Smoke!
The sight of it seeping under the third door hit his brain one second before the smell confirmed his fear.
He stared hypnotised by it for another second, cursing the slowness of his reactions. The sea had always been much too far away, too far to be heard.
This time he had his feet under control. Under direct command they marched him to the door. Under the same orders, his hand grasped the latch and opened the door. And then, under some older and more instinctive direction, the hand instantly slammed the door as the flames reached out towards him from the inferno in the room beyond.
Butler found himself facing back the way he had come, towards the round window, his shoulders set against the door as though the fire could be held back like a wild animal.
And that had been exactly what it had been like, or almost exactly: not a wild animal, but something demonic: the Fire Demon in 'The Casting of the Runes' reaching out to seize him!
He shook his head, but the image remained. And yet even Fire Demons were sent by men against men, and all that tinder dry material had not burst into flames spontaneously because of his passing. It had dummy2.htm
been fired—and fired against him.
The anger in him drove out the panic, cooling him even as he felt the warmth in the door under his hand
—cold anger against himself for being such a fool as to despise a job because it had seemed humble and routine—and so easy that the possibly convalescent Roskill was first choice for it.
—Jack, Fred wants you to swan down to Tonbridge Wells and see whether Hugh's on two legs again. If he is, then just give him this envelope.
—And if he isn't?
—Then be a good chap and take it over yourself. It's just a bit of background digging at a posh prep, school down on the Isle of Thanet—nothing difficult, but there's a bit of a rush on it...
Christ! Nothing difficult! There was a rumble and a crash behind him and he felt the door shiver as something fell against it. There was no getting out that way, anyway: even if the way wasn't physically blocked already he could never run the gauntlet of those flames—they would lick him and take hold of him and bring him down screaming before he was halfway to the stair-head.
He stared back through the doorways at the round window. Fire was a bad way to go, so that would be the way at the last if there was no help for it: given a choice between frying and jumping people always jumped.
But was there an alternative? Butler looked round his cage quickly. The pitch of the roof was steep—if he could break through he would only have found a quicker way to hard ground below—a slither, a wild grab for the guttering, a shout of fear and a thud on the paving stones!
He clenched his teeth, and looked around him again. He had to do something, even if it was only to shout for help.
That thought drove him suddenly towards the round window. He swung the cane chair from the floor and convulsively jabbed it through the glass. The blast of cold air caught him by surprise; he felt runnels of hitherto unnoticed sweat cooling on his cheeks as he leaned out.
No sound of distant sirens—his heart sank at the utter unconcern of the world outside and far beneath him, the distant everyday sounds. And the ground below was terrifyingly far away—
Instinctively Butler started to shout and to wave, but both sound and movement froze as their eyes met dummy2.htm
across the unbridgeable hundred feet which separated them : he knew he was eye to eye with the instrument of his death, the master of the Fire Demon which raged behind him.
The moment passed in a flash and he was looking at the empty shrubbery. It was as though the face had been something out of imagination.
Rage swelled in Butler's throat, almost choking him: the swine had been standing out there watching his handiwork— watching the dumb ox that had walked to its own roasting!
He turned back into the attics. There was noticeably more smoke in the further of them now; before long he would have to retreat behind the last door, and might as well try to hold back the tide with a sandcastle as hide behind that. He had to get out.
He looked around helplessly, hope oozing from him. The irony of it was that there was no shortage of weapons; there was a whole pile of spears on the dusty floor. But there was nothing to attack with them
—
Or was there?
Butler stood still for five seconds, collecting his thoughts. He had always prided himself on his calm self- discipline, the Roman virtue of the British infantryman. Others might be cleverer, quicker to charge—
and quicker to fly. But he had conditioned himself over the years to do within himself what the redcoats had so often done in tight corners: to form square unhurriedly and without panic.
Ever since he had seen those flames he had been acting like a child. Now he had to act like a man.
He walked over to the pile of spears and began to sift them. There were long, light throwing spears; slender fish spears, with cruel serrated edges—the delicate weapons of East Asia and Oceania. He wanted something cruder and stronger than those.
His fingers closed over the shaft of a short, heavy spear that had a familiar feel to it—the weight of it, the broad blade and the balance (or lack of balance) told their own story : this wasn't for throwing at all, but for stabbing. This was the deadly assegai, the close-quarters weapon of the Zulu
