Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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me.’ She shuddered at the memory; then gazed at him, wide-eyed. ‘I thought they were a … vision, like. But now I know they weren’t.’
He looked at her gravely. ‘Even one like you should not go down these roads alone. This is dead, forgotten ground. Wolves and warlocks may walk freely here.’
‘I had to come,’ she muttered.
‘I felt you near to me,’ he said. ‘That day at Heofonfeld.’
Heofonfeld, she thought. Then: Heaven’s Field. Despite herself, she grasped his coat and brought him to a standstill. ‘Who do you think I am?’
‘A lady of the Northern saints,’ he answered, vary calmly. ‘At Heofonfeld, I opened up my heart and felt your light. From that day on – through all the blood – I have blessed your memory. Yet I never knew the name you bore, till now.’
Fran recalled what she had felt: that weird euphoria. ‘When was this?’ she whispered.
‘The year nine hundred, four and thirty. When we brought the Scottish oath-breakers to heel.’
Fran just stared at him, open-mouthed. She loosened her grip; but he didn’t move until she’d dropped her hands completely.
‘Come,’ he said, and touched her arm. ‘We have many miles to go.’
They came down towards the junction where she’d dreamed of him before. The east-west road was empty, stretching out in both directions. Athelgar slowed his pace at last, scanning the barren slopes across the valley.
‘Know you of the dragons?’ he asked softly.
For a moment Fran was quite unnerved – then realized what he meant. She could picture them herself, as well: green monsters creeping west along the road. Clanking and roaring and coughing out fumes. She nodded once, unsmiling.
‘I came this far two days ago,’ he murmured, eyes still searching. ‘One was abroad: I watched it for a long while. Others I heard, which were prowling in the hills. And a thunder like the ending of the world …’
‘They’re … back in their lair today,’ Fran said: thinking of them in rows at the Warminster tank wash.
They reached the Imber road, and halted there. She glanced around at Athelgar, and saw he had a coin between his fingers. An ancient-looking silver piece – like the one back in the church. The silent pilgrim’s parting gift. Of course it had been him.
‘What say you, my Lady?’
‘Oh, call me Fran,’ she muttered.
He looked at her with narrowed eyes: as if the more familiar form had struck some deeper chord. Then he shrugged, and gestured with the coin. ‘Crowns or Crosses, then. The left hand, or the right …’ He flipped the coin up, caught it and displayed it on his palm. Fran stepped in close to see.
The design on this was different: just an Alpha in the middle. EADMUND REX the script around it said.
‘It comes down Crowns,’ said Athelgar, and closed his grimy fist around the coin.
They stepped onto the road, and started eastward away from the great bleakness of the Warminster downs. Even heading for the village, with its skull-eyed empty buildings, Fran felt a tiny flicker of relief.
They were just short of the village when Athelgar stopped – so abruptly that Fran went another yard before she realized. Looking back, she saw him tensing up.
She waited, frowning; suddenly uneasy. His dragons weren’t around today – so what had he sensed?
‘There are phantoms here,’ he said.
Fran turned again, and looked along the road. The first building was just visible: a hulk of crumbled brick, behind the trees. Out of Bounds, as she recalled. Too dangerous for soldiers.
‘This place is changed,’ said Athelgar.
She prudently retreated to his side. ‘You know it, then?’
‘Immerie … not so?’
She hesitated. ‘They call it Imber, now.’
‘What befell it?’
‘The soldiers came,’ she murmured flatly. ‘Nobody lives here now.’
‘There are phantoms in our way. I will not go there.’ He nodded to the grassland on the right, and crossed the road.
‘Hang on!’ Fran protested, as his meaning became clear. ‘We’re not allowed to leave the road …’ She tailed off then: who gave a shit for by-laws on a day like this? And as for safety reasons – the risk of unexploded shells – she felt beyond reality right now. Able to walk on water, or through minefields.
With a quick glance back the way they’d come, she followed where he led.
The range wardens were doubtless on patrol, but they saw no one as they skirted round the ruined village. Fran had the same giddy feeling she remembered from her first walk-on: stumbling through the wind-bent grass, across forbidden ground. And nobody could touch her – not while she was walking with the man of her dreams …
(or nightmares)
Looking down at Imber from the hill above it, she was glad they’d given it a miss. The place still held memories of Craig, of course, but not enough to lighten its grim silence. The few surviving buildings were outnumbered by mock houses: just blackened concrete shells beneath the church. Like a pile of broken skulls, she thought. The harvest of the killing fields around it.
The ruins slipped away, into a fold of the valley. By the time they joined the road again, only the church tower was visible. Athelgar stared back towards it.
‘How can there be a church without a flock?’ he asked.
Fran shrugged. ‘We had a war. Fifty years ago … They used it to train soldiers, and destroyed it. Then broke their word. They never gave it back.’
He frowned. ‘Small wonder that the place is not at peace. Were they hirelings from across the sea who did this?’
Fran gave a small, bitter smile. ‘No. They tried blaming the Americans … but it was British troops destroyed the place. On purpose. Their own people.’
‘The warriors of the King?’
She thought about it. ‘Yeah.’
He walked a little way along the road, then turned again. His face was difficult to read. Was it anger glinting in his eyes – or pain? ‘I came back with the hope the land had changed,’ he said. ‘At last.’
‘Oh no,’ said Fran, and shook her head. ‘It hasn’t changed at all.’
The road led south and west, across the uplands of the range. The clouds had massed above it, like great heaps of slate and slag; but a buttermilk sky still showed on the horizon.
Fran plodded onward, lost in thought: the ache of her feet was scarcely getting through. The road stretched out ahead of them – so long, and still no turning. The empty heath-land rustled in the wind, made bleaker by the shadows of the clouds.
Athelgar touched her shoulder, and she stopped. ‘See,’ he said. ‘That dragon is still hunting.’ His voice was low – but calm enough, considering.
She looked, and saw a helicopter, perhaps two miles away. A double-engined Chinook, quite familiar. She followed its course, and realized it was circling.
His touch became a grip. ‘We must find shelter.’
‘No, it’s all right. Um … It’s sort of a ship that flies. Those things going round, like windmill sails … they lift it through the air.’
He nodded gravely, staring at the thing. The chopper dipped into the valley, where its clatter was redoubled; then rose back into view again and curved towards the south. It felt like they were standing at