The Secret Kingdom (16 page)

Beri began to moan. Timoken helped her to sit up and Gereint gave her his water bag. She pushed it away, covering her face with her hands. And then she began to cry. Timoken had never heard such sobbing. He thought her body might break under the weight of such terrible
grief. She rocked back and forth, hardly able to breathe, as the wails and groans poured out of her.

‘What happened, then?’ Timoken demanded. ‘Speak, boy.’

‘The city has been invaded,’ said the boy. ‘See those birds,’ he pointed to the city walls. ‘They did this to me,’ he touched his scarred forehead. ‘But I was lucky. Some died. A sorcerer came, and four men, who were not men … greenish creatures they were, things that changed and caught and tortured. The sorcerer was just a youth, but he had magic weapons: a sword that could fly, fiery stones and a gaze that had death in it. The people ran into their houses and there they stayed. Esteban Díaz was sent for.’

‘Esteban Díaz?’ Timoken looked at Beri.

She had no more tears left, and sat quietly staring ahead.

‘Esteban Díaz is her father,’ Timoken murmured.

The boy hung his head. ‘I am sorry. I did not know that when I told her the news.’

‘Is he dead, then?’

The boy nodded miserably. ‘The bravest soldier in all Castile – maybe the world. He killed two of the creatures
when they surrounded him. But the sorcerer was indestructible. And then the birds came. They were like no other birds that I have ever seen. They were not properly feathered. Their beaks were knives, their talons …’ The boy shook his head. ‘They attacked Esteban from above. He had no chance. While he struck out at them, the youth ran him through – and he died.’

‘You saw this?’ asked Timoken.

‘I was hiding in a doorway, too afraid to move.’

Beri seemed to be in a trance. Timoken touched her arm and said, ‘I am sorry, Beri. I can find no other words. But I understand your grief.’

‘Let us leave this place,’ said Mabon. ‘We came to Toledo to find Beri’s father. Now there is no need.’

‘I know what you are saying!’ Beri leapt to her feet, glaring at Mabon. ‘You want to run away, don’t you? But the murderer must be punished.’

The other boys shifted uncomfortably. None of them wanted to confront a sorcerer and an army of savage flying creatures. They wanted to get away from the city as fast as possible.

In spite of the forest-jinni’s warning, Timoken knew he could not run away. Getting to his feet, he scanned the
distant towers and spires, the tiled roofs and the tall stone walls. ‘Where is the sorcerer now?’ he asked the boy.

‘They say he went to the house of Tariq, the toymaker.’ The boy’s gaze drifted away from Timoken. ‘They say he is waiting for an African on a camel.’

‘Then I shall not keep him waiting,’ said Timoken. ‘You can stay here,’ he said to the others. ‘You are not bound to me, and there is no call for you to risk your lives.’ Without waiting for Gabar to crouch, he took a flying leap and landed in the saddle.

‘But the birds,’ cried Edern. ‘How will you defeat the birds?’

Timoken smiled. ‘You will see.’

As Gabar trotted down the hill, Timoken was already recalling the voices of the eagles he had met on his long journey. In his head, he heard the cries of falcons, of giant owls and greedy gulls, and all the birds of prey that he had ever listened to. Lifting his head, he began to call them.

Beri sprang on to her horse and began to follow Timoken. ‘You do not expect me to stay behind, do you?’ she cried.

Gereint suddenly sang out, ‘I know what Timoken is
doing. I too can cry like a bird. I am going to Toledo.’

Edern scowled. He wished he had been the first to follow Timoken. ‘Come on, Peredur, Mabon. We cannot let them go without us.’

And so the company of six was together when they reached the first bridge into Toledo. Their swords were drawn, their emblazoned shields hung at their sides. The wolf, the bear, the fish, the bird, the hare and the blazing sun. The guards had fled and the gates were open, but as the children trotted into the city, the black birds rose into the air and began to circle above them.

The city appeared to be deserted, but weeping could be heard behind the shuttered windows. The only other sounds came from the great black birds, a high-pitched, dreadful shrieking.

Timoken searched the sky for the birds he had called, but there was no sign of them.

‘Only one thing for it,’ he said, standing on the saddle.

‘Timoken, what are you doing?’ cried Beri.

‘I am going into battle.’

Gabar grunted, ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘Not this time, my family,’ said Timoken, laughing.
His black mood had lifted and, still smiling, he sailed into the sky, his sword pointed straight at the head of the biggest bird.

The wheeling circle of birds began to close up, and Timoken found himself sailing into the centre of a densely packed flock. The wind tore at his cloak, leaving his body unprotected, but the birds seemed afraid of the billowing red velvet and tilted away, shrieking with fury. Timoken went after them, slashing at wings and talons. They soared above him and then swooped down, so fast he hardly had time to draw breath. Razor sharp beaks tore at his turban again and again, until it unravelled and blew away in shreds, leaving his head exposed to their vicious stabs. Timoken lifted his shield over his head, but time and again, the birds knocked it away. Desperately, he kicked out at them. He lunged at the black heads and jabbed at the fiery eyes, and as he twisted and whirled he used their own language to curse and threaten them. But
they still came at him, and he felt his strength begin to ebb. His sword arm ached, his head throbbed and he found himself dropping helplessly lower and lower.

One of the birds swooped towards Timoken, its beak pointed at his eye; a second later a shutter snapped across his vision, and the world went black.

Covering his face with his shield arm, Timoken felt blood running across his cheeks; blood that was mixed with tears. He did not want to die before he saw his sister again. But when he drew his arm away, Timoken realised that he was not blind after all; a dark cloud had covered the sun. It seemed to fill the sky. And out of the cloud came sounds that Timoken recognised: a thousand voices, the voices of eagles and hawks, of gulls and owls and of every bird of prey that he had ever heard. And they all spoke with one voice: ‘We are with you!’

The cloud fell on the black birds, covering them like a shroud; it flew around them and beneath them, until nothing could be seen of the fearful creatures. Their furious screams rose above the cries of the thousand birds of prey.

Help had come not a moment too soon. Timoken knew that he could not have defended himself any
longer. The black creatures would have torn him to shreds. His throat was parched, his head pounded, but he managed to utter a feeble, ‘Thank you, my friends,’ before he dropped to earth.

Timoken lay where he had fallen, on the dusty road into the city. His friends rode up to him, with Gabar galloping behind.

‘Is he dead?’ cried Beri.

‘Looks like they finished him off,’ said Mabon.

‘No!’ shouted Edern. ‘That cannot be.’

‘He looks dead,’ said Peredur, and Gereint agreed.

Timoken raised himself on one elbow and grinned at them. ‘Don’t believe everything you see,’ he said to Peredur.

They leapt off their horses and surrounded him, cheering with relief and joy.

‘You look terrible, Timoken,’ said Mabon.

Edern said, ‘Without wounds, a hero is not a hero.’

‘I’m not a hero yet.’ Timoken felt strong and confident. ‘Let us go into the city,’ he said, jumping to his feet. Gabar crouched to let him mount and he swung himself easily into the saddle.

‘You are very bloody,’ Beri remarked, looking at
Timoken’s tunic. ‘Do you not have a clean garment in one of those bags?’ She glanced at the bundles hanging from his saddle.

‘I am alive,’ said Timoken, raising his sword. ‘That is all that matters.’

On the street outside the toymaker’s house, the sorcerer stood watching the cloud of birds. One by one, the flying creatures that he had created with such cunning dropped like wet rags on to roofs and walls and cobblestones. A bundle of bones and black feathers fell at his feet and he stepped back. One end of his mouth curled up in a grim smile. ‘Well, African, a new game can begin,’ he muttered.

Watching from their windows, others had seen the monstrous creatures fall. Cautiously, people began to emerge on to the streets. They looked at their neighbours and shook their heads, murmuring, ‘Is it all over? We thought the end of the world had come.’

A small procession was moving up the main street. People turned to look. They saw a boy on a camel and, behind him, five children on weary-looking horses. One of them suddenly rode up beside the camel. He – no, it
was a girl – swept off her battered headgear and a mane of golden hair tumbled out.

‘I am Berenice, daughter of Esteban Díaz,’ cried the girl, ‘and I have come to avenge the death of my father. Where is the murderer?’

Someone pointed to an alley leading off the main street. Others nodded, and a woman shouted, ‘He is in the house of Tariq the toymaker. Tariq is dead now, but his wife still lives.’

‘The sorcerer keeps her prisoner,’ cried an old man.

‘Don’t go there, child,’ said another woman. ‘You cannot avenge your father. He was murdered by a sorcerer. Wait for the soldiers.’

‘This is Timoken.’ Beri pointed at him. ‘He is a magician, and he has just defeated the flying creatures that have been menacing our city.’

The crowd stared up at the boy on the camel. He had certainly been in a fight. His white tunic was streaked with blood, his face and hands were scarred with deep scratches. There was a glimmer of gold in his hair.
Could it be a crown?

Timoken slid off the camel’s back, and the others dismounted. Children ran forward to hold the reins.
They were proud that a boy, no bigger than themselves, had defeated the flying monsters.

One of the boys pointed to the narrow street a few paces behind him. ‘The sorcerer and his creatures are down there,’ he said. ‘We saw them.’

‘Which door?’ asked Timoken.

‘The sign of the camel,’ a small girl told him.

Timoken felt the eyes of the crowd on him. He could not fail now. But before he faced the sorcerer, he had to do something about his sword and shield. They had not protected him as well as they might have. He sat on the cobblestones and lay the sword across his lap. In the language of the secret kingdom, he begged the weapon to defend him, to be invincible against all enemies and to end the life of any being that wished him dead.

The people listened to the African’s chanting. They watched in awed silence as he ran his fingers over the sword, and they saw a silver ring on the middle finger of his left hand. The ring flashed as though it were made of fire.

Timoken put his sword aside and, laying his shield over his knees, he repeated his chant. When he had finished, he asked his friends to hand him their
weapons. One by one he ran his fingers over the swords and the shields with their bright emblems: the wolf and the bear, the fish and the eagle and the running hare.

‘This means that we are coming with you,’ said Edern as Timoken returned his sword.

‘I want it to be your choice.’ Timoken stood up. He glanced at Beri.

‘Do you expect me to choose safety, when I have a chance to avenge my father?’ she said hotly.

‘No.’ Timoken’s face was solemn.

Beri quickly tied her long hair into a knot at the back of her head. ‘I am ready,’ she said.

Timoken had been prepared to go alone, but it was good to hear his friends’ footsteps close behind him. He came to a flight of steps. The door at the top was painted with the sign of a camel, and he smiled to himself. A camel could only bring good luck. But as he looked at it, the camel became a fluid thing; it turned from gold to green, the head withered and melted into the long neck. The legs vanished and the body stretched into a narrow, writhing creature: a living serpent.

Timoken mounted the steps. The others followed. He
stared at the moving green coils, twisting and sliding across the wood. He had never seen magic like this. His friends took a step back, but Timoken tucked his sword into its scabbard and put his fingers on the ringed door handle. As he began to turn it, the serpent’s head lunged towards his hand, its open mouth revealing lethal fangs. Timoken was quicker. In a flash he had seized the thing by the neck. It hissed in fury, its jaws widening, its yellow eyes glaring. But Timoken kept his grip until the serpent’s mouth began to close. Its eyes rolled back into its head and it was still.

‘I do not trust it,’ muttered Timoken, dropping the serpent to the ground.

Without hesitating, Edern pulled out his sword and cut off the serpent’s head.

The others stared at it in horror. If this was the beginning of a battle, what could they expect to find behind the toymaker’s door?

Timoken turned the handle and the door swung open. At first he could see nothing but an empty courtyard. There was a stone seat in the centre, and behind the seat a rose bush covered in golden yellow blooms. A breeze sent their fragrance drifting towards the group, but when
they inhaled the lovely perfume, it turned sour in their nostrils and became foul and dreadful. The strength of the smell made their stomachs churn, and while they were reeling, retching, about the courtyard, the petals on the bush withered and dropped. Behind the dying blooms, three shadowy figures could now be seen.

‘At last!’ called a voice.

Timoken shivered. It was the voice of a youth, but its tone was ancient and evil.

Someone came out of the shadows and walked around the rose bush. The youth was not much taller than Timoken. His golden-brown hair touched his shoulders, and his eyes were the colour of polished green olives. Timoken instantly shifted his gaze to the hand that rested on the hilt of the youth’s sword. ‘Do not look into his eyes,’ he told the others.

‘You know what I want.’ The sorcerer’s smile was almost pleasant.