From the top of the rise, the chalky track led down towards the range. There were fields to either side of it; farm buildings up ahead. The vedette post lay beyond them, cutting off a country lane: looking like a toytown sentry-box, from this far out.
Athelgar strode forward; Fran hurried to catch up. She felt a crazy confidence, as if nothing else could matter in the world. Maybe madness felt like this. But now, at last, she knew that she was sane.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked the man beside her.
He gave her a searching glance, as if expecting her to know. ‘Here was that first battle when the Raven flew for us. And thus did Alfred hold the slaughter-field.’ Again his accent puzzled her; that gh had a harsh, Germanic sound.
He didn’t break his stride; the pale dirt crunched beneath their boots. She thought about those crumbled bones. ‘You fought here, then?’ she said.
A nod. ‘We came, and fought, and many of us died. I have not passed this way again since then.’
‘So, why come back?’
‘I seek to know the reason we are called. We slept amid the houses of the stars, and someone roused us. But the summoning was all awry.’
She stared at him, still stumbling to keep up.
He seemed to sense her bafflement; indulged it. ‘We are not many, now – but still enough to answer a petition. Yet no trysting-place was told this time. The Ravens have been scattered. I have wandered many months, and have not found them.’
They came to the farm, and crossed its stony yard. The sheds and silos looked deserted; but then a dog began to bark, a fierce and frantic sound. Fran’s stomach jumped instinctively, but the animal stayed out of sight. Athelgar seemed unperturbed; she sidled close, and stuck to him like glue. As they left the farm behind, she risked a glance. Still no sign of the dog; but its disembodied barks went on and on. The thing was afraid, she realized then. Was frightened of the presence on its ground.
She looked at Athelgar; but Athelgar was staring up the road. They’d joined the lane from Bratton here, just short of the vedette. The way ahead to Imber was wide open.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked again.
‘This is my pilgrimage,’ he said. ‘To all the fields of mystery and slaughter. If I pass this way again, I may be shown the road I need.’ He looked at her then: gazed right into her eyes. ‘And did I not find you, my Lady Frances?’
Before she could respond, he’d started walking. Fran lingered on the spot for just a moment; then scurried up behind him as he crossed onto the range.
The ground was waste, all right. Churned-up earth, and barren heath, and shrapnel-peppered trees. Hunks of rusty wreckage lay beside the narrow road. Here and there, across their path, the tanks had gouged out trails of their own. Athelgar’s gaze kept straying off along them. She wondered how she might explain: would giant armoured wagons fit the bill? Perhaps he thought they were the tracks of monsters.
A deathly silence hung across the land. They might have been the last two people living. Athelgar set the pace, and it was steady, unrelenting. Fran had to pant for breath before she got the question out.
‘You said you’d not been back since … Waste-Down?’ He nodded. ‘But listen. Four years ago, not far from here, I ran into some things that looked like men. They chased me – almost caught 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