Miller protested fulsomely, clearly afraid of jeopardising everything he felt he'd gained, but Mallory chipped away at him on the way back to their quarters so that by the time they arrived, Miller reluctantly agreed to the secret foray.
Daniels and Gardener still hadn't returned, so they quickly changed into their street clothes and slipped out. 'How are we going to get away?' Miller hissed as they flitted from hut to hut.
'I had a look around earlier. There's a spot not far from the gate where we can slip over the wall. When we come back we can give the guard some bullshit about being on a secret mission or something. He's bound to let us in.' Miller didn't look convinced, but he allowed himself to be swayed by Mallory's confidence.
The camp was still as they made their way past the gate. But before they could climb the ladder to the runway around the top of the wall, the sound of running feet and frantic raised voices rapidly approached from the other side. Mallory pushed Miller back into the shadows.
An insistent cry hailed the guard. Mallory couldn't make out what was said, but the guard responded by hand-winding an old-fashioned klaxon before opening the gates.
Nine knights rushed in through the widening gap, the blue flash on their shoulders clear in the flickering flame of the torch mounted above the gate. Their swords were drawn as they constantly scanned all around with their army eyes. They were in a terrible state, their uniforms torn and charred, their bare skin covered with cuts and bruises; some had bound deeper wounds with makeshift bandages torn from their shirts, the material now stained black. Their faces were grim with determination.
In the middle of the group, two knights hauled what Mallory at first thought was burned log. It was only when he saw its rolling white eyes that he realised it was a man, his skin seared black; Miller turned away from the smell of cooked flesh. The knight was still alive, but he wouldn't be for long.
The ones at the rear gathered around one of their number who had a wooden box clutched tightly to his chest. They drove hard into the compound then yelled at the guard to close the gates.
A group of five men hurried from the direction of the cathedral to meet them. The only one Mallory recognised was Stefan, his balding head gleaming like a skull. Ignoring the suffering of the wounded knight, he went directly to the captain and said something in hushed, insistent tones that Mallory couldn't make out. The captain nodded, motioned to the one with the box; Stefan barked an order to his four assistants and then the whole group moved speedily in the direction of the cathedral.
When they'd gone, Miller whispered dismally, 'That poor man!'
'Looks as if he stood a little too close to the barbecue.' Mallory stared at the silhouette of the cathedral blocking out the stars, trying to make sense of what he'd seen. 'What was in the box?' he mused to himself. 'What was so important?' After a moment, he set off for the ladder. 'Ah, who cares? Come on, let's hit the town.'
They climbed quickly, keeping one eye out for the guard. When they reached the top, Mallory led Miller to a part of the wall that was lower than the rest where they could easily drop down to the street. They paused for a moment at the foot of the wall, and when they were sure no one had seen them, they ran towards the town, keeping well to the shadows.
Once the walls had been swallowed by the dark at their backs, Miller heard Mallory's voice floating back to him as they ran. 'You know how you get that little tingling sensation when something's going to end in tears? Or is that just me?'
Chapter Three
'Just as children seem foolish to adults, so humans seem foolish to the gods.' -
Salisbury's streets were oddly otherworldly in a flood of light from flaming torches that had been attached to the now-useless lampposts; their sizzling pitch added a spicy quality to the cooling air. More people milled around than Mallory would have expected with the encroaching night. Many shops remained open, their trade carried out by candlelight. Friends chatted beneath the crackling torches, freed from the rigour of days that had become unduly hard. Children played in the gutter without fear of cars or buses, although the occasional horse-drawn cart moved by them at an alarming clip. Outside the Maltings shopping centre, a teenager strummed on a guitar while his friends danced or drank home-made cider. Others flirted or kissed each other in the shadows.
The population had adapted remarkably well to the inversion of their lives. Indeed, from the good humour evident all around, they appeared to be relishing it. Mallory and Miller moved through them, watching silently, enjoying the normality.
Near Poultry Cross, where tradesmen had hawked their goods for centuries, a man with lank grey hair to his shoulders stood on an old kitchen chair and preached passionately to a small detached crowd. He seemed to be proclaiming the glory of a god that lived at the bottom of his garden. Further on, three women prayed silently around a picture of George Clooney framed with wild flowers. At the marketplace, there were more, individuals preaching to no one at all, or large groups singing of the wonder of some deity or other.
'They're crazy,' Miller muttered.
'Your God's more real, is that it?' Mallory noted.
'Yes.' Miller knew Mallory was baiting him but couldn't resist responding. 'He's been worshipped for millennia, not ten months.'
'So in a couple of thousand years, old Clooney-'
'Oh, shut up.' Miller tried to stop there, but he couldn't. 'There's a whole coherent philosophy behind Christianity-' His ears burned at Mallory's laughter. 'There is!'
'You don't have to sell it to me, Miller. Just don't try pretending you're better than these poor sods.'
They continued to wander, exploring the sights. As a new city, Salisbury had the benefit of being planned on a rectangular chequerboard pattern like some Roman metropolis. Most people gathered in a small square that ran from the market to the Makings and up to Crane Street and New Street, a continuous thoroughfare that was the closest to the cathedral.
As Mallory and Miller wandered along the path at the side of the culverted river, watching the trout, grayling and dace swim in the light of an occasional torch, they were disturbed by the sounds of a scuffle coming from further along the lonely path where no light burned. Mallory was ready to ignore it, but when Miller jumped to investigate he felt a weary obligation to follow.
Barely visible in the gloom, three men were hunched over a still shape on the floor. Before Mallory could utter a caution, Miller was already yelling, 'Leave him alone!'
Against his better judgment, Mallory ran in behind Miller, who was rapidly closing on the three. The gang half-heartedly squared up to him, then saw Mallory behind and decided it was too much trouble. They turned and ran off into the dark, but not before Mallory saw that they were all wearing black T-shirts marked with a bright red V from shoulders to navel.
'Have you lost your mind?' Mallory said.
Miller was kneeling next to the shape on the floor: a young man crumpled in a growing pool of blood. 'We're knights. We're supposed to help people in trouble.'
'I'm going to have to have a word with you about the difference between fantasy and reality.' Mallory checked the victim's pulse. 'Dead.'
'Poor man. Who shall we tell?'
'No one.'
'We can't leave him here,' Miller said. 'He'll have a family-'
'Someone will find him soon enough. Listen, we're strangers here. They're likely to think we did it. Not everyone has a naive belief that all people speak the truth.' He knelt down and started to go through the victim's
