“No,” she said. Her voice caught for a moment, then she spoke more strongly. “We . . . uh . . . we should move to a safe distance.”
Susan followed her, away from the helicopter. Merlin and Vivien were already moving, but slowly, both looking around, like scouts in enemy territory. Merlin had the sword bag, holding it in his right hand, and his left hand was in his yak-hair bag, no doubt holding the revolver as he peered through the fog. Vivien was walking slowly, her right hand held in front of her, as if she was feeling her way.
Suddenly, both looked at each other. Though they didn’t speak, Susan felt that something had happened. There was a subtle change in the world around them. Nothing she could see or hear, but it felt different. . . .
Acrid smoke billowed across her face and she coughed. It not only had a chemical, metallic odor, there was also the unpleasant stink of cooking birds, all too like a rarely cleaned fried chicken shop not far from Milner Square that Susan always crossed the road to avoid smelling.
“I’ve never seen a fog come up like that,” said Mel. “Or a flock of birds in a fog . . . and . . . where the hell are we anyway?”
Susan looked around. The fog was still too thick to see very far, but the burning helicopter had created an eddy effect that was thinning it out around the crash site. There was a very dense, overgrown forest immediately behind the helicopter, with many very tall and broad oaks, and the field they had landed in was all rough clumps of grass and was littered with stones, not at all the sort of manicured paddock to be expected in a rich outer London semirural village like Totteridge. Not to mention the massive outcrop of stone the helicopter had plowed into; that would have been broken up long ago.
“Where are we?” repeated Mel. She stopped to look back. “We were following an A road, there were big houses either side . . . nothing like this . . .”
She gestured around them, fog wafting about her waving hands, pointing at the glimpses of the tall forest and the rough field with all its stones. There was not a house or a road in sight, or any sign of human civilization at all.
Everyone flinched as something exploded aboard the helicopter. It was not the massive explosion of a Hollywood blockbuster, though it did mark the fire spreading into the main cabin. It began to burn whiter and hotter, and the many independent wisps of smoke began to weave together into a gray-black column that rose up with a crackling roar to mix with the fog.
Save for the crack and pop of the burning helicopter, it was unnaturally quiet. There were no other sounds at all, no human or traffic noise.
Something moved at the visible edge of the fog. A large dog, seen for an instant, then gone again.
“Wolf,” said Merlin. “The fire should keep them off.”
“A wolf? What are you talking about?” asked Mel. She gulped, then started talking again, clearly to reassure herself. “Someone will probably have already dialed 999. Ted might have got a Mayday out . . . there’ll be a rescue bird . . . we can’t be more than five hundred yards from the planned LZ, the police waiting there will have heard the impact, the smoke will break through the fog layer—”
“I think there are some . . . er . . . unusual local problems that will delay rescue for a little while,” said Merlin apologetically. “You should stay here, Sergeant.”
“What the hell is going on?” asked Mel.
“You’ve signed the Official Secrets Act, no doubt,” said Merlin. “Let’s say it’s something covered by that. Lie low, we’ll send help as soon as possible.”
“I should go find a phone, call in—”
A long, baying call stopped her mid-sentence. Not that far off in the fog. The call was answered by several others.
“Wolves,” said Mel slowly.
“Yes,” said Merlin. He spoke hurriedly, as if keen to move on. “Are you armed?”
“No! We’re in England, not a war zone.”
Merlin bent down and drew his Beretta from the ankle holster. He kept it pointing down.
“I think the fire will keep off the wolves,” he said. “But you can keep this. Thumb safety, here. Cock the hammer to fire. Watch your grip or the slide will take your skin off.”
He handed the weapon to the crew chief, along with a spare magazine from his yak-hair bag.
“But I would advise you to fire as a last resort,” he said. “Keep low and quiet.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Mel slowly.
“We have to go and sort someone out,” said Merlin. He opened the bag and took out the sword. Surprisingly, this seemed to snap Mel out of a bewilderment that was bordering on panic.
“Is that a spatha? A Roman cavalry sword?”
“Of that general pattern, yes, though it’s seventh century,” admitted Merlin. “I’m surprised you recognized it.”
“I’m a reenactor,” said Mel. “First century AD legionary. Gladius, of course.”
“As it happens I have a gladius as well, back home,” said Merlin. “But it’s not in the same class as this—”
He stopped as Vivien plucked urgently at his sleeve.
“Yeah. We can talk swords another time,” he said. “Like I said, stay low and quiet. Come on.”
He addressed the last two words to Vivien and Susan, as if they’d been the ones holding everything up. Vivien snorted and Susan raised an eyebrow.
“What?” asked Merlin. “Follow me.”
They followed him, into the fog.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In the dusk, she loosed without a care
The thrice-barbed arrow flew ’cross the air
Lodging not in a deer, but her lover’s heart
And so they were doomed, forever to part
THEY DIDN’T GO VERY FAR BEFORE MERLIN STOPPED AND HUNKERED down, gesturing them to do likewise. Susan crouched by his side, every sense alert. She couldn’t see anything through the fog, or hear anything. All she knew was that the Copper Cauldron was somewhere ahead of them, perhaps two or three hundred yards away, but she couldn’t describe how she knew.
“Okay, we’re far enough away
