‘And then what?’
‘Second, the Broken Shield Inn is where you shall commence your search for the fabled weapon known as Ravenblade.’
‘What blade?’
‘It’s a sword fashioned from the same black glass as the charm round your neck.’
‘Ravenblade,’ said Toki. ‘A fine name for a sword.’
‘Powerful swords deserve powerful names. This weapon was wielded by the first warrior who entered the Wildlands from your Earth, many years ago. It is blessed with great enchantment, and in the hands of the Black Moon Warrior becomes a weapon of great might. The rune stones tell me that the answer to the sword’s whereabouts is in the Broken Shield Inn, hidden beneath the Skull Army’s noses. You must claim the sword, Trick. It could be the key to defeating Boneshaker.’
Trick gulped. His father’s words rang in his ears, cautionary tales about the dangers of playing with knives, and worse. Ravenblade wasn’t a weapon for a schoolboy from London – nothing was. Trick shook his head. This wasn’t him.
‘It’s not for me,’ he muttered. ‘I promised my dad years ago that I’d never pick up a knife in anger. I’m certainly not about to swing a sword.’
‘If you won’t, I will,’ said Toki brashly. ‘The sword is my favoured weapon, the hand axe a close second. She sounds like a beauty, old man. Fear not – put Ravenblade in my hand and I’ll take Boneshaker’s head clean off his shoulders, with or without the Black Moon Warrior.’
He gave Trick a playful nudge in the ribs with his elbow, winking.
‘And what’s the third part of my quest?’ asked Trick, already feeling overwhelmed by the challenges Kalaban was burdening him with.
‘Defeat Boarhammer,’ said the old man with a toothless smile.
‘Is that all?’ said Trick, his voice almost hysterical at the enormity of the task.
‘A huge number of the city’s people are poor and enslaved, the captured villagers of Warriors Landing being examples. If they aren’t sold on, Boarhammer throws them into his arena for the amusement of his cronies. He’s one of Boneshaker’s warlords, a big, ugly brute. He rules Sea Forge with an iron fist and a golden mallet, crushing any who stand in his way.’
‘Does he have any weaknesses?’ asked Toki.
‘He has a fondness for his young ward, a blond-haired child who is his sister’s son. He’s as rotten as his uncle – the apple has not fallen far from the tree.’
‘Perhaps if we grab the boy …?’
‘I would never advocate harming a child,’ said Kalaban. ‘Besides which, you’ll never get close to him. He’s always at his uncle’s side. No, concentrate on helping the downtrodden of Sea Forge. They’re the key. Help them and they’ll help you. Those poor souls need freeing, and Boarhammer needs defeating.’
Mungo grunted, appreciating that idea. A potential fight was always going to meet with the Celt’s approval. Trick nodded fearfully.
‘So you can’t help me?’ said Trick. ‘You won’t join us?’
‘I’ll help you, my boy. I’ll give you whatever you need here to help you on your journey, and I’ll come to your aid when I can via our mutual friend, Kaw the crow, but I cannot leave my lair. I must protect the cave, the painting and the knowledge within. So long as I remain hidden, Boneshaker will think me dead. That needs to continue until we’re finally ready to engage him.’
‘Sounds like coward’s talk to me,’ said Toki.
Kalaban prickled at that but didn’t take the bait. ‘Only I am able to read the prophecy wall and foretell what perils lie ahead. If I were to leave this place, exposing myself to Boneshaker, not only would it bring his wrath down upon me – quite possibly destroying me – but he would also find the cave and the mural. If he sees the prophecy, he’ll know exactly who his foe will be.’ Kalaban stared at Trick, driving home the point.
‘So you send me out there unprepared?’ asked the boy.
‘Sadly, there is not time now to work on your warrior skills. As I said, you must learn as you go. Surround yourself with those you trust and who will protect you, such as Toki and Mungo. Watch them, study them and take what you need. Believe in yourself, my boy.’
Kalaban scratched his chin. ‘In the meantime, you will need a weapon. No self-respecting warrior should be in the Wildlands without something with which to protect himself.’ He looked around the armoury, bony fingers running over axes, hammers and crossbows. ‘If you won’t pick up a sword, what will you take?’
Trick looked at the quarterstaff he’d almost tripped over earlier. He slid his foot beneath it and kicked it up, catching it in the air. It was bamboo, and felt unusually light, as the centre was hollowed out, while each end was shod with shining metal. He gave it a spin. Trick had wasted many hours in London swinging a broom handle around the living room, knocking over ornaments while pretending he was a martial artist. The staff felt good. Appropriate.
‘This’ll do fine.’
Kalaban clattered his own staff against Trick’s.
‘A fine choice – a defensive weapon but deadly in the hands of an adept warrior.’
‘I’m not about the deadly, Kalaban. I’d rather parry an attack than make one, and this staff looks just the trick. I just want to get out of this place in one piece.’
‘You’re taking the first steps in doing that, Trick. Just be aware, though: a day may come when you have to take up the blade.’
Trick nodded, but he didn’t believe it for one moment.
‘I would invite you to stay longer,’ Kalaban continued, ‘but, as I say, lives depend on the actions of you and your friends. Head to Sea Forge and the Broken Shield Inn. Find the warriors who may aid you, seek out the enchanted sword known as Ravenblade and break the stranglehold Boarhammer has on the city. But beware: the warlord is only one threat of many. The city is home to rogues, ruffians and pirates. The Thieves’ Guild controls the Lower City, led by a villain whose name is Gorgo. Be careful to avoid any entanglements with his men. He’s a killer – ruthless – and keeps the poor in their place while he grows rich from their labour.’
‘Sounds like a piece of work.’
‘Oh, he is. As I say, steer clear. And the road ahead is no less perilous. I have a map of the Wildlands I can give you, in addition to whatever equipment and provisions you require. Between here and Sea Forge, Grub Gulch is also to be avoided. It’s home to the lightning bugs: giant insects that discharge bolts of pure, paralysing energy into their foes.’
Mungo fell in behind the old man and the schoolboy. ‘Mungo eats bugs.’
‘Not these ones, mate,’ said Trick, patting the Celt on the back as they left the treasure room. ‘They’ll probably try to eat you!’ He glanced at the black pendant round his neck as the half-moon stone bounced off his chest. He imagined a sword forged from the same material and wondered how powerful it might be.
‘That warrior who first came to the Wildlands,’ said Trick, calling ahead to Kalaban. ‘Who was it?’
‘You haven’t guessed?’ said the old man, leading him out of the cavern. ‘It was Boneshaker, Trick. Ravenblade is the sword of the Lord of Darkness. And he may yet want her back …’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The sun was blazing overhead when the travellers departed from Tangle Falls. Kalaban waved them off. There was no sign of the krakenweed, thankfully, as the trio crossed the water and went safely on their way. As they headed west into Greendeep Valley, Trick kept his eyes on the sky, searching for signs of Kaw. Kalaban had told them to keep a lookout for his feathered friend; when they were in need of help, Kaw would come and provide assistance in the old man’s absence. Trick was anxious about what form that aid might take, most of his interactions with the crow having involved the two mocking each other.
By dusk they were in the heart of the wilds, with the River Meadswill rushing by on their right. According to Kalaban, south of the river was the safer terrain for the party to traverse. These were dangerous lands, even by the Skull Army’s standards, home to savage trib
es of hillmen. Boneshaker’s men therefore avoided Greendeep Valley, favouring the northern banks instead, where they’d set up a military camp.
The trio stopped to lunch on the rugged moorland, tucking into food they’d brought from Kalaban’s cave. For a moment, Trick could imagine he was back home, on a rare camping trip with Dad and Grandpa. Inevitably, those breaks had often resulted in bouts of bickering between the three of them. Trick was stirred from his reverie by Toki and Mungo fighting over the last chicken drumstick. Things weren’t so different in the Wildlands after all.
‘You ate the last thigh, you blue-skinned weasel!’ said Toki, holding the piece of chicken high over his head as Mungo tried to snatch it from him.
‘Mungo hungry!’
Trick tried to ignore them, focusing his attention upon the hills ahead. They rolled all the way to the sunset and the distant sea on the horizon, dotted with the woodland that speckled the countryside. He took the map from his schoolbag, unfurling it to get his bearings. At the mouth of the Meadswill there was Mudflatt, a ramshackle collection of docks, the best place for them to cross to Sea Forge on the opposite bank.
Kalaban had given the trio a bag of gold – enough to pay their way across to Sea Forge from the tiny river port of Mudflatt. Mungo wore the purse on his hip, charged with being guardian of the group’s booty. Trick looked back to the horizon, spying smog further north on the coast – no doubt the site of the city of thieves. If danger awaited them there, he was glad he had Toki and Mungo along for company. They might have been belligerent, but they were the strongest allies he had.
Trick rolled up the map, tucked it away and rose off the grass. He straightened the dark green hooded cloak he’d swiped from Kalaban’s stash and turned back to his companions. ‘If you clowns are done calling each other names, we need to hit the road. We’ve a few more hours before nightfall. Ooh, last drumstick?’ He reached over the seated warriors’ heads and plucked it from Toki’s hand. ‘Don’t mind if I do. Cheers!’
He set off walking, as his companions ceased their current conflict. It seemed he was able to defuse their little battles. Each owed him their life, so in their eyes he was their undisputed leader. The thought made Trick chuckle, but he kept his mirth to himself. Cresting the next hill, he kept his eyes fixed on the countryside. The Skull Army might not be a threat to them here, but the wildmen most certainly were. Kalaban had described them as a superstitious, primitive people, bound to terrible traditions and old gods. If Trick and his companions could keep their heads down and reach Sea Forge without encountering them, Trick would be a happy young man.
‘Is that … is that a woman?’
It was Toki’s question; the Viking was pointing towards a cluster of hillocks to the south-west.
‘Wo-man?’ said Mungo slowly, white eyebrows rising.
‘The figure tied to the pole on yonder hill. Rather hard to miss for a normal human, but then again you’re hardly normal.’
Trick saw her now. Sure enough there was a figure bound to a wooden stake across the valley. The hill rose up out of a scrubby forested area, giving it the appearance of a monk’s shaven head. Even from this distance, the fell reminded Trick of a war-ravaged landscape, bare trees broken as if by cannon fire. The pole was fixed at its summit and the woman was tied securely to it.
‘Listen, guys. If we’re going to help her, we need a plan of –’
The two warriors were already running, hurtling downhill to the meadow below.
‘Wait!’ shouted Trick hopelessly, dashing after them. ‘You can’t steam in there! It could be a trap!’
It was no good. Toki and Mungo were already running up the slope across the valley, pushing each other as they went, each of them keen to reach – and save – the woman before the other. Trick was a good forty metres behind them, keeping pace but unable to stop them. They ran through the sparse woodland, passing splintered, twisted trees and churned-up tracts of earth.
His companions were oblivious to their surroundings, but Trick missed nothing. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. There were animal tracks in the mud, deep and hoofed, as though an enormous beast had passed through the woods. Some of the trees bore great gashes across their trunks, as if they’d been scored by huge blades. Here and there, bleached white bones could be seen poking out of the undergrowth, the remains of animals – or worse – obscured by the bracken.
‘Wait!’ Trick screamed, again in vain, as he burst from the trees on to the hilltop.
Mungo and Toki were already at the woman’s back, behind the stake, slapping one another’s hands as they wrestled with the rope. Mungo barged Toki, sending him sprawling on to the grass. The Viking was straight back up, shoulder-barging the Celt aside. This continued as Trick dashed the remaining distance to the woman. Her jet-black hair was arranged in a bun atop her head, a white bandana fastened firmly about her brow. Her face was a mask of white make-up, reminding Trick of the collectible Kabuki dolls they sold in Super Freaks. Wide eyes pleaded with him, and she might have spoken if it weren’t for the gag over her mouth. Trick reached behind her head, loosening the knot and letting the gag fall from her lips.
‘You idiots!’ she hissed angrily. ‘I had this completely under control!’
‘Wha‒?’ said Trick. ‘I don’t see what you mean, lady.’
The schoolboy felt goosebumps race up his neck, that feeling of being watched turning into a cold wave of dread. All around the hilltop, shadows disengaged from the gloom, emerging from behind trees or swinging down from branches. The figures were covered in thick, shaggy pelts, eyes glinting from within their dark, filthy faces, teeth bared as they edged closer. In their hands they carried axes, spears and drawn bows, their arrows trained upon the heroes on the hilltop.
Mungo and Toki ceased their fight when they felt flint spearheads pressed against their flesh. Trick gasped as he heard bowstrings straining, begging to be released. One of the tribesmen stepped right up to the schoolboy, his head hidden beneath a boar’s tusked skull. The wildman’s flint knife went to Trick’s throat. He glanced at the woman who was bound to the stake. She shook her head miserably. Trick’s smile was humourless.
‘Now I see.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘So … this is nice,’ said Toki.
The woman was no longer alone on the hilltop. Three more stakes had been driven into the ground, equidistant from one another, and Trick and his friends were lashed to them. Each prisoner was facing outwards, looking into the wilds as the night drew in. It had been an eventful evening. The leader – the fellow with the animal-skull helm – now stood before them, addressing them all.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said sheepishly.
‘You could always let us go,’ Trick said, chancing his luck.
The chieftain smiled apologetically. ‘And let the monster visit my village? Feed on my people? No, that cannot happen. Die knowing that your death is not in vain. With four offerings for the beast, our tribe can sleep easy for many full moons. You have our thanks.’
‘Would rather have freedom,’ said Trick.
‘Mungo mad!’ grumbled the Celt, wriggling against his ropes.
‘Toki too,’ added the Viking, straining against his bonds.
The wildman was already departing, followed by his clan. Within moments, only the four strangers remained upon the hill, the moon rising high above them.
‘My, but you are a comely wench,’ said Toki, straining to look at the woman, suddenly remembering what had got them into this mess in the first place.
‘Aye,’ added the Celt, beard twitching as he puckered his lips. ‘Mungo like wo-man!’
‘You two idiots should have listened to the boy,’ she said haughtily. ‘I’ve never seen such disastrous lack of planning. I’m amazed neither of you are dead yet!’
Mungo looked crestfallen, while Toki’s mouth worked silently. Neither were expecting that response, but Trick wasn’t at all surprised. His hands worked feverishly, twistin
g within their constraints, as he craned his neck so he could better see the woman.
‘My name’s Trick, lady. Pleased to meet you.’ She nodded her head briefly, as Trick continued. ‘You said you knew what you were doing when my friends came bumbling along. What was your plan?’
He saw the veins bulge on her neck, and her stake wobbled slightly, loosened a touch. She ceased straining, catching her breath. ‘I’m still working on it.’
‘Mungo bad feeling,’ said the Celt suddenly.
The ground rumbled, the hilltop quaking.
‘Is this a hillock or a volcano?’ asked Toki.
‘I think it’s dinnertime,’ whispered Trick as he looked down the slope to his right.
The treetops shook as something large passed through the woodland, drawing closer to the summit. They all heard the deep snorting and snarling, and felt the earth trembling beneath each terrible footfall. Then the trees bowed to one side, parting like curtains as an enormous beast leapt out of the forest.
The monster was the size of a house, a shuddering mass of muscle and fur. Its wiry pelt bristled as four powerful legs launched it up the incline, trotters scraping away the turf. The beast threw its head back, shaking its tusked jaws from side to side as it let loose a grunting roar that rose to a delirious squeal. Slobber flew, showering the prisoners on the hilltop. Then it lowered its head, red eyes ablaze, and charged towards the nearest: Toki.
‘Pig!’ shouted Mungo.
‘Really? Where?’ the Viking screamed back sarcastically.
As the monstrous tusks came to gore him, Toki lifted his legs and lashed out. His right foot booted the beast across the snout with a mighty crack, sending it staggering to one side. Trick watched, still working on his ropes, impressed by the gutsy actions of his friend. When the monster brought its head back, the Viking booted him the other way with another scissor-kick to its dribbling whiskery nose.
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