‘Apologies,’ said the Viking, smacking his stomach. ‘My belly snarls like a caged wolf.’
‘You’re hungry,’ said Trick, quickly unravelling Toki’s old-fashioned speech before rummaging around in his schoolbag. He pulled out a bundle of foil and tossed it to his friend. The Viking stared at the crumpled, shining object with suspicion.
‘Unwrap it,’ said Trick with a smile.
Toki gingerly peeled the foil off, revealing the sandwiches Mr Hope had made that morning. He sniffed them, grinned and took a colossal bite from one.
‘By Odin’s whiskers, you bring hog roast to the feast!’ he roared, spitting crumbs at Trick in the process.
‘Say it, don’t spray it.’
‘Is there a greater pleasure than the taste of cooked hog upon one’s lips?’ Trick stopped himself from answering that one. The Viking passed the second sandwich over the fire to Trick.
‘I gave them to you, mate. Looked like you needed them more than me.’
Toki shook his head. ‘We fight together, we feast together – for tomorrow we may die, eh?’ He grinned. Trick didn’t. ‘’Tis the way of the warrior, brother. Take it, along with my gratitude.’
Trick reluctantly accepted it, tucking into the meagre meal while the Viking made short and noisy work of his portion. Indeed, Toki was making such a din as he devoured the sandwich that he was completely unaware of approaching danger. Trick wasn’t quite so distracted. He saw a movement in the shadows between the trees. He heard the snap of a twig beneath a careless footfall. He caught the reflection of moonlight in the assailant’s eyes. And he saw the glint of steel as the villain leapt from the darkness.
‘Toki!’ screamed Trick, but it was too late.
The stranger landed on top of his friend, sending the Viking crashing to the earth. For a second, time froze as Trick dropped his sandwich and took a good look at the crazed madman. His skin was blue and a mountainous mass of white hair erupted from his head and jaw. The shield and sword he wielded were tossed to one side as his grubby fingers clawed at Toki’s panicked face, reaching into his mouth, tearing at his lips. The maniac’s eyes rolled, wild and unblinking, his teeth gnashing and grating like a rabid dog.
‘Celt!’ gasped Toki breathlessly.
‘Viking!’ bellowed the other. Blue fingers seized Toki’s head and smashed it into the ground. That stirred Trick to action.
‘Hey, ya big blue nutter!’ he shouted. ‘Over here!’
The wildman turned Trick’s way, just in time to receive a faceful of flames, as the schoolboy swept a burning brand before him. He let loose a shriek, scrambling clear of the shaken Toki as Trick drove home his advantage. It seemed to work, and the blue-skinned crazy man scrambled away from the torch. Trick advanced, jeering and yelling at him as the attacker tripped backwards, falling into the river with a splash. Instantly he was thrashing about, head struggling to break the surface as he gasped for air; Trick recognized someone who couldn’t swim straight away.
Tossing the flaming brand back into the fire, Trick made for the water’s edge, only for Toki to seize him by the forearm.
‘What in the name of Frigga’s bosom are you doing?’ cried the Viking mercilessly. ‘Let him drown! He’s a filthy Celt!’
Trick tore his arm free and leapt into the cold water as the river began to take the madman away. Trick had always been a confident swimmer and he quickly snatched hold of the flailing stranger. Then he was kicking against the current, one arm hooked beneath the fellow’s jaw, his free hand and legs driving him back to the shore. Soon he was hauling the man through the mud, Toki unwillingly helping him as they rolled their assailant on to his back.
‘They’re bad news, the Celts,’ muttered Toki, refusing to hide his contempt. ‘Headhunters and berserkers, the lot of them!’
Pink streaks were now visible on the half-drowned man’s blue skin, as his woad paint pooled around his shuddering body. He retched, coughing up lungfuls of water into the mud. He raised fumbling fingers towards Trick, who flinched. Toki stepped in, raising a fist, only for the schoolboy to stay his hand. The Celt gripped a leg of Trick’s drenched jeans and squeezed, burbling a string of happy grunts in a thick Scottish accent.
‘You can’t trust him,’ warned Toki. ‘You know nothing about him.’
‘I knew nothing about you either, remember?’
That shut him up. Trick turned back to the soaking stranger dripping blue paint. His white beard trembled as he tried to mouth something. Trick knelt – still wary, but giving the man the benefit of the doubt. Those big, wide eyes blinked now, transforming from wild and crazed to pitiful and pleading.
‘Pig …’
Trick was taken aback. He looked up at Toki, whose fingers were already brushing the crumbs of bread and meat from his lips.
‘You … you were after the ham sandwich?’
The Celt nodded enthusiastically. Trick stepped back to the fire, picked up his discarded butty and passed it to the dripping lunatic. He and Toki watched as the madman went to work on the remains of the boy’s packed lunch.
‘He attacked you … for a sandwich.’
Toki shrugged. ‘He must really like roast hog.’
MUNGO’S SUMMONING
The Alps, 218 BC
Elephants were uncomfortable beasts. Stupid, too.
Mungo shifted in the hard leather saddle, wondering if anybody would mind if he simply got down and walked. He’d been locked in a battle of wills with his mount for the last five days of the march. He hated the elephant. The elephant hated him. The fact that Carthaginians used them for transport was a constant source of fascination to the blue-woad-painted Celt.
For the most part, discounting horses, animals were there to be eaten. Preferably by Mungo. Mungo was always hungry. While many warriors were motivated by a wide range of causes, from revenge, through pride, greed and vanity, Mungo was driven by something far more basic: hunger. If there was a meal at the end of a fight, he was in.
The route they traversed was a hellishly high and dangerous one. The mountainside loomed to Mungo’s left, while a cliff dropped away to the right, clouds visible below. He looked behind at his travelling companions.
The other commanders all rode their own tusked and trunked war beasts as they followed him up the mountain pass. They were staring back. Their armour was swaddled in animal pelts to protect them from the harsh weather. To a man, they were mean-looking fellows hailing from warmer climes around Mare Nostrum, the Great Sea in the south. At their hips they carried shining steel swords, and they eyed the blue-skinned stranger suspiciously, not least because Mungo was barely clothed and it was snowing. A bit of snow didn’t bother Mungo. He had arrived on this earth in the winter, a boy born to the blizzard, with hair the colour of snow. He was a highlander. These mountains felt like home.
His elephant’s trunk snaked up once more, giving him a slap in the face. This had been going on for days, the beast constantly antagonizing the Celt. He gave it a stinging smack in return, and the monster let loose a trumpet of derision before trailing its smarting trunk in the snow.
Directly ahead of Mungo rode the Carthaginian general, a man the Celt had a lot of respect for: Hannibal. A great warrior, master tactician and legendary champion of the battlefield. Heroes such as Hannibal attracted other great warriors, Mungo being one of them. The Celt had travelled far to fight by Hannibal’s side; the two shared the same enemy – Rome.
That empire had swept over Mungo’s homeland and also threatened Hannibal’s, and this was enough to unify them. So what if the Celt fought like a madman in battle, spoke unintelligible gibberish and ate whatever he could get his blue fingers on? The general was mighty fond of him, and that counted for much in this army. The painted berserker now travelled behind Hannibal and was a favourite of the legendary leader.
Once again, the trunk snaked, hovering before Mungo. He grinned, pleased that the beast had learned its lesson at last. The grin was short-lived. With a fierce whoosh, the elephant spray
ed great globs of filthy snow at the Celt, spattering his face and making his blue woad run. Mungo could hear the other commanders laughing behind him, having witnessed the spectacle. Fuelled by anger, he reached forward, seizing the mischievous trunk in his hands and biting down hard upon the grey flesh. His teeth cut deep, drawing blood from the giant beast.
With a bellow, the elephant struck back, this time keeping nothing in reserve. The prehensile trunk caught Mungo clean across the jaw, sending him hurtling out of that accursed saddle into the air – and out over the cliff edge.
Flailing at thin air, the Celt began his fatal descent, the Carthaginians growing small and distant as he plummeted to his doom. He passed through the clouds, spinning, swearing, the waiting rocks shimmering into view. Mungo’s hair suddenly stood on end as he tumbled, his skin tingling as blue sparks spluttered into life around him. There was no bone-crushing, eye-popping, meat-mashing impact with the earth for Mungo; instead, a blinding flash of brilliant blue light swallowed him, just before things got really messy.
CHAPTER TEN
Trick stood on the gravel shore and stared across the pool, spray riding the breeze and buffeting his face. It was as if a great piece of the mountain had been gouged out and the lake had filled the space left behind. Mountain streams converged high up, before spilling over the clifftops in a torrent. A thunderous waterfall crashed down into the pool, churning it into a turbulent white froth. The source may have been on high, but this was the start of the River Tangle, without a doubt. From their vantage point on the beach, it was clear to Trick that they’d hit a wall – a towering one of granite at that. Of the hermit known as Kalaban, there was no sign.
‘The crow lied,’ said Toki. ‘Traitorous black beast!’
‘Mungo like crow,’ said the Celt, smacking his lips.
They had discovered Mungo’s name the previous night when he’d finally recovered from his dip in the river. By saving the drowning wildman in the night and furthermore letting him eat his butty, Trick had somehow secured the loyalty of the crazy-haired, blue-skinned loon.
The three made a most unlikely trio. They had discovered that Mungo really didn’t like Vikings, and that Toki’s feelings were clearly mutual. Whenever Toki spoke too much – which was often, in Mungo’s eyes – the Celt would resort to crude bodily gestures. These always had the desired effect of silencing the Viking. They had also discovered that Mungo was perpetually hungry, and there was little he wouldn’t consider eating. All manner of bugs and slugs had been gobbled by the blue-woad warrior over the course of the day, leaving Trick feeling more than a little nauseous. The idea of crows being tasty to Mungo came as no surprise to either of his travelling companions.
‘Kaw didn’t lie,’ said Trick. ‘He led me to you, didn’t he? That turned out pretty well, don’t you think?’
Toki grumbled. ‘He said the hermit had last been sighted at the head of the River Tangle. Well, here we are, and I see no sign of this Kalaban!’
Trick squinted. Although the cliffs were blanketed in shadow, the waterfall sparkled eerily, unnaturally, catching his eye. ‘Kaw’s a clever bird. He said look around, see what we can find. There’s a clue here somewhere, I just know it.’
Trick turned round, searching the shore for anything that might prove helpful in their quest to find Kalaban. A large bank of reeds lined the pool’s edge, some rising as high as Trick’s head. He parted them, wading into the water and spying a dark shape within the waving green fronds.
If he’d hoped his companions might help, he was disappointed. The two warriors were soon locked in an argument about how best to cook a crow. It seemed there was nothing they could agree upon. The Viking and Celt were still bickering when Trick dragged a moss-coated rowboat out of the reeds and on to the gravel beach. Toki spotted the vessel and dashed over. He looked it up and down, inspecting it as if he were a car salesman assessing a dodgy motor. He gave it a boot and the stained hull rattled as Trick hefted one of two oars from within.
‘She’s no longboat, but she’s seaworthy. What’s your plan?’ asked Toki.
Trick pointed the wobbling oar in the direction of the strange, sparkling waterfall. ‘Reckon we should take a closer look at that. Can either of you row?’
Mungo was about to take an oar when Toki snatched it from Trick’s grasp, grinning. ‘I sailed and rowed on my father’s dragon ship when I was but a whelp. We took that boat to the edge of the world. This puddle should prove no problem. Stand aside, Celt, and let me show you both how this is done.’
Trick was the first in the boat, moving to the prow, before Mungo unsteadily clambered aboard. The Celt seemed unhappy about their decision to take to the water, but he wasn’t about to quit on them. Mungo snarled when Toki shook the boat, provoking a belly laugh from the young Viking. Bending his back, Toki pushed off, his feet churning up the pebbles as he drove the boat out into the water. He effortlessly jumped in, slotting the oars into their rowlocks on either side. Then he was rowing, propelling them forward.
‘You dislike the water, Mungo? Why so? Did your mother drop you in the bath when you were a bairn? On your head, perhaps? That would explain much.’
Mungo watched the rippling surface distrustfully as they progressed towards the waterfall. Toki was about to say something else when Mungo cut him off with a rude hand gesture. It shut the Viking up. Trick grinned. At least their fighting was now just verbal sparring and offensive gesticulations, unlike the scrapping he’d witnessed last night. Still, there was time for that to change, no doubt.
‘You believe the wall of water holds the answer?’ called Toki, his muscles rippling as the oars cut through the water.
‘I haven’t a clue,’ Trick replied, having to shout now to be heard over the roar of the waterfall. The three of them were soaking, mist drenching them as it rose from the churning spume. Mungo clutched the sides of the boat and the rotten wood crunched beneath his jagged-knuckled grip. The tiny vessel bounced about, the water turbulent around them. The confident look on Toki’s face had slipped and the Viking eyed the choppy pool suspiciously.
‘Don’t worry, Mungo,’ said Trick, leaning closer to the worried warrior. ‘We’ve nothing to fear!’
‘You may have spoken too soon,’ said Toki, rising to his feet and drawing an oar from its rowlock.
‘What is it?’
‘’Tis a kraken, brother,’ said the Viking, readying the oar in his hands as a weapon.
Trick stifled a laugh. ‘There’s no such –’
The pool erupted around them as sinuous green tentacles shot up in the air. The trio were showered with water as three long, mottled limbs snaked towards them, swinging one way and then the other like cobras preparing to strike. Escape was impossible.
‘Fight!’ yelled Mungo excitedly, forgetting his precarious position and leaping to his feet. The mad look had returned to his eyes; the promise of battle was irresistible for the warrior. The boat rocked, threatening to tip them all overboard as the Celt lifted his shield and sword. His blade whipped out, severing the tip of one tentacle, which landed twitching on the boards at Trick’s feet, oozing a sticky green sap. He recognized it as some kind of plant rather than a squid or octopus. That made it no less frightening – more so, if anything.
‘One tendril each,’ shouted Toki over the roar of the waterfall. ‘They’re fine odds. Into them, lads!’
Right on cue a further six weed-like tentacles emerged from the foaming water, joining the others as they lashed at the trio.
‘You’re kidding!’ cried Trick, his voice breaking with panic. He fumbled clumsily for the other oar, cursing when it slipped through the rowlock and splashed into the water. He snatched at it as it bobbed out of reach, letting out a yelp as the tilting boat tipped him over the side. Trick went under, resurfacing with a splutter as an emerald tentacle coiled round his waist. It lifted him out of the water, tightening all the while, constricting him as it squeezed the air from his lungs.
He looked down at his companions in t
he boat. Toki’s oar was broken in two as he stabbed at the whipping limbs, while Mungo’s blue skin was covered in green gore. One mighty tentacle the thickness of a tree trunk struck the boat dead centre. It crumpled beneath the blow, sending the two warriors spinning into the air. They too were seized by tendrils and hoisted skyward. The weeds slithered over their torsos, binding them, tightening until their bones groaned at breaking point. Trick felt his head swim and sensed the approach of darkness and inevitable death.
‘Enough!’
The voice came from the waterfall, its sparkling curtains parting as darkness was revealed behind. A tiny, bent-backed old man stood there on a stony beach, staff in one hand, the other raised palm outwards. Instantly, the tentacles ceased their attack, slackening but maintaining their grip on the three intruders. Then they were carried across the water and brought closer to the enchanted waterfall, the strange little man beckoning them all the while.
As they passed through the parted waterfall, Trick craned his neck, looking up at the roof of the cavern where jagged stalactites hung like dark daggers. No sooner had the tentacles deposited the trio upon the gravel beach than Toki and Mungo were leaping at the old man.
‘Wait!’ shouted Trick, but too late. Their blood was up, and for a Viking and a Celt the best defence was always attack. They went as one for the bent stranger, Mungo with his battered sword, Toki with one half of a broken oar in each hand. As it happened, Trick need not have been worried for the old man’s safety.
The blue-skinned berserker charged at him full pelt, channelling everything into his assault, a blur of white-haired fury. The old man was there one second, gone the next, deftly sidestepping the Celt and leaving him to crash headlong into the cave wall. He turned smoothly to meet Toki’s twin-staved attack, as the pieces of broken oar swung down towards his head. His staff became a blur, passing between the weapons and striking the Viking neatly across the temple. The pieces flew from Toki’s hands as his legs came up and he landed flat on his back, unconscious. Only Trick remained standing, and he wasn’t about to take a swing at the stranger. The old man gave his staff a twirl and it was transformed into a simple walking stick once again. He looked up at Trick.
A New Hero Page 5