John Pritchard - Dark Ages

Martin came up short again; the swordsman nudged him forward. With nauseous reluctance he went over to the staircase. The second man stayed motionless, enjoying his discomfort. His nose was broken, scarred across the bridge. It gave his grin a stupid, sneering cast.

Martin tested the first step. The brittle wood creaked dully. A voice upstairs was speaking into silence. Murmuring, monotonous: a language that he couldn’t understand.

He started up. The swordsman followed. He heard the hunter climbing to his feet. The disembodied voice kept up its dirge. Two more men were waiting on the landing. They moved aside to let him pass; he did so with his heartbeat in his throat. It felt like he was stuck inside the hospital again – beset by human faces, alien minds.

The voice had died away. He heard them breathing.

A gaping doorway loomed ahead. The darkness had the pull of an abyss. He knew it was the black heart of the house – its crematorium. The thought brought bile seeping up; he swallowed it back down.

The furnace was as cold as ashes now. The murk was thick and soupy, like a sewer. But as he reached the threshold, a rustling movement came from just ahead. The dank air shifted faintly. Somebody was waiting in the room.

Martin tried to back away – and found the other men were all behind him. Their clothes smelled ages old. He looked from face to stony face – then quickly turned his head.

The shape inside the room was coming forward.

A mane of pale hair grew clear; the highlights of the face. The mask of shadow peeled away, revealing pallid skin; but pools of darkness lingered in the sockets of his eyes.

It was the face he’d seen before, of course: the figure who’d looked back. The one with eyes like somebody insane.

‘So,’ he said, ‘the Summoner, at last.’ The voice was harsh, but there was humour in it. A grim amusement, bleak as bone. He reached out with one finger, prodding Martin in the chest. The shock of contact gave the touch the impact of a blow: a hammer-stroke against his pounding heart. Martin had to gulp for breath. The other merely smiled.

‘You woke us, and we came. We always answer. Has it seemed long, the waiting for the Ravens to return?’

III

SHADOWS

Do I belong to some ancient race?

I like to walk in ancient places:

These are things that I can understand.

THE LEVELLERS

Dear Craig

Hi there, how’s it going? I’m still waiting for that airmail envelope to come plopping through the letterbox, but I expect you’ve got your work cut out upholding the New World Order. If you get a moment free, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.

Look, new pen now: different day. I don’t mean to sound snotty; I’m just missing you, that’s all. I’ve got a lot on my mind right now, and I’d love to hear your voice. I’m still at Lyn’s. Please ring me.

Love you

Frannie

x

CHAPTER I

Green Blades Rising

1

Sitting on the sofa, listening to Lyn gushing on the phone, Fran felt a strange, resentful little twinge. Was that a man at the other end? She rather thought it was. Leaning back, she peered into the hallway. Lyn stood there, sideways on to her, head nodding as she listened. Her sunny smile was private, like a dreamer’s. It soured Fran’s mood to know she couldn’t share it.

The twinge became a pang of guilt. She shifted with discomfort and sat forward. After all that Lyn had done for her, she still begrudged her friend her separate pleasures. You selfish cow , she told herself; went glumly back to towelling her hair.

She was fresh from the bath, still flushed with warmth; wrapped up in Lyn’s spare bathrobe. She rubbed her damp hair harder as if jealousy was something she could simply scrub away. And how might Lyn be feeling, when she thought of Fran and Craig? Having brought them back together, she could only stand and watch. She knew how it felt, to see a friend enticed away …

Reality engulfed her then. The whole room seemed to change, as if the sun had shifted round. Her mundane instincts fell away; Craig’s smile was just a picture in her head. The cold blue gaze of Athelgar dispersed it like a mist.

‘Oh, no !’ said Lyn delightedly, still giggling.

Fran sat there, very still: the towel’s dampness clutched against her chest. She’d spoken with a ghost , the other week. A solid phantom, trapped in time; still wandering those half-forgotten roads. He’d called on her to follow him – and she had said she’d come.

Jesus, Fran: what were you thinking of?

So what if Lyn had just acquired a boyfriend? So what, if it was Fran’s turn to be eased politely out? Such things seemed almost trifling now. The world through which she walked had been upturned.

How could he have reached her from a thousand years ago, to warm her carefree heart on Heaven’s Field?

Swallowing, she stood and padded through into the kitchen. Her mouth was very dry, she needed something to drink. She poured herself some fruit juice from the fridge, still listening to Lyn with half an ear. Her jealousy, still vague, was of a different order now. An envy of her friend’s unclouded sky.

Turning round, she took a sip. The Tropical Mix was cool and sweet; but it went down quickly, leaving her still dry. Moodily, she wiped her mouth; then stiffened. The calendar had caught her eye, hung up beside the pinboard. She stared at it for a moment, then slowly crossed the room. The lino seemed to cling to her bare feet.

There were neatly written notes beside some of the dates. Dentist 9:15 … Piano recital … Mummy (49) . The memos barely registered. She craned in closer, looking for some printed information. Some indication of the next full moon.

But there was nothing.

She straightened up, and felt her heartbeat throbbing. She’d put this off for long enough, but still she wasn’t sure if she was ready. There’d be no turning back, she knew that. As soon as she learned the date, she’d be committed. Back on the road to meet her ghost again.

Athelgar . A man long lost. She felt her fine hairs rising.

It had taken her until yesterday to start some cautious digging. She’d waited for Lyn to take a break from her books, then idly broached the subject: hoping it sounded casual enough.

‘Do you know of any battles fought on Salisbury Plain?’ she’d asked.

Lyn finished stretching. ‘What, in Roman times, or … ?’

‘Whenever.’

Lyn had thought it over. ‘Edington’s the only really famous one, I think. That was in 878. There are legends about others. There’s even something in Malory about King Arthur’s final battle being fought there.’

‘But Edington was King Alfred?’

‘Mm. They’re not exactly sure where it took place, but Edington’s the likeliest contender. The Chronicle calls it Ethandun – the Waste Down.’

Fran blinked as she absorbed the blow, but kept her pale face straight. Lyn hadn’t noticed. The topic dropped, and Fran had let it lie. But now it had started nagging her again. Still nursing her cold glass, she went back into the living room. Lyn caught her eye, and waved, as if to say I won’t be long. Fran grinned and gestured back at her. No hurry …

Out of sight of the doorway, her bright face faded; she went quickly to Lyn’s desk. The top was strewn with papers, books lined up against the wall. There was a photo of her parents in a polished silver frame; a snapshot of her brother, too, propped up against the lamp. And a compact desktop calendar.

Still nothing on the phases of the moon.

Not sure if she should feel relieved, she drifted back, and over to the bookcase; too restive to sit down again and wait. Lyn had mentioned a reference in ‘the Chronicle’; and there was the The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle , just waiting to be read. She set her glass aside, and pulled it out: a dog-eared paperback. Flicking slowly through, she found the entry dated 878. Edington was over in a sentence.