“I’m so sorry,” Gracie said, and then remembered the bat’s instructions. “Erm . . . might you be Uncle Alvin?”
“I might,” the voice said, and it did not sound any friendlier. “Or I might not. Who are you?”
“I’m Gracie Gillypot,” Gracie said. “And I was to say that Marlon sent me and that he’ll be along in five.”
“Well, that’s a load of rats’ tails for a start,” snapped the voice. “You’ve been here at least an hour. Unless that ridiculous nephew of mine meant five hours?”
“An hour?” Gracie felt a wave of panic surge through her. “I’ve been here a whole hour?”
“Well, I haven’t been counting every minute,” Uncle Alvin said. “I’m afraid I’ve had far more important things to do. But I’d say an hour at least. Maybe two.”
Gracie clutched her bag to her chest. “But that’s awful,” she said, her voice wobbling. “What if he never comes back? What shall I do? I don’t know where I’m going or anything. . . .”
Uncle Alvin sighed a small bat-size sigh. “Typical,” he said. “Nothing but trouble, that boy. Always has been, and always will be. I mean, just look at the people he associates with! Witches, wizards, wizened old crones . . . and I’ve heard he even spends time with some waster in Gorebreath Palace! Huh!”
“Crones . . .” Gracie caught eagerly at the word. “I remember now! The bat — Marlon? Is that his name? — said he was taking me to the Ancient Crones.” She shivered. “Although I don’t know why.”
Uncle Alvin didn’t answer at once. When he did, his voice sounded odd. “Ah. To the Ancient Crones. That might well be.” He coughed as if he were embarrassed. “In that case, I apologize if I was a little — shall we say — cranky? when I woke you up.” He coughed again. “And perhaps you’d be kind enough not to hold it against me, young lady, if we should ever have the good fortune to meet in the future.”
“It’s quite all right,” Gracie said, wondering why he sounded so different all of a sudden. “It must be very inconvenient having humans blundering into your home. But I’ll never get anywhere if Marlon doesn’t come back to show me the —”
“La-di-da and la-di-deee — hello there, kiddo!” A tiny dark shape hung in the opening of the cave, and Marlon flipped inside. “See you met ol’ misery guts!”
“He was being very kind,” Gracie said reproachfully. “You were gone for ages!”
“Sorry ’bout that.” Marlon didn’t sound sorry at all. “Unavoidably delayed. Good news is, the dame’s off track. Totally taken in by the shoe, if you ask my opinion. Heading toward Gorebreath, muttering and cursing all the way.”
Gracie didn’t ask what Foyce was muttering or whom she was cursing. She knew.
“So we’ll be off as well,” Marlon told her. “It’ll be a bit of a trot, but you won’t mind that, will you?”
Gracie shook her head. The very mention of Foyce had made her absolutely certain that she wanted to be anywhere Foyce wasn’t. “Let’s go,” she said.
Uncle Alvin rustled his wings. “Off to the Ancient Crones, I hear,” he said.
“Yup. Safest place when there’s a dame on the rampage like the one out there.” Gracie had a suspicion that Marlon was grinning. “Never heard swearing like it!”
“You be careful, my lad,” Uncle Alvin said. “One of these days you’re going to get yourself into such trouble, you won’t find a way out, fast-talker though you may be. And don’t forget that the Ancients hold the Power . . . far more than you could ever dream of.”
“Yabber yabber yabber,” Marlon said happily. “See you, Unc. Now, kiddo — off we go!” And he led Gracie out of the cave and into a bright moonlit night.
Gubble stared at the donkeys. He wasn’t sure if he liked donkeys. He wasn’t sure if donkeys liked him. He patted the biggest, and it bit him. Gubble was about to bite it back when Lady Lamorna came sweeping down the steps from the castle front door, a cloak wrapped closely around her. For a moment, Gubble didn’t recognize his mistress. Her cloak was tattered and torn and covered in mud, and her long white hair was hidden under an ancient bonnet that appeared to be made of old cabbage leaves. Her face was covered in lines and wrinkles, and an evil-looking wart had appeared on the end of her nose. A tuft of white whiskers sprouted from her chin.
“Arf,” Gubble said admiringly. “Lovely, Your Evilness. Gubble is most impressified.”
“Good,” said Lady Lamorna. She would have preferred something more attractive, but Aged Peasant was easy and used very little of her ever-decreasing stock of spell powder. “Now, where are our travel bags?”
Gubble blinked. “Bags?” he said. “No bags, Evilness. But Gubble has donkeys. Look!”
There was an unpleasant pause while Lady Lamorna looked at the donkeys. “Gubble,” she said at last, her voice as cold as ice, “why have you acquired fifteen donkeys?”
Gubble shuffled his feet. Explaining that if two were good, then more must be better was quite beyond him. “Gold,” he offered. “Lots of gold.”
Lady Lamorna grew marginally less chilly. “Indeed, Gubble, it would be good to believe we will earn gold enough for fifteen donkeys. I suspect, however, that so many will slow us down. Besides, they will need feeding. Choose the two strongest while I return to the castle and pack my bag.”
Gubble, mightily relieved at being let off so lightly, chose the strongest donkeys by the simple method of heaving himself onto their backs. Eight collapsed immediately, and Gubble tidied them away by dropping them over the castle battlements. They fell into the bushes beneath and galloped back to their homes, complaining bitterly. Of the seven that remained standing, five ran off as soon as Gubble had dismounted.
Gubble looked at the two remaining animals and saw that one was the donkey that had bitten him. “No more bitings,” Gubble growled. “No biting or I bites your tail off. In fact, maybe I bite it now to teach you —”
“Gubble? My bag is ready!” Lady Lamorna was standing at the door. The donkey, saved for the second time that day, immediately developed a passionate attachment to Gubble’s mistress. It trotted forward and brayed loudly before kneeling at her feet.
“Obviously an animal with sense,” she remarked. “Gubble! Make sure this beast is treated well! I shall call it Figs, and I shall ride it myself.”
The donkey gave Gubble a triumphant look. Gubble muttered darkly and strapped Lady Lamorna’s bag onto the back of the second donkey before hauling himself into the saddle.
“Let us go!” Lady Lamorna waved her arm, and the party set off on the winding path that led down to the village of Fracture, and from there onward to Gorebreath.
To say that Foyce was angry would be an understatement. To think that Gracie had escaped her, and — worse still — escaped with what was undoubtedly some kind of magical help, made her blood boil. Her head was still fogged by the sleeping spell, but with every step, her mind was growing clearer. As she hurried along the path to Gorebreath, she ground her teeth and stamped her feet, and dreamed up more and more terrible ways of getting her revenge. “I’ll boil her in her own magic soup,” she promised herself. “I’ll make her work until her fingers are nothing but bone. I’ll keep her in the cellar until she’s green with mold —”
Foyce stopped. In front of her was a clear footprint — the footprint of a small worn shoe. Foyce chuckled nastily, and within seconds she had found the shoe itself. She picked it up and turned it over. Yes! There was sand on the sole. Foyce frowned. She glanced back up the path. The footprint had been very clear. Too clear? And there was grass between the footprint and the shoe . . . surely the sand should have been rubbed from the sole?
If it hadn’t been for the lingering effects of the Trueheart Stew, Foyce would have gone back and peered over the edge of the rocks — and if she had, she would have seen Gracie, and Gracie’s fate would have been sealed. As it was, Foyce stood and considered it, then shook her muddled head.
“No,” she decided. “No. The little worm isn’t clever enough. Sh
e’d never think to play a trick like that! But she must be near — this shoe’s still warm. I’ll find her and catch her and twist her skinny little arms off!”
And Foyce flew on down the path and into the darkness of the forest that crouched around the base of Fracture Mountain. On and on she ran, until her breath grew ragged and she was finally forced to stop to rest. She found a twisted tree and leaned against it, panting.
“Where can the disgusting little slug be?” she wondered. “Surely I should have found her by now.”
Foyce pulled the shoe from her pocket and smelled it. Then, after looking around to make sure there was nobody watching, she kneeled down to sniff the path.
When she stood up, her face was livid. “She’s not been this way at all!” Foyce stomped a clump of buttercups into the ground with such force that they were churned into a muddy paste. “She’s slipped away from the path! But where?”
And then, her mind now quite free from the spell, she remembered the footprint and the shoe, and she spat. “So she went down the rocks, did she? But she must be going to Gorebreath. There’s nowhere else. So what I’ll do is find her there . . . and won’t I make her wish she’d stayed at home with me!” Foyce spat again.
She was about to walk on when she heard the faint jingle of a harness behind her. Immediately wary, she slipped behind the tree and into the gloom of the thick, tangled undergrowth, and she waited to see who was coming.
A witch?
Foyce stood very still as Lady Lamorna and Gubble trotted past her on their donkeys; she stared, taking in every detail. As they disappeared around a bend in the path, she moved quietly out of her hiding place and followed, thinking hard. She had never heard of a witch in Fracture. But what else could the old hag be? It was true she had no pointed hat, but she smelled of evil. Foyce knew there was a sorceress who lived in the castle high above the village, and she had often thought fondly that they might appreciate each other’s company, but a witch? Where could she have come from?
Foyce frowned and quickened her steps until she was near enough to see the back view of the two riders without being seen herself. As she came closer, she heard a cold clear voice ask the troll-like figure on the second donkey if he would hand her the map.
The troll gulped and shook his head. “No map, Your Evilness,” he said.
The witch — if witch she was — snatched up her whip and began to beat her companion viciously. Foyce grinned as she watched him ducking and grunting beneath the blows. This was the kind of woman she understood, a woman after her own cold heart.
“Gubble will find the way!” the troll protested. “Gubble promises Your Evilness!”
“You must not call me that!” the witch snapped. “Remember that I am a poor, old peasant woman seeking an audience with the king. Or even better, the prince!”
Gubble perked up. “Prince!” he said. “Prince. Zap! Frog. Gubble remembers!”
The witch glared at him. “Gubble,” she said coldly, “you are not to mention anything about princes and frogs ever again! Do you understand? And from now on, you had better call me something very ordinary, something that will never make people suspect us. Call me . . . call me Grandmother Bones.”
Gubble nodded. “Whatever you says, Evilness — Ouch!”
Foyce drew in her breath as Gubble was slapped again. This was no witch. Neither was she a poor, old peasant woman. This was surely the sorceress from the castle, Lady Lamorna. But why was she in disguise? Foyce had never heard tell of the Lady leaving her castle before, so something extraordinary must be forcing her away. Something, by the sound of it, that involved princes and frogs. Foyce licked her lips. She had gifts that might well be useful to an unscrupulous and evil sorceress . . . and that would surely result in some kind of reward. A big reward.
Excellent! Foyce thought. I shall find out what’s going on and then see what I can do. We’re all going the same way, so I can still deal with that slimy little toad Gracie Gillypot when I sniff her out. And, keeping well in the shadows of the tall trees, she followed Lady Lamorna and Gubble to where the forest ended and the Kingdom of Gorebreath began.
The evening star was high and the night air very cold by the time they left the forest, and Foyce was glad to see Lady Lamorna order Gubble to stop outside a small roadside inn. He vanished inside but reappeared immediately with a large dog yapping at his heels and a burly innkeeper shouting at him to “Get orf out of it and niver come back!”
Lady Lamorna, evidently believing her disguise as an aged peasant was more than adequate, then tried to engage the innkeeper in conversation, with only moderate results. The innkeeper was deeply suspicious and not to be persuaded by the piece of gold he was offered. If anything, it made him more wary.
Foyce smiled with malicious satisfaction as she saw Lady Lamorna of Fracture Castle accepting an outhouse for her night’s lodging, while Gubble and the donkeys took up residence in the ditch nearby. Once they were settled and Gubble was snoring loudly, Foyce smoothed her tumbling blond curls and tiptoed past. Looking as she did, it was easy for her to charm her way into the very best bedroom and secure a free supper.
“What a beeeeautiful lady!” sighed the innkeeper’s wife as she cut a generous portion of pie.
“Could be a princess in disguise,” agreed the innkeeper. “But did you see that old bag who wanted a room? Where would the likes of her find a gold piece? She’s a bad ’un, no mistake.”
His wife nodded. “You’d best lock the outhouse door on her. We don’t want her frightening the pretty lady. Or stealing our turnips. Or putting spells on the house in the night!”
“She can’t be much good at spells,” the innkeeper said, “or she’d have magicked up a much better place than ours!”
And they both roared with laughter as they hurried into the parlor to find the very best tablecloth for Foyce’s benefit.
Prince Marcus was doing his best to look heartbroken as he ate his supper under his father’s disapproving glare and his mother’s reproachful gaze. He had spent a most enjoyable afternoon and evening helping Ger with the horses and had strolled back to the palace sometime after seven with hay in his hair and the whiff of the stable heavy on his clothes. He hadn’t been entirely surprised to find Professor Scallio waiting for him on the front steps.
“Where, Prince Marcus, are the five hundred lines that I assigned to you as punishment?” his tutor inquired in frosty tones.
Marcus slapped his forehead and tried to look astonished and repentant at the same time. “Oh, no!” he gasped. “I’m so sorry. I forgot all about them! I’ll do them as soon as I’ve washed up.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Professor Scallio told him. “I warned you. And I always mean what I say. Tomorrow you will stay here and complete your punishment while your family enjoys themselves in Dreghorn. I shall go and inform your father of my decision this very minute.”
As the little tutor scuttled away, Marcus tried hard not to cheer and punch the air. A whole day to himself — and the evening too! He’d get the lines done first thing, and then he’d take his pony and go out exploring. . . .
Wow!
A sudden idea sent Marcus reeling across the driveway. Could he — dare he — leave the palace grounds? Could he get as far as the borders of Gorebreath and see what lay outside? The very thought made his heart beat wildly. There could be dragons, or bears, and all kinds of adventures. He had another idea. The map! Of course! He could take the map, and then there would be no danger of getting lost.
Tomorrow morning, as soon as his family had left, he’d head for the library, collect the map, and be off.
In the meantime he had to appear profoundly dejected.
“I cannot believe how irresponsible you have been,” the king said for the fourteenth time. “Not only have you treated your tutor with disrespect, but you’ve completely ignored his instructions!”
“And Princess Nina-Rose’s sisters will be so disappointed not to see you,” the queen said plaintively.
Marcus sighed, then ate his supper as slowly as he could, even though he was starving. When he had finished, he stood up and bowed. “Dear Father, dear Mother and Arry,” he said. “I wish to apologize for my behavior, and I wish you the very best of days tomorrow. I shall now take myself to my bedroom, where I will spend at least an hour considering how badly I have let you all down.”
The queen’s eyes shone. “Oh, Marcus!” she said. “That is so wonderful of you!” She turned to the king. “Surely we could allow him to come tomorrow after all?”
Marcus’s heart missed a beat. Rats! he thought. I’ve overdone it. . . .
But the king was still frowning. “I appreciate your apology, Marcus,” he said, “but you must take your punishment like a true prince.” He glanced at the queen. “Although . . . perhaps we might arrange another day of celebration for Princess Fedora’s engagement here in Gorebreath?”
The queen clapped her hands and beamed. “Oh, yes!” she enthused. “What a brilliant idea, my dear! Isn’t that a lovely idea, Marcus? And Arry — what do you think?”
“Fabulous idea, Father,” Arry said, and he blushed.
The idea of yet another royal celebration made it much easier for Marcus to look depressed as he made his final bow and left the royal dining room.
At least I’ll have a really good day tomorrow, he said to himself as he trudged up the stairs to his bedroom. And I’ll make sure I use every single second! He flung himself across his bed and set his alarm clock for six. I’ll get those dratted lines done early, and then as soon as everyone’s left for Dreghorn, I’ll be off — and won’t I have fun!
Gracie Gillypot was wondering why she wasn’t more tired. She had been following Marlon through the night for what seemed like ages and ages, but her feet weren’t sore even though she was barefoot. She had no idea at all where she was; once they had reached the bottom of Fracture Mountain, they had turned sharply away from the path that led to Gorebreath and struck out into the dark heart of the forest. Marlon had led her between ancient gnarled and twisted trees and through wild tangled bushes, and although Gracie suspected that they were steadily moving west and climbing upward, she couldn’t be certain.
The Robe of Skulls Page 3