A New Hero

by Curtis Jobling

  With no small degree of pain and discomfort, Trick forced himself between the bars, landing in an ungainly heap within the slave pen. The prisoners nearest to him backed away, alarmed by the arrival of a stranger in their midst. Who was this, who would willingly climb through the portcullis to join them? Men and women backed away, children hiding behind their parents as Trick picked up his gear and went deeper into the cavern.

  Most of the prisoners were recognizably civilians, like those who had been rounded up in Warriors Landing. Their ragged clothes were torn and stained with blood, their faces dark with grime and dirt. As Trick advanced and the captives retreated, he heard their manacles jangling, a grim chorus of grating metal, as their shackled feet carried them clear of him. Then he was through the terrified poor folk, and approaching another row of bars. Beyond this barrier he could see the imprisoned warriors.

  They stood in a cluster, a dozen of them, shoulder to shoulder, their backs turned as they plotted a plan of action. Their time in the arena was at hand. Chained they may be, but none of them intended going down without a fight. Trick heard their voices, some in agreement, some arguing, as they decided how they should fight. The debate was fierce, their pitch rising, some even shoving one another.

  ‘Not more bickering warriors,’ muttered Trick, as one of them turned to face him.

  Then another spun round, followed by a further two. Within seconds, the whole gang of manacled fighters was facing the boy from London and staring him down. Suddenly they were parted and the closest two pushed to one side as a familiar figure came staggering out of the huddle. Trick would have recognized the youth’s bright red hair anywhere. The Norseman rushed over to Trick and embraced him through the bars, only disengaging to bump fists.

  ‘Toki, my friend. You cannot imagine how good it is to see you!’

  ‘Friend, Trick? You’re my brother! I knew you would come!’

  ‘Yeah. Fancy seeing you here, mate,’ said Trick, his laughter verging on delirious as he looked about him. The murmur in the crowd of warriors was building now as more and more of them drew closer.

  ‘Where’s Mungo?’

  The Viking clapped Trick’s shoulder and pointed beyond his cell, across the cavern towards another crowd of captives. The blue-woad warrior stood among them, but showed no sign of recognition when the two of them waved at him.

  ‘Our painted friend isn’t all there,’ said Toki, tapping his temple. ‘I fear he is witless. What’s your plan?’

  ‘I mean to speak with the fat clown in the tower.’

  ‘Speak to Boarhammer? That’s your plan?’

  ‘Oh, there’s a little more to it than that,’ said Trick, smiling.

  He unbuckled his weapon belt and handed it through the bars to the Viking. Toki snapped the gear on and seized the handle of the sword. Out it came from its scabbard, smooth and silent.

  ‘Ravenblade?’ gasped the Norseman.

  ‘We found her, Toki! We found Boneshaker’s sword. And I want you to use it in my place, mate.’ For a moment he thought the red-haired Viking might cry. Trick patted his shoulder as his friend gripped the sword. ‘I won’t let you down, brother.’

  ‘See that you don’t,’ said Trick with a wink. ‘Listen, you need to free as many people as you can, Toki, now, before the fighting starts. They’re gonna send you up there chained together. Use the sword and start breaking those manacles. That’ll be a surprise Boarhammer isn’t expecting, nor his gladiators for that matter.’

  ‘I like your thinking, Trick. By Odin’s chin, we will die a glorious death!’

  ‘No, Toki!’ said Trick, annoyance clear in his voice. His hand went through the bars and grabbed his friend by the jerkin. ‘Nobody’s going out with a glorious death today. No blaze of glory or slow-motion shoot-out. I want you – I want everyone here – to get out of this mess alive. Do you hear me?’

  Toki nodded, suitably admonished. ‘I do, Trick. I do. It’s just … Boarhammer must answer for his crimes.’

  ‘And he will. Me, Erika, Kuro and the others have that covered.’

  ‘Erika?’ said the Viking, his dirty face lighting up. ‘You have found my kinswoman, the Shield Maiden.’

  ‘I have,’ grinned Trick. ‘Bit of a head-the-ball, isn’t she?’ Toki’s blank reaction prompted Trick to elaborate. ‘She seems to have a lot of anger issues.’

  That made Toki smile. ‘If she’s anything like the women from my village, she’s a strong, powerful warrior.’

  ‘She is that, and then some,’ sighed Trick. He looked around, seeing that everyone had huddled round them now, warriors and peasants alike.

  ‘You all heard what I said?’ he hissed. They nodded. ‘We’ll need anyone who can swing a staff to be ready. And those of you who can’t – women, children, old folk – as soon as things kick off, get out of there and back down here. The Thieves’ Guild will be causing chaos throughout the coliseum if all goes according to plan.’

  They all nodded and muttered enthusiastically, acknowledging the plan. Plan, mused Trick. That was a stretch as a description.

  ‘Toki, once the guards come, you need to hide that sword under your cloak. Don’t let them see it. I don’t think they want any warriors heading out there with enchanted legendary weapons, mate.’

  ‘I hear you, Trick,’ said the Viking. ‘You’d better go now. They’ll be back shortly.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere,’ said Trick, stepping among the peasants and trying his best to blend in.

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m coming with you guys. I’m joining you in the arena.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The mood inside Boarhammer’s arena had intensified, anticipation of the forthcoming bloodshed whipping the crowd into a frenzy. There was a party atmosphere on the terraces, as the privileged of Sea Forge united in song and celebration. The noise was overwhelming: the spectators sang bawdy, tasteless tunes and chanted the names of their favourites. It reminded Trick of the one occasion he’d been to the football, a windswept afternoon spent at the Emirates Stadium with his dad. That had been his single flirtation with soccer.

  The sport wasn’t for Trick: far too tribal and intimidating. Not like Boarhammer’s arena, of course. Oh no, there was nothing at all scary about the place he now found himself in. The outlandishly dressed teenage boy stepped through the prisoners and made his way towards the warlord’s viewing tower. Skinny jeans and a school blazer provided the most eye-catching and unlikely gladiatorial armour.

  Trick didn’t run. There seemed little point. He was here to attract Boarhammer’s attention after all. And, after the portcullis complication, it had to be him who did this. Just Trick’s luck. There were perhaps a hundred people in the arena, gathered together in huddles. Some among them were warriors, snatched from the streets of Sea Forge by the Skull Army. Most of them were no doubt from the Broken Shield Inn, Trick realized. They’d been handed blunt, broken, rusty weapons with which to defend themselves, and clubs and staffs as well.

  Many of the captives he’d climbed into the arena with were here simply as cannon fodder. All were chained together by manacles, restricting their movement and chances of survival. Or so Boarhammer and the Skull Army thought.

  He took in the captive warriors and peasants as he walked among them. The slaves held battered old swords and shields fearfully. His heart skipped a beat when he spied the child from Warriors Landing. What kind of monster would throw an infant into the arena? Trick wondered. The girl was clutching her father’s thigh, her eyes fixed on Trick just as they had been the day she was abducted from her village. He wondered if she’d yet shed a tear. Perhaps a quick death would be the most she could pray for after the horrors she’d endured. Her eyes followed him as he passed by.

  The warriors were intrigued to see this strange boy without shackles and chains. Of course, those who had been in Toki’s cell were anticipating what was to come. They winked and nodded at him as he continued on his way. These were no favourites of Boarhamm
er; they were from Trick’s home, if not time. He spied a dark-skinned Aborigine, a knight in armour and a swashbuckling pirate with a colourful bandana; they were many, transported to this world of warriors by magic. Trick caught their eyes, hoping he could count on them when the moment came. They gave little away.

  Then there were Boarhammer’s gladiators. These were professional fighters who traded in death; this day promised to be glorious and bloody for them. Only those gladiators loyal to Boarhammer were given the freedom of the sand, and they stalked over it, gladly receiving the applause of the bloodthirsty crowd. They were soldiers from his elite troops, the Blackguard, happy to take up arms against hamstrung warriors and shackled slaves. These were the crowd’s champions, their glorious killers. They wanted to be there.

  Trick looked up at the towering wooden viewing platform that overlooked the battleground. A huge golden gong hung shining like the sun from the back of the balcony, dominating the viewing deck. Boarhammer’s guests of honour were taking their seats, protected from the noon sun’s rays by a great red velvet canopy.

  Trick spied both men and women up there, laughing, drinking and dining as they took up positions on the balcony. Each was dressed in finery – the men in flowing robes, the women adorned with gaudy gems and jewels. These were Boarhammer’s cronies, the lickspittles who helped him run Sea Forge and the surrounding region: merchants, slavers and sea captains. And there, at the centre of the crowd of fawning opportunists, was the man himself.

  Boarhammer was as broad as he was tall, his jutting jaw constantly flapping as he entertained his guests, laughing at his own jokes – the king of all he surveyed. A huge mace swung from his hip, his bone-breaking weapon of choice. Its golden head was studded with spikes, and looked profoundly brutal. The warlord had built his reputation with that terrible hammer, his berserk rages having claimed a long list of victims across the length and breadth of the Wildlands, all in the name of Boneshaker. These days, however, the mace was just for show. His old armour and infamous boar’s-head helm gathered dust in his palace armoury; the warlord had let himself go in dramatic fashion. His belly juddered, his jowls wobbled, wine was spilled and lumps of chewed meat were spat from his mouth. He was truly grotesque.

  The crowd had spotted Trick now, and a murmur rippled through them as they shouted, screamed and pointed. One of Boarhammer’s gladiators rushed to intercept him, dashing between the chained warriors and peasants as he came upon the teenager unawares. The man hadn’t reckoned on one of the shackled warriors though. Hands reached out, grabbing him by the skull and with a swift crack his neck was broken. Trick heard the sickening sound and glanced back. Toki nodded grimly, his hand returning to the jet-black sword beneath his cloak.

  ‘Remember, be ready for anything,’ Trick said to his friend, before striding closer to Boarhammer’s wooden tower.

  He had their attention now, as the warlord’s guests crowded along the balcony’s railing.

  ‘A filthy urchin!’ shouted one man.

  ‘A slave has escaped!’ screamed a woman.

  ‘Kill it, quickly!’ ordered a white-robed boy, pointing out the intruder to the Blackguard gladiators. He was standing beside Boarhammer, and the warlord’s hand was placed gently and lovingly upon his mop of bright blond hair. Was this the favourite nephew Kalaban had warned him about? He was probably a year younger than Trick, but already showed signs of becoming a full-fledged monster. Four of Boarhammer’s elite soldiers weaved their way through the imprisoned combatants now, keen to reach their quarry. Trick wasted no more time.

  ‘Hear me, people of Sea Forge,’ shouted Trick, and the amphitheatre fell suddenly quiet.

  The blond-haired boy rushed to the balcony’s railing and shoved his master’s guests aside. ‘Silence him!’ yelled the child, his face flushed red with rage.

  ‘Let him speak!’

  They all turned at the sound of the voice, rich as syrup, dripping with cocksure confidence. The Lord of Sea Forge rose from his throne on the balcony.

  ‘But he has their ears, Uncle,’ said the boy, pointing at Trick below. Three of Boarhammer’s gladiators had stepped before Trick now, holding their position as they awaited orders from above. ‘He could poison them with his lies.’

  ‘Are you truly afraid of what one boy might say, young Hugo? Do you have that little faith in our subjects? Our people?’

  ‘Heavens, no,’ said the fair-haired boy sheepishly, returning to his position beside the throne.

  Boarhammer leaned on the balcony, his huge golden mace clattering noisily against the railing. His smile was hideous, his chin and jowls slick with grease, fat and food remnants. ‘You think you can sway them to your side? Go on then. Try it. Choose your words wisely, child. They’re your last.’

  Boarhammer’s words echoed, distant and hollow. Trick was busy looking at the trio of gladiators who stood before him. He slowly retreated, returning to the pit he’d emerged from. The gladiators followed. All the while he spoke loudly and clearly to the bloodthirsty audience.

  ‘Pigmallet seems to think I’m here to convince you to join forces with me – ditch him and hook up with my gang. Well, that’s not what I’m here to do.’ The crowd hadn’t expected that, and looked at one another with a mixture of bemusement and bafflement.

  ‘I’m telling you to go. Leave now. Don’t come back. This arena’s closed for business. As for Pigmallet, he ain’t your master any more. The real people of Sea Forge are taking their city back, all those poor sods you keep down by the docks: fish-gutters, clam-diggers, poop-shovellers and street-sweepers. Your time’s over, you shower of sickos. You can just disappear. Leave the arena. Leave the city. Never come back. You ain’t welcome here, see?’

  There was silence on the arena terraces for the briefest time. Could the strange, gangly boy really be saying this? Were the upper classes of Sea Forge really witnessing this bizarre speech? As they realized it was some ridiculous joke, some jape that Boarhammer had planned as part of the spectacle, they burst out laughing. Some of them cheered. Most of them simply spat obscenities at Trick.

  None of them left the arena.

  ‘Was that what you hoped for?’ asked a triumphant Boarhammer on his balcony.

  ‘No. But it’s what I expected.’

  Before Trick could say another word, there was a resounding clang of metal that made his teeth hum. The gong reverberated, Boarhammer’s weapon having struck it dead centre. Right on cue, there was a grinding of metal as levers, winches and other mechanisms set to work beneath the arena. The metal grilles dropped on their hinges, transforming from bars into ramps. There were cheers from the crowd, screams from the slaves and war cries from the warriors as Boarhammer’s pets clambered out of their pits.

  ‘Please let this work,’ whispered Trick, as chaos reigned.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  As the trapdoors clanged open, they sent great plumes of sand billowing across the arena. Gladiators, warriors and slaves alike covered their faces against the choking sand clouds as they slowly subsided. Trick could hear the roar of the crowd, wild with feverish anticipation of the horror that was to come. He blinked as the air slowly cleared.

  Monsters of all shapes and sizes emerged from the pits. They crept and crawled, slithered and swooped, a host of otherworldly beasts. A feather-maned mountain lion was first from its pit, hackles raised and black quills rippling. Its roar heralded the arrival of the rest. An enormous white-furred ape followed, fists beating its chest as it let loose a roar, straight out of an old monster movie.

  A centipede the length of a double-decker bus scuttled up another ramp, weaving straight for a gaggle of slaves. With a beating of leathery wings, four bat-like creatures emerged from their pen, canine heads snarling. They were all chained to a single great boulder which they dragged across the sand as they snapped at each other, seeking a likely meal.

  Trick blinked away the sand as the three armour-clad men closed on him. He peered over his shoulder at the pit he had squeezed out of; th
e ramp grille was lowered, and nothing was emerging. It was the merest snapshot of a glance before his eyes were back upon the trio. They wore chain vests and gladiatorial helmets and – judging by their chuckles – they were grinning inside them. Would they ever have an easier kill than this kid? Trick’s chest went tight as if crushed within a giant’s fist. He grimaced, fearing his organs might fail before the thugs even reached him. Thirteen years old, he mused. No age for a heart attack. The gladiators raised their weapons in unison, readying to strike him.

  The wind whipped around Trick’s ears as figures leapt past him, bounding from the pit at his back. The three fighters stopped short, each faltering where he stood. They were no longer alone. A warrior crouched beside each of them. Zuma, Kuro and Kazumi had dealt their counterparts killing blows, but the gladiators didn’t yet know it. It only dawned upon them as bright red wounds opened across their broken armour and they fell into the sand, wheezing and gurgling. Zuma shook his macuahuitl over his head, Kuro flicked blood from his katana and Kazumi twirled her naginata.

  Then Trick’s companions were moving, dispersing into the assembled prisoners to break their bonds. They weren’t alone. The warriors who had already been freed by Trick and Toki provided cover, engaging the Blackguard gladiators and keeping them occupied. Chains were struck, links were broken and slaves and warriors were set free.

  ‘You did well, Trick Hope,’ said Erika, arriving beside him as a mob of thieves followed her from the pit. Having clambered up the enormous butchered corpse of the monstrous lizard, they scrambled on to the sand, seeking out foes. Women and children dashed the other way, urged towards the tunnels and safer places by a handful of veteran career criminals. The younger thieves were armed with their favourite light arms: clubs and daggers, crossbows and slings.

  ‘You think?’ asked Trick. ‘Reckon I just got Boarhammer mad!’

  ‘That’s a good thing. His anger makes him reckless and that will be his downfall. Kuro and Kazumi will bring him down. We all have our part to play in the fight. Remember, yours is to stay close to me. Leave the fighting to us warriors. You don’t leave my side.’