of his hand. “As I believe I have indicated on a previous occasion,” he continued, “the script in question is derived from an alphabet of symbols-as are all languages, to be sure. For what is a written text but a collection of symbols that substitute for the elementary sounds of human speech? However, unlike the symbols strung together to form the sounds used in speech, the symbols in this book are abstracted and thus removed from the realm of vocal representation.”
Roger Bacon glanced at his pupil and seemed to require some sign that he had been understood.
“Intriguing,” commented Douglas. “Pray, continue.”
“See here,” Bacon said, picking up one of the scraps he had prepared for Douglas’s edification. “Notice how the symbols curve-this one to the right, this one to the left, some up, some down-each particular curve contains meaning, as do the small lines which branch away from the main, as well as those that cross the main. Where the lines branch and cross aids in determining meaning.” He tapped the parchment with a fingertip. “It is a most cunning and ingenious cypher.”
“Indeed,” replied Douglas, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of decoding what amounted to another whole language in order to decipher the book he had stolen from the British Library. “How many symbols are there in total?”
“Hundreds,” replied Roger Bacon simply. “As there must be.”
“To be sure,” Douglas agreed philosophically, thinking the greater part of his work lay before him. Then he remembered something the scholar had told him. “When I first gave you the book, you said you were the one who devised the script. By that, do you mean you invented the symbols in which it is written?”
“Only in part,” Bacon conceded. “For my purposes, I chose a script based on a symbolism that is far, far older than any other. I adapted it for my use, but did not create it.”
Douglas puzzled over the precisely parsed meaning of the priest’s words. “Am I to take it that you wrote this book?”
“You flatter me undeservedly, brother.” He laid a reverent hand on the small volume Douglas had brought him.
“Again, forgive my ignorance, but your name is most prominently displayed in the text.”
“A mere formality of acknowledgement,” replied the learned priest with a curious half smile. “Brother
