The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(80)

Solomon’s blows were slow and thus easy to evade, but the captain was aware that if one of them struck home, his armor would not offer the same protection. He had to discover his opponent’s weak point as quickly as possible. Continuing to aim two-handed blows at the automaton’s ironclad armor would only make his arms grow stiff, and the momentous effort would end up exhausting him, slowing him down, and making him careless: leaving him, in short, at the automaton’s mercy. Making the most of still feeling fresh, Shackleton dodged another blow and ended up this time behind his enemy’s back. Before Solomon had time to turn around, he thrust his sword as hard as he could into the steam engine that gave the automaton life. There was a great clatter as cogs and rods flew out of the opening in all directions, but also an unexpected burst of steam that hit Shackleton full in the face, blinding him. Solomon wheeled round with astonishing agility and landed a blow on his dazed enemy. The sword struck the captain’s side with such force that it shattered his metal armor. The brutal blow sent Shackleton spinning across the floor like a top.

Claire raised her hand to her mouth to stop herself from screaming. She heard the stifled cries of the others around her.

Once he had stopped spinning, Shackleton tried to get to his feet, clutching his wounded side, with blood streaming over his hip and down his leg, but his strength failed him. He remained on his knees, as though prostrating himself before the king of the automatons, who approached him slowly, savoring his sure victory.

Solomon shook his head for a few moments, showing his disappointment at the poor fight put up by his opponent, who dared not even raise his head to look at him. Then he lifted his sword with both hands, preparing to bring it down on the captain’s helmet and split his skull asunder. He could think of no better way to end this cruel war, which had established without a doubt the automatons” supremacy over the human race. He brought the sword down on his victim with all his might, but to his astonishment, Captain Shackleton leapt out of the way at the very last moment. Robbed of its target, the automaton’s sword embedded itself in the stony ground with a loud clang. Tugging in vain, Solomon tried to pull it out, while Shackleton rose up beside him like a majestic cobra, oblivious to the wound in his side. Slowly, as though taking pleasure from the movement, he raised his sword, and brought it down, with one swift surgical blow, on the joint between Solomon’s head and his body. There was an almighty crunch, and the automaton’s head rolled across the floor, giving out a series of clangs as it bounced against the rocks before finally coming to a halt next to the crown it had worn during its reign.

There was a sudden silence. The headless, motionless automaton stood in a grotesque posture, bowed over the sword, whose blade was still embedded in the rubble. As a final gesture, the brave Captain Shackleton placed his foot on his lifeless enemy’s flank and tipped him over onto the ground. And this deafening sound, like scrap metal being loaded onto a cart, put an end to the long war that had devastated the planet.





22


Mazursky tried in vain to silence the applause unleashed by Captain Shackleton’s victory at the top of the rocky promontory. Fortunately, it was drowned out by the cheers down in the street a few yards below, where the men were fervently acclaiming their brave captain. Oblivious to the surrounding clamor, Claire remained crouched behind her rock. She was bemused by the overwhelming storm of emotions that caused her soul to flutter like a flag in the breeze. She had known how the duel would end, and yet she had been unable to avoid jumping each time Shackleton was in danger, each time Solomon’s blade greedily sought out his flesh, or when he attempted in vain to chop the automaton down with his sword, as one fells an oak. She knew this was not so much because she feared the human race might lose the duel, but because of what might happen to the captain himself. She longed to carry on watching events down below, even to make sure Shackleton had exaggerated the severity of the wound inflicted on him by the automaton as part of his strategy, but Mazursky had ordered them to line up before beginning the return journey to their own time, and she had no choice but to obey. The time travelers began their descent of the tiny hillock like an unruly herd of goats, discussing among themselves the exciting highlights of the battle.

“Is that all?” asked Ferguson, apparently the only dissatisfied passenger. “That poor excuse for a battle is what decided the fate of the planet?” Mazursky did not even deign to reply, taken up as he was with making sure the matrons did not trip over and end up rolling down the slope with their skirts flying up with unintentional coquettishness. Claire followed them in silence, ignoring both the insufferable Ferguson’s comments, and Lucy, who had taken her arm again. One thought hammered persistently in her mind: she had to separate from the group. And she had to do it now, not only because it would no longer be possible once they reached the tram, but because the group was in such high spirits they had still not managed to form an orderly column, and this would facilitate her escape. Furthermore, she must not stray too far from Shackleton and his men: it would be pointless to get away only to become lost in a maze of ruins. If she was going to act, the time to do it was now, for the further they went the less chance she had. But she must break away from Lucy first. As though in answer to her prayers, Madeleine Winslow came up to them excitedly, to ask whether they had seen the elegant boots the soldiers were wearing. This was something Claire would never have taken into account, although she seemed to be the only person not to have noticed this important aspect of the future. Lucy said she had and immediately went on to discuss the amazing originality of the footwear. Claire shook her head in disbelief, and when Lucy let go of her arm for a moment took the opportunity to lag behind. She dropped behind the marksman, who had not yet received the order to take up the rear, and was strolling along leisurely, no longer bothering to keep an eye on the shadows. Behind him came Charles Winslow and Inspector Garrett, immersed in a lively conversation while they walked. Finally, when she found herself at the back of the group, she hitched up her skirts and made a clumsy dash for it, ducking behind a conveniently placed remnant of wall.