‘Can I help you?’ called Trick.
The man didn’t answer. Nor did he slow.
Twenty metres.
The crow made a harsh, croaking squawk that sounded surprisingly close to the word ‘duck’. Trick could hear the weapon now, whistling as it whirled round the warrior’s head, links clinking as the taut chain spun. The man charged on like a berserk rhino, straight for the teenager.
Ten metres.
‘Are you deaf ?’ said the crow. ‘Duck!’
Ten kinds of shock kicked in at once and Trick finally heeded the black bird’s advice. He threw himself forward as the helmet-headed nutjob lashed out with his mace, launching the spiked ball into the spot that the boy’s head had just occupied. The steel star whizzed by unimpeded, making the assailant spin as if he were an Olympic hammer thrower. The man’s body turned as his momentum carried him straight into the boy sprawled in the foaming water. Trick winced as heavy boots trampled over his midriff, feet tripping as the man in black went flying.
He landed on his back with an almighty splash in the surf beside Trick, grunting once as the air was expelled from his lungs and his weapon flew into the air. He grunted a second – and final – time when the mace descended, fast and hard, and the spiked ball landed squarely on the T-slit of the helmet with a resounding, sickening crunch. The metal crumpled as the weapon’s head found its way through the opening to the face within. Trick shrieked in shock, scrambling clear of the fallen fighter as he backed up the beach.
Finally out of the sloshing water, the boy gingerly rose to his feet. His hands went up and down his body, checking for wounds. It had all happened so fast; his head was spinning. Moments ago he’d been in the British Museum, and now he was on a beach in the blazing sun, having been attacked by a mace-wielding maniac.
He examined the body from a safe distance. It was turning on the tide, slowly circling as the waves threatened to drag it out to sea. Trick looked towards the horizon, spying only azure water as far as the eye could see. His gaze returned to his motionless foe, the mace still firmly fixed within the helmet, the water running red around his ruined head. Trick waded out a few steps, giving the man a tentative poke as he checked for life.
‘Reckon he’s chum, pal.’
Trick turned, finding the big black crow on the beach, a beady eye fixed upon him. Of course: the talking bird. Trick didn’t know whether to scream or cry, opting instead for a nervous laugh.
‘You reckon?’
The crow bobbed its head. ‘Oh yeah. He’s brown bread. You gonna check his corpse or what?’
‘His corpse?’
‘Yeah,’ said the bird, raising its wings as it shrugged. ‘May as well. Ain’t much use to him now, is it? And, I gotta say, you’re looking a bit light on kit for a warrior. You’d be wise to loot him for what he’s got. I can see he’s got a nice knife on his weapon belt.’
‘Yeah?’ said Trick, struggling to hide the disbelief in his voice. ‘Perhaps I can pull the mace out of his face too while I’m at it?’
‘Strictly speaking that’s a flail, mate. Your mace doesn’t have a chain that links the haft to –’
‘Shut up!’ shouted Trick, making a dash for the bird and aiming a boot at its feathery body. The crow took flight – not far, but just out of reach of the crazed teenager. ‘I can’t believe I’m talking to a flipping blackbird!’
‘Now then, young mate, no need to be rude,’ said the feathered fellow. ‘I ain’t some common blackbird. I’m a crow. And the name’s Kaw.’
‘Course it is,’ said Trick, wiping a delirious tear from his eye as the dead knight’s body slowly began to disengage from the sandbank. Was he dead? Was he in hell? This was all too much for him.
‘Nice necklace you’ve got there, mate,’ said the bird, eyeing the crescent pendant round Trick’s throat. Trick tucked it back beneath his shirt, out of sight. ‘Last chance on old Fishbreath over there,’ continued Kaw, returning to Trick’s side on the shore as the dead man began to drift out to sea. ‘You wanna grab his gear, now’s your last chance. There’s some wicked sharp stuff there …’
Trick didn’t answer, instead watching the corpse as it rolled in the waves. He could hear his father’s voice, cautionary words about the dangers of knives. Wherever this was, did those rules still apply? Killer knights and cockney crows: he was pretty sure he was no longer in Holborn. Trick winced as he felt something stinging his left cheek. He brought his fingers up and found a sliver of glass speared into his skin. He delicately pulled it out, turning it in his hand.
Everything flooded back to him, an info-bomb that confirmed all his worst fears: the museum, the broken cabinet, the rune-riddled plate and the pendant round his neck. He dropped the glass fragment into the water and grabbed his pendant. It no longer glowed, having returned to its smooth, black lifeless state. He turned to the crow.
‘Kaw, right?’
The bird bobbed, bowing. ‘At your service, young warrior.’
‘I’m no warrior.’
‘Sure you are. You’ve turned up here, just like so many of ’em.’
‘So many?’
‘You ain’t the first. They’ve been arriving for ages now, battle-hardened champions from some distant land, appearing out of nowhere. You’re the latest in a long line. Mind, I have to say your choice of attire leaves a lot to be desired …’
‘This is my school uniform,’ said Trick, matter-of-factly.
‘School whatnow? Nope. Dunno what that is. But, if that passes for armour where you come from, you won’t last a minute next time you’re up against one of Boneshaker’s minions.’
‘Who’s Boneshaker?’
‘Leader of the Skull Army, the one and only Big Bad of the Wildlands. That’s where you are, see. This world is his, pretty much, bar a few brave folk who fight back against his tyranny. I could do with introducing you to some of them, I reckon.’
‘I don’t need introducing to anybody. I just need to get home.’
‘Yeah, you ain’t the first newcomer to say that either. None of them have gone home, mind, wherever home is. It’s a one-way ticket, see. I ain’t never heard of any of you warriors making the return journey.’
Trick fought the rising panic. This was a nightmare. Perhaps he’d wake up at any moment, but he wasn’t counting on it. Everything felt far too real: the salt in his mouth, the sun on his face and the sting of his cheek. He might have been suffering from an aneurysm, or be in a coma somewhere, but for the time being he was going to play this for real. If this ludicrous talking bird could help him get home – or wake up – then so be it. If they wanted a game, then player one was stepping up.
‘You mentioned a Skull Army? I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that those guys are bad news. Am I right?’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Kaw, ducking his head to direct his beak at the corpse on the tide. ‘That’s who Sharkbait was with.’
‘Sharkbait?’
Trick looked back out to sea, just in time to see the body tugged beneath the surface, the thrash of a big fin dragging it down into the depths.
‘Boneshaker casts a long shadow over the Wildlands. There are few places his darkness hasn’t reached. Many cities and free people have been enslaved, falling under his thrall. Those who fight back have been killed, crushed or gone into hiding. Our only hope is your kind.’
‘My kind?’
Kaw squawked. ‘The warriors who are summoned.’
‘I’m no warrior,’ repeated Trick.
‘Yeah, you’ve said that before and I ain’t convinced.’
‘I’m a schoolboy from London! I’d much rather run away from a fight than charge towards one.’
If a bird could smile, Trick suspected Kaw would have at that moment. ‘There you go, young warrior. Not all heroes run blindly into battle. Caution can be as great a weapon as the finest blade. There are many ways to win a war.’
Trick’s eyes narrowed. ‘For a blackbird, you say some quite profound things.’
�
�Crow,’ corrected Kaw. ‘And I’ll accept your apology once you’ve met some friends.’
‘Friends?’ Trick couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one. The person who most closely fitted the bill was Grandpa and he was an awful long way away. ‘I don’t have any friends.’
‘You might have shortly,’ said the bird, taking flight. ‘There’s a place, y’see, for folk like you. Follow me!’
CHAPTER SIX
The village of Warriors Landing was a short, stumbling walk from where Trick had been washed ashore. Smooth beaches gave way to grass-tufted dunes, hillocks that rose and fell, the ground shifting treacherously beneath his feet. More than once the boy lost his footing, slipping and sliding in a shower of golden sand. Warm rays shone down, drying the clothes on his back and leaving him with a sorry sense of disorientation. It had been October back home in London, wherever that was. Now here he was on some sun-drenched stretch of coast, having witnessed a crazy killing and engaged in conversation with a crow. Weird didn’t come close.
‘So what’s with this village then?’ asked Trick. ‘How did it get a name like that?’
‘It’s been here for years,’ replied Kaw, gliding overhead on the warm air currents. ‘This has been the first port of call for many strange souls who’ve arrived in the Wildlands – from your world. The people were wary at first, as some of these folk were … fighty, if you know what I mean?’
‘Fighty?’
‘They like to scrap. With anyone, I might add. They’re warriors, after all.’
‘So what made the villagers trust them?’
‘Some proved themselves to be honourable. A number of them did good deeds. Word spread, and soon the village became a safe haven for these brave, battle-hardened souls. They could make fine allies for a warrior like yourself.’
Trick was getting a handle on this strange world now. Medieval, armour-clad warriors were somehow teleported here to do battle, judging by the lunatic on the beach. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve assumed it was some fancy virtual-reality computer game. However, the stinging flesh of his cheek reminded him that things were all too real.
‘How much further?’
The crow didn’t answer, his eyes wide and fixed on the horizon suddenly. Trick looked up, seeing a pillar of dirty smoke rising over the next wind-blown dune. As boy and bird crested the hillock, the wrecked settlement of Warriors Landing appeared before them. Trick staggered to a halt, struggling to comprehend what he saw.
‘What’s happening?’
Kaw landed on his shoulder, dipping his dark feathered head. ‘Boneshaker. That’s what’s happening, by the looks of things.’
Warriors Landing was a ruin. The village was made up of around fifty buildings of varying sizes: homes, farms and businesses. Each had been reduced to rubble, the rooftops burning and walls broken down. The largest building appeared to be an inn at the heart of the village, its thatched roof still belching dark clouds of smoke into the clear sky.
Outside this structure, a troop of thirty or so black-armoured soldiers had gathered in the dusty street, hooting and hollering. Many were on horseback, while others rolled beer barrels off the porch of the tavern, loading them on to wagons that were already heaving with white-smocked prisoners.
Trick looked away from the captured townsfolk, his attention drawn to the lush trees that flanked the road through Warriors Landing. Dark forms swung in the shadows beneath each tree’s canopy. As Trick crept slowly nearer, mindful of the black-clad soldiers, he got a better look at those shapes – people, hanging by the neck. Every one of those bushy trees had been transformed into a makeshift gallows.
‘Boneshaker did … this?’
‘Not in person,’ said Kaw. ‘His Evilness wouldn’t stoop to bring himself down out of Shadowshard to do this dirty work. No, that’s the Skull Army you see before you.’
‘But why?’
‘Weren’t you listening to me, young warrior? This village was a safe haven for your type, providing refuge for those who’d make a stand against Boneshaker. Looks like His Stinking Rottenness has had enough. His lads are here to dish out a bit of retribution.’
Trick returned his gaze to the soldiers who were seemingly preparing to leave. While many were already mounting horses and wagons, a group remained gathered before the inn. Trick’s inquisitiveness got the better of him. He advanced down the road, creeping and dashing from one smoking building to the next as he drew nearer to the ruined inn. As the boy and the bird passed the trees, Trick could better see the hideous, hanging bodies. Three looked similar to one another, with dark hair, swarthy skin and wearing simple white smocks. Villagers like those in the wagons, perhaps? Trick quickly realized that the rest were dressed very differently, and his theory about the warriors’ medieval origin was blown out of the water.
The first wore a torn tabard over a chain shirt which bore the image of a rampant lion. The next man looked African and was mostly naked, his flesh marked with white warpaint that swirled across his well-honed muscles. The third was a woman, her pale skin and blonde hair marking her as Northern European. Her bronze breastplate was battered, scored with a multitude of savage marks. They were all so disparate, no two corpses the same. Trick counted a dozen trees, each one occupied by the dead. They represented warriors from each and every continent, spanning time as well as cultures.
‘Oi!’ said Kaw, pecking Trick’s ear and stirring him from his reverie. He had been so transfixed by the trees and their grim baubles that he was paying no heed to where he was heading. He was almost on the steps of the smouldering inn when he finally snapped back to attention, ducking into the smoking ruins out of sight of the soldiers.
‘Sorry, pal,’ said the executioner, ‘but we’re right out of trees. This’ll have to do.’
Dead ahead, not ten paces away, another black-armoured soldier stood on the inn’s porch, looping a rope over a creaking beam. A red-haired young warrior was connected to the other end by a noose round his neck, as the soldiers mounted their horses before him. Then the hangman stepped off the porch and handed the rope to his master, who sat on a snorting black warhorse behind him. Trick’s breath caught in his throat.
If he had been standing, the commander would have reached well over six feet tall, although the antlers that sprang from his helmet added a further two feet to his stature. The bucket helmet obscured his face from sight, the black metal matching the plate armour that covered every inch of his body. This was studded throughout by shards of what appeared to be broken black glass, making him look as if he were covered in hideous shrapnel. The mounted giant turned in his saddle to address the huddled prisoners in the wagons. His voice turned Trick’s stomach; gravel and broken glass dragged over slate.
‘Your treachery has brought us here,’ said the warlord as he slowly began to reel in the rope, drawing it through his gauntleted hands. ‘You harbour the enemies of my master, you face his wrath. Many of your kin have been slain this day.’ He paused, allowing prisoners and soldiers to glance around at the corpses in the trees and those that littered the dusty street. ‘They may be considered the fortunate ones. Your fate is … undecided. Those of you who have been spared, know this; if you are lucky, you will endure a life of servitude upon your arrival in Sea Forge, or perhaps a swift death in Boarhammer’s arena. Displease my men and you’ll be lucky if you draw another breath.’
A sudden flash of lightning and crack of thunder made everyone flinch where they stood. A globe of brilliant blue light shimmered into being in the middle of the road, and a figure took shape within it. With a second blinding burst of energy, the glowing sphere was gone, and a warrior landed upon the bloodstained ground with a thump. Was this the summoning the crow had spoken of?
The newcomer’s black robes were tied round his waist by a red sash, and upon his head he wore a matching turban. Trick recognized the man as a Saracen warrior, having seen the swordsmen in his favourite comics and movies. A shining silver scimitar was stowed within the strange
r’s scarlet belt, and the Saracen’s fingers were moving towards the pommel. The warrior’s pointed black beard emerged from his jutting chin, and tiny gold rings looped through the wiry hair. His eyes were wild and panicked as the mob of soldiers turned upon him. With frightening speed, he snatched at the scimitar’s handle.
The commander was faster. His gauntleted hand came up from his weapon belt, a dagger in it. With a spin of the wrist it was whistling across the road, striking the newly arrived Saracen in the breast with deadly accuracy. The man dropped, dead in the dust. The warlord’s grating speech continued.
‘Do we have an understanding?’
The tearful, frightened mob of villagers nodded, weeping and holding one another in horror as the wagons slowly began to trundle on their way. Trick saw one child among them; she could only have been five years old, with a huge mop of jet-black hair. The kid’s big brown eyes were fixed upon where Trick hid in the shadows. He wondered for a moment if the child might alert the soldiers to his presence, but instead she simply stared at Trick. What unnerved him most was that, while all the others around her wept, the girl’s eyes remained dry and unblinking. It was as if she were all cried out after the horrors she’d witnessed.
The warlord continued to wind in the rope, trotting over towards the inn’s porch as the hemp went taut. The red-haired youth was suddenly winched off the decking and into the air. The hanged youth’s legs danced an awful jig as the black-armoured leader tied the rope round a hitching post.
‘Saddle up,’ shouted the gravel-voiced monster as he gave his horse a spur-heeled kick to the flank. ‘We ride for Sea Forge!’
Then the Skull Army were on the move, leaving Warriors Landing burning, a dying man hanging and a schoolboy from London shaking and shivering with shock.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Skull Army had hardly left the village before Trick was scampering out of the smoke-fogged alleyway and up the steps of the inn. He made straight for the lifeless hanging warrior. In his haste, he tripped over an abandoned helmet that sat on the porch, but somehow kept his footing. Kaw squawked as Trick ran, taking flight and flapping furiously as the boy seized the limp youth by the legs and lifted him.
A New Hero Page 3