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 changed, 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.’
‘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.’
‘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 …’