Corbenic

Chapter Eleven

“Go thy way,” said she, “to Arthur’s court, where are the best of men, and the most generous and bravest.”

Peredur

December was already halfway over. The weather had chilled; as he waited on the corner of Otter’s Brook, Cal saw that the last few leaves which had clung onto the trees only yesterday were gone now, blown away by the blustery wind. As he watched them their stark bare shapes offended his longing for order—trees were so haphazard; he wanted to straighten them up. Plunging his hands in his pockets he paced the pavement, kicking rotten leaves into the gutter. He didn’t know what any of the trees were called. In Sutton Street there had never been any, just the stubborn weeds that sprouted every year from the cracks in the paved yard.

Hawk’s van rattled around the corner. Cal picked up the sword in its canvas case and ran over.

“Sorry.” Shadow had the door open, breathless. “Couldn’t get it to start. We daren’t stop.”

Cal jumped in, putting the sword tidily onto the heap of weapons and books and blankets and other junk under the seats. Hawk shuddered the gears, muttering to himself in exasperation. Then he said, “In the old days people knew how to travel. Horses. Fine carriages. Not these foul-stenched tin cans.”

“Just because you can’t afford a good one.” Shadow reached out and tickled his neck. He gave a yelp; the van swerved unnervingly. Grinning, he said, “In the old days I had the best. Warhorses, chargers. Men ran out of castles to help me dismount. Squires removed my armor in sumptuous chambers, and there were women, lady, beautiful women. And feasts.”

Shadow looked at Cal and rolled her eyes. He smiled back briefly, but the whole idea reminded him of Corbenic, and as the van roared up the hill the sword shifted against his foot, nudging.

Last night he had dreamed that the sword was hanging over him. He had lain there on his back in the quiet, warm room, rigid with sweat, not daring to open his eyes, and he had known, definitely, surely, with a sickening certainty, that the sword was pointing down in midair above his face, that its wickedly sharp edge was catching the glimmer from the security light on Trevor’s garage, that the icy point was only just above his forehead. He had felt it descend, felt the metal touch him, pin-sharp, so that he pressed back into the pillow with a gasp and then, quickly, summoning all his courage, snapped his eyes open.

There had been nothing there.

Sick with despair, he had sat up after a while, and pulling the duvet around his shoulders, huddled in the dark. It had been at least half an hour before he’d gotten up, groped for the sword under the bed, and found it zipped safe in the canvas cover Hawk had given him. Even then he hadn’t dared open the zip.

“Well, you can see why Cal doesn’t want us calling for him at the house.” Shadow smiled archly. “Think of the embarrassment of this thing shedding its hubcaps in such a respectable residential area. Think of what the neighbors would say!”

“Fine,” Cal muttered. “Make fun.”

Maybe she saw he was down, because she said gently, “I was only joking.”

It was true though. He always met them at the corner. After Shadow had come to the house that first time Trevor had said, “I don’t want her sort hanging round here,” in a voice that Cal hated. And yet he was a bit ashamed of them himself, the van with its painted sunflowers, their terrible clothes, the mess.

Shadow was watching him in the mirror. She said, “I know what they’re like. Parents. Do what we say. Be what we want you to be.” She looked away, so he saw for the first time the tiny tattooed spider that hung from the web down under her ear. “They just stifle you.” She sounded surprisingly bitter. Cal nodded, wondering what she’d say if she knew he’d love to be stifled like that, to have had anyone that even cared what he did.

To his relief the van turned onto the A48. It was so noisy that talking would be a waste of time. Cal watched the winter fields. Some were plowed, others had a few sheep huddled against the cold. All the woodlands had the same stark bareness; there were no birds, except that high above Wentwood a falcon swung. He frowned, thinking of the osprey. For three weeks he’d worked at the office and washed and ironed his clothes to perfection and tried to forget about Corbenic. And despite what he’d told his mother, despite all his promises, he hadn’t gone home. No money had been the first excuse, and yesterday he’d stopped her in midsentence and told her that Trevor had wanted him to work today, Saturday. It had been a lie. He just couldn’t face her. He couldn’t face the flat. He had only wanted to come here. He was one of the Company now, and they were teaching him. Every weekend and sometimes in the evenings Hawk practiced with him, and the moves of the sword, the dance and science of it, were coming to delight him. To his own astonishment, he loved it. He felt so much better. He was fitter; he was sure the muscles of his arms were stronger. And he just liked being with them all.

Turning off at Catsash, the van droned painfully up the long hill. Shadow giggled. “We’d be better off pushing.”

“Shut it.” Hawk leaned forward, as if he urged the van on. At the top they turned left, and went through the lanes at the top of the ridge, before swinging over and down to Caerleon, where the long red curve of the Usk curled round the sprawling village. Arthur’s place was just outside, down toward Llangibby. As the van pulled into the farm drive, mud from its tires spattered the lopsided gate with its chalked name. CELLI WIC FARM.

A gang of men and girls were shooting arrows at targets in the field; one of them came and opened the gate, leaning on it, and Cal saw it was the tall man, Kai.

“Well.” Kai smiled his acid smile. “Our new boy. How’s it going?”

“He’s coming on.” Hawk cursed as the engine cut out. In the sudden silence the slice and thud of the arrows, the shouts of the archers seemed unnaturally loud.

“But will he make it? There’s more to being here than knowing how to swing a sword.” The tall man looked at Cal narrowly. “We have to be careful.”

Hawk put both brawny arms on the wheel and said quietly, “He’s all right.”

Kai nodded. “Let’s hope so. We’ve had enough of traitors.”

“I’ll take responsibility for bringing him.”

“Like last time.”

Hawk started the van. “That was all a long time ago.”

Kai stepped back. “As you and I both know, Hawk of May, not long enough.”

The van rocked and plunged through the ruts.

“What’s his problem?” Cal said irritably. “Seems like he can’t stand the sight of me.”

Shadow shook her head. “It’s not that.”

“What does he think I’m going to do?”

Concentrating on getting the van out of the mud, Hawk said grimly, “We had a lot of trouble once with someone we trusted. He almost destroyed us.”

“How?” Cal asked. Shadow’s kick on his ankle came just too late.

“Ask someone else.” Hawk pulled up and cut the engine. He got out before Cal could say another word.

Cal looked at Shadow. “Are they really sane, these people?”

“That,” she said, swinging her boots out and splashing into the mud, “I really couldn’t say.”

It was some sort of game, though they’d call it a reenactment. They were Arthur’s Company, and they had each taken on one of the characters from the legends, and they lived it, as if they really were those people, as if they’d been alive for centuries, not in some cave asleep, but here, still living, still guarding the Island of Britain from its enemies. Sometimes he thought they really believed they were Arthur’s men. Sometimes he almost believed it, too.

He spent the first hour or so that day training with Osla. Osla was built like the side of a house; he could have picked Cal up in one hand, but his gentleness was amazing. Shadow said he kept tiny canaries flying free inside his broken-down van. Osla’s specialty was knife-work. He taught Cal how to defend himself, how to grab the assailant’s arm, what to do against strikes. He was patient and careful.

Once, breathless, Cal leaned on the fence and said, “What about attack? When do I learn that?”

Osla didn’t smile. “When I say. Arthur’s men don’t seek out quarrels. You have to learn about responsibility, Cal.”

They were a strange bunch. Most of them seemed to live in various cottages and dilapidated barns around the farm, or in a decaying collection of vans out under the trees in the bottom field. They were always coming and going, but he’d gotten to know some of them. There was Bedwyr, a quiet man with a stutter, and a girl called Anwas, who told everyone she could fly and who spent most of her time designing bizarre machines made of plywood and feathers; there was Drwst, who had an artificial hand so strong it could straighten a bent sword; and Moren and Siawn and Caradog, all relations of Arthur’s, and a poet called Taliesin and a bent ugly man called Morfran who had a brother Sandde, who they all called Angel-face because he looked like butter wouldn’t melt, though he told the filthiest jokes. There was a whole clan called the Sons of Caw, about a dozen of them, all with impenetrable Glaswegian accents and looking so alike Cal could never tell which one he was talking to. There was Owein, who had a pet lion cub, and Sgilti, a whippet of a boy who could run so fast Cal told him he should train for the Olympics. Sgilti roared, and the man next to him, sharpening a pile of rusted spears, laughed with him. This was Gwrhyr, who boasted he could tell what the animals were saying, and could speak any language. If you named one he would spout a barrage of foreign-sounding words. Cal had no idea if any of it was real.

They were scruffy and dirty and they laughed a lot. But he liked them. They were like no people he’d ever met. The girls were friendly; they didn’t make fun of him like the girls at home had always done. Their names were Olwen and Indeg and Esyllt, and they dressed as weirdly as Shadow, only in brighter colors. There must have been over a hundred Companions altogether, a loud, boasting, bickering tribe, who asked his name and nosed about his family and wound him up with dozens of crazy tales, how they’d once journeyed into Hell, how Gila could jump clear across Ireland in one go, how the old man Teithi had a magic knife and he could never get a handle to stay on it, and he was terrified that unless he did he’d dwindle away and die.

Kai kept them in order. Cal rarely saw him practicing any of the arts of the Company, not jousting out in the field with Hawk, or swordplay, or archery; but his sharp sarcasms could be heard as he watched the others.

“Keep your guard up,” he said to Cal, after an exhausting lesson. “Otherwise you’ll get hurt. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” He was drinking what looked like wine from a glass cup, and as he turned he stepped sideways and the cup tilted. Some of the wine splashed onto Cal’s white T-shirt.

“Hey!” Furious, Cal leaped back. “Be careful!”

Kai raised an eyebrow. He took out a clean silk handkerchief and tossed it over. “I’m so sorry.”

Sipping, he watched Cal scrub viciously at the red stain. “It’s hardly worth bothering,” he said at last. “You’re only making it worse.”

Cal flung the handkerchief back at him. “Thanks for nothing.”

As the tall man laughed and turned away, Cal sat down on the grass and dumped his sword. He was sweating and sore and angry. “Who the hell does he think he is? He did that deliberately.”

“Arthur’s brother.” His sparring partner, a dark man called Tathal, came over, scratching his chin.

“Really?”

“Well, foster brother.”

“He was in care?”

The man smiled. “Arthur was. You know, the old story.”

Cal nodded wearily. “Oh, right. Sword in the stone, all that stuff. How could I forget? Don’t you people ever talk about who you really are?”

Tathal ignored him. “Don’t cross Kai,” he said seriously. “He’s our best.”

“He doesn’t look it. Hawk’s bigger, most of the others must be stronger.”

“It’s not just in the body, friend. His heart is cold, and his hands. He has peculiar abilities. I mean it, Cal. He can be scary sometimes.”

So can I, Cal thought wryly, watching Shadow laughing with Kai across the field, hating how tall he was, how fair, how expensive his clothes were.

He rarely saw Arthur. Later, going into the farmhouse to find something to drink, he bumped into him and Gwen coming out. He felt awkward. “Sorry. They said it would be all right . . .”

“Go anywhere you like. The house is open to everyone.” Arthur’s coat was worn; leather patches had been carelessly sewn over the elbows. He glanced at Cal’s stained shirt; Cal went hot, but Arthur only said, “Where is that strange sword of yours, Cal?”

“Being sharpened.”

“Hawk told us about the way you came by it.” It was the woman, Gwen. Her hair shone in the light. “We’d like to hear you tell that story. Have you tried to go back there, Cal?” She was being kind, but it annoyed him. He wasn’t sure they believed any of it.

“No.”

Arthur nodded, thoughtful. “It would be a good thing for the Company to find that place. This man Bron needs help, I think.”

Cal edged past them. “Maybe . . .”

In the kitchen he drank glass after glass of water down thirstily, while around him three men chopped and cooked and stirred the great steamy spicy-smelling pots that held the Company’s meals. Squeezing out, he wandered into a dim, dark-paneled room lined with books, and sank gratefully into a chair. His legs ached and his shoulder felt as if someone had tried to twist it off, but he felt good. For a moment he even ignored his spoiled clothes. The Hawk had said if he worked hard enough he might be able to fight in the Christmas event at Caerleon, a big thing, with great crowds and a fair and a mock medieval feast afterward for all the Company.

He was happy for at least two seconds. Then the thought hit him hard. Christmas. He’d have to go home for Christmas. For a moment he sat there; then he got up quickly and crossed to the bookshelf, looking for anything that would take his mind off her, her voice on the phone, her new hair color. It looks so good, Cal, I can’t wait for you to see it. I’ve cleaned the house, Cal, just like you like it. I can’t wait to see you, Cal.

There was a road atlas. He pulled it out and flicked the pages rapidly; then, more steadily, turned them over until he found the page with Ludlow on it. With his finger he traced the line of the railway, sitting on the arm of the chair, knees up, the book carefully balanced.

Leominster. Ludlow. Craven Arms. There was no station in between. No Corbenic. Not only that, but there was nowhere of that name all along the line, no village, no church, no hotel. He dumped the book and thought for a few seconds, then picked up the phone and dialed.

“You are through to National Rail Enquiries,” a voice said brightly. “This is Alison speaking. How may I help you?”

“I want to know about trains to Corbenic.”

“From?”

“Chepstow,” he said at random.

There was a moment’s silence, a few clicks of the keyboard. Then, “Could you spell that, please?”

He thought back to the dripping sign on the dark, lamplit platform, and said, “C-O-R-B-E-N-I-C.”

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t sound it. “There’s no station of that name listed.”

“It’s near Ludlow.”

“I’m sorry, sir, no. Perhaps you’ve made a mistake?”

He nodded, then said, “okay. Thanks.”

Putting the phone down he brooded silently. Until a voice said, “That castle is not to be found in this world.”

Cal jumped. Sitting in the chair opposite, his eyes bright and crazy in the sunlight, was the ragged tangle-haired man they called the Hermit.

Merlin.