Shadow of a Dream

"No, no, I'm sure, my restless spirit never could endure
To brood so long upon one luxury,
Unless it did, though fearfully, espy
A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.”

Endymion ~ John Keats

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PART SEVEN

Roxton awoke from a feverish nightmare and forced himself to open his eyes. He would have liked to achieve a little more, but it was as much as his body would allow. Things were muddled after that, fragments of dreams which made no sense and pitch-forked him into confusion. He was hot – so hot and uncomfortable. Why hadn’t they come for him?

Time had lost all meaning. He might have been lying here for days. If the head hunters had caught up with Veronica, he had to face the fact this cave would turn into his tomb. It was easier to remain in limbo, to stay within a hazy world of grey. After a while, he became more lucid. It was more of a curse than a blessing. His whole body throbbed with a sickening beat but the nausea was worse than the pain. Roxton knew he had to move. If he lay here much longer he would die. The thought he might be dying anyway, flashed sardonically through his mind. The wound was clearly infected and he felt overwhelmingly weak.

He reached for the canteen and drank some water. It made the nausea even worse and for a few, hideous minutes, he was forced to retch uselessly into the sand. It left him shaking and wet with perspiration, a fetid taste in his mouth.

Damn – things were not looking good.

He had been in some pretty tight spots before. So why did this one feel different? If he were a superstitious man, he might blame it on losing the ring. His hand still felt naked without it, and whichever way you cared to examine things, the Roxton luck had truly deserted him. Roxton tried to pull himself together. It was just a piece of antique jewellery. Only a bloody ring. A small band of gold metal was not the deciding factor in whether or not he lived or died. God, he must be losing the plot to entertain such ludicrous thoughts.

He knew he had to get out of here. After 14-18, after Ypres, he had always hated dark, confined spaces. It was not something he’d ever own-up to, of course, but the fear remained imprinted on his psyche. He’d witnessed too many men buried alive, soldiers drowned in the foul-smelling mud. The fox-holes and trenches of the Western Front were seared into his soul.

Roxton pushed himself up and wished he hadn’t. The pain returned with a vengeance piercing him like a knife. It was just as real and vivid as his memories. Roxton closed his eyes and fell backwards, clutching onto his side for dear life. After a couple of minutes, he tried it again. This time, he took things more slowly. He eased his aching body up against the cool cavern wall, inch by agonising inch, until he gained a sitting position. At this rate, he might make the entrance in about a week’s time. He took refuge in a streak of macabre humour.

‘Things will be better when I’m vertical.’ Or so he told himself.

Five minutes later, he knew he’d lied. He leant forlornly against the rock, panting and shuddering with effort. It was as much as he could do to remain conscious, let alone will his shaky legs to move. It occurred to him, he might be going nowhere. Then more lucidly; ‘I’m going to die.’

The bark of a pistol pulled him out of his stupor. There were several shots fired in rapid succession, not more than a mile away. He was immediately fearful for Veronica before remembering she didn’t carry a gun. The numb sense of pessimism left him. Ballistics fire could only mean one thing. Challenger and the others had come looking for them. He must have been unconscious a lot longer than he’d realised.

Roxton forced himself to stagger a few more awkward steps towards daylight. His hand tightened on the Webley as he reached the entrance of the cave. He blinked his eyes in the blinding sunlight and wavered on his feet. He was dangerously weak, on the verge of collapse, and his vision refused to focus.

One wrong move and it was all over. Roxton had to be extremely careful from now on. Just because he couldn’t see them, it didn’t mean the enemy were gone. He had to stay ready for anything, if nothing else, to protect his friends. The head hunters might be watching him even now, using the jungle as camouflage and planning to launch an ambush. He wouldn’t put it past them to use him as bait, waiting for the others to attempt a rescue before springing a deadly trap.

Roxton was faced with a difficult dilemma. If Veronica ‘had’ reached safety, then Challenger and the others must know where he was hiding. If she hadn’t - and his mind rebelled against the thought - if she hadn’t, they would be still be ignorant of his position.

Should he fire the gun and risk all their lives, or put his trust in Veronica?

Damn it, he didn’t even know how long she’d been gone. For all he knew, he’d been out of it for days. He decided it was better to wait awhile and give the others a chance to find him, rather than placing them in danger and warning the natives of their presence. Better in theory, anyway. In practise, Roxton wasn’t sure he could last that long without passing-out on his feet. The gnawing pain in his side was worse and the wound had begun to bleed again. He didn’t care so much about that, as the dizziness and head-spinning nausea. It was loss of control which scared him. The fear of missing anything important. Of not being ready when the time came, to help and assist the others. Any mistake might well be his last, but he was not prepared to sacrifice his friends.

The gun provided another option, unpalatable as it might be. A single shot to warn the others could also end his pain. Time enough to deal with that later. If it came down to a choice between capture and torture or a swift coup de grâce, he would opt for the latter.

Roxton eased himself down behind the boulders with a grunt of discomfort, grateful for something to lean on which afforded him a clear view down-river. If he propped the gun on the weather-smooth stone, the muscle spasms lessened in his arms. He’d be lucky to hit the side of a barn the way his hands were shaking. He balanced the Webley carefully and rested his head for a moment. It was immeasurably soothing to close his eyes and stop the world from reeling.

He jerked awake again some time later, aware he had drifted off. The sun had dipped down beyond mid-afternoon, casting shadows over the rocks. He managed a few, cautious sips of water before his stomach clamped in on itself, a tide of sickness rising in his gorge as his gut protested again. Roxton compressed his lips and inhaled through his nose, miserably trying to convince himself it was merely mind over matter.

It worked – almost. The water stayed down where it was desperately needed but the wretched nausea returned. There was a dull ache somewhere in the small of his back which suggested a strain on his kidneys. Roxton knew he was suffering from too much blood loss, his body fighting infection and shock. The odd mouthful of stale water wouldn’t help much in the long run, but short-term, it might keep him awake long enough to save his friends.

Always assuming they were still out there, of course. Funny, but after hearing the initial gunshots, he hadn’t even contemplated the possibility they might leave without him. He had faith George Challenger would find him eventually, faith in Marguerite. God alone knew why after the last few weeks, she’d been as elusive as a jewelled butterfly. He had a few, vague impressions of the time he’d been ill, but the images were cloudy and obscured. A soft voice, low and filled with fear, pleading with him to recover. And sometimes, she’d been angry, he seemed to recall. Had her anger been directed at him?

He remembered the sharp scent of lavender cologne as she’d bathed his raging forehead. Her cool hands pale on his fevered skin, as he tried to outrun his pain. It was her face he’d seen when he’d thought he was dying. Her eyes had dominated his final thoughts when he and Veronica were attacked. For a single, peculiar moment, he’d felt her close beside him. So close, he had only to reach out his hand and somehow, she would be there. There were times when he felt they were so truly connected it was as if they’d never been apart. But then she would turn back into an enigmatic stranger, the Ice-Queen, without a heart.

Roxton sighed wearily. He hadn’t always been whiter than white. He was just as guilty of driving her away. The truth of it lay somewhere in shades of grey, there were no easy answers.

His brain hurt too much to think. Damn the woman. Ever since the first time he’d seen her, he’d been under some sort of spell. From the moment a hush had fallen over the room and he’d turned to determine the cause. She’d swept down the aisle of the Royal Society in a rustle of violet silk, the couture hat shading her lovely face and a cloud of Guerlain's L'Heure Bleue behind her. He could still smell it, if he closed his eyes . . .

And in his arrogance back then, he’d assumed he would possess her sexually. It would only be a matter of time before she ended up in his bed. Things had been different and he had been different, accustomed to getting what he wanted. And the women had been no exception back then. Not for My Lord, John Roxton. No, the women had been no exception. At least, not until he’d met her.

Roxton shifted his body and sat up a little straighter. Somewhere nearby in the lengthening shadows, he sensed something was moving. Perhaps it was nothing more than a deer coming down to the shallows to drink. Or a hunting bird in the foliage, watching for the silver flash of a fish. Whatever it was, it made no sound. He began to think that maybe, he’d imagined it. He felt his mind drifting off again in an effort to deal with the pain. It was hard, so hard to stay focused, when all he wanted to do was sleep. He wiped his face with some of the water and forced himself to stay awake.

The leaves began to shiver slightly, teased by the brush of an afternoon breeze which blew up the river valley. Roxton felt the hairs prickle up on the back of his neck. His abused stomach muscles tightened. He still had an innate sensation there was something else out there, but his strength was deserting him rapidly. At best, he might last another hour without losing consciousness again. The gun option was still open to him but he would use it as a last resort. Hope remained, if Veronica had made it. He would not pull the trigger yet.

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The Horta moved through the jungle like silent shadows, swiftly covering the awkward terrain with ease and familiarity. Marguerite and Challenger were hard-pressed to keep-up, but neither one complained about the pace. Marguerite set her teeth and ignored the persistent stitch which niggled at her side. From the little Veronica had told them, it was nothing compared to the pain Roxton must be going through. She found it terrifying to entertain the idea he might be dead, but the circle of metal nestled close to her heart was a constant and chilling reminder. The Roxton ring. Her fears had boiled down to a small piece of gold.

Kartas stopped suddenly, raising his hand, and they came to a frozen halt. Marguerite glanced over at Challenger and shook her head slightly at his raised eyebrow. The surrounding jungle was deathly quiet, neither could hear a thing. Perhaps that was the problem, she realised. Everything around them was too quiet, too hushed. There was no squawking of birds in the canopy, no rustle of life on the forest floor. The trees appeared to be waiting with an air of baited breath. Marguerite smiled, ruefully. She was getting too fanciful. The last few months on the Plateau were starting to play havoc with her imagination. The next thing she knew, she’d be seeing fairies or talking to little green men . . .

She moved up to Kartas’s side. “What is it?”

“They came through here. Something’s wrong.”

“A trap?”

“Perhaps. You and the Challenger must remain here.”

He gestured towards his men and they began to fan out into the jungle. Marguerite ground her teeth in frustration but deferred to his bushman-ship. Roxton respected him, she reminded herself, surprised to find that it mattered.

There was a sudden snap to the right of them and the creak of released wood. The bole of a tree-trunk scythed down across the trail, swinging with vicious momentum. Within seconds, one of the Horta had cut it down, sawing through the vines which held it in place and would have sprung the trap.

“Nasty,” muttered Challenger, moving forward to examine it. “Would certainly have crushed a few of our skulls if our friend here, hadn’t noticed it.”

Marguerite shivered and turned to Kartas as he came towards her through the trees. “They did this to stop us reaching John in time.” Her words were not a question.

He nodded, thoughtfully. “The Markus killed many when they attempted to take him. He did not know one of them was the elder son of the Chief.”

“Oh, great.” Marguerite’s heart sank. How typical of the bloody man and the ill-luck which seemed to dog them. Hardly a single thing had gone right since the day they’d reached the Plateau. “Trust Roxton not to do things by half!”

Kartas regarded her steadily. “We will do what we can to save your man. He is brave, a man with much honour, but you would know that better than I.”

Much to her annoyance, Marguerite felt herself redden. She hadn’t blushed since she was a schoolgirl and the response astonished her now. She was aware of the awkward silence and Challenger’s interested stare, but the initial, hot disavowal, suddenly died on her tongue. To deny John now, when he might be dead?

She found she could not do it.

“We’re wasting time,” she said, brusquely. “The river can’t be too far away.”

They travelled for another ten minutes or so before she heard the sound of fast-flowing water. It spurred-on the feeling of urgency and she knew they were getting close. The limestone escarpment loomed ahead of them, a few hundred yards away. The rock-face was rugged with jutting crags, soaring up into the air. It was then the arrows began to fall, like deadly, pointed rain. She barely registered the zipping sound before Kartas hitched an arm around her waist and bundled her behind a tree.

“George?” She looked in fear for Challenger.

“Here,” he answered, quickly. “I’m . . . I’m all right.”

“They’ve cut us off from the caves,” said Kartas. “It means the Markus is still alive.”

Marguerite closed her eyes briefly. The sense of release was enormous. She’d been filled with a kind of emotional paralysis ever since they’d found Veronica. The situation may have just gone from bad to worse, but Kartas’s conviction Roxton was alive gave her renewed hope. He was still out there. His heart was still beating. Her own pulse-rate lurched back to life.

Kartas turned to two of his warriors and spoke a couple of words. They faded into the jungle as he looked back around at her. “We need to kill the archers before we can move on. You and the Challenger will remain under cover until I am able to return.”

“Will we?” She spoke a trifle sarcastically. No wonder he and Roxton had got on so well, both men enjoyed giving orders. “And what happens, pray tell me, if by some chance you don’t?”

He frowned down at her for a second and then to her surprise, he smiled. “If he lives, the Markus will need all his wits. A woman with fire in her belly . . .” he held up his hand at her sudden outrage. “It is good. You will make a fitting mate. But for now, you will do as I say and wait here. I promise you, Kartas will return.”

He was gone before Marguerite could formulate a fitting answer. She made a face at his vanishing back and swallowed her flash of temper. Later, when this farrago was over, she would set the stupid man straight. Kartas reminded her uncomfortably of Roxton. He was arrogant and sure of himself. Supremely aware of his prowess and strength, in a haughty, masculine way. Both of them were impossibly high-handed, she thought, with an irritable toss of her head. ‘But it would be nice to have a dose of the Roxton arrogance right now,’ whispered a voice in her ear. It was incredible how much she missed him. Downright dangerous, in-fact.

“Marguerite?” Challenger interrupted her reverie somewhat apologetically. “I’m rather afraid I need your help . . .”

She turned with a sudden sense of dread, looking across at him properly for the first time since the attack. “Oh, George, you bloody fool, why didn’t you say something?”

He smiled with a trace of difficulty. “Didn’t want to spoil the peep-show. Sorry, Marguerite.” There was an arrow buried deep in his arm, the feathered shaft embedded above the elbow.

Ignoring his comment, she knelt at his side to take a closer look. The wound didn’t appear to be bleeding much, but she was experienced enough to realise that meant nothing. The arrow could be blocking an artery or vein and stopping the flow of blood. It looked uncomfortably central and she suspected it had pierced through the bone.

“The damn thing’s fractured my humerus.” Challenger confirmed her fear. “You’ll need to snap the end off, push the shaft right through. The barbs will do more damage if you try to pull it out.”

Marguerite grimaced in sympathy, her forehead crinkled with doubt. “What about the bleeding?”

“I think it missed the important vessels.” Challenger set his teeth. “I’m more likely to get an infection if it penetrated the bone. No . . .” he stared up at her uncomfortably. “You’d best get it over with, the sooner the better. Kartas will be back before long.”

She beckoned to one of the watching Horta. “I’ll need you to help me, damn it!”

She didn’t know whether he understood her words, but the meaning was pretty plain. In her stress, she’d spoken in English despite picking up a lot of their language. The warrior knelt down beside her and steered her hands to Challenger’s shoulders. He pointed at the arrow shaft then gestured back at himself. Marguerite felt a flash of relief. The thought of inflicting such pain on a friend had not been a pleasant one.

She forced the brightest smile she could and held Challenger’s head on her lap. “He’s probably had more practise at this than I have. Hang-on in there, George.”

“Really,” Challenger grumbled. “Americanisms, Marguerite. That’s a truly, awful turn of phrase, you’ve been spending too much time with Malone. Just where, might one ask, is one supposed to hang . . . ahhh . . .”

Marguerite watched anxiously as the colour drained from his face. All efforts at bravado were extinguished now as the Horta got to work. He snapped off the end of the arrow and using the heavy hilt of his knife, hammered the shaft straight through Challenger’s arm.

Marguerite winced in sympathy and caught hold of Challenger’s free hand. A rosette of blood blossomed up from the wound and she used her bandanna to staunch it. The warrior nodded silent thanks, removing some dried leaves from a pouch on his hip and tying them around the injured limb. Marguerite knew better than to question him. After seeing how well Kartas had recovered from an apparently, fatal gunshot wound, she was more than happy to sanction the Horta’s use of herbal knowledge on her friend.

The warrior picked up the bloody arrow and sniffed the barbed point cautiously. Marguerite guessed he was checking for poison and her heart gave a jump of fear. Great - that would be all they needed right now. Much to her relief, he shook his head.

Challenger had lost consciousness. Marguerite was both glad and concerned. She watched as the Horta took over from her, lying her friend down gently. The delays were beginning to chafe at her – they did not bode well for Roxton. The prospect of losing him to avenging head hunters grew more likely with every wasted second.

The Chief’s son. Just one of those twisted strokes of fate which seemed to delight in tormenting them. She blinked back an unwanted wash of emotion, hating herself for such weakness, clenching her fists until her knuckles turned white and she regained some self-control. It would not do to cave-in now.

No one was firing arrows anymore, but there was still no sign of Kartas. Marguerite raised her head cautiously but the jungle was curiously silent. One of the Horta motioned her back again and pointed towards the trail. His warning was unnecessary; she could still sense the danger out there. Damn it, every second was crucial. She needed to know what was happening.

A single gunshot split the silence. It was quickly followed by another one, echoing from the direction of the river. Marguerite felt her heart stand still, there could only be one hand on the trigger. It was Roxton and he was under attack. Roxton, alone and in trouble. She turned around quickly and looked at Challenger, but he remained deeply unconscious. From the line of pale shading around his lips, he wouldn’t be waking any time soon. The Horta were alert and uneasy, staring off into the trees. At the moment, no-one was watching her. It suited her purpose entirely.

Marguerite drew her pistol and backed-up into the bushes. Nobody shouted or shot at her as she merged into the shadows. She kept her head down, crouching low and using the thicket for cover. Roughly a hundred yards to her right, she could hear the rapid flow of the river. The water was only a few inches deep but the shallows were wide with no cover. Once she was out in the open, she would have to run for her life.

There was a sudden commotion behind her and the screech of a blood-curdling scream. Marguerite drew a shaky breath and tried not to worry about Challenger. The sound was a welcome diversion for her. It meant Kartas had found the archers. With any luck she could cross the shallows safely and get to Roxton in-time.

The next shot sealed her determination and filled her with deadly resolve. Marguerite left the tangle of bushes and slid down the bank into the river. The water closed around her ankles and she ran as fast as she dared, weaving across in a zigzag pattern to make herself less of a target. The pebbles were slimy and slowed her down, her feet slipping out from under her. A twisted ankle was the last thing she needed, other than an arrow in her back.

The limestone cliffs towered above her and she focused hard on the bank. Only twenty yards to go, she had very nearly made it. She could hear someone shouting behind her but fear gave Marguerite wings. She had reached the opposite side of the river before she was grasped by the hair. Her head was wrenched cruelly backwards and Marguerite cried out in pain, her face pressed under the water until it choked down into her lungs.

She fought, but it was futile, and black spots danced before her eyes. Just when she could hold her breath no longer, the pressure vanished abruptly. Marguerite rolled onto her back and floundered like a helpless fish, coughing and retching up mouthfuls of water as streams of mucous ran from her nose. There was a dead man floating beside her, his bloodied face nudging her hip-bone. The current eddied around them both and she rolled away in disgust.

“Get up!”

Kartas grasped her arm roughly and hauled her back to her feet. There were four other warriors with him and more bodies face-down in the water. She realised with a jolt of shock, she hadn’t even known they were there. Her sodden clothes and the fire in her lungs made the last few yards very uncomfortable, but Marguerite ran on determinedly. When they reached the pebbled beach on the other side, Kartas pushed her unceremoniously out of the shallows and into the cover of some bushes.

They escaped the river just in time. At least a dozen arrows rained down amongst them, bouncing off the rocks and stones and tangling-up in the twiggy branches. One of the Horta gave a grunt of pain and staggered to his knees. It took less than a second to determine he was dead - the arrow had severed his spinal cord. Marguerite’s teeth were chattering but strangely, she didn’t feel cold. She was filled with a mixture of despair and adrenalin as they pushed on towards the base of the cliff.

With a sudden burst of panic, she remembered the Roxton ring. Her fingers slipped off the buttons of her water-logged blouse as she sought the strip of ribbon, finally closing around the ring itself and holding onto it like an amulet. It was there, thank God, not lost in the river!

There was still a grain of hope.

END OF PART SEVEN
Lisa Paris – 2005

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PART EIGHT

Roxton knew the natives were out there, steadfastly watching him from the shadows. He couldn’t understand what they were waiting for, he’d counted at least ten. If they rushed him now, they would take him. Even with the guns. He took another sip of the water and waited for the gut-wrenching cramps, doubling over in agony as the inevitable spasms began. The impasse would not last much longer, his body was failing him. He shivered and shook with ague, barely able to hold onto the Webley.

The light had developed a soft, pinkish tone as the sun dipped lower in the sky. It was edging onwards to evening, always his favourite time of day. A time to head homeward and look forward to dinner, to a large gin and tonic and a quality cigar. Well, maybe not here on the Plateau, he thought, with a pang of deep regret. It was more likely to be a glass of Chateau Tree House and a few, careful puffs on one of his fast-diminishing stock of precious cheroots. At any other time, he would have taken a moment to appreciate the rose-coloured beauty, but the way these odds were panning-out, it would be the last sunset he saw.

It came to him then that perhaps they were simply waiting until he passed out. They could take him and suffer no losses. Do with him whatever they willed. ‘They won’t have to wait much longer,’ he thought, ruefully, it was harder to stay awake with every second.

The rocks were still warm from the heat of the day but his position was bathed in shadows. He laid his cheek up against the smooth stone and let his eyelids fall closed for a moment. ‘A minute,’ he thought, ‘just a minute. It won’t do me any harm.’

He jerked up with a start, knowing something had changed. It had been rather more than ‘just a minute.’ He must have lost consciousness again. Be-damned, he was losing his edge. His vision was playing tricks on him and everywhere he looked, things had shifted. Roxton wiped the sweat from his face and squinted into the forest. There was a flicker of movement away to his left and he tightened his grip on the gun, despite the warning in the back of his mind it was merely a diversionary tactic.

He half-turned before the head hunter struck him, managing to raise the Webley. His finger tightened on the trigger as their combined weight bore him down. The natives had come up on him from behind, taking advantage of his failing senses and sneaking through the rocks at his back. His attacker jerked as the bullet struck home and Roxton dragged himself clear. He rolled onto his hipbone and fired again, as another man made a rush at him. The shot took him chest-high and he fell to the ground, dropping his stone axe in the process. It skidded through the choking dust and ended up at Roxton’s side.

A deathly hush descended and Roxton listened hard. He quickly re-loaded the Webley, shaking hands stumbling over the task. The stone axe was an unexpected bonus. He pulled it up within arm’s reach and leaned back against the boulders. There was no point trying to get to his feet, any last vestige of strength had long deserted him. It occurred to him this was unusual. The natives had been viciously tenacious. He had never known them so dogged before. So determined to finish off a kill. Somehow, he must have enraged them enough to make this a personal vendetta. He was more than just stew-pot a la Roxton. More than just another shrunken head.

Veronica.

He spared a futile minute or two worrying about her again. Dear God, he prayed she had made it to safety but he no longer held out much hope. The shots he had heard earlier . . . surely if Veronica had managed to get away, they would have come for him by now?

Well, the fat was truly in the fire. If the others were still out there searching, they would have heard the gunfire and headed in this direction. Roxton found his hands were shaking and it wasn’t just from shock. There was a good chance he might be responsible for leading his friends into a trap.

A cascade of rubble bounced past his head. Someone was moving in the boulders behind him. As worried as he was about Challenger and the others, his own situation was dire. To get to him, they would have to circle around and approach from either side. He sat with his back to the wall of rock, one of the Webleys at the ready in his hand. The other was placed, fully loaded in his lap. He was not about to go quietly. Twelve bullets left before they were on him. Roxton planned to make every one count.

He didn’t have to wait long. A spear struck splinters off the rock by his ear, one of them grazing his cheekbone. Roxton fired at his screaming assailant and felled him with a shot to the head. He flattened himself back against the boulders but it was a futile gesture. He was exposed, out in the open. An easy target for their weapons.

They were on him then in a frenzied mass, all efforts at stealth forgotten. He was trapped at bay like a wounded stag and it was only a matter of time. Roxton flung himself sideways to avoid another spear, his finger tightening on the trigger as he stopped two of them dead in their tracks. Three more shots finished one more but emptied the first of his Webleys.

Roxton flipped the gun in his hand and flung it at the nearest man’s skull, hearing the clunk of metal on bone as it struck its target across the head. Six shots left, he had six shots left . . . a grim thought flashed through his mind. Better by far to make that five. He would use the last bullet on himself.

During his travels around the world, it had been his misfortune to witness some of the God awful ways of inflicting a living death on others. There were many ways to torture a man, most of them gruesomely imaginative. If this was personal, as he suspected, they were planning to take him alive.

‘Over my dead body!’

Roxton smiled, dryly, his thoughts intentionally macabre. Far better to die by his own hand, than to suffer days of agonising pain. He was tired and his wounds were aching. It was hard to stay awake. The last two days had dealt him a bloody hand and more punishment than he felt he deserved, but here at the edge of the river shallows, the end was nearly in sight. As he waited for the next assault, Roxton was strangely resigned. This then, was to be his swansong. His fate was to die alone. Would it have turned out differently, if he hadn’t lost the damned, Roxton ring? Kismet could be a capricious thing and he would never know the answer to that one.

“Inshallah,” he murmured. “If God is willing, it is written!”

Roxton held the Webley in front of him and composed himself with a smile. Time, like the light, was fading fast. He was permitted the wanton luxury of appreciating what little he had left. The rosy hue of the afternoon was a benediction of warmth on his face. He closed his eyes for a fraction and indulged in a favourite dream. A late afternoon in England, the clear sky, blue above. Golden sun filtering down through the oak leaves, still warming the lichened-stone. The house had stood there for hundreds of years, at one with the rural landscape. Bees buzzed around the lavender borders and the lush blooms of drooping roses. The watercolour wash of the Wiltshire hills and the roll of the white chalk downs . . .

He was hallucinating, he knew it, but at that moment, his home was real to him. Roxton ached with sadness and a vast longing to see it again. But Avebury Manor and his beloved England were thousands of miles away. Was this how it had been in those last, fatal seconds when he’d held his dying brother in his arms? Looking up at that alien sky, his life blood staining the ground – were these the last images William had seen?

To have known he was dying a world away, from the place he held so dear. Had he conjured it up from his memories like a long, forgotten dream?

William hated Africa. The heat and lack of civilisation had frightened and repulsed him. He hadn’t wanted to go on safari in the first place, only agreeing to please his ‘little’ brother and silence their father’s unspoken criticism. God, Roxton felt the familiar taste of bitter ashes on his tongue. William had been right to be wary. Perhaps he’d had some kind of premonition? He’d yielded his life to the remorseless Dark Continent which had frightened him so much.

In-spite of the fact he’d been born to the title with all that obligation entailed, William had loved Avebury intensely. He should have stayed safely at home.

William . . .

Roxton was startled awake by instinct as they closed-in on him again. He cursed himself for his weakness. They were far too close this time. He managed to squeeze off another two bullets, wounding at least one man, but his body was frail and fading fast. It would all be over in seconds. One of the warriors distracted him whilst another slipped under his guard. Before Roxton could turn the gun on him, the man leapt forward and raised his club, knocking the firearm from his hand. The pain of the blow was stunning, but Roxton’s despair was even worse. Dear God, he would not be taken by them . . . he would not be taken alive!

He lashed out with his feet and felt a flash of satisfaction as his boot heels connected with a face, but it cost him a lot in energy and the patch of sky above began to fade. They formed a circle around him and Roxton heard someone laugh. One of them jabbed at him with the tip of a spear, still wary, but bolder now. Roxton pulled himself back to the rock, his breath harsh and raspy with pain. He stared up at them defiantly and forced a smile to his face.

“Come on, then, you filthy bastards! Come and get me, if you dare!”

His groping hand found the shaft of the axe which lay in the dirt beside him. His fingers curled around it as he waited for them to close-in. If they expected him to fold without a fight, the brutes had another thing coming. He would struggle every last inch of the way until they were forced to kill him. His shirt was clammy with blood again, the scent of copper strong in his nostrils. The wound and lack of medical attention was quickly wearing him down. Roxton faced facts with grim satisfaction. Time and his own failing flesh would deprive the head hunters of their prey.

He knew a fleeting second of regret. There was still so much he had left to do. Wrongs he would like to have righted. So many things he should have told her, words he longed to say . . .

It was a savage attack in a matter of seconds and a flurry of blows and kicks. He swung the axe to defend himself and felt it crunch into ribs. Roxton lashed out helplessly but he was fighting a losing battle. The blood and the pain seemed to merge into one and vanish like a pinprick of light.

‘This is it, then – this is the end,’ the thought repeated over and over. The world spun away until all that was left, was the bittersweet memory of her face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“There!”

Marguerite heard the sounds of a scuffle and saw the flash of light off metal, but Kartas was already ahead of her, long knife drawn in his hand.

“Roxton!” Her voice was frantic.

She was barely able to see him under the mass of heaving bodies. Adrenalin pumped through her veins in a wave, the familiar cold anger rising. The world had receded until all she could see, all she was aware of, was Roxton. Details of sound and colour, perceptions of light and smell. Her senses were heightened to the utmost degree as though she were experiencing the danger he was in. She was even conscious of his panic and fear . . . the terrible pain he suffered.

It was like all her worst nightmares. The roaring of a red tide. Marguerite raised her pistol and screamed out his name again. Rage drove her forwards with murderous intent and a total disregard for her own safety. She downed her targets with marksman-like aim, their spears and arrows falling around her. It was as though she was protected by an invisible shield. Impervious to all harm.

Roxton was sprawled on the ground by some rocks, bloody and frighteningly still. Some of his attackers lay dead beside him and the boulders resembled a slaughter-house. Others were engaged in hand-to-hand combat with Kartas and his men. Marguerite turned as one of them charged her and smiled as she shot him down. She knew a moment of cold satisfaction. They would pay for what they had done.

“The Markus!”

Kartas shouted a warning and Marguerite spun back to Roxton. One of the head hunters was standing over him, about to crush his skull with an axe.

“No!”

She screamed out her fury like a virago, the pistol clicking on an empty chamber. There was a discarded spear on the ground at her feet and she picked it up on the run. Too slow . . . she was too slow, she knew she wouldn’t make it. She wouldn’t get to Roxton in time.

Marguerite grasped the weapon tightly and wrenched her shoulder backwards. She threw the spear savagely like a javelin, using every atom of strength she possessed. The man doubled over with an expression of surprise, the wooden shaft protruding from his chest. The axe fell from his nerveless fingers next to Roxton’s head.

She skidded to her knees at the ground by his side, almost afraid to touch him. He lay unmoving, too pale, too still. Remote and lost to her. Marguerite knew what she was supposed to do – she was an experienced nurse. Feel for his carotid artery and check he still had a pulse. Her fingers hovered beside his torn collar, a couple of inches from his throat. If she didn’t confirm the lack of a beat, then perhaps she could pretend he hadn’t died.

Marguerite could hear sounds of fighting around them, but it was as though she and Roxton were trapped inside a bubble. Caught in a dream-like silence of suspension where time and motion ground to a halt.

His skin felt cool, harsh with raspy stubble. She tracked down his windpipe with blood-stained fingers to the point at the angle of his jaw. Nothing. It was as she had predicted. No pulse-rate beat or throbbed beneath her touch. Marguerite exhaled in a shuddering breath and moved her fingers back and forth, checking in other places for any sign he still lived.

Nothing. Bloody nothing. No heart-beat, no pulse-rate, no life-force.

Her premonition came back to haunt her again, sparkling with diamond-cut clarity. She had known . . . she had known the truth all along. The shadow of her dream had turned into a nightmare. Lord John Roxton was dead.

The air was cold like ice in her lungs. Marguerite picked his hand up slowly and cradled it against her frozen cheek. His skin was abraded, scuffed with cuts and scrapes, the nails blunted and torn. Everything faded apart from the two of them and her terrible sense of loss. Something caught on his lifeless fingers as she held them up to her throat. It was the piece of black velvet ribbon on which she had tied the Roxton ring. Lips parting in shock and bitterness, Marguerite pulled it from her bodice. She untied the knot which held it in place and slid the ring onto her palm.

“I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry, John.” the words seemed frigid and inadequate. Small, in the scheme of things.

She pushed the ring over his swollen knuckle, back to its rightful place, studying his broken hand for a moment before sealing her act of covenant with a kiss. She laid his arm across his chest and rocked backwards on her heels. Suddenly, the world was a colder place and she had never felt so alone.

“The Markus?” Kartas knelt down beside her, his dark eyes searching her face.

“It’s too late,” she answered, dully. “He’s dead.”

“Let me.” Kartas moved in closer and studied Roxton carefully. He checked for a pulse-rate just as Marguerite had done, tipping back Roxton’s jaw. “His life-force has not yet departed this place . . .” his tone was sombre. “His spirit is lost but wandering, he does not wish to go. Too much remains unfinished.”

“Can you bring him back again?” She reached for him tormentedly. “Can you make him come back? Can you? Don’t just sit there looking inscrutable if there’s something you can bloody-well do!”

Kartas ignored her and concentrated on Roxton, his fingers still centred on his pulse. Anger jolted Marguerite. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. How dared Roxton leave her, how dared he? And why did she feel so bereft? She had returned the ring, God damn it. She had kept her end of fate’s bargain.

Kartas was chanting in a low monotone, the words arcane and unrecognisable. He sang in an ancient language she did not understand. Something was happening, she could feel it. Her body was filled with the familiar, electric tingling which presaged her gift or her curse. Almost against her will, Marguerite was sucked into the Horta’s field of energy, swirling down through the mists of his aura to a soothing, healing place.

They were no longer on the Plateau. No longer anywhere she’d ever seen. Time receded and became meaningless as the radiance increased around her. It was a light which engulfed and consumed her, which ironed out the anger in her soul. Marguerite drifted through time and space as the curative sensations washed over her.

Spiralling gently in her warm cocoon, she gradually became aware of another presence, another heart-beat. The sound seemed to intensify, getting louder and louder in her ears. She lurched back to consciousness with a jerk.

Kartas was staring straight into her eyes, his left hand clasping hers with absorbed concentration. The fingers of his right hand still rested on Roxton’s carotid artery and with a sudden thunderbolt of joy, Marguerite knew the other beat was the sound of the Englishman’s heart-rate.

“It is done.” Kartas inclined his head in acknowledgement. “His soul no longer wanders, but his body remains weak. He will need great strength to remain in this world. Great strength and the faith of those close to him.”

“What did you do?” she whispered.

“I could not have done it alone.” His words were uncomfortably loaded with meaning and a sense of understanding. “One day, it must not be denied, the force you carry within you. Beware, for the powers of light and dark both seek to claim you for their cause. Until then, you will be as the ravenous serpent, fighting not to consume your own soul.”

“The ouroborous . . .”

The words were wrung from her involuntarily. Marguerite stared back at Kartas in sudden fear and wonder. Had he seen it here on the Plateau . . . a sudden thought made her blanch with shock.

Might Kartas even know where it was hidden?

What could he possibly know about it, her mind raced over all the options. And rather more importantly, what did he know about her?

Marguerite pulled away as if stung. She felt open, unaccountably vulnerable. Her secrets were hers and hers alone. They must remain inviolate.

Kartas rose to his feet again, the strange link between them broken. Marguerite watched as he returned to his warriors and left her alone with Roxton. She pushed her feelings of unease to the back of her mind. For now, they would have to wait. Roxton was her priority. He still remained critically injured.

‘Damn it, where was Challenger – where the hell was Summerlee?’

It was all very well, Kartas telling her to be strong and have faith, but when it was Roxton . . . John lying here broken and bloodied before her, it was easier said than done. She took his head onto her lap and began to bathe his face with water from her canteen. His breathing was shallow, so wretchedly faint, it was barely even there. She re-checked his pulse-rate more than once to verify his heart was still beating, as much for her own reassurance and to quieten her rising sense of bleakness.

Afternoon faded quickly. The daylight descended to the shadowy twilight which fell so abruptly on the Plateau. Shafts of pale-gold sunlight slanted low through the trees. Marguerite knew they were going nowhere, travel was foolhardy at night. For once, she was content to let Kartas take over. Afraid to leave Roxton’s side for a second, now she had found him again.

She was a little surprised at the way in which she’d surrendered the reins to Kartas, but seeing as the man had saved Roxton’s life, it felt safe to forfeit control. More than anything else, she wanted the others. Especially, Challenger and Summerlee. Marguerite’s hand lingered on Roxton’s hair, it was stiff and caked with blood. She wasn’t so sure about Veronica. Still filled with too much worry and anger, she felt raw like an open wound.

‘Perhaps, if Roxton . . .’ Marguerite shivered. ‘Perhaps, when, Roxton recovered, she might find it easier to forgive and forget.’ Only then would she be able to put the Largo incident behind her and re-build certain bridges again.

There was a lot to do before nightfall.

END OF PART EIGHT
Lisa Paris – 2005

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