by Ian Richards
Awful, awful silence.
Sir Roderick tried hopelessly to fish the boy out with a stick but found nothing beneath the surface but the slow, sorrowful tug of the sludge.
Still nothing stirred.
By now the witches had caught up with them. They surrounded the pond cautiously, wands aglow, waiting to see if the boy emerged. One of them tossed Sir Roderick to the floor and pressed a blunt blade to his throat.
‘Liarsss … Not Firefox’sss ssson … tried to deceive usss …’
‘It’s true,’ he gasped. ‘You have to believe me, he is.’
‘Is liesss … If isss true, why did you run? … Why did the boy throw himssself into the water when he sssaw us coming …?’
There was still no sign of Tony. The surface of the pond had settled and stilled. The tar-like sludge offered no reprieve, no signs of hope.
‘Come,’ one of the witches hissed. ‘The liar mussst be punissshed …’
‘Oh, not the bloody pot again,’ Sir Roderick moaned.
The knife pressed harder against his throat. ‘Sssilence, deceiver … You musst—’
Suddenly Tony emerged from the pond, gasping for air, his body covered in sludge. The only parts of him that weren’t completely black were his mouth and his eyes. In his hand he held the lamp.
‘The djinn—’
The genie was there in seconds. He spun out of the lamp in dizzying plum-colored spirals, puffing himself up to a tremendous size. At once the witches began cowering. The genie loomed over them like a thundercloud, its face hard and angry. Several turned and ran. Others threw themselves to the floor in supplication.
Sir Roderick helped Tony out from the pond and wiped the sludge from the boy’s face. Tony gasped for breath, smiling. ‘Did it work?’ he said.
‘Master Tony.’ The booming voice of the genie seemed to shake the entire forest. ‘You have one wish remaining. Ask for these creatures to be destroyed and it shall be done.’
The remaining witches ran, too. Even the ones that had thrown themselves down to beg for mercy picked themselves up and began hurrying back to their village.
Tony staggered to his feet and shouted after them. ‘One sentence. That’s all I need to beat you, ladies. One sentence!’
Once they were gone he dropped to his knees and sighed with relief. The sludge dripped from him in thick lumps.
‘Master Tony, you saved me.’ The genie hovered nearby. He had shrunk to his usual size and appeared confused by what had happened.
‘No, genie. You saved me. Again.’
‘But you did not make your final wish.’
‘He didn’t need to,’ Sir Roderick laughed. ‘He beat them by threatening it. I swear, my boy, you really are some sort of diabolical genius. Look at you, you’re as reedy as they come and you’ve just chased off an entire coven. No powers, no muscles, nothing. Just your brain. And a bloody great big genie, of course. Pleased to meet you, djinn. Sir Roderick Black, at your service.’
With the night ticking ever onwards, they pressed on towards Marshwood. Sir Roderick led the way with Tony and the genie following behind. By now the genie’s plum-colored smoke had taken on a lighter, more colorful shade. He was cobalt-blue and smelt enticingly of tropical oceans, sunken ships, and coral reefs. If Tony closed his eyes he could almost believe he was walking across a Caribbean beach rather than through a muddy forest.
‘Master Tony …’ The sonorous sound of the genie’s voice was as rich as ever—like thunder playing amongst clouds. ‘Your final wish …’
Tony said nothing. He kept on walking, still filthy from the pond, unable to face what he knew was coming. He had said he would release the genie. He had promised. But they were so close to Marshwood, so close to Martell and Vanessa. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. What if they needed a last-minute escape? What if his final wish could be the one to save his uncle’s life?
‘You are wet, master Tony. Please, allow me.’
The genie wrapped itself around him, a soothing blue cloud, waves lapping on tropical shores, sunshine sparkling on warm water. In moments Tony was clean and dry. He hadn’t even had to change his pace.
‘Thanks.’
‘You are welcome, master.’
‘Genie, please stop calling me that.’ His voice betrayed his anger, but it wasn’t the creature floating alongside him he felt angry towards. It was himself. His own rotten arrogance in assuming he would be the exception to the rule, the one to set the genie free after centuries of torment.
Centuries, Tony. Can you imagine it? Hundreds and hundreds of years imprisoned in a darkened hole. Made to serve the whims of strangers.
Centuries.
Tears welled in his eyes. He couldn’t help it. He loved the genie. He loved his kindness, his compassion, his dignity. The genie was such a pure creature. So noble. So mighty. And yet here he was, on the verge of betraying him, just like all his other masters had.
‘I tried genie,’ he said quietly. His wiped the tears away with a trembling hand. ‘I tried so hard. Back in London, even when things were at their worst, I tried everything I could to get here without using my last wish. But now …’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid, genie. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen when we get to that house. I think Martell is in there. Vanessa, too. And the bloke who took them, even the witches are frightened of him. I …’—he shook his head despairingly—‘… I don’t know if I’ll be able to beat him on my own.’
Though the genie said nothing Tony saw the hurt in his eyes. The sadness.
‘I’ve got one wish left, genie. Just one. And I feel like I need a dozen just to get through tonight.’
‘So you will not set me free after all.’
He held the moment for what felt like an eternity. ‘No, genie. I’m sorry. I can’t.’
The genie nodded. It remained calm and reflective—eerily so. But did that sweet ocean perfume momentarily sour? Did his shade darken ever so slightly, from sea blue to murky twilight?
‘Do not feel bad, master. I knew this would come to pass. It always does.’
Tony looked at his hands, unable to escape the awful feelings clawing at his insides. Guilt, shame, self-disgust. His stomach crawled with the memory of his earlier conversations with the genie. The promises to release him, to not be like all of the others. He told himself that this was different, that he wasn’t being selfish, he was trying to save Martell and Vanessa’s lives. But it didn’t make any difference. He felt like the worst person in the world. He had broken the genie’s heart.
‘I understand, master Tony’ the genie said softly. ‘I do.’
‘If there was any other way …’
‘But there isn’t.’ The genie sounded calm and composed. He was dealing with this better than Tony was. That’s because he’s used to it. That’s because he had been preparing for this all along. ‘Tony Lott,’ he said, ‘saving your friends is a perfectly noble decision. If that is what you choose to be your final wish I would be honored to grant it for you.’
‘Would you forgive me though, genie? Please?’
Before the creature could respond he felt Sir Roderick’s hand press up against his chest.
‘Don’t move,’ Sir Roderick whispered.
In front of them, wrapped up in veils of mist, stood the crumbling ruins of Marshwood.
‘We’re here.’
*
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
Martell staggered through the halls of Marshwood in a daze, his heart hammering in his chest and his thoughts lurching from one nightmare to the next. The change. It had begun. Panicked questions flooded his thoughts. How long until he was no longer human at all? How long until he lost his mind completely? Passing the kitchen he saw servants putting the finishing touches to a great feast. Tables groaned beneath trays of diced vegetables, mountains of charred meat, dusty bottles of champagne that wore spider-webs like veils. And yet all Martell could focus on were the faces of the servants. Their docile, dopey expres
sions chilled him to the core. Could this be his future, too? Spending the rest of his life as a grinning imbecile? A simpering slave who lived to serve a madman’s whims?
No, he thought, not yet. There’s still time. I can still get out of this.
He hurried towards Vanessa’s room, telling himself that she was the key. She alone had the power to stop Firefox. Smart, beautiful, brilliant Vanessa. She could save them all, he was sure of it.
But when he reached her bedroom he found her lying motionless on the floor, as helpless as a puppet with its strings cut. He rushed to her side.
‘Vanessa? Vanessa, what’s wrong?’
He pressed his hand to her forehead. It felt hot. Feverish. Her eyes were open but vacant. They rolled in their sockets, trying desperately to focus.
‘Martell?’ Her voice was soft and childlike. ‘It didn’t work … the plan … something went wrong with the plan …’
He swept back a handful of wet hair. ‘What do you mean? What happened?’
‘The potion, Martell … it made me go all funny …’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Like I’ve been drugged …’
‘No,’ he repeated, ‘I don’t understand. What are you talking about? What potion?’
They were the last words out of his mouth before Kepler struck him with his cudgel and Martell blacked out into unconsciousness.
36 - Assault On Marshwood
In the hours leading up to the wedding, Firefox spent a lot of time pondering where exactly he should stage his triumphant celebration. This was to be his crowning glory, after all—the moment years of torment and suffering ceased to matter and the doors of Marshwood flung themselves open, bam, bam, bam, one after the other, the mysteries of the universe offering themselves to him like beggars with bowls.
Look, my lord, I can give you golden sands and towering castles.
No, no, over here, step through, come into my grotto, where the air smells of waterfall mist and moonlight, where fairy maidens wait to fulfill your every fantasy …
The thought filled him with a shivering joy. He was close now. The power he had craved for so long was almost his. He imagined that this must be how colonial explorers felt when they sighted uncharted territory for the first time: overwhelmed with greed and possibility. Back then, of course, those small-minded fools had only been concerned with mining minerals and converting savages. He had much grander ambitions. He would strip each land bare. Snap up anything that presented itself to him: power, wealth, knowledge, technology, servants, concubines … the list was endless. Once the doors had opened he would restore Marshwood to its former glories and rule the universe like a king.
Through here, my lord, come into the hinterlands of Faerie, learn magic from our wisest sorcerers, become even more powerful than you already are—
No, master, cross my threshold, for I lead to London town, a city waiting to cower before your might. Take their precious Crown Jewels and throw them into the Thames. Hang their leaders from Tower Bridge.
After some consideration he decided that the most suitable place to hold the ceremony would be the atrium. It had a sense of grandeur that the rest of the house lacked. Yes, there were still cobwebs and beetles, not to mention the damp stink of dead things, but in terms of sheer spectacle nothing else came close.
That was where he stood now, in the centre of the room, looking up at the domed glass ceiling and its tremendous view of the night sky. Adorned in moonlight, he opened his arms to the stars and howled with delight. Haroo! Haroo! How long he had waited for this moment. How sweet it would be to finally leave this rotten house behind.
Mr. Krook and Mr. Kepler arrived soon after, dragging Martell’s motionless body behind them.
‘He went to see the girl,’ Mr. Krook said by way of an explanation. ‘We didn’t think it would do us any good, having him fluttering about the place like a bloody big moth.’
Firefox nodded, uninterested. He waved his hand. ‘Tie him to one of the chairs. He can have a front row seat for the wedding. Although from the looks of him I doubt he’ll know much about it.’
Kepler and Krook propped up the body in a stiff wooden chair and began binding his wrists and ankles. Martell’s head lolled horribly on his chest, his face corpse-white in the moonlight.
‘What of the girl?’
‘Drugged up to her eyeballs,’ Mr. Krook smirked. ‘That potion Silvertongue gave her did the trick, all right. She won’t be any trouble.’
‘She’s so spaced out she’ll do anything you ask her to,’ Kepler agreed. ‘Including getting married.’
Firefox laughed. ‘Haroo! Poor old Silvertongue. He hated doing it, you know. He begged and pleaded, but what choice did he have? I am his master, after all.’
‘Oh yes,’ Kepler said.
‘That you are,’ Krook nodded.
Leaving the pair behind, Firefox walked to the window and stared out at the dreary landscape beyond. How many years now had he been forced to look upon the same tangled grass, the same rotten trees, the same wiry brambles? He pondered how the scenery would change once the house had been restored. Imagine Marshwood experiencing snowy winters, cherry blossom springs, summers that sizzled with sunshine. Anything but this permanent autumn. Anything but this miserable gloom of damp and rain and fog and mist.
Speaking of which, was the mist thicker than usual tonight? Yes, he thought, moving closer to the glass. Yes, it was. A seething thickness, almost as if the house knew what was coming, as if the mist were drawing in now, smothering Marshwood in layers of—
The Thalaki hit the window with a terrifying crash—a darkened shape suddenly pressed up against the glass, bare hands and bare feet clinging on like some sort of awful bat-creature. Firefox jumped back with alarm.
‘My lord, I bring a warning … There are villainsss abroad … they are coming for you …’
‘Villains? Speak English, you hag. What do you mean?’
‘A boy … and a man … They are drawing clossser asss we ssspeak …’
A boy? In Marshwood? Impossible. No child had the power to get to Marshwood of his own accord. And a man? What man? Who were these people?
‘Kill them,’ he snapped. ‘Tear them apart.’
‘We cannot, my lord … They have protection … a sssmoke creature … a mighty one …’
‘A djinn? How the … ?’ He whirled around to where Kepler and Krook were listening on with interest. ‘Stop them,’ he yelled. ‘Stop them now! Don’t let them get any closer.’
Mr. Kepler and Mr. Krook exchanged looks. And was there some secret communication taking place there? Was everyone in this blasted place against him?
‘Go!’
They left without another word. Firefox’s heart was racing now. Intruders wouldn’t be a problem on their own. But a djinn? An angry wave of his arm sent the witch away. Could his magic overpower a djinn? He didn’t know. He thought so. He was Lord of Marshwood, after all. He was used to crushing his enemies. But still, doubts nagged at him. Djinns were unpredictable things. And if this one got a chance to use its powers against him …
‘Silvertongue,’ he shouted. ‘Where are you? We have to move the plans forward. Bring the girl now. The ceremony begins immediately.’
No reply answered him. The atrium remained empty, surrounded by a wash of swirling mist. It was becoming difficult to see anything at all through the glass now. Just walls of grey that drifted slowly around him.
‘Silvertongue!’ Where the devil was he? What was going on around here?
He stormed out of the atrium and down the darkened corridor.
If no-one else would bring him the girl then he would have to drag her here himself.
*
Since they had first become involved with the comings and goings at Marshwood, Mr. Kepler and Mr. Krook had been looking forward to tonight almost as much as Firefox had. The occult had always been of particular interest for both of them. For Kepler, who thought of himself a scholar of the dark arts,
the past was a creature to be studied and learnt from. The Huns, he often said, taught him ruthlessness. The fiend of Whitechapel impressed upon him the importance of patience and cunning. He saw history as a blueprint for success, a path to greatness.
His partner had a different attitude altogether. For Mr. Krook, history offered a challenge. He dreamed of one day writing himself into books as his heroes had done before him. He was never going to make anything of himself in the daylight world. He was too short, too ugly, too prone to losing his temper. But down in the darkness, that was where he excelled. He looked upon the past as a greedy child might stare into a sweetshop window. To one day be on the other side of the glass … to inspire nightmares for centuries to come … Now, having racked up an abundance of bodies, having slashed open a thousand throats, he was on the cusp of occupying the same pantheon as his heroes. Elizabeth Bathory, Gilles de Rais, Genghis Khan, Ted Bundy, Charlie Manson. After tonight they could add him to the list: Mr. Krook, the nastiest of them all.
They wandered down the long, lonely corridors of Marshwood in silence, both brooding on the task ahead of them. It had taken a long time to get to this point. For years they had bumped along on the fringes of success, scoring a few hits here and there, but never finding the satisfaction they craved.
Then they had heard about Marshwood. The House of Many Doors. And as the boss had explained his plans in intricate detail, as they had nodded and agreed and told him how clever he was, they had begun making plans of their own …
Outside, the night was fresh and cold. They stood at the front of the house and let their eyes roll over the surrounding scenery. Nothing moved save for the slow, swirling mist.
‘What do you think?’ Mr. Krook said eventually.
‘It’s the boy,’ Kepler answered. ‘He must have used the djinn to save himself.’
‘Persistent little bugger, isn’t he? How did he get here, do you think?’
A cruel smile creased the corners of Kepler’s mouth. ‘Does it matter? Don’t worry about the brat, Mr. Krook. He can’t stop us now. No-one can.’
‘Keep your voice down.’ Krook looked around anxiously, as if suspecting someone might be listening in. The mist perhaps. Or the ivy crawling up the walls. He didn’t trust anything in this place. He imagined that Firefox had spies everywhere.