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
“What’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.”