A deep, disturbing ‘whump’ shook the ground. It was immediately followed by another, then another. It was as if Aubrey’s knee-shattering gnomes had grown up and become giants, then taken it into their heads to pound away at the landscape with mountain-sized sledgehammers. He blinked, couldn’t see, and realised the enhancement spell had worn off. The sky was full of the smoke caused by a massive explosion, then the process was repeated, with the addition of a patter of earth and assorted military items falling on top of them.
Caroline pulled him down, forcing him close to the reinforced front wall of the trench. There, they huddled in a universe entirely composed of noise – deafening, all-encompassing noise: gargantuan footsteps, thunder brought down to the ground, the heartbeat of an earthquake. Aubrey ran out of metaphors as the pounding went on and he concentrated on seeing how close he could get to the rough timber at his cheek.
Amid the tumult, just when he thought no bodily sensation could make itself known in such pandemonium, a flicker made him wince, a nagging tug inside his chest. He rubbed it as he would an insect bite, but this brought no satisfaction. Then his jaw sagged. He lifted his hand, then he concentrated his magical awareness on the site of the irritating sensation.
He had confirmation that Dr Tremaine was nearby.
It was undeniable. Even though the magical connection they shared was erratic, when it evinced itself it was an unmistakeable sign that the rogue sorcerer was close at hand. Aubrey closed his eyes, did his best to ignore the concussions that continued to smash away at no-man’s-land, and tried to concentrate.
The magical connection, at times, acted as a conduit. In their past encounters, Aubrey had been able to sense aspects of Dr Tremaine, vague impressions of memories and thoughts, but this time all he could feel was an apprehension that he could only interpret as excitement tinged with anticipation.
Captain Robinson came striding along the trench, all enthusiasm and brio, oblivious to the shelling around them. He was speaking, but pointlessly for his words had no chance of being heard. His gestures, however, made his unheard words clear: everyone was to get ready for an advance.
Aubrey couldn’t believe it, but by the time this had registered Captain Robinson was yards away, continuing his job of rallying the troops.
It was easy to see how it had happened. The artillery barrage summoned by Colonel Stanley had clearly been interpreted as the prelude for an advance. Commendable initiative, in this time of erratic communications, but entirely misplaced in this instance.
‘Wait here,’ he said to Caroline, miming his request with both hands, but he was left foolishly gesturing because at that moment the artillery barrage stopped.
The result wasn’t silence because the earth was still settling, protesting at the indignities inflicted upon it, dirt still falling like hail.
A commander’s whistle sounded. Aubrey’s abused ears took a moment to work out that it came from off to his right, in the direction that Captain Robinson had gone. He sprinted in that direction, lurching from one side of the trench as his body did its best to propel him forward with the objective of stopping the poorly timed advance. If Robinson’s men pushed forward by themselves, it could be a disaster. Aubrey needed to warn them, to get the captain to fall back. He didn’t want his plan to be the cause of needless deaths.
Men were scrambling up the sides of the trench, rifles in hand, shouting encouragement to each other and, more chillingly, wordless battle cries. Aubrey swarmed after them and stood for a moment on the other side of the parapet, trying to find Captain Robinson while simultaneously being stunned by how the landscape had been transformed.
It was as if the old no-man’s-land had been stripped away and a totally new one dropped in its place – one that took the essence of the original no-man’s-land and distilled it, creating a place that had all the horror of the old, but intensified a thousandfold. This new no-man’s-land had been made by a madman, one who was entranced by smoking craters and desolation. Aubrey was sickened to think that might be a glimpse of where war was heading.
Robinson’s men were charging. Their bayonets were fixed. In a ragged line, they advanced toward the Holmland trenches, thankfully meeting no resistance.
Aubrey tried to spy the officer, but at that moment a single shot came from the Holmland trenches. Aubrey pitched backward and felt himself falling slowly, dreamily. All his plans, thoughts and hopes ran away, no matter how he tried to clutch them, and then everything else did as well.
57
Magic, Aubrey thought, It must be magic.
One instant he’d been standing on the edge of an Albion trench – rather foolishly, now he thought about it – and the next he was lying in a very comfortable bed in what looked like a Gallian chateau.
Extraordinary.
The bed was one of the old-fashioned four-poster type, with heavy drapes and canopy of blue velvet. He’d never liked the style, finding them dusty, but he was willing to concede that it was considerably superior to the frontline trenches. The lack of gunfire was a particular improvement.
In a comfortable stupor, he allowed his gaze to roam around a room that was the sort of gilt and plaster confection that made him think of wedding cakes. Rather too many cherubs cavorted about the cornices for his liking, but it was clean and warm. The tall windows, with more blue velvet drapes, showed him glimpses of trees that hadn’t been shattered by shell fire.
So I’m definitely not in no-man’s-land.
A formidable woman was sitting on a gilt chair not far from the bed. Aubrey decided that unless she had a penchant for wearing uniforms with red crosses all over, she was probably a nurse. She was studying him carefully and looked as if she were just dying for an opportunity to lunge at him and thrust a thermometer into his mouth.
She confounded this by shaking her head, then getting up and leaving the room. This was, Aubrey decided, very un-nurselike behaviour. His view of nursely behaviour – formed by close reading of Nurse Lily’s Adventures, a romance book George had lent him – was that a real nurse would be tending him solicitously, gazing into his eyes while resting a comforting hand on his forehead. Either that or ramming a needle into his arm while lecturing him about the virtues of carbolic soap.
The door opened. Caroline entered, in uniform, and Aubrey felt as if he’d won a lottery. George and Sophie were close behind, and they were equally spruce.
Caroline stopped by the bedside. ‘Nurse Lucas told us you were awake.’
Aubrey sat up and considered this. ‘Nurse Lucas? I knew she was no Nurse Lily.’ He shared a significant look with George.
‘We don’t have time for nonsense, Aubrey.’ Caroline sat on the edge of the bed. She rested a comforting hand on his forehead and he was overjoyed. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Well enough, I suppose, for someone who’s just been shot.’
‘Shot?’ George said. ‘I’m afraid not, old man.’
Aubrey felt his head for a bandage and found only hair. ‘I assumed …’
‘You were standing on the parapet of the trench, doing your best to be a target,’ Caroline said. ‘A mine exploded. Part of the trench collapsed. You fell in and hit your head on a crate of tinned peaches.’
‘Ah. Nothing heroic, then?’
‘You stopped the Holmland advance, Aubrey,’ Sophie said. ‘That is very heroic, no?’
‘They’ve pulled back?’
George cut in. ‘The Holmland front line is still being held, but most of their forces at Fremont have been pulled back.’
‘Wait.’ Aubrey looked at the window. Gardens and blue sky remained serene. ‘How long has it been?’