CHAPTER FIVE

The light was blinding and absolute, cold and cleansing. Is this heaven? Trick wondered. The deafening silence slowly changed into a dull, distant roar, building in the boy’s head and making his entire being shake. His body felt buffeted, buoyed, as if he were being carried upon a wave of brilliant energy. He might have found this comforting if it hadn’t been for the peculiar tapping at his skull, a steady rat-a-tat-tat that didn’t cease. A warmth spread through him, across his flesh and through his bones, as the deathly chill subsided.

There was something else too – a surging, soaking sensation, running over his skin and face. The liquid ran into his mouth and down his throat, causing him to hack, cough and splutter. The rapping upon his head intensified now, a stabbing staccato beat played out urgently against the back of his skull. Trick thrashed where he lay, sand shifting beneath him as he struggled to lift his aching head from the strange, salty water. As his face emerged, the sound of the sea suddenly intensified, the dazzling light fracturing into myriad colours as the sun shimmered into life against a bright blue sky.

Trick lifted a weary hand from the water to brush away the jabbing sensation from the back of his head. A flap of wings made him flinch as taloned feet suddenly disengaged from his shoulder, causing him to flop into the waves once more. Where was he? What on earth was going on? His exhaustion was absolute. He could have fallen back into the water and let the waves drag him out into the sea, if it weren’t for that bird. It was a big black crow, now hopping on the shore in front of him. It jumped from one foot to the other, kicking up the golden sand before leaping forward to jab him between the eyes with its beak. Trick winced, lashing out and sending the bird dancing clear with a flurry of feathers. It cocked its head suddenly, pointing its dagger-like beak back down the beach. Trick turned his aching neck, following its gaze.

In the heat haze it was hard to distinguish where the beach ended and the sky began, but there was no mistaking the fact that a figure was running through the surf towards him. The man was about a hundred metres away; he was a few inches taller than Trick, but twice as wide, and kicked up sand and spray as he came. He wore pitch-dark leather boots and elbow-length gauntlets as well as a pitted black tabard running down to his knees that bore the stained image of a skull. The battered helmet he wore obscured his face from view, looking like an upturned tin bucket with rivets bolted round its base. A T-shaped slit ran across his eyes and down to the chin. Most alarming of all was the mace he carried in his right hand, its chain and ball circling round his head like a deadly, spiked propeller.

Trick looked over his shoulder, back the other way, but saw nobody else on the beach. He returned his attention to the approaching man in the ridiculous outfit. Fifty metres and closing. Surely he can’t be running to me, reasoned the boy. Whatever this man’s beef was, it was hardly going to be with him, was it?

‘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!’