‘You would trust him?’ exclaimed the samurai.
‘What choice do we have?’
‘We could kill him.’
‘You could try,’ said the Aztec.
‘Say the word,’ hissed Kazumi.
‘Swear you’re with us,’ said Trick, stepping between them, staring the Jaguar Warrior down. The man bumped fists, the first of the warriors to successfully respond to the greeting. He lifted his wooden sword.
‘My macuahuitl is yours.’
With that, he strode past them towards the slit in the tent wall. Trick looked back at the merchant on the bed, where the fat man had remained motionless throughout their encounter. Why wasn’t he moving?
‘Is he sleeping? Or have you … killed him?’
The Jaguar Warrior stopped by the slashed fabric and glanced at the schoolboy. ‘If he were sleeping, would that make you feel better?’
Trick didn’t answer, but his eyes were wide and fearful.
‘Then he’s sleeping,’ said Zuma with a dark smile before stepping through the torn tent wall. ‘Come, or you’ll miss the boat.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The ferry arrived in Sea Forge by dawn’s early light, the smog shimmering with a dirty yellow glow. Buildings loomed, their silhouettes shrouded in a filthy veil of fog. The harbour was already a hubbub of activity, crowded with ships of all shapes and sizes. Galleons overshadowed fishing trawlers as the boat from Mudflatt squeezed between them, searching for a spot where it could dock. Trick looked about, amazed by the filthy splendour of the city as it towered over them.
No sooner had they disembarked than crowds of beggars were closing in. Women, children and old folk, all crying out for help, food, change, anything the warriors could spare. Trick had a stale husk of bread in his schoolbag which he handed over to an old crone. No sooner had he done so than an elderly man started wrestling with her for it, and the two quickly became lost in the crowd.
‘Better to give nothing at all,’ said Zuma grimly, ‘than gift them something that will get them killed.’
Toki was leading them through the market traders and fishermen, sniffing out their destination. Trick looked at his travelling companions, each of the colourful warriors sticking out like sore thumbs. Not that Trick could talk – he was still wearing skinny jeans, a maroon school blazer and battered old trainers. What a group they made. Mungo was behind Toki’s shoulder, insisting that the Viking was lost, while Kazumi and Zuma flanked Trick.
‘Those two know where they’re going?’ whispered Zuma. ‘They’re two arrows shy of a quiver.’
‘We were told to come to Sea Forge, so that’s where we’ve come.’
The group passed by a row of gibbeting cages, each one occupied. Some of the accused still lived, though they had been beaten and starved. Signs were tied by cord to the hands and feet of many of the men. They each bore the same legend: THIEF. Fearful, weary faces watched the group as they passed by.
‘Your plan was to come here, then what?’ asked Zuma. ‘And who gave you advice? You’re very trusting.’ He paused beneath a swinging gibbet, the thief within the metal cage murmuring for mercy. ‘Some might say foolish.’
‘Hold your tongue,’ hissed Kazumi. ‘Trick is our leader.’
‘And who made a boy your leader?’
Kazumi snarled. ‘You challenge him, you challenge us all.’
Zuma chuckled. ‘No offence was intended. I’m just concerned by your … uncertainty about your direction. I’m hired to help – it’d be good to know the next step.’
Trick chewed his lip. The group was headed to the Broken Shield Inn for three reasons: to recruit more warriors, to find Ravenblade and to put a plan into action to topple the warlord Boarhammer. However, he was in no hurry to divulge everything Kalaban had told him at his Tangle Falls hideout. After all, his other companions were by his side out of loyalty and camaraderie. The same couldn’t be said for the Aztec. Gold had brought him on to the team.
‘Nobody’s keeping you here, Zuma,’ said Trick, turning to the Jaguar Warrior and giving him a confident stare. ‘You want to stay, maybe you should show a little trust of your own.’
The man raised his hands peaceably, shutting up. Trick felt his chest puff out, pleased to have managed the mini uprising. Ahead, Toki and Mungo had come to a halt outside a rickety shack that seemed to be held together by gull droppings. Parchment sheets covered a noticeboard on one filthy wall, including a wanted poster that bore the image of a character known as the Shield Maiden. Apparently, escaping the deadly prison of the arena was deemed a crime in Boarhammer’s eyes. This breakout had led to a bounty on her head of two hundred gold. Toki pointed at the parchment.
‘Shield Maiden! My Norse kin – she is here, in the city!’
‘Two hundred gold,’ said Zuma, his eyes lighting up as Toki glowered at him.
A man sat on the doorstep, smoking a long twisted pipe as he looked out over the docks. A sign swung above his head bearing the words HARBOUR MASTER.
‘Can I ’elp you?’ he said, blowing a choking cloud of smoke into Mungo’s face.
‘Old man!’ said Toki in a loud, boastful voice. ‘Where might one find brave soldiers of fortune who would overturn a tyrannical warlord?’
Trick rolled his eyes, pushing his way past the not-so-subtle Norseman towards the bemused official.
‘Excuse me, sir. We’re looking for a particular tavern. Could you help us, perhaps?’
The harbour master sucked hard on his pipe. ‘Ain’t from round ’ere, are ye?’
‘We came to you for answers, not questions,’ said Zuma, tossing a bronze coin into the old man’s lap. He pocketed it swiftly while Trick glanced at the Jaguar Warrior. He shrugged. ‘Not like I gave him any gold, is it?’
‘I might be able to help you,’ said the old harbour master. ‘There are plenty of taverns and inns in Sea Forge where you’ll find a fighter or two.’
‘The Broken Shield Inn,’ said Trick. ‘Have you heard of it?’
‘Who hasn’t? It’s where the gladiators drink. A tough old dive is the Broken Shield. You want to go straight down Kipper Street, right up Lobster Lane and you’ll find it overlooking Speaker’s Square.’
‘Right you are,’ said the Aztec. ‘And you never saw us, right?’
The harbour master arched a bushy white eyebrow until Zuma tossed him a second coin. ‘Never saw who?’ he said, looking lazily away.
‘Good man,’ said the Jaguar Warrior before turning back to Toki and Mungo. ‘Lead on, fools.’
As they walked, Trick noticed many black-armoured soldiers passing through the crowds, intimidating the locals. The Skull Army. They were a mean-looking bunch, their dark shields and breastplates daubed with garish flashes of colour: bloody eyes, yellow fangs, blue flames and green tears. Perhaps these marked out their rank or the platoon they belonged to. Either way, Trick wasn’t in a hurry to be questioned by one of them. His memories of his encounters with the pair at Warriors Landing still made him shiver.
A wall of rock rose behind the docks on which a second city seemed to sit above the first. While the harbour was full of ramshackle fleapits, the higher towers and mansions were clearly homes to the wealthy and influential of Sea Forge. An enormous arena perched on the clifftop overlooking the entire harbour, flags fluttering from its curved walls. Gates at the base of the cliffs stopped the poor from rising higher, and a winding rocky road carried those with money up out of the smog. Trick shook his head wearily.
When the party finally reached Speaker’s Square, they found it heaving with bodies. Trick kept a firm hold on his schoolbag, knowing full well that pickpockets were probably at work around him. If they came near him, they’d be getting a staff to their downbelows. Everywhere he looked, he saw beggars and homeless souls, blocking every doorway and loitering in every alley. This was squalor, like something from a Dickens novel. Market stalls sold goods fresh and foul, captains called for crewmen, and crazies stood on boxes, preaching to the passing mass
es. To his surprise, one voice seemed to find Trick’s ears over the din, and he stood on tiptoe to see over the ocean of heads.
‘The Black Moon rises! The Chosen One comes! Evil’s end is nigh!’
Trick gasped. Was he talking about him? Mention of this Black Moon certainly tied in with what Kalaban had said. A brute stepped before him, blocking his line of sight. Trick ducked, stepping into a woman carrying a basket of fish heads and almost bowling her over. He apologized, back on his toes as he searched for the owner of the voice, but there was no sign. Someone seized him by the elbow, making him jump.
‘Come,’ said Kazumi.
‘But the voice –’ began Trick.
‘The inn is this way and we are separated from our companions. Let us escape the crowd.’
He was led through the throng, closer to the cliffs and the inn. The Broken Shield was extraordinary: three storeys high, with parts of it constructed from timber, while others were carved out of the rock face it stood against. The occupants of this part building, part cavern spilled out on to the veranda, ale sloshed down the steps and shouts came from within. High above the door a sign swung from rusting chains: a great black wooden shield with a dark, dirty sword buried through its middle. Toki, Zuma and Mungo stood before the inn, waiting for Kazumi and Trick.
Trick looked back at the bustling crowd and blanched. He kept seeing Boarhammer’s men-at-arms moving among the civilians.
‘They’re everywhere in Sea Forge,’ replied Zuma with a derisory sniff.
‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ said Kazumi, her hand reaching for the naginata on her back as she squinted across Speaker’s Square. ‘I spy the black helmets of the Skull Army bobbing in this sea – there are sharks among the sprats.’
‘Into the inn, then,’ said Zuma, backing away towards the Broken Shield.
Mungo and Toki needed no further prompting, and stepped across the booze-soaked threshold. Zuma followed, with a wary Trick and Kazumi in tow. The boy looked back as he went in, unable to shake a rising feeling of dread as he entered the Broken Shield Inn.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Broken Shield Inn was a dive of the lowest or highest quality, depending upon how one looked at things. Sawdust, broken bottles and teeth littered the floor, while the stench of tobacco and stale ale permeated every nook and cranny. The few lanterns that lit the interior barely penetrated the gloom, and every snug, stool and bench was occupied by brutish-looking men of all shapes and sizes. Trick stayed in the middle of his huddle of companions, aware of how conspicuous and young he looked in such an intimidating place.
Mungo sidled up to the bar, nearly knocking a grizzled-looking fellow off his stool as he ordered five ales from the innkeeper.
‘So who exactly are we looking for?’ asked Zuma, drawing Trick’s attention away from the door they’d entered through.
‘We were told that we would find warriors here, among other things,’ said Trick.
‘Other things, eh?’ said the Jaguar Warrior. ‘Could you be any vaguer? I suspect all you’ll find here is fleas and fights. This is a dead end, boy.’
Zuma turned and reached past Mungo for one of the mugs of ale. It was empty, as was the one beside it. And the third and fourth. He watched in disbelief as the Celt quickly downed the fifth jar before clattering the mug on the bar top. He smacked his lips merrily.
‘More beer!’ he hollered to the innkeeper.
‘You’re an animal,’ whispered Zuma.
Mungo belched in his face, making the Aztec grimace. The Celt squinted at the jaguar pelt that adorned Zuma’s head for a moment, before grinning. ‘Stupid cat hat.’
The man on the stool beside Mungo suddenly leaned in close, wobbling. A gladiator’s helmet sat on the bar before him, surrounded by empty mugs. He looked unsteady, as if he hadn’t left his stool or the bar for hours, perhaps days. ‘Watch yourself, Celt, or feel my trident up your bum.’
Trick saw the weapon, resting against the stool, its three blades rusty and disused.
‘Roman,’ sneered Mungo.
‘I’m with my deranged friend on this one,’ said Toki in agreement.
‘If there’s one thing worse than Celts it’s Romans,’ added Zuma. ‘Especially those who can’t handle their mead!’
The gladiator punched his own breastplate. ‘Talk to me that way, would you? I am Crixus, champion of the arena!’
‘Champion of drunken old sots, more like,’ laughed Toki.
‘I shall have my crown back, one day,’ Crixus grumbled, slurping his next drink.
Trick let them bicker. He felt the hairs on his neck tingling, as if he were being watched. He surveyed the Broken Shield. It looked like an audition for pantomime villains: pirates, smugglers, assassins and lowlifes. Deals were being done, dark deeds plotted, as blood money, ransoms and stolen goods were traded. Kalaban had told him that he’d find Ravenblade here and warriors who would fight for him. Trick wasn’t convinced he’d find either. Through the crowd of conmen, killers and ne’er-do-wells, Trick caught sight of a silhouette at the far end of the bar, swathed in black except for his eyes. He sat alone, and didn’t even have a drink in his hand. Could he be another of the warlord’s men? Through the tumult and chaos, Trick felt the stranger’s burning gaze upon him. Someone walked in front of Trick, and when he’d gone so had the stranger.
‘I reckon Boarhammer has agents here too, just like in the street,’ Trick whispered to Kazumi. ‘Reckon I just spied one back there, watching us.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yep. Seems nowhere is safe.’
Kazumi’s smile was humourless. ‘The moment you arrived in the Wildlands you put safety behind you. Our foes are many and danger is all around, often closer than you might think.’ She gave Zuma a dark look, which the Aztec missed.
‘Keep your eyes and ears open,’ said Trick. ‘Kalaban said we’d find answers to our questions in this tavern. We’ll find warriors here, and we’ll find Ravenblade. Someone here must know about the sword, Kazumi. The hermit wouldn’t have sent us here on a wild goose chase.’
‘See what you can find out – ask around, but be careful,’ said Kazumi. ‘There may be enemies here, but there are also allies, hiding in plain sight. We just need to find them.’
Trick spied Mungo sinking another pint as his altercation with the gladiator rose in volume. Allowing the Celt near the bar might not have been the smartest move. Zuma and Toki were standing beside him laughing when the Roman swung his mug, missing Mungo and catching the Jaguar Warrior across the back of the head. The pot shattered, sending the Aztec to his knees, stunned.
The two weren’t friends, but Mungo clearly took exception to this assault on Zuma. His wild white hair was a blur as he butted Crixus square in the face, and the gladiator’s nose crumpled as he was catapulted back into Toki. The duo crashed into a mob of men behind him. More fists flew, curses were traded along with stools and within a few frantic moments the interior of the Broken Shield Inn had descended into a riot.
Trick felt someone seize his cloak, twisting the hood so tightly it transformed into a noose. He spluttered, allowing his enemy to pull him in close. As he did, Trick turned, bringing himself nose-to-nose with the fellow who had grabbed him. His hairy face was riven in two by a jagged scar running from temple to chin, straight through a pale white eye. Trick brought his knee up, connecting with the brute’s groin and making him loosen his grip instantly.
The boy whipped out his quarterstaff, whirling it in a sweeping arc. It caught limbs and torsos as more of the thugs moved towards him, but quickly pulled back as wood struck bone. There was the flash of steel as a knife came out, and one wiry rogue ducked past the scything stick. Trick contorted, twisting as the blade flashed by.
The man came again, going for a reverse swing as Trick backed towards a filthy window. Before the dagger could strike him, the man cried out as Kazumi’s naginata ripped his back open. Trick saw the samurai for a fleeting moment, before she disappeared under a flyin
g table. He was about to run to her when the one-eyed, hairy thug who’d first attacked him re-emerged from the melee. He came fast.
Trick dived backwards, smashing through the window and out into the street, leaving his quarterstaff behind. He felt his schoolbag catch on the splintered frame; it was torn from his shoulder as he fell on to the ground. More of the inn’s customers rolled across Speaker’s Square and the inn’s tarnished sign creaked on its chains overhead as the sundered shield threatened to come crashing down on him. The one-eyed man followed, squeezing through the window and catching Trick’s trailing cloak once more.
‘Got you, boy,’ he gurgled, reeling Trick back towards the broken window. ‘Reckon you’ll fetch a pretty penny at the slave market …’
A dark shape flew past Trick, lightning fast, and in the next second he was tumbling loose. He looked back, catching sight of his one-eyed enemy screaming, spattered with blood and retreating into the Broken Shield. On the floor, still attached to Trick’s cloak, was a severed hand, gripping the soiled hem.
He looked up as the man in black stood over him, only his eyes visible. He was clad from head to foot in dark cloth, swathed tightly round his flesh. Soldiers of the Skull Army were now appearing in huge numbers, picking off the battling drinkers and wailing beggars and hauling them away. Many rushed into the Broken Shield, and screams suddenly rose in pitch from within.
‘Grab as many as you can, boys!’ shouted a Skull Army captain, urging his men into the tavern. ‘If they won’t come nicely, kill ’em. Boarhammer wants some meat for the arena. Let’s make the boss happy, eh?’
The stranger extended a hand to the fallen boy.
‘Come with me or stay and die.’
‘My bag! My staff! My friends! I won’t leave them behind,’ cried Trick.
‘It wasn’t a request,’ replied the man, grabbing his wrist hard and leaping back into the shadows, taking Trick with him.
KURO’S SUMMONING
A New Hero Page 10