Chapter 3

Dragons, Knights and Fairy Queens

De Silva smooths back his jet-black hair. It glints in the light. He takes his mask and places it over his head. My heartbeat quickens as I put my own mask on, and the room darkens through the meshed metal front. I take a deep breath to steady myself and it echoes around me, hot within the enclosed space of the mask. My opponent could be anyone now, but it’s hard to forget I’m facing Sir Darren De Silva. My heart flutters as I remember the tomb and the name engraved on it.

De Silva’s shoes squeak against the blue gym mat as he comes towards me and places a hand on my shoulder. “A quick battle.” His voice is muffled inside the helmet. “First to three. Let’s see what you’ve got Mr Atkins.”

He steps back. “En-garde!”

I drop instinctively into the pose.

Instead of attacking he lowers his foil and steps off the mat before walking around me. “Very good. Very good.” He taps my back leg. “Round a little more. Good. Nice stance brave knight.”

He returns to the end of the mat and drops into en-garde himself, his weight on the balls of his feet, swaying a little all the while.

And then he’s lunging at me.

I move my wrist across to the left – parry quarte – and there’s a scrape of metal as the foils connect. I tense my wrist against the force of his attack; push back against him. His foil passes harmlessly by me and I riposte, aiming for his open left side. But he’s too quick. His foil comes across pushing mine wide and he hits me square in the chest.

The touch is light but firm.

He’s as good as I thought he’d be.

I step away and squeeze my left hand into a fist. “Come on B,” I whisper.

We reset. This time he waits, the red tip of his foil moving in tiny circles through the air.

I shuffle forwards and feint an attack. He doesn’t bite. I judge the distance between us then lunge at him for real. He steps back and parries to the right – parry sixte – but doesn’t counter.

My pulse hammers in my throat.

The red tip circles again.

I tense my wrist, drop my sword point down and push off with my back leg. Our foils scrape together. He flicks mine away and comes at me, but I scoot back and lunge again. He parries quickly and ripostes. I parry him, feint a lunge and step back holding my foil up vertically. He parries air.

A secret smile, hidden by my helmet pushes some of the tension from the muscles in my face.

Looks like he’s not invincible after all.

This thought fizzes through my brain and I roll my shoulders. The room is quiet now, as quiet as the tomb.

He flicks his foil up, brings it down and attacks. I parry once more but he tilts his foil tip inwards, hitting me on my left shoulder.

“Very good. Very good,” he says, his voice tight and breathless.

I close my eyes for a second and remember what Mr Fletcher, my old fencing teacher used to tell us:

Use your opponent’s strength against them.

There’s a move. One that I walloped Simon Williams with. It’s a death or glory move and this seems like the right time to use it.

We reset and I attack immediately aiming for his left side. He parries and ripostes, exactly as I want him to.

My shoes squeak as I leap back.

His arm remains fully extended.

I bring my foil over in an arc, right to left, so it’s pointing downwards as our foils connect. He pushes forwards, his arm outstretched but I step back, keeping the distance between us then flick my wrist upwards and outwards. His sword is ripped from his grasp and sails into the air.

Time seems to slow down.

A collective gasp from behind me and I grin inside my mask before lunging, certain of the hit, but he steps aside and somehow impossibly catches the spinning foil in mid-air. I’m left over extended and feel the point of his foil connect with my ribs.

But I don’t care.

That’s got to be the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.

De Silva rips off his mask and strides over; his face red, his hair sticking up from his head. “By the gods Sir Atkins!” He beams at me. “In all the two kingdoms that’s only you and Gerrard Denby who have ever disarmed me. Not even that cad, Wyman did that.”

I take my own mask off and look round to see if anyone else knows what he’s talking about.

The whole room is staring at us.

De Silva pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and mops his brow. “Well class, stop gawking like fish in a tank and let’s practice that beautiful parry and disarm move as shown to us by Sir Atkins here. Mr Maynard, you partner with Sir Atkins. Sirs Werdun, Bhatt, Wilson and Bamfrees, with me.”

Alice bounces over, helmet under arm: her braids swinging against her shoulders. “He called you Sir,” she whispers. “No one ever gets called Sir in their first lesson.”

A tingle travels up my spine and across my shoulders. Sir Bradley Atkins, I like the sound of that.

###

After class I text Mum to tell her I’m going to help pack away the equipment, then walk home with Alice. She texts straight back with a smiley.

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De Silva sits on the bench by my kit bag, his foil across his lap and watches as we drag the mats and stack them in a pile.

The corner of my book is sticking out from my bag. He leans over and takes it between two fingers. “Young Ninja, Dark Knight,” he reads aloud from the front cover before flicking through the pages. “You like adventure stories Sir Atkins?”

I stop dragging the mat and stare at him. “Yes, Sir.”

“I could tell you a few tales of derring-do if you like? I know Sir Werdun is a fan.”

Alice drops the mat and claps her hands. “Yes please, Sir. The one you told me about Humfdinger, The King of The Northern Ogres was amazing. Can we hear that one again?”

De Silva nods to himself, smiling. “That was fun, yes.” He holds up a finger, his face suddenly serious. “But it’s Humfdoodle.” The finger waggles. “Humfdoodle. And I advise never getting an ogre’s name wrong. They hate it. Utterly hate it.”

I can’t help smiling. He’s a total dudecase. No doubt about it. “Are you saying that Ogres are real?!”

De Silva places my book down and leans his head back against the wall. “I think today I’ll tell you the story of the dragon Haalsbeder who stole The Fairy Queen’s eyes.” His eyelids close and he takes a deep breath. “Listen...”

###

One fine summer’s day, the dragon Haalsbeder entered the land of Fae and tore the Fairy Queen’s eyes from her head. When plucked from her face by the dragon’s claws, her eyes – one blue, one green – became a sapphire and an emerald. The sapphire was said to bring the bearer eternal life, the emerald eternal riches.

The Fae archers attacked the beast as he flew away, sending a hundred golden arrows into the sky. Only one found its mark, lodging itself between a gap in the dragon’s scales, injuring the claw holding the emerald, which fell from his grasp. Down it hurtled through the clouds, landing somewhere on the slopes of Mount Kereste, Haalsbeder escaping with the other gem. The Queen sent her elite rangers, The Ansyn Gärd, to retrieve it but after seven days and seven nights they returned empty handed. The emerald, it seemed, had vanished without a trace.

As for the sapphire, dragons weave spells around their lairs to prevent the Fae from entering and so The Queen had to resort to asking humans for help. The Fae are a proud folk and The Queen was incensed to be forced to bargain with mortals. Yet, in her desperation, she sent messengers far and wide, calling on all the brave souls of the kingdom to come to her aid.

A young knight who had fallen under a cunningly woven curse was brought before her. His jet-black hair shone in the torchlight of the throne room as he removed his helmet and bowed low. He pledged to return her eye and as payment wanted only to be released from his curse. The Fae Queen agreed, and the knight strode from the palace.

A month later to the day, he returned holding the sapphire in his outstretched hand. “I killed the beast and took back what is yours,” he said. “Now give me back what is mine.”

The Fae Queen reached out one bone-white hand and her long fingers curled around the stone. It glinted in the light as she lifted it high and placed it in one of the deep-black, eyeless sockets in her head. She blinked and it was an eye once more; an eye as blue as a summer’s sky at dusk: rich and beautiful but with a creeping darkness that will inevitably smother it.

Turning her newly found gaze on the young knight, she smiled a smile without joy. Her next words froze the blood in his veins. “Only when you bring me mine other eye will you see freedom.”

###

I wait for De Silva to continue. But he doesn’t. I didn’t just hear the story, I lived it. It had surrounded me; carried me off to magical lands.

“Did the knight find the other eye sir?” I ask.

“The ending is not yet set.”

“You mean you’ve not thought it up?”

A dry laugh barks out of him and he looks down. “Something like that.”

Alice jumps down from her seat at the top of the mat pile. “That’s a great story sir, better even than the one about Humfdoodle.”

He lifts his head and our eyes meet. “Just things I’ve heard, seen and done over the years.”

“Done?” I ask. The word echoes through the empty hall.

“Life is stranger than fiction my good knights.” He checks his watch. “And you should be getting home. Shall I walk you a way?”

Alice picks her bag off the floor and heaves it over her shoulder. “We’re ok sir. Two brave knights should be able to fend for themselves on the mean streets of Bledgley.”

He laughs. “Ok. Good luck, adventurers. I’ll see you next week.”

“Definitely sir,” I say.

He bows. “And now I bid you farewell.”

###

Outside the streets are empty. We stick to the main road and walk together, our shadows shrinking and growing in the streetlights as we pass through them. De Silva’s story fills my thoughts. Dragons and Fairies. Stolen eyes. Brave knights.

Alice must be thinking the same thing ‘cause she says, “Cool story tonight huh?”

“Yeah.” For the second time I consider telling her about the gravestone but fear of it all sounding odd makes the words sit heavy in my chest.

“He tells me a story at the end of most classes,” Alice says. “I volunteer to tidy up just so I can hear another.” She pauses and scratches her nose. “This might sound stupid but sometimes I feel like he’s telling me about himself. Like they’re not made up at all. I guess that sounds well weird.”

The weight in my chest lifts a little and I shake my head, my mind full of the gravestone, the glowing letters, and the tale of a cursed knight with jet black hair.

Here lies Sir Darren De Silva.

As we turn the corner into our road, I make my mind up. Death or glory. “Want to hear something proper weird?”

She stops under a lamppost and stares at me. The light makes her braids shine like gold. “Go on then.”

A small knot tightens in my stomach, and I run a hand through my hair. Maybe I should make a joke of it. The knot tightens. I’d tell Josh. But he’s not here and it’d make no sense to him anyway. Alice knows De Silva; she knows his stories. It’s Death or glory. “I saw him coming out of a tomb in the graveyard behind his house the other day. He had his foil with him.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m serious!”

She steps closer. “Really?”

“Honestly! I’m not teasing you. I went to the graveyard and the tomb was open. Inside I found an old gravestone with De Silva’s name on it.” I miss out the bit about magical letters. “Weird thing is, when I came out the door shut, all by itself, and I couldn’t open it again.”

She puts her kit bag down and rubs her shoulder. When she looks at me again her eyes seem watery, but it might just be the light. “I know that graveyard,” she says quietly. “And I know the tomb doesn’t open. I’ve explored that place a million times. Me and Mum used to go every week. Now we go less.”

I want to ask why but know instinctively the answer’s not a good one. I mean, it’s pretty obvious why people go to graveyards. I should ask though, but don’t have the strength to heave those words out into the world. And so the silence stretches on.

Alice turns to looks at her house for a moment. There’s a light on in the downstairs window. She takes a deep breath and turns back to me. “I may as well tell you. Before that idiot Bamfrees says something.” The words begin to tumble out of her, her voice barely a whisper. “My dad died just over a year ago. Car accident. Hit and run. They never found the guy who did it.” She takes a shuddering breath. “He’s buried there, in the graveyard. Sir De Silva let us have a plot for free. It’s been his family’s since the Manor House was built way back in the fifth century.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.” The words seem hollow and meaningless. Guilt gnaws at my insides. Everything’s changed for me: new house, new life, but for Alice there’s not even the chance of going back, no choice but to move on.

She wipes a hand across her eyes. “Sorry. I’m ok. Will you show me tomorrow?”

My stomach twists. “Are you sure?”

She nods. “Only to prove the tomb doesn’t open and that you’ve gone mental.”

“But the door was shut,” I say. “What if we can’t get in?”

“Then I’ll know you were stringing me along, won’t I?”

“I’m not. I promise.”

She twirls one of her braids around her finger and stares at me. “Ok. Ten o clock tomorrow morning. I’ll pick some flowers for Dad on the way.” She grabs her kit bag and walks down the path to her house.

“Bring your foil,” I shout after her.

“I was going to,” she says without turning.

I wait until her front door clicks shut before walking down our drive. I’m about halfway when a light from an upstairs window of Alice’s house catches my eye. One of the rooms at the front seems to be filled with stars. Alice appears at the window and draws the curtains. I guess that must be her bedroom, the stars from her nightlight.

“Is that you Brad?” Dad calls from the lounge as I push our front door open and step inside.

“Yeah,” I shout back. “I’ll just sort my kit bag out then come down.”

I head upstairs. Mum has hung her cross-stitch picture on the wall of the landing:

Home Is Where The Heart Is

She started it when she accepted her new job, the one that brought us here to Bledgley.

I try to imagine what Alice’s house might be like: the settee, the sideboard with the pictures of her and her mum and dad laughing together.

I feel hollowed out inside.

Both my parents are downstairs. In a minute I’ll go and sit with them and maybe, just maybe, this house will feel like home.