01 Wing Warrior (4 page)

As far as anyone was concerned, it was just another ordinary day. The parish minister was in the churchyard, weeding the graves. The cows and sheep were grazing peacefully. Several men and women were down at the river washing clothes, and farther on, where the water opened up to the wide expanse of the Everlasting Ocean, fishermen sat on the shore fixing nets and discussing the early–morning catch.

All in all, everything, and everyone, was normal.

Everything, and everyone, except Nimbus.

Nimbus hadn’t been normal since he had emerged from the depths of the cave in the woods. He had been thoughtful and withdrawn, unable to sleep, and unable to concentrate on anything.

Both his father and mother had noticed, but whenever they asked him what was wrong, he would say, ‘Oh, nothing,’ and amble off in a dream. It was peculiar indeed.

On this particularly ordinary morning, Nimbus was sitting at the kitchen table, pushing uneaten eggs around his plate. His mother, Strata, was busy with the housework, her greying hair tied back from her face with a length of frayed string.

Cloud was eating lumpy porridge, lost in his own thoughts.

‘Dad,’ Nimbus said, prodding a piece of bacon with his fork, ‘what do you know about Wing Warriors?’

‘Wing Warriors?’ his father humphed, spooning porridge into his mouth. ‘Nonsense and children’s stories. Is that what Leaf has been teaching you instead of how to read?’

‘Um... Not exactly. I was just interested.’

‘Well, never you mind about old stories and wives’ tales. They’re for people with too much time on their hands. I’ve never seen a dragon, or a Wing Warrior, and I don’t believe in anything I haven’t seen for myself.’ He sounded very convincing, but there was a look in his eyes that suggested he might not be entirely telling the truth.

‘But...’

‘No buts. I don’t want to hear another word about it. Let me eat in peace.’

Nimbus looked to his mother for support, but she simply shrugged.

When Cloud had finished eating, he stood, kissed Strata goodbye, told Nimbus to behave himself, and set off for the mill.

‘Mum?’ Nimbus said.

‘Yes?’ His mother was washing dishes in a bucket of water she had drawn from the well outside.

‘Why is Dad so unwilling to believe in all that dragon stuff?’

His mother looked at him carefully, searching in his eyes for the reason behind such a question. Eventually she smiled, a slightly awkward smile, and poured herself a cup of tea. ‘Your father is a very brave man, a very serious man. You shouldn’t question him.’

‘Is he still angry with me?’

‘No. He isn’t angry with you. Your father worries. The wilderness is no place for a young boy.’

‘I’m not young. I’m almost fourteen and a half years old.’ Nimbus puffed out his chest hopefully, and tried to ignore the fact his mother was taller than he was.

‘You’re growing up quick, Nim, but you’re still a boy to me, and you’re still a boy to your father. The wilderness is a dangerous place, full of animals and bandits.’

‘There aren’t any bandits in the woods.’

‘Maybe not today, but who knows what tomorrow will bring? And your sister certainly shouldn’t be playing there.’

‘She follows me.’

‘As you well know, so why not lead her someplace else? Someplace safer?’

‘She’s not my responsibility.’

His mother blew steam from her tea and took a sip. The sun was streaming through the window, filling the kitchen with a warm honey–roasted light. ‘One day,’ she said, carefully, ‘your father and I may not be around. Then you will be responsible for your sister.’

Nimbus was suddenly aware of Glass standing in the doorway. It was impossible to tell how long she had been there, and Nimbus wondered how much she had heard.

‘I’m ready,’ she yawned, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl.

‘Good,’ Strata said. ‘Now off you go. Leaf is waiting for you.’

‘But, Mum...’ Nimbus protested. ‘Why do I even need to learn how to read? I’m bound to end up farming or working in the mill like dad. Reading is just a waste of time.’

His mother frowned. She formulated her next sentence carefully. ‘No–one knows what the future will bring, Nimbus. I would rather you faced such uncertainty with as many talents as possible at your disposal. Including reading.’

The children headed off, but they only got as far as the end of the garden path before Nimbus stopped. ‘I’m not going to Leaf’s class today,’ he said.

‘Why not?’ Glass asked.

‘I can’t really say. There’s just something I need to do. Tell Leaf I’m feeling ill, but tell her I’d like to borrow her book on legends.’

‘You’ll be in trouble.’

‘Not if you do as I say.’

He looked long and hard at Glass. Eventually, after a good deal of thought, she nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll say you’re sick. But you have to tell me where you’re going.’

‘Not yet. I will, though.’ He ruffled her neatly combed hair. ‘Now run on or you’ll be late. And don’t forget to ask Leaf if I can borrow that book of hers. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Good girl.’

Glass saluted playfully, then scampered off down the road. When she was gone, Nimbus’s gaze was drawn to his little one–storey house, and he was overcome by an odd sensation. Suddenly, he found it almost impossible to look away. It was as if he was seeing his home for the very first time, or perhaps the very last time, and he wanted to make a mental note of every single detail while he had the chance.

The thatched roof was starting to look patchy, the stonework was solid but uninspired, and the chimney was a little bit on the wonky side; but for all its faults, this was his home and he loved it.

A rustling in the bushes in the front garden startled Nimbus out of his daydream, and he looked up and down the street before once more returning his gaze to the house he had been raised in.

The Mayor of Landmark, the innkeeper, and several of the richer farmers, including one retired businessman who had moved from the North to invest in cattle, lived in far grander homes than Nimbus’s. Those wealthy few could enjoy the luxury of two storeys, tiled roofs, balconies, beautiful gardens, stable blocks, and even indoor toilets. But such extravagance was rare in Landmark, and sometimes even frowned upon.

Landmark was, and always had been, a simple and ordinary place, full of simple and ordinary people who lived in simple and ordinary homes.

But as Nimbus stared at his house, gripped by a sudden desire to perfectly remember every little fault and eccentric angle, he got the impression that nothing would ever be simple or ordinary ever again.

A shape moved in front of the lounge window. His mother.

Time to move.

***

He followed the main road north, not even the slightest bit concerned that this course took him straight past the soldiers’ garrison. He had learned a long time ago, the soldiers rarely bothered watching the road. After all, Landmark was a rather insignificant sort of a place where almost no–one ever visited, and where there was never any trouble.

Sure enough, as he approached, he could hear the soldiers having a heated argument about the card game they were playing. As distracted as they were, they never noticed him slip past and make a hasty dash for the woods.

Once he was safely concealed by the trees, he slowed to a leisurely walk.

It was such a lovely day, even the woods seemed less gloomy. There were tiny blue and yellow birds flitting through the branches, strange bright flowers blooming in the hedges, and there seemed to be more sunlight than usual filtering down through the leaves.

Even the stories about wolves seemed like fairie tales on a day like this, never mind the stories about goblins; but even so, a shiver ran down his spine when he found the first of his white ribbons twitching in the breeze. A silent, formless dread crept up behind him to breathe down his neck, and his insides felt like they had turned to water.

He gritted his teeth and forged ahead.

As long as he kept the ribbons in sight, he knew he would be at the river in no time.

But, of course, he wasn’t really heading to the river.

There would be no fishing today.

After ten minutes or so, he left the path of white markers, and began following the dreadful route marked by red ribbons instead.

***

The cave looked much the same as it had the last time he had been there. Endless. Cold. But this time something was different

This time Nimbus wasn’t just afraid. This time he was excited too.

The oil lantern was where it had been left, and he lit it using oil and flint he had taken from his father’s store earlier that morning. For a moment, the cave’s black interior seemed to breathe quietly; then oily fingers of yellow light sprang out from the lantern and cut bright swathes through the gloom. Spiders and other crawling bugs scurried to find better hiding places.

Nimbus took one last look at the trees and the sharp white stones that stuck out of the earth around the cave entrance, and once again he had that feeling: The uncomfortable feeling that, after today, nothing was ever going to be the same again.

With the lantern at arm’s length he moved cautiously into the cave. The trembling light probed ahead of him, inching over oddly shaped rocks and glimmering on fine veins of metallic ore in the walls.

One stone in particular caught Nimbus’s attention, and he paused to look at it more closely. In the dark, it had the appearance of a monstrous skull, with deep eye holes that were certain to be home for slithering, crawling creatures. Apart from its odd, strangely unsettling form, the stone was also of interest as Nimbus recalled that it marked a point where the floor dropped away in a steep slope. He chuckled to himself as he remembered how Tidal had slipped down there, squelching and splashing through slime and mud to land in a bone–jarring mess.

Poor Tidal. He had been furious. But what else did he expect if he was going to blunder around in the dark like a dumb ox?

Nimbus inched around the skull–rock, careful not to turn his back on those vacant, staring eyes for even a second, and then he headed down the slope. The light from the cave entrance disappeared behind. Now, it was just him and the lantern. And the lantern really wasn’t all that bright.

The tiny flame spluttered, projecting frightening shapes against the walls; and suddenly Nimbus didn’t feel quite so brave and confident. After all, just because he didn’t meet goblins last time he was here, that didn’t mean there were none to meet.

‘Goblins aren’t real,’ he muttered to himself, and he pressed on, determined not to let his nerves get the better of him. He had done this once, with Tidal, and he could do it again. Alone. Even if there was a strange sound coming from up ahead that put doubts in his mind. A babbling, gurgling sound: The sound of something terrible, being feasted on by something even more terrible.

He pressed himself against the wall and held his breath.

But he was being silly. Of course he was. He had been here before; he had heard this before.

Gradually, he realised that the sound he had imagined was the giggling of goblins slurping their way through a meal of little boy stew was actually just the sound of running water.

He remembered now. There was an underground stream here, fed by icy water that ran down from fissures in the walls.

With much grunting, and a few words he had heard some drunken men using outside the tavern one evening, he manoeuvred himself rather awkwardly between two rock spikes and onto a bridge of stone that reached across the foaming water.

He crossed with caution, aware that this was where Tidal had slipped the second time. He had toppled into the water with an echoing splash and had floundered like an octopus trying to climb out. By that time he had been beginning to think investigating the cave had been a bad idea. Nimbus hadn’t said anything, but by that time, he was beginning to think it was one of the best ideas they had ever had.

Down even deeper, beyond the stream, the cave narrowed into a tight tunnel. Tidal had been too broad across the shoulders to go on, so Nimbus, who had been scared but too proud to admit as much, had made the final part of their expedition alone.

That was why it was Nimbus, and only Nimbus, who had found the vast underground cavern hidden on the other side.

That was why it was Nimbus, and only Nimbus, who returned there now.

As he puffed and scrabbled through the narrow tunnel, the lantern–light gradually revealed the epic expanse of emptiness beyond, and he was breathless with wonder as he cast the lantern back and forth.

The area was so big that even with the light held above his head the ceiling remained an unfathomable mystery, shrouded in total darkness. But Nimbus did not need to see the upper reaches of the cavern to know it was full of bats. He could hear chirping and squeaking, and the leathery flutter of wings.

For a moment he remained close to the wall, wondering if he had come all this way for his courage to fail at the last minute; but then, limbs trembling, palms sweating, heart pounding, he thrust himself out into the void.

As he walked across the great expanse of empty space, taking each step carefully in case the floor should suddenly disappear into a gaping chasm or goblin hole, he held the lantern as high as he could. The flickering glow it gave off seemed terribly ineffective in the creeping blackness, and the dark was so heavy he was not sure there was any light strong enough to penetrate it.

He counted his steps to measure the length of the cavern.

At one hundred and six steps he started to wonder how much oil was left in his lantern.

At two hundred and four steps he started to wonder if he had miscounted.

At three hundred and twenty–nine steps he started to wonder whether he was still walking in a straight line or if he had accidentally turned in a circle.

At three hundred and sixty–one steps he decided to stop counting.

The tiny, choking flame in the lantern sputtered and flared, hungrily consuming the reserves of fuel. What if it went out? This cavern was massive, and he would have no way of finding a way out. And nobody knew he had come.