What he didn't foresee was a clang like the sound of a gong being struck. He opened one eye to see the smith, standing with hammer in hand, grinning. At his feet, the bowler-hatted assailant lay, apparently unconscious. Peter could only think that the smith had killed the man. No skull could have taken the force of hammer and not been crushed.
As if reading Peter's mind, the smith smiled, put out his hand to help him rise to his feet and then said, "He's not dead, boy. You can't kill what isn't alive in the first place. Look!"
Peter looked closely at the prone assailant. On close scrutiny, it was clear that it was an automaton, a mechanical man, and that explained the sound of hammer striking skull.
"I will get rid of it, boy, but you'd better be careful. There are others about and clearly they are after you."
"Who are you and how do you know they are after me? Who told you?"
"No one told me, but I am a watcher. All gates are watched. I know Constant and we all are sentinels of the gates. Our role is to watch all movement between the worlds and keep Constant informed. We do not interfere, normally, but on this occasion I made an exception. I rather like you, boy and anyone carrying such a sword deserves help. I don't think any major harm will have been done. Take care, Peter Calender, there are others watching you."
The smith dragged the automaton behind the back of the tent and into the back of the forge. Peter just stood there in a state of shock. He had almost died. It wasn't a joke. There were things out to kill him. He had seen at least two other bowler-hatted characters and he could only assume they had the same intention.
He headed back out into the crowd, wanting to place himself at as much distance as possible from attack. His constantly scanned the crowds as he made his way towards the battlefield. Because of his clothing, he did blend in well and he drew his hood over his head to make it even more difficult for him to be identified.
****
Nightjar also had her hood covering her face. Her clothing would not attract attention, but there was no doubt that her eyes would create quite a stir. Ravenscort had no such difficulties, but he did attract more than his fair share of admiring glances from the female visitors of the re-enactment.
"I wish you wouldn't do that!" said Nightjar.
"Do what?"
"You know, encourage them."
"I'm not doing anything."
"Well stop smiling at them, then!"
Just as she said this, two teenage girls approached and grabbed his arms.
"I say, you are rather rugged," said one.
"Do you have a friend?" said the other. "What are you doing after the show?"
"Yes, he does have a friend, me!" an exasperated Nightjar interjected, "And he will not be doing anything with you after the show. Be off!"
"Oooh! Green eye of jealousy," said the first girl.
" See you later, handsome!" followed the other as they disappeared into the crowd.
"Can I just remind you why we are here!" said Nightjar.
"Not my fault," was the reply, "but I am rather getting to like this place. What did Peter say it was called?"
"Earth. Now can we try and find Peter!"
Finding Peter was like finding the proverbial needle, but they persevered and thought that it would just be a matter of time. The re-enactment was getting underway and the Saxons and Vikings faced off across the battlefield. The armies were surrounded by a much larger horde of onlookers. A myriad faces were focused on the battle that was about to start and not on the crowds itself. If they had been, they would have noticed some rather strange happenings. First, they would have seen Peter Calender wandering back towards the tented demonstration area. He seemed totally unaware that he had been observed by a group of bowler-hatted men with umbrellas. These men were spread across the spectator areas, but responded as one to Peter's presence. In their stilted, mechanical gait they advanced on Peter's location. Their progress was restricted by the large numbers of people, but the crowds moved aside for them, as they proved to be an irresistible force.
Peter had decided to seek out the smith as he felt he might be able to offer advice. He wanted to get back to the Gill and to his companions, but was at a loss on how to achieve it. He was approaching the forge and found himself alone between the marquees. The previous crowds had moved on and he could see the forge ahead, when a bowler-hatted figure stepped out before him.
The creature came to an abrupt halt and drew the sword stick from the umbrella. Peter reacted and drew his own weapon. There was no one around to witness what was going on, and he felt quietly confident that he could handle one automaton. He took a step forward, when a movement off to his right signalled the arrival of a second bowler-hatted figure. It, too, drew its sword. Peter's confidence was a little dented, but disappeared completely when several other sword carrying, bowler-hatted men arrived from all points of the compass. He suddenly felt very scared. Even if they were a little restricted in their movements, he hadn't a chance against these odds. The bowler-men advanced from all sides. Their faces showed no emotions, but their movements, though jerky, were determined and Peter felt they would show no compassion or mercy. He looked around for a means of escape. He believed he could outrun them, but they had him encircled and there was no avenue to flee. He wondered if the smith might come to the rescue again, but there was no sign.
He stood, sword poised, ready for their advance. There was nothing more he could do and cold sweat trickled down his spine, as he waited for their slow advance to bring the inevitable conclusion.
The manikins were exact copies of each other and they seemed to act in unison. The advance was like a well choreographed dance. Step in time, same leg, same position, same sword in the same hand. They were in no hurry. Their objective was before them. Slight twitches and almost human features seemed to exaggerate their lack of humanity.
They were about two yards away, when Nightjar and Ravenscort arrived from behind a tent. The shocked look on their faces made it clear to Peter that their arrival was by chance and not a planned rescue. Much to his relief, their reaction time was almost instant. Ravenscort's sword seemed to appear in his hand and Nightjar drew a long bladed knife from under her cloak. The reaction time of the bowler-hatted assailants was less swift, but eventually the penny dropped and they turned to face the new arrivals. Peter took this opportunity to break out of the encircling foes, backhanding one on the top of its hat with the hilt of his sword. There was a loud clang and the figure dropped.
This was the signal for madness to ensue. Ravenscort moved swiftly, sword slicing the air and the head off one attacker. The body continued on, legs still moving, but without and sense of direction or purpose. The head flew off, landed on the trampled grass and the eyes kept moving, following what was happening. Ravenscort's skill was far too great and he and Nightjar began to decimate the inhuman attackers. Peter just stood in awe, and within a short time, the dismembered remains of the mechanical men were strewn across the ground. Nightjar was unharmed, as was Ravescort, apart from another cut to his face that would add to his rugged charm.
"Glad you got here on time," said Peter with a broad grin.
"Glad to be of service!" said Ravenscort.
"We must get away from here," said Nightjar, "someone will want to know what has happened."
Just as she said this, the smith arrived with a large barrow and began to throw assorted mechanical body parts onto it.
"Thought I might be of assistance," he said and began to ferry the remains away. "I can always do with more raw materials."
"There's something not right here. This was too easy!" mused Ravenscort. "Who was that?" he said, indicating the smith.
"He says he's a watcher. He helped me when one of these bowler men attacked before. He says the watchers guard all of the gates between the seven worlds."
"I have heard about watchers, but I have never met one. I believe that they do not involve themselves in the dealings of the worlds, just observe, but he seems to be doing mor
e than that."
"He told me that he shouldn't involve himself, but I don't think he could help himself."
"Ravenscort's right," said Nightjar. "There is something that doesn't make sense. The attack on you does not seem right. If it is Fell Craven, then why would he be using creatures such as these. They seem far too weak an attack for him!"
"That's what I was thinking. It is almost as if this was to occupy you rather than kill you. I think we must get away from here quickly and be on our guard. Where to, Peter?"
"I'm not sure. I wondered if we should go to the house where it all started. The pool in the garden was the gateway to Demeter."
"Sounds a good idea to me," said Nightjar. "and it gets us away from here and any other attackers."
The three made their way towards the house where Peter's adventure had started, away from the village, away from the crowds and away from the observer. The tall onlooker had watched the events unfold and he smiled an enigmatic smile. Things were going as he planned. He had seen the watcher interfere in the proceedings and this did cause him concern. It was very rare for the watchers to intervene in the machinations of the seven worlds, but soon his plan would be beyond even their power. The stone carrier was away from Fell Craven's reach and now he could direct them into his trap. Once he had them, the Moonstone would be his.
The party was heading along a narrow country lane that wound its way amongst gentle rolling hills and was bounded by thick hedges. It was still early afternoon and the single sun was some way beyond its zenith. Peter found this a little surprising and sought the second sun which demonstrated how much his life had altered since he had entered the garden. Nightjar and Ravenscort had a look of amazement on their faces as they took in the gentle English countryside and this world with only one sun. The walk was not a long one, but the group was alone on the road.
"What are we to do?" Peter asked the others.
"I can't say I know," Ravenscort answered.
"If we go back to the gate where you entered the first time, then we may be able to return to Demeter. How we do that and what we do when we get back, I don't know." Nightjar said.
"Back to the old house it is then!" decided Peter, "But I don't know what we'll do when we get there."
Chapter 11 - Stanfeld Hang
The party had stopped at this point and Peter sat down on the grass bank at the side of the road. The air was warm and dappled sunlight played across his face. There was the gentle buzzing of a bee that wended its way in pursuit of pollen. Peter envied the bee. It seemed to be clear in its purpose and its pathway. He knew more of what he didn't want to do and where he didn't want to go. Events seemed to be dictating his path and he really had little say in what had happened. Peter's life had been constantly steered by the coming and going of others. What he wanted had never been in question. What he would like to do took second place to what he had to do. Choice was something he hadn't much practice in and now it was expected that he should make the decision on the actions to take that would affect the futures of his own and six other worlds. The other two were used to being in charge, in control and making the decisions for themselves and others, but now they were waiting for him to lead and he wasn't sure he was up to it.
The bee buzzed past his face, broke his thoughts and led off through the hedgerow towards a hill which stood proud above the near horizon. Afterwards, Peter could not say why this caught his attention, but he experienced a pulling. Like a magnet attracts iron filings, Peter felt the hill beckoning him, drawing him. It was not a strong force, more like a gentle memory calling, nagging.
Without saying anything, he stood up and found a break in the hedge and began the walk through the tall grass and wild flowers. The other two taken by surprise, rose and followed after him. White fluffy clouds hung in the blue sky like a painting. The green hillside was covered in poppies and other wild flowers, and the colours stood out like jewels. A perfect English summer day. A gentle, warm breeze, the hum of a multitude of bees seeking nectar, the smell of rich soil, fresh grass. Peaceful world order. Time frozen. A moment that stays in the memory a lifetime.
The steep climb led up the hillside. Getting nearer, Peter saw something on the crest. He wasn't sure what it was, but a number of dark silhouettes stood above the top. Like gnarled fingers they reached above the summit and seemed to claw at the sky.
Nightjar and Ravenscort caught up with Peter and pulled him to a standstill.
"Where are you going?"
"Hold on! What's up?"
"I'm not sure, but for some reason I need to get to the top of the hill. I can't explain. I just need to get there."
At that very moment, a cry rang out from the base of the hill. Turning as one, the group saw two things. Back towards the village, on the open common, the re-enactment was well under way. Crowds surrounded the area and two massed hordes were busy recreating the Battle of Lightholm. The invading Viking army was faced by the defending Saxon force and the assault was just starting. Cheers, yells and cries of the two armies seemed to float up the hill and then the battle commenced, and the clash of steel on steel rang like bells on a Sunday morning, across the previously tranquil scene. The trio did not have long to take in this spectacle, as their attention was drawn by a totally different scene and clamour. A sudden and very loud howling broke through the peace and through the hedgerow at the foot of the slope. A great pack of what Peter could only assume were wolves, burst though the hedge and charged, in a great galloping strides, up the hill and towards the group. Great rangy, slobbering beasts, with gaping maws and yellow fangs broke into a charge up the slope. Shaggy coats and clear intent left the three in no doubt. Instinctively, Ravenscort and Nightjar drew their bows and two arrows flew across the wide but narrowing divide. Two beasts fell rolling into the turf, writhing and then falling still. This caused no delay to the charge and the pursuit continued. Peter drew his own bow, nocked an arrow, and taking aim at the pack, let fly. His reactions were admirable, but his aim was not and the shaft flew short of the charging creatures. His two comrades were more successful, but the numbers were not on their side and the gap, though wide, would not take long for the beasts to cover.
"Run!" yelled the trekker, and this was all that Peter needed. He turned and fled towards the top of the hill. He could hear the thrum of bowstrings and the yelping that indicated the success of the archers, but he could also hear the growing volume of the yelping pursuit that was clearly getting louder. His pace was fast and his heart hammered in his chest, his breathing loud. The sword, bow and quiver did not help his style, but necessity provided the impetus to run up the ever steepening slope. He could see the top, and the fingers he had pondered over became a group of large standing stones. Instantly, he recognised where he was.
Stanfeld Hang! He had never been here before, but he knew of this local landmark. It was said to be the site of one of the oldest stone circles in Britain, but it was not as famous as others, due to its location on the crest of such a steep hill and the fact that it was way off the usual tourist trails. The Hang also had a reputation amongst the locals that meant it was not well visited.
Glimpsing behind, he realised that he was barely going to make the top of the hill before the wolf pack caught him. He also realised that his companions were not going to be as fortunate. The hillside was scattered with the fallen wolves, but Nightjar and Ravenscort were almost without arrows and there were many beasts left. He turned and drew his bow. This time he knew he must be successful if his friends were to make if to the possible sanctuary that the hill summit could provide. Sighting an arrow he drew a breath and a trancelike calm fell upon him. The world seemed to slow and the wolves appeared to freeze. He felt a glow, that emanated from the stone in his pocket, build through him and he repeatedly let loose his arrows. Somehow each shaft stopped just before it met its target. The wolves hung mid-stride, maws gaping and teeth bared. When he had released his last arrow time seemed to start again and the arrows struck home. Twenty four wolves a
t the head of the pack fell to the ground simultaneously, writhing in their death throws.
Needing no encouragement, all three turned and ran towards the summit. The wolf pack faltered at the destruction and seemed confused. Momentarily leaderless, they seemed to lose purpose and this provided the time for the companions to make the top of the hill. The wolves' confusion did not last long and they took up the pursuit with renewed drive.
As they ran between the stones the three noticed the change. Inside the stones there was an eerie quiet. The wolves call was silenced, there was no wind and a stillness cast an enchanted spell. The grey stones stood like sentinels guarding the hilltop. They cast a sombre, almost oppressive atmosphere that did not welcome intrusion. Their solitude was broken by invasion and any visitor was not welcome. Peter realised immediately why the Hang was almost unknown. Something old resided here, something that did not welcome strangers. Something that had power and wanted to be left alone.
"Do you feel it?" he asked the others.
"There is old magic here!" Nightjar spoke to herself more than to the others.
"Do not draw your weapons!" Ravenscort urged, "Show no threat. We must respect the power of who dwells here. Do you know the name of this site, Peter?"
"It is Stanfell Hang, but I know nothing more and I have never been here. What has happened to the wolves?"
"There are beyond the circle. They fear the place and, I believe, for good reason. I think we are safe from them for the time being, at least until we leave the ring."
Still getting his breath back, Peter sat on a small grassy mound at the eastern edge of the Hang. The others came to join him and the trekker looked at Peter with a quizzical look.
"You never fail to amaze me, Peter Calender. You saved both our lives with bowmanship that I have never witnessed before. Twenty-four arrows at impossible speed and all made their target. I stand in awe, but I would like to know how it was done."
The Moonchild (The Moondial Book 1) Page 9