Free Corbenic by Catherine Fisher

of Gwyar . . .
    Trioedd Ynys Prydein
    â€œW hat’ll it be? I’ve got a few cans.”
    Cal lowered himself painfully into the chair. His whole body ached. “I don’t drink,” he muttered.
    â€œHe needs hot sweet tea.” The girl ducked under the curtain that screened the door of the van and put the sword carefully on the table. “Don’t you . . . ?” She left a space for his name so he said, “Cal,” and shrugged, numb. “Whatever.” Now it was over he couldn’t stop shaking.
    The man nodded, putting the kettle on. “No problem.” He was older than the girl; muscular, his hair razored short. Even in this cold he wore only a check shirt, tight over his shoulders, and jeans. The girl sat opposite. “He’s the Hawk. You can call me Shadow.”
    Cal was looking at his hands, and his trousers. Blood, mud, everywhere. “God what a mess,” he mumbled.
    â€œDid they get anything?”
    â€œNothing to get.”
    She had a clean cloth; she squeezed water out of it and gave it to him, then went to a cluttered cupboard on the wall and rummaged there, coming back with a small tube of ointment. “Let’s have a look at you.”
    Before he could object she had his coat off; he pulled his shirt up gingerly. The cut was shallow under his ribs, beaded with blood, but it had slashed right through shirt and jacket. He felt suddenly very sick. “God,” he whispered.
    â€œMmm. A bit deeper and it doesn’t bear thinking about.” She cleaned it quickly, and he hissed with the sting, looking around at the inside of the van, trying to get his mind clear, to get the terror out that had come now, too late. The van was warm and stuffy. It smelled of incense and dirty socks and bananas. Some sort of camp stove sizzled in one corner, and it was incredibly untidy. Every surface was draped and swathed with colorful fabrics, wall hangings and curtains, subtle rich velvets of purple and maroon embroidered with gold, beaded with tiny crystals. Sunflowers were painted on the table, almost obliterated now with brown rings from the bottoms of mugs, and down one window a great sun rose in stained glass, glowing with haloes of brilliant color. Tasteful it was not, he thought wryly. Next to it, hanging on the wall, were swords. Real swords. Cal flinched.
    â€œSorry,” the girl said absently.
    A shield was propped by the door. A pentangle was painted on it. A stack of spears, or lances. A helmet. He gave a quick glance at the big man pouring tea, then at the dog-eared books on the yellow shelf. Armor of the Fifteenth Century. The Sword in Medieval Combat. Sir Gawayne and the Grene Knight. What sort of madhouse had he stumbled into this time? The mess annoyed him, reminded him of the flat. He had a desperate desire to start cleaning it all up.
    â€œRight.” The girl looked up, the tattoo on her face a lacework in the lamplight. “That doesn’t look too bad. What else?” He opened his sticky, slashed palms.
    â€œYuck. Keep still, it’ll hurt.” Her long glossy hair fell forward as she worked. He saw she wore only black; filmy layers of it, skirt over skirt over trousers, and heavy men’s boots.
    â€œTea.” Hawk came and put it down. He sat on the cluttered sofa, pushing off a small cat, put his feet up, and watched. “You were lucky there, laddie. If we hadn’t come along . . .”
    â€œYes. Thanks.” Cal felt annoyance welling up. “If he’d been on his own I could have handled him.”
    â€œMaybe. You were up for it. But not with that technique.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSwordplay. You were wide open, slashing like that. If they’d had any sense one would have been in under your arm.”
    â€œHawk,” the girl said quietly.
    He stopped, then raised his eyebrows. “Just saying, lady.”
    â€œThen stop saying.”
    The big man leaned back. “Well, I