Corbenic (7 page)

Chapter Seven

Perceval goeth toward the Deep Forest, that is full broad and long and evil seeming.

High History of the Holy Grail

“I
can give you a lift home if you hang on till about six.” Trevor had put his head around the office door.

Cal looked up from the pink forms. “Oh,” he said. “Thanks.” Then, “What's the earliest I can finish?”

His uncle smiled wryly. “Five. Just because you're the boss's nephew . . .”

“I'll go then, if you don't mind. I can walk.”

Trevor shook his head. “Can't stand the pace, eh? Have you had a good day?”

“Fine.” He didn't know what else to say. When his uncle had gone and the door was safely shut, he tidied the mass of forms on the desk into neat piles and dropped the calculator into the drawer with a sigh. He'd guessed it might be boring. But this was mind-numbing.

Opposite, Phyllis's vacant computer station blinked strange images over its screen. Phyllis was his uncle's PA, but she was well over fifty and as dry as a stick. She didn't approve of him, he knew. Probably thought he was well-off and spoiled rotten, the boss's nephew getting a job he wasn't qualified for and couldn't do. She certainly wasn't making things easy.

He looked up at the clock. Four-thirty. Thank God for that. It was his fourth day at work, and it had seemed endless. They'd been in the office at eight, because Trevor always liked to be first in, and by ten Cal had been bored rigid. They were giving him the dullest work—start with the basics, Trevor had said, learn the business from the bottom up. He was hardly doing that. Making tea. Opening the post. And they wouldn't even give him a computer yet. All he had done this afternoon was check addresses, postcodes, and put incomprehensible numbers into boxes on pink forms. The trouble was, he knew absolutely nothing about accountancy, tax returns, VAT, all that. Maybe Phyllis was right. Maybe he shouldn't have gotten the job.

He stood up and stretched, yawning. Well, boring or not, it paid real money. And he'd get a day a week in college. He'd learn. Give him five years and he'd be a partner. Ten, and he'd have a chain of offices all of his own, and a flashy car and holidays abroad.

Out of the window, just over the roofs of the next building, he could see a corner of the castle, a dark stone turret. It stopped his thoughts, made him restless, as it had all day, every time he had lifted his eyes from the papers. Probably because of the sword.

Getting it here had been a real pain. He'd wrapped it in a spare T-shirt and then in a plastic bag, and had slipped it into the back of the car when Trevor was giving his impeccable suit a final brush. It would have been just too hard to explain.

Yesterday, he'd found an antique dealer's, in a small alley of tourist shops down by the castle. If he was quick, he could get down there before they closed and sell the thing and be rid of it for good.

He bent and opened the bottom drawer of the desk and looked at the bundle. For a moment he thought of Bron, that bitter agony of disappointment, that pain. Bron had been real. So had the girl. And the cup, the Grail, as she called it. Maybe . . .

The door opened; Phyllis came in and raised an eyebrow. “Packing up?” she asked drily, her sharp eyes going straight to the clock. And quite suddenly Cal couldn't stand the office another minute; the stale room, the stink of the photocopier, the clattering of printers. He picked up the bundle quickly. “Feel a bit queasy. Thought I'd finish early and get some air.”

“If that's all right with your uncle,” she said so sourly he could almost hear the acid. Dragon, he thought. As soon as he was gone she'd go hissing to Trevor but that could wait. He grabbed his coat from the peg and swung past her. “See you next week,” he said to the closed door. He walked fast through the outer office, said good night to the glamorous typist who winked at him, and thundered down the stairs into the street, pulling his coat on and dragging in deep breaths of icy air. Freedom! Thank God.

It was getting dark, the streetlights were coming on, the gleam of lit windows spilling over the pavements. His breath made clouds; he pulled his gloves on and walked quickly, sword under arm, the cold air shocking him back into alertness, his face stinging with the coming night frost.

The quickest way down into town was through Castle Dell. He crossed the road, and the streetlights reddened, dull scarlet glimmers high in the misty darkness. The side street was quiet, with few cars. He followed the railings as far as the gate, and turned into the foggy darkness of the Dell. It sloped deeply into the old dry moat of the castle. On his left were trees, black against the purple twilight, and the concrete path ran down into mist, the lamps smaller here and spread out, their islands of light faint and drifting.

His footsteps were loud; he tried to walk more softly. In daylight this was a busy path, full of dog walkers and small kids out with their mothers, but now in the closing winter night it was lonely and strange and as he went deeper the moat rose around him, crowded with tangled trees and brambles, and behind them, ominously high from down here, the sheer, ruthless bastions of the castle wall.

He stopped, breathing hard. The night smelled of smoke. It was bitterly cold. In front of him the path was black. If there was another lamp the fog had swallowed it. And it seemed to him, with a shiver of fear, that he had done it again, walked straight out of the normal world into some other that was always there waiting for him, in his mind, at twilight, on borders and boundaries, shadowy crossroads. And if he went on, if he walked down there, it would change his whole life, if he didn't turn back right now, back to the lit streets, the office, Trevor's lift in the warm car.

The sword felt awkward, prodding him urgently; he shifted its weight, and looked behind. The frosty halo of the last lamp lit the bark of a tree; far off, down in the town, cars hummed over the bridge. Here, only the breeze moved. He walked on. At once it was colder, as if the sun never got this deep. Spiny branches crowded the path, furred with frost. Gravel crunched underfoot; he pulled the scarf over his face, ducking under twigs. As if he had traveled into some forest, because the path was not like this in the daytime.

Something straight loomed up on his right: a lamppost, dark. Broken glass snapped under his shoes; he moved the pieces with his foot, thoughtfully. And hanging on the branch of a bush was a whole dustbin lid, right in the path. He stopped. The lid was tied, and it swung. As he tried to duck under it the sword struck it hard; there was a great looming clatter. And as if in answer the voice came from behind him. It said, “The mobile phone. And the wallet. Quick!”

Cal turned fast. The man was hard to see, a black shadow. Hefty.

“What?”

“You heard.” The man moved in, threatening. “I want the phone and money. Now! And you won't get hurt.”

Cal scowled. “I haven't got a mobile phone.” Stupidly, he felt annoyed at having to say that.

“Oh yeah. A suit like you.” A soft click came out of the dark. Flick knife. Instantly Cal stepped back. He'd been in plenty of fights in Sutton Street. He knew he should run, but it was too dark. And the heavy sword was jabbing at him.
The sword
.

The shadow was close. Cal whipped the bag and wrapping away and held the sword out, slashed wide with it, like they did in the films. It made an icy, whipping slice through the air. A relishing delight. “Right,” he muttered. “Come on then.” He should never have said that. He had no idea what made him.

Fog drifted. High at his back the castle loomed, its narrow black arrow slits, sheer battlements.

The mugger had flinched back. Now he whistled, sharp, two notes. “You've got a sodding death wish,” he whispered.

There were more of them. Cal tried to count, without looking. Three? Four? He was a fool. For a second he wanted to raise his hand and say, “All right. I've got six quid. It's yours,” but it was too late for that. They wanted him now. His blood on the path. And the sword was heavy.

The first one attacked. He came in hard. Cal slashed and yelled and jumped back, into bushes that snagged him, into another shadow that grabbed his arm. The blow was in his stomach; it winded him but he had squirmed sideways and kept hold of the sword, and now he went wild, kicking out, slashing hard with the weapon, screaming and swearing into something that gasped and gave way, the whole sunken forest a racket of battle. They had him pinned; he was dragged down. Something stung his arm; stickiness made the sword slippery. He struggled, yelling again, but the sword was so heavy; a foot slammed into his chest, pain bursting like a star, and for a heartbeat the night went sick and silent.

Then uproar crashed back. More voices. A great deep yell. Bedlam. He was down; they were kicking him and he rolled and scrabbled and knew this was it; he was finished, he was dead, and all at once they were gone.
Gone?

Cal dragged himself to his knees. The new silence was huge and cold. It had a great hairy hand that gripped his arm and it said, “He's alive, at least.”

He groaned, felt sick.

“That's it,” the voice said cheerfully. “Take it easy.” It turned away. “He's not too bad. A bit shaken up.”

Something was dabbing his face; he grabbed it and it was a dirty handkerchief, so he took it and wiped his own blood with it, and realized he was on his hands and knees on the frosty concrete, broken glass stabbing his palms. Torchlight flickered over him.

“Talk to me, mate.” A gruff presence hauled him up. “Did they cut you?”

He had no breath, could barely manage, “I don't know.” Bruises seemed to be throbbing out all over his body. Foolishly his legs had gone weak; he almost crumpled.

“Take your time,” the stranger said, holding him. Then he looked into the darkness. “Shadow? Did they get it?”

“No.” A girl's voice; she came out of the night and crouched beside them, all in black, her hair long and straight and inky. “They didn't.”

It was the sword she was holding, reverently in both hands, on the palms of her black, fingerless gloves. As she examined it in the torchlight it gleamed, the silver ripples on its blade beautiful, the tiny red jewels eyes of fire.

She looked up at Cal wonderingly, and he saw there was a cobweb tattooed over half her face. “Where in the world did you get this?” she whispered.

Chapter Eight

Men of the Island of Britain most courteous to guests and strangers: Gwalchmai, son of Gwyar . . .

Trioedd Ynys Prydein

“W
hat'll it be? I've got a few cans.”

Cal lowered himself painfully into the chair. His whole body ached. “I don't drink,” he muttered.

“He needs hot sweet tea.” The girl ducked under the curtain that screened the door of the van and put the sword carefully on the table. “Don't you . . . ?” She left a space for his name so he said, “Cal,” and shrugged, numb. “Whatever.” Now it was over he couldn't stop shaking.

The man nodded, putting the kettle on. “No problem.” He was older than the girl; muscular, his hair razored short. Even in this cold he wore only a check shirt, tight over his shoulders, and jeans. The girl sat opposite. “He's the Hawk. You can call me Shadow.”

Cal was looking at his hands, and his trousers. Blood, mud, everywhere. “God what a mess,” he mumbled.

“Did they get anything?”

“Nothing to get.”

She had a clean cloth; she squeezed water out of it and gave it to him, then went to a cluttered cupboard on the wall and rummaged there, coming back with a small tube of ointment. “Let's have a look at you.”

Before he could object she had his coat off; he pulled his shirt up gingerly. The cut was shallow under his ribs, beaded with blood, but it had slashed right through shirt and jacket. He felt suddenly very sick. “God,” he whispered.

“Mmm. A bit deeper and it doesn't bear thinking about.” She cleaned it quickly, and he hissed with the sting, looking around at the inside of the van, trying to get his mind clear, to get the terror out that had come now, too late. The van was warm and stuffy. It smelled of incense and dirty socks and bananas. Some sort of camp stove sizzled in one corner, and it was incredibly untidy. Every surface was draped and swathed with colorful fabrics, wall hangings and curtains, subtle rich velvets of purple and maroon embroidered with gold, beaded with tiny crystals. Sunflowers were painted on the table, almost obliterated now with brown rings from the bottoms of mugs, and down one window a great sun rose in stained glass, glowing with haloes of brilliant color. Tasteful it was not, he thought wryly. Next to it, hanging on the wall, were swords. Real swords. Cal flinched.

“Sorry,” the girl said absently.

A shield was propped by the door. A pentangle was painted on it. A stack of spears, or lances. A helmet. He gave a quick glance at the big man pouring tea, then at the dog-eared books on the yellow shelf.
Armor of the Fifteenth Century. The Sword in Medieval Combat. Sir Gawayne and the Grene Knight.
What sort of madhouse had he stumbled into this time? The mess annoyed him, reminded him of the flat. He had a desperate desire to start cleaning it all up.

“Right.” The girl looked up, the tattoo on her face a lacework in the lamplight. “That doesn't look too bad. What else?” He opened his sticky, slashed palms.

“Yuck. Keep still, it'll hurt.” Her long glossy hair fell forward as she worked. He saw she wore only black; filmy layers of it, skirt over skirt over trousers, and heavy men's boots.

“Tea.” Hawk came and put it down. He sat on the cluttered sofa, pushing off a small cat, put his feet up, and watched. “You were lucky there, laddie. If we hadn't come along . . .”

“Yes. Thanks.” Cal felt annoyance welling up. “If he'd been on his own I could have handled him.”

“Maybe. You were up for it. But not with that technique.”

“What?”

“Swordplay. You were wide open, slashing like that. If they'd had any sense one would have been in under your arm.”

“Hawk,” the girl said quietly.

He stopped, then raised his eyebrows. “Just saying, lady.”

“Then stop saying.”

The big man leaned back. “Well, I knocked a couple of their heads together for you. And she marked one on the face, didn't you?”

Shadow smiled coyly. “Get him something to eat.” She dropped the bloodstained cloth into the dish and looked at Cal's hands carefully. “I'll bandage them up, if you like.” He frowned, thinking instantly of Trevor. If Trevor thought he'd been in some fight . . . “Have you got any Band-Aids?” he asked quickly. “It's just, they wouldn't show so much.”

She gave him a glance. Then she said, “I'll see if I can find any.”

Hawk came back and put some plates on the table; there was a new, garlicky smell in the warm air. “Microwave,” he explained. “Bit high-tech, I know, but I can run it off the solar panel. My brother fixed it up.” He sat. “Unless you want to go to the hospital.”

Cal tried to pick up the hot cup. “I hate hospitals.”

“Might need a stitch in that side.”

“No.”

“Police then?”

Cal shrugged, unbearably weary. “I'd rather not.” It was Trevor he kept thinking of. This wouldn't impress him. And behind it all, thin as an icy thread, the terror of being sent back home.

They sat in silence until Shadow came back and made him open his palms; she pressed the Band-Aids on gently, but it still hurt, and he bit his lip.

“That's the best I can do.”

“Thanks.” The tea was hot, but it helped. He felt very strange; weak and trembly. He hadn't felt scared out there, but now it was all coming over him in waves. Maybe the girl noticed. She said, “Who were they?”

“Muggers. Wanted money.”

“Black Knights,” Hawk said, rubbing the cat. “Or this century's version. You won't see them again. We'll walk you home later. You live close?”

“Otter's Brook.” He was intensely proud, for a second. Then the name seemed shallow and ridiculous.

Hawk whistled. “Nice. Expensive. So, now, I'm desperate to know: What's a nice suburban lad in a suit doing with a sword in Castle Dell?”

Cal felt hot. The microwave pinged, and the big man groaned and got up to see to it. Shadow said quickly, “He could teach you how to use the sword properly.” She reached out and touched its edge. “It deserves someone who knows what they're doing.”

Cal sipped the tea. “I'm selling it.”

They both stared at him, astonished. Hawk left the food and came back fast. “What? You can't!”

“Make me an offer.”

“Do you know what that weapon is?”

“A pain in the neck.”

“Cal, this is serious.” Hawk picked the sword up, carefully as the girl had done, weighing it in both hands. Then he took the corded grip firmly and raised the blade upright so that it shone in the bright room. “This is a very powerful weapon. Magical. We should take it to the Company and let them see it. Arthur will know what to do. You can't sell it, it's not that sort of possession.”

Cal glared at him. “It started that fight,” he said.

Hawk didn't flinch. “I can well believe it. I've come across such weapons before. They have their own will. How did you get it?”

Miserable, Cal shrugged. “A man gave it to me.”

Hawk glanced at Shadow. “Go on,” she said. And quite suddenly Cal knew that he wanted to tell them, and that he was hungry, as if he hadn't eaten for days. “Dish that stuff up. And I will.”

“Won't they be expecting you at home?”

Cal almost laughed. He had discovered that Trevor always ate out. Cal had spent every evening on his own so far, and though he was used to that, he didn't want it tonight, he realized.

“No.” He put the empty cup down. “Deal?”

Hawk wrapped the sword. “Deal.”

To his own amazement Cal enjoyed all of it. The spicy food, the chipped plates, the warm, cluttered, comfortable room; after a while all of them stopped hurting him. Hawk lay on the sofa with his feet up and plate balanced on his chest, and Shadow sat cross-legged on the floor and fed the cat tidbits. They drank beer out of cans, and he told them. About the train, and the walk in the dark, and about Corbenic. It was strange; he didn't know them, but he trusted them. He told them about Bron, the man's tormented unhappiness, and about the great banquet. And then he told them about the Grail.

At first Hawk chipped in, asking questions, but when Cal described the procession, the power of the shining cup, the spear that bled on the floor, he was silent. Except that in the curved reflection of the shield, Cal saw him glance at Shadow, and her shake of the head. He stopped, suspicious. “Have you heard this story before? From someone else?” He sat up. “Do you know about this place?”

Shadow looked uneasy. “We've heard of it. Tell us the end. What happened after?”

Cal put the plate down and picked at his sore hands. Then he said, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Bron . . . he seemed to want me to do something. Ask him something.”

“And you didn't?”

“No,” he whispered. The cat got up and wandered out, beyond the bright hangings. “I said I hadn't seen anything.”

The van was silent. Only the stove hissed, and the wind outside, over the castle walls. Suddenly, Cal looked up. “I know, I lied. It was . . . I just couldn't understand what was going on. I thought it was . . . the drink. And in the morning, it was gone. As if it was all a dream.” He couldn't explain. Not about his mother and her voices. Not about home.

Shadow said, “Cal, listen to me. Have you tried to get back to this place?”

“Why should I?”

She looked at Hawk. “Tell him.”

The big man was sitting up now, his great arms folded over his chest. He looked grave. “There was once a King . . .” he said.

“I don't want some fairy tale!” Cal almost stood, but Hawk reached over and shoved him down, hard.

“You're not getting one. This man was the ruler over a great country. In his castle were secrets, terrible secrets. He was the guardian of the Grail, a cup that held great mysteries, some say a cauldron, or the chalice of the Last Supper. Also the Lance, the Sword, the Stone; ancient Hallows. The Grail came to this island centuries ago, and while the King was whole the land was at peace. But these things are dangerous, they give pain as well as joy. It happened that the King was wounded by a blow from the Lance itself, and completely crippled, and his pain . . . it infected all the land. The country became a waste land. Desolate. Wintry. The people's hearts became hard.”

“Don't tell me,” Cal sneered. “Murders and muggings and sink estates. Pollution, pornography. Drugs. Right?”

“In one.” Hawk wouldn't let him go; the man's hand was heavy, a hard grip. “It might not be like that in Otter's Brook, my son, but not everyone's as privileged as you. And the King moaned and wept but he couldn't be cured, he can never be cured, until someone comes, someone they all wait for.”

“And he spends his time fishing, and they call him the Fisher King?” Cal twisted away. “Get real. I thought you were different but you're not. You're just winding me up.” It was all wrong. They didn't believe him. He should never have told them. And Bron's words were whispering in his ear.
You ask me. That's all you need to do. Ask me about what you saw.

Shadow knelt up and put her drink down; her fingernails were black too, with delicate crystals stuck on her nails. “We're not. Listen to him.”

“It's just a story! Fine! I suppose if I'd asked Bron about the Grail he'd have been cured, would he? On the spot? He'd have jumped up and gone dancing? And I'd have come back and found us all living in country cottages with roses growing round the door? No one in the jails or sleeping rough or ill and my mother . . .” He stopped instantly, confused, cursing himself. Then he shoved Hawk's hand away and looked around for his coat.

“It's a story, yes,” Shadow said urgently, “but stories mean things. You must have dreamed it for a reason . . .”

“Sure.” He pulled his coat on, ignoring her, ignoring the stab of pain in his side. “I must be crazy talking to a pair of New Age weirdos. Look at you!” he gestured around angrily. “Look at this place!”

Hawk folded his arms. “Cal,” he said gently.

Hurt, furious, Cal shoved him aside, pulled the curtain so hard he almost tore it, and fumbled blindly for the door. To his horror hot tears were pricking his eyes. He had to get out. To get away. He stumbled down the steps of the van into the frosty fog and half walked, half ran over the mud.

“Wait!” Shadow's darkness loomed after him. “You've left the sword. Cal!”

“Keep it,” he growled, not caring if she heard him or not. “Keep the bloody thing.”

He walked fast, unthinking, wiping his face. He didn't care where he went, but in the swirls of fog the streets opened before him, uphill, past the shuttered shops, under the town arch, past the lit fronts of pubs where voices and music and cigarette smoke drifted out through opened windows.

By Otter's Brook the fog was thinner, and he was weary, slower, his side and chest throbbing, and he shivered in the cheap suit. The key was ice cold; he fumbled with it, opened the door, and slid in quickly, leaning with his back against it, breathing deep, harshly, every gasp almost a sob.
Calm down.
He had to calm down.