The Place of Dead Kings by Geoffrey Wilson Page B

dawn. It had been a long journey up to Dun Fries and they’d arrived later than planned to find out the expedition was due to leave shortly.
    ‘Do you know where this expedition’s going?’ Jack asked the man from Dun Fries.
    The man’s eyes flickered beneath his hood. ‘I might know something. Then again, I might not.’
    Jack understood, drew out a penny that flashed in the dim light and handed it across. He’d already paid the man a penny to lead them to the Rajthanan camp.
    The man slid the coin into a pouch. ‘Heard they’re looking for a Rajthanan sorcerer called Mahajan. They say he’s gone mad. He’s living up in Scotland now.’
    None of this was news to Jack. He hoped he was going to get more than this for his money. ‘Where in Scotland?’
    The man shrugged his cloak tighter. Steam misted about his mouth. ‘A place called the Land of Mar.’
    ‘How far away is that?’
    The man grunted. ‘Don’t know. No one knows. No one’s ever been there, that I know of anyway. Scotland’s a wild place. Not many go more than a few miles over the border. Most of it’s uncharted. I once saw a Rajthanan map and I can tell you, most of it was empty white space.’
    ‘This Mahajan seems to have gone there.’
    The man lifted his top lip for a moment, as if snarling. ‘If Mahajan’s even real.’
    ‘Real?’
    ‘Well, sometimes I wonder. You hear rumours, but how much of it do you believe? No one’s ever seen Mahajan. No one’s ever been to Mar. No one even knows whether Mar exists for real.’
    ‘The Rajthanans seem to think it’s real.’
    ‘Well, they don’t know any more about Scotland than the rest of us . . . Here we are.’
    They’d reached the top of the saddle and below them the road zigzagged down a scarp. Spread out along the base of the hill, indistinct in the haze, were knots of carts, ox wagons and pack mules. Men swarmed about the vehicles, loading supplies and equipment. Other porters coursed down the slope, lugging boxes, crates, chests, sacks and furniture from a camp at the summit.
    Along the top of the hill, Jack made out white army tents shivering in the wind. Towards the centre of the camp, the regiment’s standard snapped and tugged at a flagpole, and nearby stood the large striped marquees of the officers. Further off, on the edge of the camp, rose a sixteen-foot-high bronze statue of the elephant-headed god Ganesh. The rain drooled over the rotund figure, giving the metal an oily sheen. The statue’s four arms, raised like writhing snakes, were dark against the turbulent cloud.
    ‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ the man said. ‘You lot are mad, if you ask me. But that’s your business.’
    ‘Mad?’ Jack said.
    ‘Scotland’s full of savages and demons and all sorts. You’ll be lucky to get out alive. You’d be best to turn round right now and go home.’
    ‘Seem to be quite a few men down there who aren’t afraid.’
    The man snorted. ‘They’re all desperate. That’s the only type that would go on a journey like that.’
    ‘Thanks for the advice.’
    ‘Only trying to help.’ The man adjusted his cloak and then shuffled back towards Dun Fries.
    ‘Cheerful fellow,’ said Andrew, a black-haired man in his early twenties. He was one of Henry’s men, but Jack had taken a liking to him and agreed he could come along.
    ‘Aye.’ Jack glanced at Saleem. The lad looked tired and pallid, his skullcap soaked and sticking to his head. But his lips were pressed together tightly and his jaw was firm. He appeared determined to see the mission through. Jack glanced at the others, who looked just as set on continuing as Saleem.
    Good. He’d chosen these young men well.
    He patted the satchel hanging at his side and felt the hard curve of the rotary pistol concealed within. Henry had lent him the precious weapon, along with a powder flask and a handful of bullets. He was the only one of the group carrying a firearm, although the others all had concealed