Waywalkers: Number 1 in Series by Catherine Webb Page A

soldier engaged in a half-heard conversation with his commander.

    ‘There’s a notice about them, sir…’

    ‘Are they the ones?’

    Sam glanced at the couple, their faces now empty, hands locked in each other’s.
Resistance workers. They’ve been betrayed, the soldiers can identify them.

    The compartment door opened again, and the soldier gestured with a pistol. ‘You two. Out.’

    They rose without a word, the fear evident in their eyes. Sam looked at their faces, at the darkness outside, and back again. Even the children had fallen silent.

    The man and woman were led away towards the front of the train, their heads already bowed in the submissive emptiness of prisoners. Sam turned to his neighbour and spoke in a low voice. ‘How far to Orleans?’

    ‘We’re nearly there.’

    ‘They’re going to be shot, aren’t they?’

    ‘Interrogated first.’ The man seemed indifferent.

    Sam rose to his feet. Clinging to the handrail in the narrow corridor, he staggered to the end of the carriage, and flung open a window. Luckily the wind was carrying the smoke to the other side of the train. Sticking his head out, he looked towards the engine. His eyes flickered shut briefly, as his mind detached itself. There was a scream of brakes, and he was thrown to one side. The train groaned under the pressure of sudden deceleration. As it juddered to a halt, Sam slipped a door open and jumped down into the night.

    He ran through the darkness, keeping close to the train. Suddenly a German soldier sprang out ahead and began yelling at the driver. Sam dived underneath a carriage, crawled to the other side and continued running, keeping his head low, before climbing back up. Now there were two soldiers shouting at the train crew, who were standing in confusion by the engine, trying to understand why its oiled and efficient parts should have locked so violently in place.

    Outside the first-class compartments Sam risked peering round the edge of the window. Two bored German soldiers were staring over their rifles at the silent French couple, now handcuffed, with the man already showing signs of a large bruise across his mouth.

    Again Sam intervened, hating himself for a blind fool even as he did so. All four heads snapped around as he tapped on the glass. He knocked gently once more, then moved quickly back against the side of the train. The door opened, and a German soldier stuck his head out. Sam leapt up, catching him round the neck and pulling him into the darkness, digging through his mind as he went. Mortal mind, unprepared – besides, humans had never understood how to defend themselves against another’s thoughts. There was a cry from his comrade, who sprang from the carriage, gun raised. But Sam was ready to catch him in magic. As the man jumped, his leap carried him down on to the far bank, where he sprawled, one leg at an odd angle. There were more shouts.

    ‘Come on!’ yelled Sam. The man and woman needed no prompting and clambered from the train as hurriedly as their handcuffs allowed.

    ‘Quickly!’ They broke into a run, rushing blindly into the thorn-filled embankment below. There was a rattle of gunfire, and Sam felt something strike his back, spin him around and throw him to the ground. The man and woman stopped, but in a breathless, anguish-filled voice he yelled, ‘Keep running!’ They hesitated, then fled into the darkness.

    Snarling with pain, Sam crawled on hands and knees through thorns and bracken, not caring as his clothes and hands were torn, and collapsed behind a tree, gasping for breath. Already he could feel his body initiating the trance that would heal the wound, but he wouldn’t let it. The automatic trance was a leftover from the days when most weapons didn’t lodge in you; bullets were different. Gritting his teeth, he set his mind to what he had to do, and kept on concentrating. Agony tore through his back, when at last the bullet was pulled free as though by a surgeon