Parts 1 and 2 Parts 3 and 4 Parts 5 and 6 Parts 7 and 8 Return Home
THE SILVER LINK
PART FIVE
Veronica lay hidden in a clump of ferns and watched the men down below her. Prone on her belly and motionless, she was almost perfectly camouflaged amongst the drying fronds and dappling shade. She frowned with anxiety. There was no doubt these were Pym's men, and one of them was carrying Roxton's beloved hunting rifle.
In spite of the fact she had not known him very long, the sight still made her angry on Roxton’s behalf. The Englishman took great care of his guns. Almost as though they were an extension of him, as indeed they probably were.
Even here on the plateau, Veronica had heard of the terrible war which had raged across the rest of the world. Outsiders of many guises had visited her home throughout the years, bringing tales of death and destruction, sometimes even old newspapers, all of which she had avidly devoured. From the little Malone had told her, Roxton had fought in the war. Prior to its bitter devastation, the Englishman had travelled all over the globe and made a living from using those self-same weapons. Like any warrior she’d ever known, he must have hated loosing them.
The slavers fanned-out in a wide search pattern, all along one side of the river. Scouring the shallows near the eroded bank and beating back the undergrowth along the water's edge. With a shout of triumph, one of them dragged a twisted tree-trunk from the bushes, placing two fingers up to his mouth as he gave a piercing whistle.
Within minutes, the other men converged on him and Veronica concluded their search was over. A fat man shouldered his way forward, the sunlight gleaming off the familiar pair of silver Webleys he wore in the sash encircling his corpulent middle.
“That’s the slaver, Pym.” Jarl moved up quietly beside her. “He carries your friend’s guns.”
“Yes,” whispered Veronica grimly. “So I see."
It was not the only thing she saw. It was quite clear Roxton and Marguerite had eluded their captors somehow, probably escaping down river and emerging on the bank the slavers had just been searching. She should have expected it of them; both were incredibly resourceful, albeit in different ways.
Jarl had evidently come to the same conclusion, watching closely as Pym deployed his men in a fan-shaped dragnet, working their way inland from the river, up the wooded hillsides of the valley. Marguerite and Roxton’s only real option was to double back towards the Tree House and their pursuers were tracking them on that premiss. You didn’t have to be a genius to work it out.
“I do not like this, Veronica.” Jarl shook his head with bewilderment. “Why would Pym waste his time like this? Slaves have escaped from him before.”
Her mouth tightened. “I think there’s more to it - this seems personal now. Roxton or Marguerite - probably Marguerite, must have really done something to annoy him. Let’s get back to the others. I don’t like the look of this much.”
It had changed the whole complexion of things. They were no longer following a slave caravan across country, but involved in a desperate manhunt. Veronica knew instinctively that if Pym reached their friends first, it would spell disaster for the Hunter and the Heiress. Well, not if she could help it. She took one last look at Roxton’s guns and slithered backwards after Jarl.
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Marguerite shifted slightly, the cramp in her calf muscle growing almost intolerable. Immediately, there was a small scurry of earth beside her and she felt the tree trunk slip a little lower. She froze and bit her lip, terrified to move again in case the rest of the hillside came down on them, as it had on the wretched raptor. The beast lay half buried in the gully below, its spine crushed and broken by a ton of earth and boulders. Even though its feeble thrashings had ended an hour ago, it was only now she dared to breathe again, as at long last, it lay still.
Rather like someone else she knew, she thought worriedly, reaching round to feel the side of Roxton’s throat yet again. His pulse-rate reassured her, beating slowly against her fingertips as she let them linger on his dark stubble. This was becoming somewhat of a habit, she reflected wryly, but it was one she would rather do without. Even though she liked to watch him while he was sleeping . . .
‘Whoa, there . . .’ Marguerite ground to an abrupt halt. Where the hell had that come from? She smiled a little shakily, the last twenty-four hours must have made her really hysterical if she was getting all gooey and sentimental over Lord Roxton. Her heart tightened with anxiety once again - if only the bloody man would deign to wake-up.
They were wedged in a twisted tangle of roots, caught up in the vee between tree trunk and hillside. Roxton had landed first because of his superior weight, pulling her down on top of him with enough force to stun her for a moment. The raptor had leapt right after them, determined to collect its meal. She’d woken to witness its timely demise. The predator’s weight had caused another mudslide, de-stabilising the hillside even further as it brought down several tons of earth. Glad as she was to see the beast die, its fall had made their own perch infinitely more precarious.
She inched herself off Roxton cautiously, worried he might have broken a few ribs. Restricted as she was by the damn manacle, there was very little she could do for him other than insure he continued to breathe. What would become of them if he didn’t wake-up? She didn’t want to think about it now. It occurred to her then, how dependant they were. Just how truly symbiotic they’d become. If one of them got into serious trouble, the other one’s survival odds plummeted. Marguerite sat there, cold and frightened. It would be typical of the bloody man to die.
Her fingers found the comfort of his throat again, and she wished with all her heart he would open his eyes. She found herself longing for the sound of his voice. Hell, she would even put up with being irritated by him for awhile . . . just so long as he didn’t leave her here alone . . .
“Marguerite?” It was almost as if he had heard her.
“It’s about time,” she had meant her voice to sound mocking, but it came out curiously strained. “I thought you were going to sleep until Pym found us.”
Roxton’s eyes were still unfocused as he stared up into her face. “The raptor . . .”
“Dead,” she replied shortly. “There was another mudslide.”
He swallowed convulsively and she sensed his relief. It was not unlike her own at this moment, but for an entirely different reason. In spite of all her previous resolutions, Marguerite reached up and touched his cheek. She was surprised and slightly wary of her emotions, but for a moment, the thought of his death had opened up a chasm inside her. A dark place where she didn’t want to go. She bit down hard on her lip - it was no good losing her sense of equilibrium now.
“How long was I out of it?”
Roxton still didn’t sound like he was in it, she thought, looking at him more closely. He was as pale as she’d ever seen him and he made no attempt to move. She hesitated before answering, suddenly worried as she took in his appearance. It was frightening to see him like this; he was usually so bullish and strong.
“Well, it’s a long way past noon,” she said nonchalantly, a part of her sensing instinctively, it wouldn’t help if she showed her distress. “It must be at least mid-afternoon.”
“Hell, we’ve wasted too much time . . .”
He began to struggle up immediately and she felt the ominous shift of earth beneath her.
“Roxton, no . . .”
She barely had time to open her mouth. The tree trunk toppled gracefully backwards and the chain jerked her forward again. This time, they were dragged down far more sedately in an avalanche of debris and scree. Roxton kept better control of their descent, reaching out to clamp her firmly to his chest. He tucked her head in under his chin, wrapping his arms closely around her waist, and managing to protect her from the random rocks and branches which bounced down beside them.
They slid to an undignified halt at the bottom, just inches away from the dead raptor. Ironically, the beast had probably saved them. The mountain of earth shaken down by its fall had provided a far softer landing.
Marguerite took a cautious breath and made a brief inventory of her body. Nothing felt broken and her bruises were by now, too numerous to mention. Hell, she already had bruises on her bruises - what did a few more matter?
“Comfortable?”
Roxton smiled down at her crookedly and she remembered she was lying in his arms. She searched his face warily for sarcasm but there was only concern written there. To her surprise, she found she didn’t want to move, she really was quite comfortable, thank you. Instead, she lay quietly, smiling back at him - perhaps she was light-headed from the fall.
“The way our day’s been going, I suppose that was inevitable?”
“Quite,” he agreed with her solemnly, but she still saw the twinkle in his eye. “All in all, I’ve had better days, but I have to admit this is one of the nicer moments.”
He really ‘could’ be charming when he wanted, she reflected, as his words cheered her up. When he wasn’t too busy playing dominant male. It was at times like this she could see why he had such a reputation with the ladies back in England. It wasn’t just the money and the title, or simply the size of his big gun . . .
“Marguerite, are you all right?” His voice was soft with concern.
She realised with horror, she was giggling out loud. My God, things really must be getting to her. It was relief, she told herself. Stuck up there on the slippery hillside, chained to a man who might be dying - it was enough to make anyone hysterical.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “You should be answering that question. I’m not the one who was unconscious for over two hours - again.”
He made a face and answered quickly, too quickly, a part of her wondered?
“A bit of a headache and a few bumps and bruises. Nothing which getting out of this mess won’t fix. Or a hot bath and a good slug of malt.”
To her surprise, it was Roxton who broke their clinch, pushing gently away from her and climbing rather clumsily to his feet. She gladly accepted the offer of his hand, her body protesting more than she’d expected, as those bruises on bruises all made themselves known. Roxton was looking back up the hillside with barely concealed dismay and Marguerite knew just how he felt. The thought of re-attempting the arduous climb was almost more than she could stand. But it was their only way out of the valley - the only escape from Pym.
“We’ll work our way across laterally until we reach firmer ground.” Roxton said as if reading her thoughts. “Once it’s safe enough to avoid another impromptu sleigh-ride, we’ll start to climb again.” He paused and said more kindly, “can you make it, Marguerite?”
She swallowed hard and nodded. “What other choice do I have?”
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Veronica would seldom admit it, but there had always been a part of her which enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. Although not a meat-eater herself, as a child, she had often joined the Zanga on hunting parties, watching the warriors quietly and absorbing as much as she could. She’d made an exemplary pupil, quick to learn and able at application. Those jungle skills had grown to serve her well.
She used them to stalk her prey now, moving noiselessly in and out of the shadows as she followed her chosen target. The man was completely unsuspecting, crashing loudly and ineptly through the forest, as he muttered and grumbled continuously to himself.
Veronica smiled grimly as she caught some of his words. He was clearly not enamoured of his leader’s obsession with Roxton and Marguerite. In his considered opinion, chasing them was a total waste of time. And he was right, she thought caustically; or at least it would prove so in a minute.
She moved around in front of him, silently signing her intent to Jarl, a shadowy figure at her back. It took her a couple of seconds to find a suitable tree, climbing it sinuously, lithe as a cat. She waited until the slaver was directly below her, before letting go of the branch and landing with a thud, right in his path.
Eyes goggling in astonishment and fear, the slaver fumbled uselessly with the unfamiliar gun he carried. She sent it flying from his hands with a single kick, spinning round as her fist met his jaw. The man fell backwards with a grunt of pain, only to find himself staring up into the face of an avenging goddess.
Veronica drew her knife in a flash and held it up to his jugular. “Don’t even think of making a sound!” Her voice left no room for compromise.
Jarl came up swiftly behind them, closely followed by Challenger and Malone.
The scientist picked up Roxton’s rifle and regarded their captive angrily. “I believe this gun belongs to my friend. For your sake, I hope you took good care of it.”
“Where are they?” hissed Veronica threateningly. “I suggest you start talking to us now.”
“Don’t hurt Jarvis, it weren‘t his doing,” the slaver pleaded with them frantically. “It were Pym what took them.”
“And you work for him,” said Malone coolly. “Or had you forgotten that?”
The man Jarvis, stared up and licked his lips. “I said they was trouble, but he wouldn’t listen. He wants the wench for himself.”
“And what about Roxton?” asked Challenger urgently. “What does he plan to do with him?”
The slaver looked nervously at Veronica’s knife, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he answered. “The man be too much trouble. Pym be going to slit his throat. After he’s had his fun with him, of course. Pym do like to make an example of runaways and he most ‘specially wants this one.”
“You’d better hope he doesn’t get him,” said Challenger ominously. “ Now, what kind of lead do they have - is there anything else we should know?”
“Talk!” Veronica gripped the knife harder, the tip just grazing the man's throat.
Jarvis caved, any latent thoughts of loyalty or honour among thieves were swiftly dismissed, as he stared up at the intent on his captor’s face. Part of him began to assess her worth; by the holies she would fetch a good purse . . .
“Don’t even think about it, slime-ball.” Veronica found herself using one of Malone’s modern expletives, but it seemed particularly apt in this case. She’d seen the brief expression flicker in the slaver’s eyes.
Jarvis gulped and forgot about the gold. You had to be alive in order to spend it, and he planned on staying that way. “Two hours ahead of us, mebbe three. They be manacled together, the knight and his wench, t’will be bound to slow them down . . . the cuffs . . . and mebbe the musket-ball . . .”
“Musket-ball?” Malone looked up sharply. “What musket-ball?”
“Dear God,” whispered Challenger in horror. “Are you telling us one of them was shot?”
Jarvis shrugged unhappily. “T’was Pym. I swear, t’was Pym. Shot him with that new-fangled gun of his - or at least, it seemed that way. Pym’s a fair shot from a distance, and this knight of yours took a mouthful of river.”
“Shall I kill him now? asked Veronica dispassionately, her face a mask of coldness as she toyed with the knife at his throat.
“Don’t tempt me,” barked Challenger tersely. “Much as he no doubt deserves it, I think we’ll leave his judgement to the Zanga.” He glared down angrily at Jarvis and gestured up into the woods. “How many men does Pym have after them? The truth or I’ll leave you alone in her tender care.”
Jarvis started jerkily, his eyes blinking rapidly with fear. “There be seven now, just seven. Don’t leave me alone with her.”
Veronica swung to her feet and removed her knee from his chest. “I’d better not see you again, little man,” her smile was glacial. “Or I’ll remember we have unfinished business.”
They turned him over to one of the Zanga and watched as he was tied and taken away.
“Well, that’s one down,” commented Malone wryly. “Only seven to go now.”
They stared at each other uneasily, disturbed by the slaver's disclosure. Nobody mentioned Roxton, it was no good agonising over something which might not even have happened, but it lay like an ugly bruise at the back of all their minds. That, and the unspoken question; what if they didn’t reach their friends in time?
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Pym looked down sourly at the lizard's body and kicked it hard for good measure. From the looks of things, the beast had almost deprived him of his prey - he might have wasted a whole day for nothing. He studied the tracks in the soft, red earth, there was no doubt his runaway’s had been here. They'd even taken a tumble with the lizard. They were lucky the beast had been killed.
He studied the boot marks carefully and scowled. There was no sign the knight had been hurt. He'd been so damned sure he'd hit him, it was rare he missed his mark. It was something, he supposed, that he had the man's weapons - they were a hundred times better than his old ones. Pym stroked the pearl handles possessively, they recalled to mind the colour of her skin. The lure of the wench had been pushing him onwards; the curve of her body, the taste of her lips . . . the thought of what he was going to do, when he eventually caught her again . . .
And of what he would to do to him. To the knight or whatever he was called. Pym permitted himself a small smile. The man was going to regret he’d ever crossed him, he’d regret the ill-starred day his mother whelped him. Famous gladiator or not, Pym would have him begging for mercy in the end - they all begged for mercy in the end. He licked his lips salaciously at the thought of it. It was hard to know which he was looking forward to the most.
“Mister Pym?”
He stared up at one of his men. “Ye found the tracks?”
“Aye, fresh ones. Not more than an hour away,” the man grinned suddenly and held something out. “We found this too.”
Pym took the leaf carefully, his own smile growing wider with pride as he regarded the dark blood which stained it. “Well, there now, Mister Block, what do ye think of that? Pym knew he didn’t miss him.”
Block nodded in agreement. “There be one other thing, Mister Pym, there isn’t no sign of Jarvis.”
Pym frowned dismissively. “The fool better not lose that new-fangled musket, or I’ll have his hide for boot-soles. Most likely snoring under some tree, we’d have heard him shooting at a lizard.”
Jarvis didn’t concern him, he was still feeling good about his shot back at the river. He’d felt the gun kick in the palm of his hand and seen the man go under a second later. If he had to guess, the ball had taken him in the lower back, maybe even in the kidney. A fine shot, a fine shot indeed. Pym continued to congratulate himself.
This made the hunt far more interesting, a wounded prey would eventually be forced to stand at bay. He might also be a lot more dangerous, but Pym wasn’t worried about that. The man was disabled in more ways than one, by his hurts and the woman he cared for. Pym realised he alone held the ace - and the ace in this game, was the wench.
END OF PART FIVE
Lisa Paris - 2004.
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THE SILVER LINK
PART SIX
Roxton heard Pym’s men before he saw them, crashing through the undergrowth with no attempt at stealth. He knew with dismay, it was over. There was no chance of outrunning them now. The pain in his back was almost crippling and he could feel an ominous patch of warmth spreading across his lumbar region. If the wound hadn’t bled much before, it was making up for lost time now.
He looked down into Marguerite’s frightened eyes, irrationally struck by how beautiful they were. Were they green or were they silver? They were certainly the most unusual eyes he’d ever gazed into, which, in light of his vast wealth of past experience, was really saying rather a lot . . .
What the hell was he thinking? His mind was getting vague and confused. The words of the old hag came back to him:
<< ‘Fly, and protect her with your life!’ >>
“Any bright ideas, Roxton?”
He wondered if she realised she had turned to him for guidance, probably for the first and only time. Well, a fat lot of good he was being, he couldn‘t even think straight anymore.
“Roxton!” Her voice was sharper now. “For God’s sake, wake-up. This is no time to take a nap. We need to move faster.”
And she was off before he could argue, taking to her heels through the jungle and expecting him to keep up, just like that. The chain began tightening between them and Roxton was forced to stumble even faster in her wake. There was simply no point in hiding, Pym knew exactly where they were.
Their flight had taken on an almost dreamlike quality. It was like trying to run from a nightmare. The pain he’d thought merely crippling before, turned into something out of Dante's Inferno*1. There was a shout of triumph across to his right and a bullet whined close to his head. He found himself ducking instinctively, even though it was far too late.
“Damn and blast it, Roxton!” Marguerite’s voice was angry. “Why the hell can’t you keep up?”
He realised he was dragging behind her. The weight of his body was holding her back. Oh God, if it wasn’t for the shackles . . . at least one of them might stand a chance.
“I’m sorry,” he heard himself mumble. Or at least he thought he did.
He just about managed to run, to put one foot in front of the other. He clenched his jaw and staggered after her, repeating the words of the crone in his head like a mantra to ward off the pain.
It was a root which was his undoing. A gnarled network of rubber tree roots, twisted in a tangle across the forest floor. He felt the toe of his boot catch beneath one and then he went sprawling, flat on his face.
Marguerite jerked back on top of him. “Bloody hell!” She was shrill with rage and tears. “You clumsy idiot, Roxton. Are you deliberately trying to get us killed?”
For a second he was almost beyond caring. The world and her voice began to roar in his ears and his agony became overwhelming. It would be simple, so simple to let it all go - to give-in to the beckoning darkness. He was lying on leaf mould and humus which smelled earthy and curiously sweet. It felt as if he was floating; so easy to just let go. Roxton began sinking downwards, beguiled by the comforting scent, but the face of the crone rose before him again, her hands outstretched in a plea.
“Leave me alone, Old Woman. I can’t go on any further . . .”
"Old Woman? What are you mumbling about? Come on, we have to get up!"
He shook his head like a dog, in an effort to clear it, but the movement nearly made him throw-up. Where was he? He wasn't sure anymore, but Marguerite's sense of urgency was getting through to him at last. He clambered to his knees like a drunkard, just as the sky began to blur.
Marguerite knelt frantically beside him, arms tightening around his body as she tried to haul him up. “What’s wrong with you . . . they’re nearly on top of us . . .”
He heard her gasp of shock, his vision focusing enough at last to see the look of horror which flooded her face. She stared down at the red on her hands as if she weren’t seeing too well, eyes abnormally large in her pale face.
“Oh God, why didn’t you tell me? What happened, was it when we fell?”
“No,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Shot . . . back at the river.”
The tears in her eyes spilled over her lashes, making tracks down her dirty face. “Bloody stupid, stubborn man. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Another shout echoed behind them and Roxton met her gaze with total honesty. “For that reason. They catch us and I’m dead. It’s probably preferable to what will happen to you.”
“Come on,” she braced her shoulders and grasped him around the waist. “We haven’t made it this far to give up now."
Roxton leant on her obediently and allowed her to lead him onwards. Their pace had dropped significantly and progress was painfully slow. He was barely aware of anything now, the ache in his back all-encompassing. The shifting patterns of sunlight confused him, every shadow seemed fraught with danger. Her arm gripped his waist like a band of iron, far more real than the iron around his wrist. In his jumble of thoughts, they were linked by her touch and not by the real chains which bound them.
“John . . .” There was a crumb of hope in her voice. “This way.”
He didn’t know where they were going any longer, just content to follow her blindly. Oddly, the only thing which registered to him, was her use of his given name. The number of times she had called him John, he could count on the fingers of one hand. So rare an occurrence was it, that the danger seemed all the more potent to him.
They battled their way through banks of dense undergrowth, fringing the periphery of a gorge. The sharp thorns whipped spitefully back at him, but he barely felt their touch. Marguerite paused for a moment and gave a frustrated grunt. Roxton knew his weight must be hurting her and attempted to ease it a little.
“I was so sure . . .” Her words were despairing. “The rock strata’s typical.”
“Marguerite,” he managed to rasp out her name. “I don’t think I can make it any further . . . I’m sorry . . .”
She turned to him compellingly, staring into his blood-shot eyes. “Not much longer, Roxton, bear with me. If I’m right, we may be lucky and find a place to hide. This gully’s the end of a dried-up riverbed, the rock formation’s typically limestone. It’s a good bet there are some caves here - or I’m no bloody geologist.”
She gave him no time to argue, pushing on deeper into the thicket concealing the wall of the gorge. He could still hear the shouts behind them, but they sounded much farther away. Roxton didn’t allow it to fool him, false optimism seemed too cruel. There was no hope of evading Pym forever, even if they eluded him now. The fat man wasn’t an idiot, it was inevitable he’d find them eventually.
“What wouldn’t I give for a gun right now,” he said, through chattering teeth.
“Or the odd grenade or two,” she agreed with an attempt at a smile. “They would really come in handy.”
“Now, why am I so sure . . . you would know how to use them?” He played along with false jocularity, even though he was close to passing out. A part of him sensed it was keeping her going - she was functioning on sheer will alone.
They were moving adjacently to the rock face, still hidden amongst the bushes which grew along its base. Each step cost Roxton dearly, and sweat poured down his face in rivulets. He kept his lips tightly compressed and forced himself to endure it. Just when it seemed impossible to go any further, Marguerite gave a half-sob of relief.
“I knew it - I knew there would be a cave!”
She pulled him quickly behind a fold of over-lapping rock, the entrance concealed by a dense growth of liana. Roxton collapsed in the semi-darkness, too weak and exhausted to move.
"John?" Her voice was urgent. There it was, that name of his again.
Things must look bad, he thought with a twist of black humour. Things, and perhaps him. He tried to push onto his elbow, surprised and afraid by the amount of strength it cost him. She hauled him up the rest of the way, but he could feel how much she was shaking.
"We need to go further in - there are some boulders at the back and possibly a passageway. Can you make it?"
"I can make it," but he wasn't sure he could.
They staggered another few yards. Roxton was aware of Marguerite taking the majority of his bodyweight, but unable to do anything about it. She was right as usual. The boulders hid another two caverns, the tunnels forking off into the pitch bowels of the earth. He felt her waver with indecision before opting for the smaller, less safe of the two. He understood her reasoning, of course. If, and more likely when, Pym discovered the cave, it would seem more logical to have chosen the safer tunnel. It showed how little the man knew Marguerite.
“I hope there’s nothing in here . . .”
She voiced what he’d been thinking. The odds on this being some creature’s lair were pretty high in this neck of the woods. There was ample evidence it had been used in the past, judging by the piles of dead foliage. Roxton tried to be philosophical, it couldn’t be any worse than Pym. He hoped the original occupant was off on a trip around the jungle. To be honest, there was no smell of animal dander, the air inside the cave was cold and stale. Perhaps lady luck was with them for once, they badly needed her now.
The passageway narrowed considerably, forcing them both to bend double. The shackles made things awkward and Marguerite had to lead the way. Everything seemed to be getting darker - or perhaps it was just him.
“Hell!” She cannoned back against him with an exclamation. “We can’t go any further,” there was an edge of worry in her tone. “There’s some kind of fissure and it looks pretty deep. We’ll have to go back.”
“No . . .” Roxton discovered his voice at last. “They’d find us in a heartbeat. I’m tired of running, Marguerite. Pym’s the key to all this - if we can find a way of taking him out of the game, I don’t think his men will give a damn.”
“How? You’re in no fit state to do anything, don’t forget he’s the one with the guns.”
“What’s the . . . one thing he wants above all other?”
She looked at him uncertainly. “Me.”
“Precisely. Can’t say I blame him either . . .” God, thought Roxton, he must be getting delirious, but the words seemed to slip out so easily. “Perhaps we can use that to our advantage. Help me collect some of this dead wood . . .”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It didn’t take Pym very long to find them. A twig snapped outside the cave and Marguerite felt her stomach tighten. She knew they were no longer alone. This was it, then; the game was over. She looked down at the man beside her and her heart gave a strange little beat. Roxton was ill in a way she didn’t understand, unmoving now and glacially cold. There was nothing she could do for him here, perhaps nothing anyone could do any longer. The thought of being shackled to a dead man was unnerving - the fact that the dead man was Roxton, something she refused to acknowledge. Some impulse made her reach across and kiss him lightly on the mouth. She was shocked at how parched his lips felt, how his skin burned like dry ice beneath her touch.
She took a deep breath - it was now or never. Even though there was only one, remaining course of action open to her, it took almost every ounce of courage to finally bite the bullet and call Pym.
“Help! Is anyone out there?” Marguerite waited then tried again. “Mister Pym - is that you?”
For a long moment there was silence - apart from the thundering of her pulse. Marguerite tensed as she smelled something burning, the familiar scent of a lighted pitch torch. Shadows danced erratically on the limestone walls, illuminating her refuge and highlighting the pallor of Roxton’s face. Then she heard the approach of footsteps towards them. Soft and barely discernable, in the rustle of dead leaves on the floor of the cave.
“Well, well, so here ye be.” Pym chuckled quietly. “Led Pym a merry dance, ye did.”
The torchlight gleamed off Roxton’s Webley and the slaver stepped out of the gloom. Marguerite saw only one man behind him, the curve of a cutlass in his hand.
“There’s no need for the gun,” she said nervously. “I’m not going anywhere. I can’t.”
Pym stared hard at Roxton, a slow smile working his lips. “He don’t look so good, the knight. Pym knew he shot him, so he did.”
“He’s dead,” she answered flatly. “Come see for yourself, Roxton’s dead.”
The slaver nodded to himself but didn’t move. “Went to ground like an animal, slunk in a hole to die.” He looked up at her suddenly; “but not his comely wench.”
“No.” Marguerite’s voice shook slightly. “I don’t want to be chained to a dead man. For God’s sake, don’t leave me here . . .”
Pym chuckled again, the sound making her flesh crawl. The fat man was exulting in his triumph and for a second, Marguerite had a vision of him walking away and leaving her alone with Roxton’s body. Abandoned in the cave to die a slow and lingering death, trapped, and at the mercy of deprivation and darkness, a prey to any scavenging predators. It was just the sort of sadistic thing which might appeal to the slaver. She gave an involuntary shudder and raised her shackled hand to him imploringly. The chain tightened with slight resistance as Roxton’s arm rolled limply forward.
Pym watched the movement keenly, his sharp eyes not missing a trick. Marguerite was under no illusion. Any hint of life in the Hunter, and it would have been his last. Hers too, in all probability. But the slaver must have been satisfied, giving a tiny, half-nod as he looked down at Roxton once again.
“Kind of a shame he’s dead . . . needed a lesson, he did.”
Marguerite swallowed back her anger, distress flaring briefly on her face. “I think you taught him one . . .”
The world reeled around her in a haze of anguish. She remembered the stain of Roxton’s blood on her hands. The increasingly, heavy weight of his body as she’d helped him stumble the last, few hundred yards of their journey. He must have been in so much pain, and yet he hadn’t uttered a word. In the old days back in Europe, Marguerite hadn’t been used to such self-sacrifice. The circles she’d moved in had been dangerous. A world of dog-eat-dog, where only the strongest survived. Pym would be in his element, but it would be an anathema to Roxton. She didn’t know why, but it mattered. His good opinion mattered to her.
Unwittingly, her distress did the trick. Perhaps because this time, she was genuinely upset and not play-acting, her anguish finally convinced the fat man she was telling the truth. Marguerite had almost gone beyond caring. She was tired and aching, emotionally wrung-out. There wasn’t a single part of her left either physically or mentally unscathed by the last couple of days, and to cap it all, her heart was filled with a knot of inexplicable pain. It was not something she wanted to analyse now - there were other, more pressing concerns. But something had changed deep inside her, both frightening and wonderful all at once.
"Please . . ." She raised her manacled wrist again, a curious sense of calm pervading her, as she knew what had to be done.
Pym smiled and took a step forward.
A gunshot echoed from outside the cave and the fat man paused to listen. His body tensed with concentration as he tried to pin down its source. He nodded tersely to his companion, never taking his eyes from Marguerite and Roxton as he contemplated his next course of action.
"Go and find out what's going on. It might be Jarvis or someone else shooting at a blasted lizard. Well, go on, damn ye . . . get back and tell me!”
The man gave a nervous nod, stumbling backwards out of the cave just as two more shots were fired. They were much closer this time and Marguerite’s heart leapt irrationally. If she didn’t know any better, she could have sworn the reports came from Malone’s Colt. She was getting as skilled as Roxton, at discerning the make of gun, by the sound of the shot. She prayed to God she was right, and that by some miraculous sense of good timing, their friends had found them at last. But even as her hopes began rising, she saw the evil intent in Pym’s eye.
The fat man raised the Webley and aimed it straight at her head. It was as though he could see what she was thinking; even if Malone and the others had arrived, there would be no eleventh hour rescue for either Roxton or herself.
“Wait!” Marguerite tried to forestall him. “Unlock me. You and I can still make it out of here. There’s nothing left for me, now he’s dead . . . his men will only use me for themselves . . . please . . .”
Her voice dropped huskily and she widened her eyes, begging him with her body as she pushed her cleavage forward. It had worked before, back in the wagon - dear God, please let it work now. She could sense his hesitation, almost feel the heat of his lust. She arched her back with more emphasis and showed off her ample wares.
Marguerite watched with contempt and a surge of triumph, as Pym finally lowered the gun. At that moment, she hated him more than ever, he was just like a dog on heat. The fat man advanced greedily. He wedged the end of the torch securely into a crevice in the rock, and fumbled for the key-ring attached to his sash.
“You won’t regret it,” she breathed seductively. “Now, come and release me from this corpse.”
Pym licked his lips and took a couple more steps forward . . .
The ground opened up beneath his feet and suddenly, he was falling into nothingness. The layer of branches gave way to thin air and the fat man realised she‘d tricked him. He gave a bellow of fury, fingers scrabbling desperately at the edge of the pit as the Webley flew out of his grasp. Somehow, he found a handhold and held on for dear life, feet dangling over the chasm while he struggled to get some sort of grip. He stared up at Marguerite with hatred, his eyes gleaming red in the torchlight.
Marguerite blinked with disbelief as the Webley fell within easy reach. Her first piece of luck since the nightmare had begun. She shifted closer to the edge of the pit and smiled down nastily at Pym, pointing the barrel at his forehead as she pulled back the firing pin.
“Remind you of something, fat man? Looks like the odds have changed.”
Sweat broke out across the slaver’s brow. “Get me out, and I’ll let ye go . . .”
Marguerite pretended to contemplate, pursing her lips theatrically. “Give me the keys and I’ll consider it. Otherwise . . .”
“Here . . .” Pym felt down cautiously for the key ring. “Take them, for all the good they’ll do ye. Ye’ll never get past my men without me.”
Marguerite’s fingers trembled slightly as they closed round the bunch of keys. She kept the gun on Pym and thrust them back at Roxton. Time for His Lordship to make like Lazarus and rise most spectacularly from the dead.
“You can do the honours, Roxton. I’ll keep this piece of obesity covered.”
There was no answer from behind her. Pym’s eyes had widened when she’d called Roxton’s name, but now he began to chuckle.
“Seems like the knight tricked us both, wench . . .”
A red haze descended on Marguerite. Every ounce of pent-up rage and terror she’d suppressed during the last couple of days, burst forth in a tide of anger and exploded. She had half turned to look at Roxton, but the fat slaver’s gloating was the final straw. She spun back on Pym with a fury, flipping the Webley round in her hand, and viciously rapping his knuckles.
“Don’t ever call me wench . . .”
The slaver gave a howl of anguish, his eyes goggling wide in fear. He groped futilely at the edge of the pit, scrambling and clutching hopelessly at nothing, as he fought for his life until the bitter end. Marguerite watched him dispassionately, the lines of her face set in stone. Not even an eyelash flickered when the fat man eventually lost his grip, swallowed up by the yawning blackness without so much as a sound.
She sat back on her heels and took a deep breath. It caught hard on a sob in her throat. She felt paralysed all of a sudden, stiff and unable to move. The Webley slipped between nerveless fingers and with a clatter to the ground. The noise jolted her back to reality. Marguerite braced herself and picked it up grimly. That bastard Pym might be gone, but this was still no time to be weaponless. She shuffled closer to Roxton and took his head onto her lap. He was cold and utterly motionless - perhaps he really was dead . . .
The chains rattled harshly as Marguerite held onto him, but she barely noticed them now. They had almost become a part of her - the part which linked her to him. She tightened her arms around Roxton’s body in an effort to keep him warm, filled with sudden exhaustion as she laid her head lightly on his. She really ought to be vigilant, but it was becoming so hard to stay alert. And that was how Veronica found them - the bunch of keys forgotten on the ground.
END OF PART SIX
Lisa Paris - 2004.
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NOTES
1. Dante’s Inferno - Dante Alighieri was born in Florence, Italy, in May 1265. Although well known for his love of Beatrice, he is most famous for his poem, The Divine Comedy. Spanning several years, this epic was written from 1306-1321. It is an encyclopaedic overview of the attitudes, beliefs and philosophies of the medieval word, universally recognised as one of the great pieces of world literature. The poem is divided into three sections; the Inferno, the Purgatorio, and the Paradiso. The Inferno is the most widely read and studied of the three. It describes a journey through hell in which hell itself is visualised as a gigantic torture chamber where sinners are categorised according to the nature of their sins. Those who recognise their sins are given a chance of purification by moving onto Purgatorio and eventual redemption. In other words, hell represents the first step of man's spiritual journey. Paradiso is the ultimate goal, where the poet hopes to meet with enlightenment and God. Heavy stuff!
Lisa Paris - 2004.
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