Mark Chadbourn - Jack of Ravens

While the others gathered around Owein with renewed hope, Conoran motioned for Church to follow him back out into the night. ‘The cycles of Existence move slowly, but this is a new beginning. A time of hope, a new dawn,’ Conoran said passionately. ‘And I believe in my heart that this is the first step out of infancy for humankind and onto the long road to the heart of Existence. You have a tremendous responsibility. Do not let us down.’

Church said nothing.

‘I must return to my people,’ Conoran said, distracted. ‘There is much preparation to make, lectures at the colleges, new lessons to teach the way forward. There is a responsibility on the Culture, too, for we must supply the support you will need on your quest. Yes, yes!’ He roamed around, deep in thought. ‘The Culture may not be around for all time, or invaders may drive us into hiding. We must prepare! There are other wise men and women in other cultures. They must carry on the knowledge in their own beliefs. They must be … Watchmen, preparing the way, warning of danger!’

He came back to Church, his eyes bright. ‘And if the gods ever dare to return to force humankind to suffer and slave, you Brothers and Sisters of Dragons will be there to repel them!’

‘I’m touched by your faith.’

Conoran missed Church’s wry tone as he launched into another rush of notions. ‘Defences must be prepared for such an incursion. Weapons hidden. For what if the gods return in years to come when we have grown indolent and content?’ He glanced at Church’s side. ‘Your sword … It is one of four great weapons of the gods, as told of in our stories. We must find the others and hide them away for when they are most needed.’ He paused. ‘Would you give this weapon to the cause?’

Church hesitated. He’d already grown attached to the unearthly blade and the way it soothed him.

‘Existence will present you with another one, Jack, Giantkiller.’ Conoran’s gaze was heavy and Church couldn’t refuse him.

‘All right. It’s only a sword.’

‘I must return. Prepare.’ Conoran was several yards along the street when he rushed back and clasped Church’s arm forcefully. ‘I wish you well! Great things lie ahead!’

And then he turned and disappeared into the night.

The legend of the warrior-king and his band of Brothers and Sisters of Dragons passed quickly amongst the Celts from the Dumnonii in the West to the Iceni in the East, from the southern Atrebates to the Caledoni in the far north. For Church it was a time that dispelled any lingering doubts that a rational, ordered universe existed. Things that in his own time had been consigned to story books or bad dreams preyed on humanity, and he began to comprehend the secret history that lay behind the myths and legends of many cultures.

On the south coast they tracked a lamia to its lair and killed it in a four-hour battle. An infestation of vampiric Baobhan Sith was driven out of a South Wales village. In the fenlands, something with leathery wings, razor-sharp teeth and the pleading cry of a frightened child was destroyed in a midnight raid. Villages were saved, women and children rescued, magical items found and hidden for future use.

And in time they became greater than people, their exploits trumpeted from mouth to mouth, growing in the telling; stories of wonder and magic, of heroes who could never be defeated, of the king, Jack, the Giantkiller, who would always defend the land in its darkest hour; all people had to do was blow the trumpet, call his name three times into the wind.

And the shadows would fall back and never return. And the things that lurked in the night and the wild places would be driven beneath the sea and under the hill.

And for the first time since its infancy, humankind could sleep peacefully in its beds.

All was right with the world.

‘They don’t make these like they used to.’ Church tossed the shattered sword out through the open doorway.

Tannis clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You do not know your own strength, Giantkiller. That was one of the strongest blades ever forged by my people.’

‘I need a new sword. A good one.’ Church eased out the tension in his shoulders that came from too long on horseback riding across the grasslands of southern Britain. ‘I wish I’d never agreed to give up the god-sword.’

Owein thrust a goblet of alcoholic brew into Church’s hand. ‘For now, rest, drink, make merry. There has been little of those things in recent days.’

‘We are champions,’ Branwen chimed in. ‘There must be some reward for our great deeds. The people are not grateful enough.’ She stretched out on a reed bed, nursing a sprained arm from the most recent battle, then reached out lazily and picked one of the first apples of the season from a wooden bowl beside her.

Church disagreed. They were treated with deference wherever they passed; and while hospitality to strangers was a cornerstone of Celtic society, the finest food and drink were presented to them, along with gifts of gold and jewels. By any standard, they could be fabulously wealthy.

But there was another aspect that disturbed him. Outside the door, Carn Euny was bathed in sun as it had been for most of the summer. When he had first arrived, the village had welcomed him warmly, the children calling his name and running around his feet, while the adults had invited him into their houses. But now they looked at him oddly, respectful of his position and abilities, but also treating him with faint unease. He was no longer like them. He was an outsider; an alien breed; a hero.

The others felt it, too, but it troubled Etain the most. Church had discovered her crying quietly one day. She briefly spoke of her loneliness, but then refused to talk any more because she couldn’t accept their isolation from the community.

‘Where is Etain?’ He realised he had not seen her for the last two hours.

‘Gone to recount our latest exploits to the filid,’ Owein said with a hint of drunkenness. ‘Soon there will be new songs to sing about the wonders of the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons.’

Church slipped out to find her, enjoying the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. Despite the sun, the air was sharp with the first chill of the approaching winter. Across the Cornish countryside the leaves were turning golden and orange, and the storms that regularly swept in off the Atlantic were growing wilder.

He met Etain walking back along the main street. Her face at rest looked unaccountably sad, but she smiled warmly when she saw him. ‘The filid has crafted the best song yet,’ she said. ‘Everyone will be in fine voice tonight.’

‘I was thinking we should spend some more time looking for that spider-thing that set the Redcaps on us.’ It wasn’t what he had meant to say, but since her expression of affection he occasionally found himself awkward around her.

Etain made a face. ‘We have found nothing since that night. I thought it was decided that another search would be pointless?’

‘Sooner or later he’s going to come looking for us again-’

‘I will talk to the others.’ Etain began walking towards the roundhouse, then paused, troubled. I feel something bad is coming.’

‘Anything more?’ In recent weeks, Etain had experienced instinctive flashes that bordered on the psychic, as if some dormant ability was slowly surfacing.

Scanning the green landscape with its gnarled, twisted trees rearing away from the wind, she hugged her arms around her. ‘Perhaps it is just the winter closing in.’ She flashed him a smile and hurried to the comfort of the hearth.

Mulling over her words, Church wandered to the edge of the village and beyond. Once the houses had disappeared behind the trees and gorse, a song drifted to him on the wind, desperately beautiful and instilling in him an unbearable yearning. He had no choice but to follow it across the rolling grasslands for almost half a mile. Finally he came to the honey-skinned woman with the incongruous pack of cards who he had met on the hilltop earlier in the summer. She stood beneath an old hawthorn, her beauty as radiant as the sun. When she saw him, her singing was replaced by an enigmatic smile.