A New Hero

by Curtis Jobling

  ‘It’s no good,’ said the bird, as Trick hefted the limp warrior on to his shoulders. ‘He’s snuffed it!’

  ‘Peck the noose loose,’ grunted Trick as he stood unsteadily with the red-haired youth slumped on his back as smoke continued to belch out of the burning inn.

  ‘But he’s gone!’

  ‘Do it!’

  The crow landed on the young man’s head, twisting his beak to pick and worry at the knot. Gradually it came apart, and the warrior fell forward as the rope came free. Trick tumbled down with him, trying to catch him before he hit the boards. The two landed in a jumble of limbs, and Trick crawled out from underneath and rolled the fair-skinned youth on to his back. He couldn’t have been much older than Trick. Perhaps late teens?

  Preoccupied as he was, Trick was unaware that a bare-headed soldier had emerged from an alley beside the inn. The man had clearly been relieving himself and was adjusting his plate suit as he made for the steps. His armour clanked as he stopped suddenly, alerting Kaw to his presence. The crow squawked as Trick rose and spun. Soldier and schoolboy remained motionless, frozen momentarily. Trick’s eyes flitted to the helmet at his feet that had almost broken his neck; it had not been discarded after all. The soldier’s grizzled face twisted into an expression of menace as he weighed up the boy before him. Then the man was moving, whipping a dagger out of his weapon belt as he bolted up the steps towards Trick. The kid was quicker.

  The black helmet rocketed through the air, toe-poked by Trick directly at the soldier’s face. It struck him hard and sweet in the forehead, splitting the skin as he lurched up the steps, intent on murder. Trick looked left and right; there was nowhere to go but backwards into the inn. Smoke might have been billowing out of the open doorway, but the boy had no choice. Throwing a sleeved forearm over his mouth, he ran in. The brute followed, bouncing off the door frame as he gave chase, cursing.

  Fires still burned, above and around the inn’s stone walls, which were all that had kept it standing. Trick dashed through the debris, running he knew not where, all too conscious of the killer on his heels. Lead the soldier in and get back out before the whole inn came down – that was Trick’s plan. His parkour skills kicked in. He jumped on to a chair, his next step finding a table that instantly tilted and sent him forward. Trick leapt, hurdling upturned furniture as he arrived on the long bar at the inn’s centre. The soldier followed with a great deal less finesse, throwing stools and tables aside as he pursued the boy. The crackling roar of the fire raged overhead, where the upper floors were still aflame, and black smoke rolled between the floorboards and boiled across the ceiling.

  A knife hit the bar at Trick’s feet, the blade quivering in the wood. He looked back at the soldier who was already pulling a second knife from his belt, a broken-toothed grin breaking up his ugly face. Trick dropped behind the bar, in no doubt that he was in mortal danger. He scanned for anything he might defend himself with. A keg the size of a bucket was stashed beneath the counter. He snatched it up, hearing the contents swill about inside.

  ‘I got a rope with your name on, scum,’ said the soldier, his voice directly above Trick. A gnarled hand reached down over the counter, seizing the boy by his hair. He cried out, launching the keg up at the man. It cracked him square in the face, the wooden container exploding as its contents showered his head and shoulders. He released his grip on Trick, wailing as his split scalp was peppered with brandy-soaked splinters. Trick didn’t hang around, jumping up and rolling back over the bar as the blinded soldier smacked his bloodied lips.

  ‘Come here, you little –’

  He never got the obscenity out. A blackened beam buckled above him, sprinkling the soldier with burning embers. The moment the glowing shards glanced his saturated shoulders, the brandy ignited with a woof that would have put a Rottweiler to shame. His shout became a high-pitched scream as he was engulfed by flames, allowing Trick to dash for the door as the ceiling came down behind him. The soldier’s cries were silenced as Trick leapt through the crumbling doorway in an explosion of dirty smoke. Kaw took flight from the porch, squawking excitedly. The whole melee had lasted half a minute.

  Trick didn’t stop. He dashed straight to the hanged youth’s body, dragging him off the steps and into the dusty street, away from the crumbling inn. Trick bent over the body, turning his head and placing an ear to the chest, checking for signs of life. Anything.

  ‘Told you,’ sighed Kaw, as Trick retrieved the dead soldier’s helmet. ‘He’s brown bread, ain’t he?’

  The bird watched the boy slide the helmet into the horse trough, returning with his makeshift bucket sloshing. Kaw hopped clear as Trick tipped the contents of the helmet over the motionless youth. The young warrior didn’t react to the faceful of water. Trick sighed, dropping to his knees, the helmet rolling from his hand across the dirt. His head slumped as Kaw flapped closer.

  ‘Fret not, kid. You can’t win every battle.’

  The red-haired fighter spluttered, his eyes flickering open as Trick’s heart suddenly soared. The youth fixed his gaze upon the schoolboy and mouthed two words silently – thank you – before his blue eyes fluttered shut once more and he fell into a deep, troubled sleep.

  TOKI’S SUMMONING

  Norway, AD 787

  The drum beat fast.

  Toki could feel it in his head, in his heart, reverberating through his body. He looked over his shoulder, spying his brother warriors as they bent their backs to the drum’s rhythm, straining on their oars as they worked together. The deck lurched with each stroke and the boat’s prow cut through the waves as it ploughed along the narrow channel and shallow waters towards the shore.

  As the chief’s son, he was expected to be the first on to the beach, leading the raiding party. The thrill of the forthcoming battle made the red-haired youth’s skin flush, and his palms sweated as he clutched sword and shield. Peering up over the prow of his longship, Toki chanced a glance.

  The drum beat was quickening.

  His father’s chief scout had told them that the enemy’s village would be deserted, that their warriors would be away on their own raiding mission. This was the way of the Viking: loot, pillage, kill your neighbour. Sure enough, there were no ships in the tiny harbour, no longboats moored at the jetty. There was no sign of life at all. The longhouses were devoid of activity. It was like a ghost town. If the warriors were away, then where were the women and children? Toki looked up at the cliffs that loomed on either side of them. The village was situated in an inlet, accessed through this rock-lined channel. He glanced back at the following longship, on which his father sailed: his expectant father, awaiting his only son’s impending victory. Something wasn’t right.

  The drum beat grew frenetic.

  Toki saw movements above, all along the clifftops, as figures suddenly emerged along their length. They carried bows with strings pulled taut, flames licking from the pitch-soaked arrowheads that were ready to be unleashed. Toki screamed to his men, warned them they were betrayed, ordered them to stop rowing; but it was too late.

  He could already feel the longboat’s hull scraping on the gravel of the inlet’s beach. Right on cue, the arrows flew, flaming missiles descending upon each raiding ship. Toki raised his shield and an arrow struck it, almost dislocating his arm from its socket. The deck was suddenly ablaze and his comrades wailed as they were peppered with arrows. The handful of men who were crowded beside him looked to their leader.

  ‘With me, lads!’ roared the chieftain’s son as he leapt up on to the dragon head carved into the boat’s fearsome prow. As he jumped on to the sandy beach, he could see the horde of Viking defenders spilling from the longhouses, fully armed and prepared to fight. He spied his father’s treacherous chief scout among them, thick as thieves with his foes. Toki swore to Odin that he would kill the betrayer, or die trying.

  From nowhere, a blinding blue light enveloped Toki, snatching him from the air. He felt as if his lungs were charged with lightning, as if his whole being ha
d been struck by a thunderbolt. The light grew brighter, until there was nothing, and the drums and the death were a distant, dark memory.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  While the red-haired youth slept, Trick explored the remains of Warriors Landing. The few buildings that still stood were brick-built, their roofs burnt, their inhabitants long gone. The village was a ghost town, all sign of life wiped out by the soldiers of the Skull Army. By the time he returned to the dilapidated wreck of the inn, the young warrior was sitting upright, his back to the water trough. Kaw hopped about nearby, fruitlessly scratching at the dry earth for worms. When he saw Trick approaching, the youth scrambled to his feet, teetering and threatening to topple at any moment. Trick dashed towards him, catching him by the elbow.

  ‘Whoa, dude,’ said Trick. ‘What are you doing? Sit down!’

  The young man shook his head, his mop of red hair flicking water in Trick’s face.

  ‘I am not Dude,’ he said, punching his breast with a clenched fist, his voice hoarse after all he’d endured. ‘I am Toki, son of Tulka. And I owe you my life, friend.’

  The fist now struck Trick in the chest – hard – making him wince. Friendly it may have been, but it hurt like heck. ‘Steady on,’ said Trick. ‘I dread to see what you do to people you hate.’

  Toki’s face lit up, freckles dancing across his nose and cheeks as he held his open hand out. Trick moved to shake it, only for the young man to snatch at Trick’s forearm beside the elbow, gripping hard as he pulled him in close. They clashed torsos. Toki clapped Trick’s back with his other hand. It seemed the manly greetings were far from over.

  ‘OK,’ said Trick, disengaging from Toki’s embrace and encouraging him to sit on the water trough. ‘I get it. Bear hugs, macho posturing and all that. You’re worse than my Uncle Tony. You can’t shake his hand without him trying to crush it.’

  ‘Apologies, friend. I assumed you were a warrior, like me, called here to battle Boneshaker and his awful army.’

  ‘I’m no warrior, and the name’s Trick.’ He raised a fist and Toki did the same, hesitantly. Trick struck it across the knuckles with his own, his greeting of choice. ‘And that, Toki, is a fist bump, how we say “hello” from now on, right? No more bone breaking!’

  Trick got a good look at his new acquaintance, who was ruefully rubbing his throat. The mark that encircled his neck was red and livid, and the noose had left painful lesions in his skin. Yet he was alive, having somehow survived the rope and the asphyxiation. That meant Toki was tough. He wore a rusty orange woollen tunic, tied round the waist by a leather belt, while his dirty brown leggings were scuffed and torn by a fair amount of fighting. Beyond that, it was hard to place him, although it was refreshing to hear him speak.

  ‘Whereabouts in England are you from?’ asked Trick, as the young man stood once again, this time more steadily.

  ‘England?’ Toki shook his head. ‘I don’t know this place. I am from Norrvegr.’

  ‘But you speak English.’

  Toki shrugged. ‘I speak the language of my people, Norse, as do you. But my, you’re the strangest-looking Viking I’ve ever encountered.’

  ‘Viking?’ whispered Trick in disbelief.

  ‘It’s the Wildlands!’ squawked Kaw, abandoning his foraging. ‘Magic runs through the rivers, the land, even the air you breathe here. This place has a funny way of mixing and making sense of your words. You speak the Wildtongue, the moment you arrive.’

  Trick turned to the bird and eyed him suspiciously. ‘For a blackbird –’

  ‘Crow!’ corrected Kaw.

  ‘For a crow, you seem to know an awful lot about what’s going on here.’

  ‘A chattering rook is a mere trifle,’ said Toki, elbowing Trick heartily in the ribs. ‘By Odin’s beard, there are such beasts in this land! The mere sight of them would curdle your giblets!’

  Trick’s smile slipped as he looked at the dead bodies in the trees. ‘What happened here, Toki?’

  The young warrior sighed wearily. ‘Warriors Landing was a haven for those of us who were summoned, a place to gather and form alliances.’

  ‘Summoned, you say? Like that guy in the turban who turned up in a flash of light?’

  ‘Exactly like that!’

  ‘His timing really sucked,’ said Trick, glancing across to where the Saracen’s corpse still lay in the street.

  ‘Didn’t it just?’ replied Toki with a sigh. ‘I heard tales of other Vikings, such as myself, who had passed through Warriors Landing, including the legendary warrior known as Shield Maiden. Such talk drew me to this village, and I found friendship here too. Brothers in arms, such as you and me.’ He looked at the trees sadly. ‘Gone now.’

  Toki ran a thumb round his neck, reminded of his ordeal. ‘If it hadn’t been for you, Trick, I would be in Valhalla now.’

  Trick felt uncomfortable. It wasn’t like him to do anyone a favour, bar Grandpa, and hearing the Viking’s grateful words gave him a new and uneasy feeling.

  ‘They came last night,’ Toki continued, ‘while the villagers slept. We were feasting in the inn with the elders, toasting, quaffing and relaxing. We were utterly unprepared. The Skull Army swept through Warriors Landing on a wave of steel. Those who weren’t killed were taken, dragged away in shackles and wagons, destined for Sea Forge.’

  ‘What’s Sea Forge? I heard the dude with the bucket of antlers on his head mention it.’

  ‘Big city on the coast,’ said Kaw. ‘Governed by Boneshaker’s warlord, Boarhammer. Really nasty piece of work. Back in the day he was chief berserker for His Dark Evilness, the first to the front in any fight.’

  ‘Berserker?’

  ‘Total nutter. Drops his defences for all-out attack, and when he goes he really goes. He’s retired from the berserking and the battlefield these days, mind you. Sits in his palace getting fat, they say, but he still carries his spiked mace with him everywhere he goes. Surrounds himself with a motley crew from the Skull Army and has the city well within his grasp. And, as for the “dude in the antler bucket”, that was Tombstone. He’s Boneshaker’s right hand.’

  Trick shivered as he remembered Tombstone’s grating, gruesome voice. ‘What’ll happen to the villagers he’s taken prisoner?’

  Kaw let out a shrill cry. ‘Those who ain’t sold into slavery end up in Boarhammer’s arena. He always needs peasants to feed to his beasts between the gladiator bouts. Keeps the crowd happy.’

  Trick shook his head, struggling to take in the barbarism he was hearing about.

  ‘We should be wary,’ said Toki, looking up and down the street. ‘There were other soldiers who might have been left behind by Tombstone, including a bucket-helmed monster who wielded a flail.’

  ‘A flail?’

  ‘Spiked ball and chain. Wicked thing.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Trick, snapping his fingers as he recalled his encounter on the beach. ‘I met that guy. Yeah … I don’t think we need to worry about him.’

  ‘You killed him?’

  ‘No!’ gasped Trick, horrified by the notion. ‘I’m no killer. I’m not even a warrior. There’s been a massive mistake, mate. I shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘So you say, Trick, but you showed bravery as great as any warrior when you saved my neck from the noose. You are a warrior, my friend – you just don’t know it yet!’

  Toki raised a fist and held it out. Trick reluctantly bumped it and the Viking cheered.

  ‘So, what next?’ asked Trick, directing the question to Kaw. ‘Toki’s free and I guess we’re done here. Now can I go home?’

  ‘I don’t have those answers, pal,’ said the crow. ‘You want to seek out Kalaban. He’s got all the answers, ain’t he?’

  ‘Kalaban?’

  ‘Yeah – the Oracle. He may be able to help.’

  ‘Let’s go then,’ said Trick, clapping his hands together. ‘Where can we find him?’

  ‘That ain’t an easy question to answer. He turned hermit; been gone for twenty years.’

  ‘Tw
enty years?’ exclaimed Toki. ‘How in Odin’s name are we supposed to find him then?’

  ‘Keep your helmet on, ginger nut,’ squawked the bird, taking flight. ‘Head up the River Tangle. He’ll be waiting for you.’

  ‘So we follow the river?’ asked Trick, confused.

  ‘It’s a start, ain’t it?’ said the crow as he winged away. ‘Look around, see what you can find! If you’re worthy warriors, you’ll find him all right …’

  ‘Where are you going?’ shouted Trick after him.

  ‘Things to pinch, worms to catch,’ cried Kaw as he vanished over the smoking rooftops.

  Trick dusted himself down and slung his schoolbag back over his shoulder.

  ‘Well, it was good to meet you, Toki. I need to get moving. If there are any more of Boneshaker’s cronies about, I’d rather not be around when they turn up.’ The Viking stepped alongside him. ‘Umm … what are you doing?’

  ‘Coming with you,’ said Toki, lifting his fist expectantly, awaiting another bump. ‘You saved my life, Trick. Where you go, I follow.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Warm though the day had been, the night was chilly. Trick and Toki sat before a crackling campfire on the banks of the River Tangle, the branches popping and fizzing in the flames. Their departure from Warriors Landing had been delayed as the young Scandinavian had insisted on not only cutting the dead down from the trees but also giving them a Viking burial in the still-burning ruins of the inn.

  Trick had stood by and watched, bewildered. He was a schoolkid from London thrown into a world of war and horror. Nothing about the day’s events sat easy with him, and as he stared into the fire he had to wonder how he’d ended up in this predicament.

  A growl stirred Trick from his reverie, making him jump where he sat cross-legged. ‘What was that?’