Behind him, Pearl sniffed a little. Daisy had been forced to pry Thrift away from her, and the piskey-girl had howled so noisily that Martin had to spell her to sleep. But when Ivy and Martin left the cavern, Pearl had followed without resistance. She knew she’d been foolish to run away, and she’d been weeping quietly ever since they set off, ashamed of herself.
But she still wasn’t coughing, despite the smog in the tunnels. And though she could hear him breathing fast with dread, neither was Martin.
Oddest of all, Ivy wasn’t either. The last time she’d sneaked into the Delve she’d been coughing in minutes, but tonight she hadn’t felt so much as a tickle in her throat. No dizziness or weakness—in fact the opposite: she felt almost as clearheaded now as she had when Martin kissed her in the Earthenbore. Why?
A thought flashed into her mind, and Ivy nearly tripped over her own feet. Could Martin and Pearl be immune to the Delve’s poison? Could they even—unlikely as it seemed—have the power to cancel it out?
“I’m still fairly attached to that hand, Ivy,” said Martin in a strangled voice. “So if you’d stop trying to crush it, I’d be grateful.”
Embarrassed, she let go. “Sorry.” But she was so distracted that when Martin took her other hand, he had to nudge her to move on.
If spriggans had some kind of natural cleansing magic, it would explain everything. The strangely fresh air in the barrow and Daisy’s cavern, how Martin had healed Mattock when Broch couldn’t, the reason Cicely had stopped coughing immediately when they switched places in the Upper Rise. Even the tingling energy Ivy had felt when Martin kissed her made sense now: it hadn’t been passion, it had been his power flowing into her.
Excitement leaped up in Ivy. If only one or two spriggans could make such a difference, what about thirty? Her people wouldn’t need to look for a new home if Martin and the children could purge out the poison and make the Delve safe again. And then the piskeys would have to make peace with the spriggans, because they literally couldn’t do without them.
Yet Ivy would never have discovered any of this if Pearl hadn’t run away. It was enough to make her wonder if there might be some all-knowing power behind everything, like the Shaper, or the Great Gardener, or Rhys the Deep. Or perhaps just the same being called by different names, working in Martin’s life and Thorn and Broch’s as well as her own.
Though that unseen power could also be leading Ivy to her death tonight, for the sake of some greater good that she would never see. But it heartened her to think that all she’d suffered could be worth something after all, and that she and Martin might still be able to make a difference.
Steps quickening, she tugged the spriggans after her, up the Hunter’s Stair to the Earthenbore. The sooner they reached the surface, the sooner they could carry out the rest of their plan.
“There they are,” she whispered as the guards came into view, silhouetted in the tunnel entrance. It was still night, but the faint glow from outside was dazzling compared to the absolute blackness behind them. “Martin?”
Martin stepped forward and made a sweeping gesture. The guards stilled, frozen in time again, and Ivy, Martin, and Pearl darted past them. Together they ran out onto the hillside, up the path, and collapsed in the shadow of the Engine House.
In the moonlight Martin looked colorless, limp with strain and exhaustion. But when he sat up and turned to Pearl, his face was stern and commanding as a king’s. “Leap back to the barrow at once,” he said, “and stay there with Jewel and the others. If I see any of you again tonight I will be very angry, do you understand?”
Pearl gave a little whimper and vanished. Ivy turned to Martin, eager to tell him what she’d discovered, but the bleak look in his eyes forestalled her. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“It is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples,” said Martin. “I’ve got a lot to think about, and it’s been a long night. But we’ve come this far, so let’s ring up the curtain for Act Two, shall we?” He cupped his hands to his mouth and let out the eerie, piercing screech of a barn owl.
If the knocker guards heard the call, it didn’t trouble them. The doorway of the Engine House remained empty until a black nose poked around the corner and a badger snuffled in, blinking at them with small, rheumy eyes.
“Are they ready?” Martin asked, as it unfolded into Broch.
“As they’ll ever be,” said the faery man. “Cicely is better at glamours than Thorn, but once they split up and start flying, even she finds it difficult to hold the illusion steady.”
“That won’t matter,” said Martin, and privately Ivy agreed. It was dark, to begin with, and once they lured Gossan and his soldiers into the wood, the flickering shadows would help hide any weak spots in the glamour. The main thing was to keep their enemies chasing phantoms as long as possible before they realized it was all a trick. “Just tell them to be ready for my signal. I may need to improvise.”
Broch nodded, changed shape again, and waddled off. “What do you mean, improvise?” Ivy asked, as Martin turned to her.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“You know I do.”
Martin slid a finger through the chain of her pendant and drew it out from beneath her sweater. “Then trust that I’ll do everything in my power not to make you regret it.” He kissed her lightly and disappeared.
Ivy closed her fingers around the stone, frowning. She was still wondering what he’d meant when she heard him call out to the guards in the rich, rolling voice he used on stage:
“Tell your so-called Jack that the king of the spriggans has come to challenge him. Tell him to come out of his coward’s den and fight!”
Panic stabbed into Ivy. She rushed to the doorway, staring down the hill in disbelief.
Martin had materialized a mere stone’s throw from the guards, arms folded and feet planted arrogantly wide. Shocked, they reached for their thunder-axes, but he raised a warning hand. “I wouldn’t try it, if I were you. Soldiers, arise!”
Wind rippled the gorse behind him, and a host of spindly figures rose up with sinister smoothness. They looked nothing like Martin or the children back in the barrow, but they were chillingly like the spriggans Ivy had grown up seeing in her nightmares: gaunt, pale and hungry-looking, swathed in ragged cloaks and hoods that hid all but their glittering eyes.
The guards backed up, faces slack with fear. Their ancestors had led countless raids against the faeries and spriggans of Kernow, but these men had grown up without seeing a real enemy, let alone having to fight one. Even their skirmish with Ivy’s people hadn’t prepared them for this.
“Go and fetch your leader,” commanded Martin. “Or we’ll march in and drag him out. If he wants to keep calling himself Jack of the Delve, he’ll have to fight me for it.”
“But a spriggan can’t . . .” The youngest guard trailed off, stammering, as Ivy walked down the hill to join them. Her mouth felt dry and her knees shaky, but if Martin could improvise, so could she.
“He can if he’s my Jack,” she said. “You heard my lord king. Go.”
“My lord,” murmured Martin. “I like the sound of that.”
Ivy suppressed the urge to smack him. How could he make such a reckless challenge, especially after what had happened to Mattock? Martin might be quicker on his feet and better used to treachery, but he was still no match for Gossan.
If only she could tell Martin what she’d guessed about spriggans! But the guards were listening, and there was no chance now. All she could do was pray this mad scheme of Martin’s would work.
The guards huddled together, whispering urgently. At last the oldest straightened up, hefted his thunder-axe, and thumped it three times on the tunnel floor.
The sound was muffled, but the vibrations would carry. The next guard to feel the signal would echo it, and soon everyone in the Delve would know the mine was under attack. With a last nervous glance at Martin the younger guard raced off down the Earthenbore to relay his message, leaving the old
er one behind.
He did his best to look defiant, but his eyes were watering with terror, and Ivy’s heart went out to him. “Don’t be afraid, Wolfram,” she said. “It’s not you we came to fight.”
The knocker’s mouth worked, and he spat on the ground between them. “Traitor! Siding with spriggans against your own folk? You’re as false as the Joan said.”
Martin stiffened, but Ivy touched his hand. “Think what you like,” she told Wolfram. “You’ll find out who’s false soon enough.”
They’d waited on the hillside for several minutes, and Ivy was starting to wonder if Cicely and Thorn could keep up the illusion much longer, when they heard boots marching up the tunnel and the younger guard returned, followed by a host of knockers, hunters, and a few doughty old uncles. As they stepped out onto the hillside, Ivy silently counted them: three, eight, twelve, fifteen . . .
By the time they’d fanned out into position, weapons drawn and gleaming in the light of the low-hanging moon, there were forty-two Delve soldiers—equal to the glamoured spriggans, and ten times more than the allies Ivy and Martin actually had. Stony-faced, they formed a living wall across the mouth of the tunnel, then parted briefly as Gossan and Betony strode through.
Ivy clutched Martin’s arm, but he gently removed her hand and stepped forward. “Jack O’Lantern,” he declaimed, “you see my army, as I see yours. Will you do as before and send your soldiers to fight while you amuse yourself torturing children? Or will you face me in single combat and prove yourself the better man?”
Mattock was hardly a child, but the flare of Gossan’s nostrils proved Martin’s taunt had struck home. “You’re no man,” he retorted. “You’re nothing but a foul, thieving spriggan.”
“Then I should be no great challenge for you either,” said Martin brightly. “Consider this your chance to prove once and for all, to my people as well as yours, that you’re the mightiest warrior in Cornwall. Defeat me, and my army will flee to the border of Devon, never to be seen by you or any other piskey again. But if I win”—his mouth curved—“I become Jack of the Delve, ruling piskeys and spriggans alike.”
Betony gave a cold laugh. “You’ll never be my Jack,” she said. “Touch me and I’ll burn you to ashes.”
“No fear, Lady Macbeth,” said Martin. “I’d rather die than touch you anyway. And I have a better Joan than you already, so there’s no need.” He turned to Gossan. “But since your wife seems concerned you might lose, I’ll let you choose the weapons for our challenge.”
He picked up a pebble off the ground, tossed it in the air and caught it again as a dagger, flicking it from one hand to the other so fast Ivy’s eyes could barely follow it. “Knives? I like those. Or would you prefer swords?” Another toss, and the blade lengthened; he swept it in a shining arc around and behind him. “Spears, perhaps?” Once more the weapon changed, to a wooden shaft spinning in his hands. “I’ll even play at thunder-axes, if you like.”
With one last flash he swung a steel-headed pickaxe onto his shoulder and arched an eyebrow at Gossan. “But whatever you choose, we’ll stick to it. No changing weapons mid-fight, like you did to poor trusting Mattock. What do you say?”
Gossan’s gaze raked over Martin’s slim faery build, then flicked to the troop of spriggans behind him—who looked far more intimidating than their king did. He leaned toward Betony, listening as she whispered. Then he smiled.
“No weapons,” he said.
Martin, who had been juggling daggers, stopped abruptly. The knives vanished, and three stones pattered to the ground. “I beg your pardon?”
“No weapons,” Gossan repeated. “That is my choice.”
“Boxing!” Martin sounded relieved. “A little inelegant, but I approve. Shall we—”
Gossan shook his head. “Wrestling.”
The piskey soldiers broke into grins and nudged one another. There could be little doubt who would win that contest, and by the blank expression on his face, Martin knew it too. “To three falls?” he asked. “Or yielding?”
In the light of his skin-glow, Gossan’s teeth gleamed like bones. “To the death.”
The silence that followed Gossan’s words was so absolute that Ivy could hear Martin swallow. Then he lifted his chin and said, “Agreed.”
“No!” Ivy burst out. “Don’t, Martin!”
“It’s already done.” He turned to the illusionary spriggans behind them. “Retreat, all of you. Do not approach again unless I call.”
The ragged figures backed down the hillside, melting into the shadows of the wood. Martin watched until they vanished, then turned to Gossan. “I’m ready,” he said. “Where shall we fight?”
At a glance, the answer was obvious. The only place flat enough for a wrestling match was the floor of the Engine House. Betony led the way, stepping proudly with her skirts gathered in both hands. Ivy and Martin followed, with Gossan’s soldiers behind them.
Ivy’s stomach churned and her feet felt like lead; every instinct screamed at her to seize Martin and leap away. But they had to drag out the performance as long as possible, to give Teasel and the other women time to save their men. She glanced anxiously over her shoulder, but there was no sign of the faeries or Cicely. She hoped they were hiding somewhere, recovering their strength so they’d be ready when Martin needed them.
Yet what could they do? Once started, the challenge could not be interrupted until it came to its lawful end, quick and brutal though that end would probably be. Martin’s best assets were his speed and his cunning, but neither would help him once Gossan got those big hands around his neck.
When they reached the Engine House Gossan’s men set to work, clearing away the charred branches that littered the floor and hacking up the turf with their thunder-axes. Soon they’d turned the former dancing green into a patch of dark, gravelly earth, framed by knocker soldiers. They linked their arms to form a ring, eager to watch their Jack crush the upstart spriggan.
Gossan threw off his jacket and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a broad chest and shoulders like an anvil. He handed the clothes to Betony, who smiled triumphantly and leaned to kiss him. Her gleaming eyes met Ivy’s across the Engine House, and Ivy had to look away.
Martin plucked fretfully at his shirt-cuff. “In this cold? Is that necessary?”
The knockers smirked, and the nearest one leered at him. “Don’t worry, little spriggan. Once our Jack gets a grip on you, you’ll warm up soon enough.”
“And by the time he’s done with you, you won’t care,” chimed in another, and they all laughed.
There had to be a way to stop this, Ivy thought. Martin had suffered enough for her already without having to lay down his life as well. But he’d dropped his coat and started unbuttoning his shirt, so he clearly meant to go through with it.
Half-dressed he looked thinner than ever, with jutting collarbones and skin so pale she could see the blue veins running through it. Not weak or flabby—Martin had never been that. But he seemed like a mere boy compared to Gossan, especially with his hair ruffled like an owlet’s feathers. Fighting grief, Ivy reached up to brush it out of his eyes. “Please don’t do this,” she whispered. “You’ve survived so long—you can’t give up now.”
Martin drew her close and kissed her wet cheek. His hands cupped the wingless blades of her shoulders as he murmured, “Don’t cry, love. You know me. When could I ever resist a dramatic exit?”
“Enough,” called Gossan. “Stop hiding behind your woman and come fight.”
Martin held Ivy’s gaze a moment, like a silent apology. Then he turned to the knockers. “Well? Are you going to let me in, or do I have to wrestle the lot of you first?”
The men guffawed and unlinked their arms to let him pass. But as Martin stepped forward, one stuck out his boot in front of him; he stumbled and nearly fell.
“That’s foul play, boys,” Gossan warned, but he was smiling. He smacked his hands together, bouncing from foot to foot, as Martin watched him warily.
“And that one will be the unquestioned Jack of the Delve,” Martin chimed in, “in case anyone was forgetting. Or would you rather just surrender now and spare yourselves a long and tedious view of my stomach?”
Betony’s jaw tightened, and her eyes grew cold. But she made no retort, only raised her arms high. “On the count of three, the match will begin. One. Two. Three!”
At once Gossan exploded into action, hurling himself at Martin. But Martin spun aside, ducking the bigger man’s grasp and popping up behind him. “Cuckoo!” he sang.
Ivy gripped her elbows, watching him anxiously. If Martin could keep dodging Gossan for a few minutes, that would buy their allies in the Delve more time. But it had to come to grappling at some point, or the match would never end.
She’d barely finished the thought when Gossan whipped around like a striking adder and cuffed Martin across the face. He reeled back, stunned, and Gossan grabbed him around the waist. He heaved Martin skyward as though he weighed nothing and slammed him full-length to the ground.
Ivy winced, but she couldn’t look away. Gossan had flung himself over Martin, grabbing his arm and jerking it up at a hideous angle—but with a writhing twist Martin slipped free and leaped to his feet again. They circled one another, panting, for a long moment. Then the Jack rushed at Martin, and to Ivy’s shock, Martin made no attempt to dodge him. He ducked, seized Gossan’s leg and yanked him off-balance, sending him crashing onto his back.
Hope flared in Ivy. Perhaps Gossan’s size didn’t give him as much of an advantage as she’d thought? If Martin could keep out of his crushing grip, he might wear the older man to exhaustion, then leap onto his back and bring him down.
Yet without a knife, could he actually kill Gossan? Could he muster the strength, let alone the ruthlessness, to try?
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