Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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And that is why men call us Ravensbreed.’
She was still chewing all that over when they reached the lonely junction. The single metalled carriageway stretched out in both directions. Southward, sloping down towards the Bustard vedette; and north, across the wilderness of heath.
Athelgar’s coin spun up again, and dropped into his palm. Fran quickly checked her watch. The Bustard was two miles away, at least. It was almost time to think about heading back. They’d be off-range before dusk, of course they would; but her skin had started crawling, and she knew it wouldn’t stop until they were well on their way.
‘This way,’ said Athelgar – and started northward.
She felt her stomach lurch. ‘We … need to be turning back soon,’ she said, as calmly as she could.
He glanced at the sun. ‘We have daylight enough.’
‘It’ll take us a while to get back, though …’
He turned, came back to join her. ‘We must find what is calling us. I think a brother-Raven has concealed it. Disclosing it, we may find him as well – and then the rest.’ He stared into her apprehensive face. ‘Five hundred years have passed since we were woken last from sleep. What danger is abroad, that we be summoned back here now?’
She hesitated; swallowed. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Nor I. So we must both be ready – lest it take us unawares.’
Adjusting his furled coat, he set off along the gently sloping road. Fran followed, with a last glance at the safe, familiar country to the south. Distant buildings slumbered in the sunny evening haze. Too far away already. Getting further.
The way ahead was desolate, a wasteland. Just north of the bedraggled clump, the route forked left and right. Each way looked as barren as the other. Fran stared up at the weathered fingerpost, as stark as an old gibbet. West to Market Lavington. Due north, across the heights, to Redhorn Hill.
Athelgar’s fingers turned the coin. Its silver glinted flatly, like his rings. He tossed and caught it; nodded to the right. The bleaker choice (of course, she thought). It seemed a road to nowhere.
They reached an open barrier, with a warning sign beside it. She paused to stare at it; then kept on walking.
DO NOT LEAVE THIS ROAD
DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING
IT MAY EXPLODE AND KILL YOU.
Unexploded Military Debris said a notice on the verge. Another showed beyond it, then another. Every fifty yards there was one waiting at the roadside. The effect as they trudged onward was progressively unnerving. Fran felt herself hemmed in and driven forward – as if this was a path through a minefield. The grim, forbidding aspect of the grassland was redoubled. She turned and looked behind them. The isolated signpost seemed as tiny as a matchstick.
Athelgar was flipping his coin repeatedly now: he seemed absorbed with it. She let him catch it one more time, then quickly touched his arm.
‘Listen … We have to turn back now. It’s miles to Redhorn Hill.’ And pretty soon, she knew, they’d reach the point of no return. No way from that but forward – through the wildest, deadest area of the range.
He offered her the coin, as if in answer. It gleamed in his half-gloved palm. She stared at it uncertainly.
‘It has come down crosses eight times out of ten,’ he said. ‘We must be close now.’
The sun was still a yellow ball; the western sky engorged with blazing light. How long before it started turning orange? We’re really going to cut it fine, she thought.
‘See,’ said Athelgar, and pointed. Startled by the sudden word, she looked along the road – and saw them waiting. Hulks of mangled metal, lying close to the verge: like the carcasses of monsters that had crawled out here to die.
Just three wrecked tanks, she realized. Used for target practice now.
Athelgar had stopped, and stood there, staring. ‘It is like the tale of Beowulf,’ he murmured.
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