‘Greetings, Trick Hope,’ he said, his gap-toothed smile broad and benign. ‘I am Kalaban. Welcome to my home.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Your friends are hungry.’
‘They always are,’ replied Trick as he watched Toki and Mungo demolish a table of freshly prepared food, ripping through it like a pair of half-starved cartoon characters.
Toki stopped momentarily, his face slick with mutton grease. ‘Always feast as if it’s your last meal, for tomorrow you may die!’
‘Cheery thought,’ said Trick, all too familiar with the Viking’s sage military comments. ‘Another “way of the warrior” thing – I get it.’
‘You’re not eating?’ asked Kalaban, gesticulating towards the loaded table. In addition to the mutton there were a number of roast chickens, baked potatoes and all manner of cooked vegetables. Hunks of bread and blocks of cheese stood, ready to be devoured, alongside an enormous bowl of colourful fruit. The smell was amazing, and Trick was certainly hungry, but he wanted questions answered before he dived in. He hoped his companions might leave something for him, though the signs weren’t looking good.
‘You had this banquet all prepared, sitting here, ready to eat?’ asked Trick. ‘It’s almost as if you knew we were coming.’
Kalaban winked. ‘A little birdie informed me of your approach.’
Right on cue, a squawk echoed in the dark recesses of the cave: Kaw. Trick managed a smile – the crow had been true to his word. He took a long look at Kalaban. The hermit was an inch shorter than Trick, his crooked back forcing him into a stooped posture. He was entirely bald, with a scruffy, spiky white beard that hung down over the bib of his brown tunic. His face was wrinkled and weatherbeaten, giving him a truly ancient appearance. Only his eyes gave him away. They sparkled with a youthful energy that belied his years.
‘And the creature in the pool?’ said Trick. ‘Is that your pet?’
‘Guard dog would be a more appropriate description. The krakenweed is there to keep those away who would do me harm. It hasn’t failed me yet.’
‘So are you going to tell me what’s going on? Who are you? And why the heck am I here?’
‘My name is Kalaban, and this is my home.’
Trick looked around at the damp cave. ‘Seems to be in need of fixing up. Why did you choose this place and not something with, y’know, a roof, windows, heating, that kind of thing?’
‘Ah, you’re a comedian, Trick Hope. Just what my world needs: a funny man.’
Trick stepped up to the hermit. ‘I’m scared, Kalaban. I’ve been in this weird world for a couple of days and I’ve seen people killed, tentacled plants and talking crows. If I didn’t know better I’d think I’d gone flippin’ loco.’
Kalaban smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I’ll try to make this easy for you. Walk with me while I tell you a story,’ he said, turning to step deeper into his cave, tapping his staff on the rock as he went.
Trick followed hot on his heels, leaving his companions to their noisy feast.
Kalaban sighed deeply as he began his tale. ‘This is my world, Trick Hope. I was born here, and I’ll die here. The Wildlands was once a gentle place, but that peace was shattered by someone from your world.’
‘Boneshaker.’ It was a pretty solid guess for Trick; he’d heard this brute mentioned plenty of times.
‘That’s who he eventually became. When he first arrived, he was a powerful priest from a land called Mesopotamia, transported here by mistake. He quickly grew in power, recruiting an army and exploiting the superstitions of the Wildlanders, bending them to his will. Those who weren’t in thrall to this priest took a stand against him. I was one such warrior.’
Kalaban’s eyes sparkled as he spoke.
‘He and I fought for seven days and seven nights, our battle taking us across the Wildlands, over river and sea, mountain and meadow. On the seventh night we exchanged our final blows, shattering one another’s spirits in a crescendo of steel upon steel. Blades broken and bodies weak, we each retreated, shadows of our former selves. Peace of a kind returned to the Wildlands, as the priest and I went into hiding.’
‘So, what? It’s all kicked off again now?’ asked Trick as they walked deeper into the darkness. He stumbled, muttering a curse as he stubbed a toe. ‘You not got a light back here?’
Kalaban ignored Trick’s grumbling and continued with his story. ‘My path led me here after the priest and I fought. His path took him to the mountain known as Shadowshard, and there he has recovered, far faster than I have.
‘His dark magic has helped him, of course. The further he has delved into his evil art, the wider the corruption has spread. Not just through him, either, but through the souls of his followers. The reach of that evil is immeasurable, touching each and every corner of this once-peaceful land. The priest has rebuilt his army and slowly taken hold of the Wildlands. And the priest is also changed.’ Kalaban’s next words were a whisper. ‘He emerged from that black chrysalis a death’s-head moth by the name of Boneshaker.’
‘So he’s this all-powerful bad guy, right, with an army of uber-villains at his back? I get that. But what have you been doing, Kalaban? Have you just been sitting in this cave, twiddling your thumbs? Kaw said you’d been in hiding for twenty years. Why so long?’
Kalaban smiled. ‘Hiding makes me sound like a coward.’
‘Are you?’
The hermit chuckled. ‘I have rested. I have recuperated. I have waited.’
‘For what?’
‘For whom.’
‘For whom, then?’
‘For the Chosen One, Trick.’
‘Chosen One? Dude, that line’s straight out of a comic book. Has the Chosen One got superpowers too?’
Kalaban glanced at Trick as he walked along. ‘Maybe.’
‘But how do I fit in with all this stuff and nonsense? I don’t see it.’
‘You’re going to help us to defeat Boneshaker.’
‘Defeat Boneshaker? You’ve flipped, mate. I just need to get back home. I’m no warrior, I’m a kid from the city who’s here by mistake. I’m not here to fight.’
‘Yet a fight you find yourself in.’ Kalaban stopped at the back of his cave and Trick clumsily bumped into him. The old man began rummaging in a pouch on his hip, rattling the stones within. ‘And as for being here by mistake – nonsense! There are no mistakes. We need to assemble the greatest team of warriors any world has ever seen to defeat the Skull Army.
‘Every warrior summoned is here on merit. The Chosen One is a fine example, one whose arrival was foretold. A warrior from Boneshaker’s home world is destined to defeat him, here in the Wildlands. The Chosen One will set the enslaved free, topple the Skull Army and best Boneshaker in battle.’
‘You’re saying this Chosen dude is from Earth? If that’s true, then this prophecy could mean any of those warriors who’ve been summoned is the one who’ll topple him.’ Trick pointed back towards the banquet chamber. ‘Your hero could be Toki or Mungo.’
‘While there is no doubting the honour of those two warriors, they are not the hero I’ve been waiting for.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked Trick, stumbling again and going over on his ankle. ‘And, as I asked before, is there any chance of some light?’
Kalaban removed three smooth stones from the pouch and held them in his palm. Even in the gloom, Trick could see the runes upon them. The old man’s smile was bright. ‘The Chosen One has another name: the Black Moon Warrior.’
Toki shivered as Kalaban threw the three stones into the air. Instead of landing and clattering across the rocky floor, they began to spin round one another, as if in a vortex.
‘Let us have some light for my young visitor,’ said the hermit.
Blue flames burst from the pebbles as their runes came to life. Their strange fire cast a cool glow into the darkest recesses of the cave, halting Toki and Mungo in their feasting. Kalaban waved a hand before him, sending the flying stones out
in an arc, better illuminating the cave wall. Trick’s mouth fell open, his jaw slack with disbelief.
‘What is this?’ asked the boy.
‘These cave paintings predate the written word in the Wildlands. They predict my own encounter with Boneshaker many years ago.’
The artwork covered the entire rear wall of the cave in a concentric, circling pattern. As the flaming rune stones fluttered past, sigils and images swirled out of the rock with a magical blue glow. More runes shone, humming and resonating with one another, carrying an eerie, enchanting tune. Trick’s eyes followed the incredible fresco and scenes of battles burst into life as the story spiralled inwards. There was Kalaban, appearing halfway through the circling painting, a bald-headed, bearded warrior, crudely imagined by the blue light.
Trick was squinting at the glowing blue fresco, inspecting the heroic image of Kalaban. ‘I see you, but where’s Boneshaker?’
‘The Darkness,’ said Kalaban, directing Trick’s attention towards an impenetrable, shifting shadow. It moved through the light in places, apparently impossible to tie down in the fresco, wild and untamed as if the very shadows were alive. Trick shivered.
‘Unnerving, isn’t it?’
The boy nodded, his cockiness gone.
‘I’ve been guardian of this fresco for twenty years, learning what I can from it, studying it for any signs of weakness in our foe. The Wild Magic that runs through the Wildlands is at its strongest here; this mystical painting is integral to it. It is the cave’s magic which I’ve channelled, summoning you and your kind to my world. This cave holds the key to the defeat of Boneshaker. It foretells the rise to power of the Lord of Darkness. Likewise, it reveals his downfall … by the hand of the Chosen One.’
Trick saw it, dead centre in the heart of the cave painting, pulsing with that weird azure illumination. Many warriors, kneeling round one of their own who was haloed by a great dark globe.
‘The Black Moon Warrior,’ whispered Kalaban. He snatched the flying stones out of the air and tapped the gobsmacked schoolboy in the chest with a bony finger. Trick looked down at the crescent stone pendant on his chest, shining with that same sickly blue light.
‘That would be you, Trick Hope.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘This is quite an armoury, old man,’ said Trick as he drew a helmet out of a chest and tried it on for size.
‘’Tis a dragon’s hoard!’ added Toki, his voice alive with wonder.
The treasure room was another circular cavern with a babbling stream running through its heart. Torches burned in sconces in the walls, casting their light over the twinkling mass of booty. Precious metals and gems littered the chamber, coins of gold, silver and bronze carpeting the stone floor. Weapons of all shapes and sizes were stacked about, scimitars and shields, bows and battleaxes.
Mungo stood beside a rack of swords, biting each one in turn. Trick hoped he was checking the metal’s integrity as opposed to actually eating them. Nothing the Celt put in his mouth surprised Trick any more. There were so many weapons underfoot, he had to be careful where he stepped. He narrowly missed tripping over a quarterstaff and landing on an upturned cutlass.
‘These items and artefacts were salvaged from many warriors who have visited the Wildlands, friends and foes alike,’ said Kalaban. ‘Some fought by my side, while others were sent by Boneshaker to kill me. They’re gone now. Their weapons of war are all that remain. Take what you will. Arm yourselves for the quest that lies ahead.’
Trick seized Kalaban by the elbow, and the old man glanced at the restraining hand with equal parts amusement and contempt.
‘Look, old man, I’m not here to fight Boneshaker, no matter what your magical wall of swirly light says. I’m a thirteen-year-old schoolboy from north London. I just want to get home.’
‘Defeat Boneshaker and you’ll go home, Trick,’ said Kalaban, gently prising the boy’s fingers from his arm. The hermit’s hands looked frail, but they were as strong as steel. Then he placed a hand on Trick’s jaw, as tenderly as Grandpa would have done. ‘I know you’re frightened, son. Believe me. Not every warrior who is summoned to the Wildlands is prepared for the challenge that awaits them. But know this: you have friends here. Allies. There are two behind you, and another stands before you. And there are more out there too, wandering aimlessly, waiting for a leader to step forth and give them a cause, give them direction. Focus their wrath upon the evils of Boneshaker and his wicked Skull Army. That is how you get home.’
‘But how does that mean a way home?’
‘The fall of Boneshaker will open a portal, one that leads back to your own world and your own time. Every warrior I’ve summoned has come from a different place and era in Earth’s history. Should Boneshaker be destroyed, every warrior will get a chance to go home. The sphere of blue light that snatched you from your plane of existence will reappear briefly, giving you just one chance to take that return journey. Unless you enjoy the Wildlands so much you’d prefer to stay.’
‘No chance,’ scoffed Trick. ‘I’m going home the first chance I get.’
‘Cease your riddling words for a moment, wise man,’ said Toki, his brow knitted with rare concentration. ‘ “Every warrior I’ve summoned”: they were your words. It is you who is behind all this, bringing my brothers and me into your forsaken world, without so much as a please or a by your leave?’
Mungo listened, catching the Viking’s drift and sidling up alongside him. Both of the warriors were by now up to date on the details of the prophecy, and neither seemed pleased by this fresh revelation.
‘Yes, I summoned each and every one of you here, to help in our efforts to defeat the Skull Army. And warriors will continue to be summoned until Boneshaker’s beaten. It’s the only way.’
‘I had a life, Kalaban,’ said the young Viking. ‘I had a future with my people. I was destined to become a legend. Now all that is gone?’
Trick could see Toki’s knuckles turn white where he gripped the sword he’d chosen. His anger was all too evident, and more than justified. Who did Kalaban think he was, plucking people from their homelands on a whim?
‘All that is not gone, Toki,’ said Kalaban, ignoring the enraged Viking’s fury. ‘Your world held its own … limitations. The prize in the Wildlands is so much greater, as are the foes you will face. This world of warriors is where true legends are forged. Your battle has always been here – you just didn’t know it.’
‘Trick is your hero, though. You said as much yourself. This prophecy of a Black Moon Warrior is about him, not us.’
‘Until the Black Moon Warrior arrived, I didn’t know who he or she was. We have the sharp-sighted Kaw to thank for alerting me to your arrival – he saw Trick’s pendant when he was washed ashore at Warriors Landing. All I could do was summon the greatest warriors your world has ever known, and pray that one of them was the Chosen One. It seems my prayers have now been answered.’
‘And how many warriors have fallen who didn’t fulfil your prophecy, hermit?’ asked the red-haired youth, looking around at the haul of weapons and armour that filled the chamber. ‘Hundreds? Thousands?’
Kalaban sighed. ‘I am not proud of my actions, Toki. I’m sorry if you feel cheated, truly I am. But you were summoned for a greater good. I’ve told you already: the Wildlands were once peaceful. They can be so again, with your help. Every warrior has his or her part to play in the coming battle. The Black Moon Warrior will need allies for the fight ahead.’
Mungo spat on the floor at Kalaban’s feet. ‘Mungo’s mad,’ said the Celt, before turning his back on the wise man. Toki sneered, unconvinced by the old man’s words.
‘You had no right,’ he said. ‘I had a life. I had a family.’
Trick clicked his fingers, changing the subject. ‘If the prophecy tells of me defeating Boneshaker, that means I can’t fail, right? It’s my destiny or whatever – I’m bulletproof.’ His hopes began to soar, until Kalaban snuffed them out.
‘The future can yet be chan
ged, child. The writing on the wall tells of our best and only hope – the Black Moon Warrior. If he fails, all is lost.’
Trick looked at the weapons that surrounded him, suits of chain and plate hanging from the walls. He felt overwhelmed, lost and way out of his depth.
‘I could run away. I could hide. There must be places I can go in the Wildlands that Boneshaker can’t reach.’
‘He’ll come looking for you, Trick. The minute you and his minion fought on the beach at Warriors Landing, you triggered a series of events. That fight was a tiny pebble dropped into the sea, but from the ripple it created a wave shall grow. You are linked to him in some way. And let’s be under no illusion: Boneshaker will want you dead. Of course, we must ensure that doesn’t come to pass.’
‘How?’
‘We fight back.’
‘I’m not a fighter!’ Trick yelled, voice cracking with desperation. Mungo and Toki stopped what they were doing and stared at the old man and the boy. ‘It’s like none of you are listening. I don’t know how to fight. I’m just a boy.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Kalaban, clapping and squeezing his shoulder. ‘Warrior’s blood courses through your veins, Trick. You just need to tap into it, uncork it like a wine.’
‘Uncorking sounds horribly close to spilling it,’ said Trick, flinching.
The hermit smiled once more. ‘You could be as great as any warrior. You just need training.’
‘And you’ll train me?’
Kalaban sighed. ‘Alas, time is against us. You will train as you travel. Though your greatest challenge is to face Boneshaker, that is the last part of your journey. You will face a series of quests before you confront the Lord of Darkness. Your first step takes you to Sea Forge.’
‘Why must we go there?’
‘Your quest is threefold, Trick Hope. First, you must head to the Broken Shield Inn. There you will encounter friends and allies who will aid you on your journey. Beware, though, for as well as companions you’ll no doubt find enemies in that particular tavern. It has something of a … reputation. The toughest warriors in the Wildlands lodge there when they’re in town.’
A New Hero Page 6