A New Hero Page 8

  ‘Pig get mad!’ said Mungo, chuckling. That was enough to draw the giant boar’s attention. Its red eyes now focused on the blue-skinned warrior.

  ‘Cheers,’ whispered Toki breathlessly, as the monster turned on the Celt.

  It got close and let loose a roar, spattering Mungo in stinking spittle. He roared back, silencing it momentarily. It lashed at him with a tusk, making him contort on the post and shift his body to one side. Having missed its target, the boar’s head was suddenly alongside him, its eye beside his face. Mungo launched his head towards it, butting the bright red pupil with a resounding squelch. The boar wailed again, this time in agony as it staggered between the four stakes towards another warrior … Trick.

  With dread, the schoolboy realized the boar was behind him. He felt its breath on his neck, its teeth and tusks raking down the stake behind him. He stretched the rope that held his hands taut, feeling the boar’s massive jagged teeth catch against the hemp. They cut through the bonds as sure as a knife, sending the boy collapsing to the ground.

  He scrambled backwards down the slope as the monster continued forward, squeezing between Trick’s vacated stake and the one that held the woman. Her post was pushed to one side, loosened from the earth, as the gargantuan pig stalked towards Trick. The woman heaved hard, pushing her back into the stake and working it the other way, trying to worry it free. All the while the beast advanced. Its trotters struck the ground, forcing an exhausted Trick to roll one way and then the other, evading the monstrous feet. It reared up, ready to strike a crushing, killing blow, as the boy gave a scream of horror.

  Then a shape passed over the moon at the beast’s back: a figure still fastened to a stake. The woman leapt high, soaring, flying on a deadly trajectory. Then she was descending, sliding free of the giant spear, her jump executed to perfection. The stake sank into the boar’s neck, drove down through its throat and emerged beneath its jaw. Its squealing death rattle caught in its chest as it skewered into the earth beside Trick. The woman landed gracefully in one fluid motion, extending a hand to the stunned schoolboy. Trick took it gratefully.

  ‘Kazumi,’ she said. ‘Delighted to meet you, Trick.’

  KAZUMI’S SUMMONING

  Japan, AD 1184

  Kazumi ran.

  The Samurai Bride, that was what they called her. Before each and every battle, her preparations included the painting of her face, as befitted a bride upon her wedding day: a mask of white, with tiny ruby-red lips. This was Kazumi’s quirk, her tradition, her dark sense of humour. It was her superstition. She was married to her naginata, the long-bladed spear that was her weapon of choice, and when she had become a samurai in the service of the Minamoto clan she had vowed never to take a husband.

  Now she found herself a key player in the Battle of Awazu, running across a frozen field, her painted face no longer pristine. Blood spattered it – her enemies’ blood, not her own – and the fight was far from over. She had sworn allegiance to General Yoshinaka, and for very many moons had enjoyed a life of privilege. That life was over now.

  She and her master were on the run, from his own family no less. Emperor Go-Shirakawa had sided with Yoshinaka’s cousin, Yoritomo, and the clan leader had sent his vast army after his own blood. And here Kazumi found herself, loyal to a man the Emperor wanted dead. She had no future. Only death awaited. She could yet have a say in how that played out.

  Separated from her fellow samurai and hounded by a horde of Minamoto clan foot soldiers, Kazumi danced across the ice-packed earth. The corpses of those she’d slain lay about her, many missing their heads thanks to the deadly reach of the Samurai Bride’s naginata.

  Suddenly she was spinning, knocked off her feet and skidding along the ice. Her left shoulder screamed with agony. She bent her head and saw the arrowhead protruding above her breast. The warriors shouted behind her, pointing out her location as more arrows hit the ground around her. She got back to her feet, stumbling and staggering as she found a dead horse to hide behind.

  Placing her naginata down before her, Kazumi knelt and composed herself. Reaching behind her, she snapped the arrow shaft where it was buried in her back. Then her fingers were at her chest, bloody fingernails gripping the steel tip. She gritted her teeth, pushing away the pain as she worked the arrow through her shoulder. She felt the shaft grate against her collarbone, heard it squeal and suck as it emerged from her flesh. With a pop it came free, turning the snow pink before her.

  The shouting grew louder. They would be upon her in moments. Kazumi had a decision to make, and quickly. Her hand went to her hip where she kept her tantō knife. It was gone, lost in the prolonged battle. She cursed, picking up her naginata once again. So be it. She would die fighting. She would not allow them to take her alive.

  Bounding over the horse’s corpse, she found a dozen foot soldiers waiting for her, swords raised. She whipped out the naginata, making them all recoil as one. Kazumi saw their murderous grins as they realized they had the samurai surrounded. They raised their weapons and prepared to charge.

  ‘Let this be swift,’ Kazumi whispered to herself.

  Suddenly the enemy soldiers covered their faces as a burst of light illuminated them. Some dropped their weapons and ran in fear, while others prayed to their gods. Kazumi looked up. Directly overhead a globe of brilliant azure light had appeared, unnatural sparks playing off its spherical surface. Before she could wonder any further, the ball of lightning dropped, swallowing her up entirely and overpowering her senses. The brightness took her, and the Samurai Bride was gone.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Hog roast!’ bellowed Mungo, letting loose a triumphant, joy-filled holler.

  The villagers cheered as the Celt began an impromptu jig round the roaring fire, while the slain boar roasted on an enormous spit at his back. The tribesmen came forward, carved great slices off the haunches of the roasted beast, and handed out generous portions to one another. Music was played, mead was quaffed and wildmen joined the blue-skinned warrior as he led the merry dance.

  Trick sat nearby, Kazumi to one side of him, Toki on the other, eating heartily and accepting the gifts of the villagers. Each was thanked with a crown of flowers, while garlands were draped round their necks. Babies were brought forward to receive their blessings, while those children who could walk crept up, keen to touch the heroes who had freed their people. As nights went, this one had seen a tremendous reversal of fortune.

  ‘We can’t thank you enough,’ said the chieftain, stepping up to the three seated warriors.

  ‘Just keep filling my mug,’ said Toki, holding it out so a villager could top it up, ‘and we’ll say all’s forgiven.’

  The chieftain stared at the carcass as it turned slowly, smoking on the spit. ‘We have been tormented by that monster for many years. Now, not only is the beast butchered but we have enough meat to last us through winter!’

  Toki polished off his mug and held it up once more, stifling a belch as it was refilled again.

  ‘We’re not after your thanks,’ said Trick. ‘We just need to get to Sea Forge. Perhaps you can point us in the right direction?’

  ‘The quickest way may not be the safest,’ said the chieftain, as his tribesmen danced past, daubed in Mungo’s blue woad. ‘Do you mean to avoid the Skull Army?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Trick.

  ‘These hills are ours, but Boneshaker controls the land around the coast and north of the river. The foothills of Greendeep Valley are very exposed. The agents of the Lord of Darkness will see you coming from miles away. If you mean to cross the Meadswill at Mudflatt, follow the river itself for the remainder of the way. It’s rockier; you’ll find more cover there. You would be wise to travel at night.’

  ‘And our provisions? Our equipment?’

  ‘We shall return them to you – and more – when you depart.’ Mungo streaked past, bare blue flesh flashing by in a blur. ‘And could you ask your friend to put his clothes back on? He’s scaring the little ones.’ With that, the
head of the tribe bowed low and returned to the festivities.

  ‘It’s Boneshaker you’re after?’ asked Kazumi.

  ‘Indeed, wench,’ said Toki in his deepest, most masculine voice. ‘And not just Boneshaker. First on the list is Boarhammer, the Lord of Sea Forge. We mean to crush the fiends, like nuts beneath our heels.’ He balled a fist and slapped it into an open palm.

  The unimpressed Kazumi ignored him, directing her questions to Trick. ‘I too have an axe to grind with this Boarhammer, preferably upon his skull.’

  ‘You’ve got a beef with him?’

  ‘My travelling companions and I had set up camp in Greendeep Valley. When I returned from hunting I found that Boarhammer’s men had paid a visit. My friends’ heads awaited me. On spikes. Yes, you could say I have a beef with the Lord of Sea Forge.’

  ‘Revenge,’ said Toki. ‘I like it,’ he added, sinking his mug of mead.

  ‘It seems we have shared goals,’ said Kazumi to Trick. ‘Let me accompany you, join you on your quest. This would be mutually beneficial for both of us.’

  ‘Umm … what’s your weapon of choice?’ asked Trick, attempting unsuccessfully to sound knowledgeable in front of the samurai.

  ‘I fight with the naginata.’

  ‘The what now?’

  ‘It’s a pole-arm with a blade at the end. Good for parrying as well as striking from a distance. I noted that you favour the quarterstaff.’

  Trick scratched his head. ‘Yeah. I’m kind of learning on the job. Bit of a noob, really.’

  ‘I don’t know what a noob is, but I can help you master the weapon. I trained with a bo staff in my youth, before graduating on to the naginata. I will teach you as we journey, impart my knowledge. I expect obedience, discipline and diligence.’

  Trick smiled. That was four they now numbered. ‘Sweet.’ He raised his fist. Kazumi looked at it with suspicion.

  ‘He wants you to punch him,’ said Toki grumpily.

  Kazumi nodded, taking him at his word, and threw her fist. It connected with Trick’s chin. And that was that for the boy from London for one night. He slept the sleep of the just and glass-jawed.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After a further day of rest, Trick’s adventuring party finally took to the road. There was only one flaw in the chieftain’s suggestion of travelling at night. Great though this was for evading the attentions of Boneshaker’s scouts, Trick found the darkness overwhelming. This was nothing like night back home. He couldn’t go anywhere in London without light pollution illuminating his way. The Wildlands had no such man-made glow in the midnight sky.

  With the moon hidden by clouds, their progress was stumbling and slow, dependent upon guesswork. None of the four had any local knowledge. All they knew was that they needed to follow the rocky passages along the side of the river, and eventually they would arrive at the shanty port of Mudflatt.

  ‘Tin-head lost,’ chuckled Mungo from the back of the party, as Toki led them through the night.

  ‘Cease your buzzing, Bluebottle, lest I swat you,’ replied the Viking as he picked a path through a narrow ravine, leading the way. ‘You forget, I sailed to the edge of the world, navigating by the stars in the most storm-tossed seas!’

  This only made the Celt laugh louder. ‘Tin-head funny. Tin-head lost!’

  There was no reply from the Viking. Instead he forged on, squeezing between the walls of rock as they descended deeper through the corridor of stone. Trick could hear the sound of the river nearby, a distant roar that hinted that they might indeed be heading in the right direction.

  ‘Are they always like this?’ whispered Kazumi as she walked behind Trick.

  ‘Sadly, yes. They swing between annoying and infuriating. It’s never dull.’

  Their chatter was interrupted by the cursing of Toki as he stubbed his foot against a rock.

  ‘Whassat?’ asked Mungo from the rear. ‘Tin-head need Mungo’s help?’

  ‘Shut your trap, Dungbreath,’ replied Toki, struggling to regain his composure. ‘I’m merely suggesting we stop for a moment to take water. We’ve been marching for hours.’

  He wasn’t wrong. Trick could feel the ache in his legs and welcomed the chance to find a rock to perch on. Toki craned his neck, searching the sky for stars. Trick didn’t have the heart to point out that whatever stars were up there were unlikely to correlate with those back home on Earth. Who knew what kind of constellations twinkled overhead?

  Kazumi passed her waterskin to him. Trick gratefully accepted it and took a measured swig. Then she was climbing up the jagged incline to a ledge overhead. She looked up and down the ravine, scouring the darkness for signs of movement. The Japanese woman was a tough cookie, humourless and hard as teak. The two had sparred back at the wildmen’s village for long, arduous hours. The muscles in Trick’s arms still hummed from exertion and the pounding she’d given him with the blunt end of her naginata. Still, he felt he was getting the hang of the bamboo staff. If he could master such a weapon, perhaps they’d stop asking him to take up a blade.

  He passed the skin back to Toki and leaned back against the rock, closing his eyes for a moment and thinking of home. Dad, in particular. Usually when he thought of his old man it was with annoyance. Not now. He missed him, especially his smile. Things weren’t so bad at home after all. Only now did Trick realize how good life had truly been.

  He hoped he’d get the chance to return to that poky flat in north London and repair their damaged relationship. Or at the very least wake up from his nightmare. Perhaps he hadn’t dashed into the British Museum after all. Maybe he’d missed the double-decker bus when he leapt from the rooftops, and this was all some wild coma-induced hallucination. That was what happened in films, right?

  Trick was snapped back to the present by a tickling sensation on the back of his right hand. He looked down to where it rested, spying something crawling across it. Although it was very dark, the bug cast a green glow as it wriggled and squirmed against his skin. Trick smiled, rolling it into the palm of his other hand and lifting it to his face for closer inspection. It was the insect’s abdomen that was bioluminescent, just like glow-worms back home. Only this was bigger than anything he’d seen in England. It was about three centimetres long – a real whopper.

  ‘Whassat?’ asked Mungo, peering round Toki to get a look.

  ‘Some kind of glow bug or firefly. Cool, isn’t it?’

  The Celt smacked his lips. ‘Mungo eats bugs.’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ said Trick, shielding the insect from the Celt. He wondered if his dad was remembering to feed Shelob, his pet tarantula, in his absence. He hoped so. Insects wigged out plenty of people, but not Trick. And they appeared to make Mungo’s stomach growl.

  ‘Mungo hungry!’ bellowed the blue-woad warrior, striking his sword against the rock face and gurning wildly. The sound echoed up and down the ravine.

  ‘Keep it down, fool,’ said Kazumi from where she perched overhead, ‘or you’ll alert our enemies to our presence.’

  Trick was staring at the bug, fascinated. By the light of its abdomen, he could see that all the hairs on the back of his hand were standing on end, as if charged by static. That wasn’t all. The fillings in his teeth seemed to ache as he brought the creature closer to his face, as if electrical fields were rolling off the insect. A blinding spark crackled suddenly from the bug’s abdomen, illuminating the immediate area. The insect lurched across his hand, gobbling up a big fat fly that had been electrocuted by the surprisingly large bolt of pure energy.

  ‘Man, that is overkill,’ Trick muttered.

  ‘Mungo blind!’ wailed the Celt as Toki pushed him away, preventing him from lurching into him. ‘Whassat?’

  ‘The bug. Lightning came out … of … its …’ Trick’s words trailed away as he suddenly realized where they were. The chittering noises in the darkness were an additional clue, as the inhabitants of the ravine were drawn to Mungo’s noisy shenanigans and the glow bug’s butt-flash. They came out of the f
issures in the rock, up from the cracks in the ground, squirming out of the deep black shadows. The noises came from behind them, back the way they’d come, a rising din of hideous burbles.

  ‘Grub Gulch!’ said Trick, remembering Kalaban’s warning. ‘We’re in Grub Gulch! We need to move – now!’

  He jumped up, grabbing Toki and throwing him forward through the ravine. The Viking didn’t object, dashing on with his sword held ahead of him defensively. That was the only way to go. Retreating would bring them face-to-face with the gulch’s inhabitants and they weren’t top of Trick’s sightseeing list.

  Then Trick grabbed Mungo, and the warrior’s eyes widened in alarm as he was pulled along. The Celt struck his head on an overhanging rock, and landed on the floor with a thump. Trick heard the jingling clatter of coins as the money bag on Mungo’s hip burst with the impact. Trick saw a shape rise high behind Mungo, separating from the gulch wall, as he tried hopelessly to retrieve the spilled coins. Mungo looked up, stunned, as Trick held up his bug, hoping it might cast light over the situation. That did the job, and then some.

  One after another, a horde of insect rumps began to hum into life, answering the call of their tiny brethren. And these were big bugs. The warriors seemed to be in a sea of lanterns, shimmering and growing in intensity; the hellish insects were almost a metre long. Mandibles clapped, legs tapped and gelatinous bodies bulged and rippled. And there, behind Mungo, was the mother of all monstrous bugs. Its huge body was bloated, lights flashing within an enormous egg sac that writhed with a million tiny pupae.

  The Celt screamed and raised his sword, the metal gleaming.

  ‘No!’ yelled Trick, but it was too late.

  Before he could strike the giant grub, a lightning bolt arced from the queen’s shuddering abdomen, connecting with the steel and sending sword and warrior ricocheting off the rocks like a snooker ball. He landed some distance away, white hair and beard smoking, eyes glazed over.