BLUEMANTLE, Karen Langston [best classic romance novels TXT] 📗

stopped to sleep only briefly before resuming the chase, determined to catch up with his prey. No food or water had passed his lips for over twenty-four hours. Light-headed, he attributed the dizziness to adrenalin. He knew he was on the right path. He could feel it – hear it, almost. Wydeye was gone from his mind. His sight was fixed firmly on the prize. Revving the engine, he lifted the front wheel and laughed.

A mile ahead, perched on a rise, a follower spotted his dust trail. She ran down to the dell, raising the alarm.

Wulfwin gripped the handlebars, his hands numb from the constant vibration. He glanced at the petrol gauge – half-full. More than enough, he felt sure. He regretted his lack of provisions, however. Water would be good. Even if he was as close as he hoped, water would still go down well. It reminded him of the contaminated bottles back home and a twisted smile cracked his face. That’ll keep them quiet, he thought.

In his haste, he’d not only forgotten provisions; he also lacked a helmet and ear defenders. Wrapped in encroaching delirium, he failed to notice the fact.

Feeling a jolt in his chest, he broke hard and skidded to a standstill. He listened to the engine, detecting something different in its sound. Then he realised it wasn’t the bike at all. There was another sound – beneath it, beyond it. He turned the key and the engine fell silent.

He could hear it.

Up ahead, half a mile, maybe. The sound that had caused the jolt in his chest. A sound that pulled at him now, luring him forward, influencing his limbs to dismount and walk forwards.

Music.

The melody reached out to him, touched him, enticed him. Had he the wherewithal to resist, he wouldn’t have wanted to. He stumbled forward, almost running, desperate. He had no thirst for water now; the music was all he craved. Already he felt it reviving his body. It washed over him, penetrated his skin, coursed through his veins, caused his heart to race.

He climbed the rise. As he reached the summit, the volume swelled. The music was coming from beneath the trees below him, the sound reverberating around the hollow. He crouched down, arms wrapped around himself, drinking the music, revelling in the revival.

Then he wanted more. He had to get closer.

He slipped down the bank and into the dell. Beneath the trees’ canopy, he caught his first glimpse of the source. Five figures, dressed in black. His mind was numb, unable to process thought beyond what his senses made apparent. Five figures, making music. That was all. And that was enough.

He stood close by, eyes closed, in rapture.

–

Commander Fentlow sat at the board table in the Council Chamber. Opposite him sat senior representatives from Employment, Transport, Trade and Industry.

“Productivity is down by over two per cent,” said the man from Trade.

“That’s nothing,” said the woman from Industry. “If we can’t get the furnaces and processing plants operational in the next few hours, it’s going to be far higher.”

“We haven’t the manpower,” said Employment. “We’re receiving reports of approaching fifteen per cent clock-in failure. We can’t run the machines without sufficient staff. Health and Safety.”

“Half of those who haven’t clocked in are stranded, waiting for a damned railmotor,” said Transport. “The tramways are screwed. Nothing can move. We’re missing too many drivers and signal operators. Half the rolling stock is in the wrong place. Where we do have drivers, the routes are blocked.”

“We’re reaching crisis point,” said Industry. “If the Authority doesn’t intervene as a matter of urgency, production could grind to a halt entirely. One day’s output lost will have a disastrous knock-on effect for the week’s targets.”

“She’s right,” said Trade. “Even if everything returned to normal tomorrow, which looks highly unlikely, it’ll be impossible to make up the shortfall. That’ll make the month-end targets unachievable. Which then has serious implications for Revenue.”

“Talking of whom, they’re on their way,” said Employment.

“The Authority must intervene,” reiterated Industry, slamming her fist down on the table. “What do you propose to do?”

“I…” began Fentlow, then broke off. The representatives glared at him, red-faced. “I will convene an emergency session,” he said, wondering if he could actually do that, without the conferred authority. “We shall discuss the crisis and report back.”

“When?” demanded Industry.

“It’ll take some time to gather the members.”

“When?”

“One o’clock. Return here at one.”

The representatives looked at each other and nodded, apparently appeased. They rose and left the Chamber.

Fentlow remained in his chair. The practicality of what he had just committed to do, plus the fact he had no idea how to do it, left him blood-drained and winded.

–

Bend Sinister played without pause. They had no power, so the set was fully acoustic. This did not diminish the impact on their audience. Wulfwin was suspended in reverie.

Chief and Pale Dexter approached him from either side and stood close, their faces leaning in, almost touching his. They were cautious, wary lest the influence falter. They also had no idea if the next part of their plan would work.

Chief spoke first. “How many more are coming?” Her voice was flat, hypnotic.

Wulfwin’s expression remained unchanged, as if he was unaware of both the company and the question. Yet the words somehow penetrated his subconscious. Without thought or self-control, he responded. “Others far away. I am alone.”

“What are your orders?” said Pale Dexter, half whispering into his ear.

“No orders. I’m in charge now. I do what I want.”

Chief and Pale Dexter exchanged puzzled glances. Bend Sinister played on, captivating their audience. Their drummer fought to focus, desperate to avoid meeting the eyes of their captive.

Chief nodded to Pale Dexter, who said, “What news of the Governor?”

“Blix is out of the picture. She won’t get in the way no more.”

“And Dent Lore?”

“Fucking bastard,” said Wulfwin, his voice dropping to a low growl.

Both Pale Dexter and Chief stiffened, fearing they had disrupted the enchantment.

Yet Wulfwin kept his eyes fixed on the band, his breathing steady. “He’s one of them.”

“Who