Thomas vomited on the ground. Then he sank to his knees and sobbed to the heavens, which were black with smoke.
Suddenly, there was a loud crack from within the pyre. A scorching heat surged outwards into the crowd.
The screaming stopped.
16. FABIAN’S WAR
‘You did it, Alexander. Now tell Vrax how to do it,’ said Fabian.
The small group of men sat around a table formed from an old tree stump, mere metres from the fringes of the forest. All heads leaned in.
Alexander looked from his father to Vrax and found that he did not want to part with the information. He looked down at the table, staring at the hundreds of rings in the wood. When Fabian began to sigh exasperatedly, he spoke.
‘There’s a stone. If you can make it to the other side of the forest - you only need moments - think of the stone and you can transport yourself to it. It’s in the castle, in the girl’s bedchamber.’
‘Very good,’ said Fabian’s cousin, Belfor, who then turned to Fabian, looking perplexed. ‘Why not send him? He knows how to do it. He’s been there before. He knows what the stone looks—’
‘Vrax is going,’ Fabian said, silencing Belfor.
Vrax leaned across the table. ‘What does the stone look like? Have I seen it before?’
Alexander nodded. ‘It was mother’s. The one she kept in her chamber,’ he said.
Vrax sat back and nodded slowly, remembering.
‘Well it’s settled then,’ said Fabian. ‘Vrax will—’
‘Getting there is one thing,’ Alexander interjected. ‘But getting back… They’ll have tripled their forces by now. It’s impossible. Why risk Vrax’s life on a Reverof?’
‘It’s quite simple. Vrax will bring along men who are dispensable. They’ll provide a distraction while Vrax carries out his task.,’ Fabian said. He looked over his shoulder at the men, who were encamped around small fires. ‘Belfor, round up the weak. And select fifty strong men to assist my son, should the others die too soon. Tell them to hang at the back of the pack. We’ll spare them if we can.’
Belfor rose from his stool, bowed hastily and departed, tramping across the bog towards the fires and the men around them, who looked half-dead already.
Fabian watched him for a moment before huddling back into the circle. ‘We need to lure the Mortenstone filth into the forest. We know it better than they do. Lure them in and your men may stand a better chance,’ he said to Vrax. ‘But you, you must leave them there and go on to the castle alone. The filth won’t notice you come or go – their attention will be on the fighting. When you return to the forest with the girl, keep far away from the battle. She is your only concern. Leave your men to lead the Mortenstones into our traps.’
‘If they come as far as the traps, what stops them from marching straight here to us?’
‘Alexander, if I wanted your opinion, I would ask for it,’ Fabian said irritably.
‘What if Vrax dies trying to take her?’ said Alexander, feeling almost foolish as he uttered the words.
‘Well,’ Fabian said, waving a hand indifferently, ‘thankfully, I have three sons.’
Belfor shouted something and the men looked up from the table, but not before Alexander saw his brother’s jaw tighten.
Two hundred men stood shivering in the wind behind Belfor.
‘They’ll do,’ said Fabian.
As Vrax set off with the men into the Dark Forest, Fabian watched with his arms folded, chewing his lip anxiously. Alexander could see that this mission was more important to his father than he was prepared to admit.
Fabian signalled Belfor to come forward and spoke quietly into his ear. ‘Send another two hundred. And fifty bowmen. I want them up in the trees.’
Belfor frowned. ‘But…We mustn’t be careless. We could lose five hundred men over something completely—’ Belfor stopped himself.
‘Insignificant?’ Fabian said. ‘The child is family. I look after my own.’
Alexander exchanged a look with Belfor as Fabian returned his attention to the son he had sent marching off to almost certain death.
*
The townspeople had begun to filter out of the square beyond Mortenstone Castle, shaking their heads regretfully as the fire extinguished itself in the ashes. The skeleton frame of the pyre was all that remained, blackened and charred to a crisp.
Lucian stayed in the square, watching small pieces of the brittle frame float away in the wind. Soon, the air was full of ash flakes, drifting up to the heavens and away to the east. He was still gazing after them, following their ascent, when one of his father’s advisors approached apprehensively and began to speak.
‘My Lord Mortenstone,’ the man said. ‘It would be wise to triple the border forces, wouldn’t you agree?’
Lucian responded with a vague nod. But the advisor didn’t go away at once; he lingered, wringing his hands nervously.
‘What?’ snapped Lucian.
‘My Lord, the Vandemere army travelled a great distance in the night and… the effects of such magic have proved dire. Eric Vandemere is gravely ill. I am told he will likely die come nightfall. And the exertion has incapacitated his men. They will not be ready to fight again for weeks, perhaps longer.’
Lucian turned to face the advisor, feeling the cold weight of his words settle on his shoulders. ‘Then how will we defend The Light?’
‘Alstair Doldon rides for Draxvar to bring reinforcements. I have sent word to Edgeton and Latheera. Help is coming, my Lord.’
‘Not soon enough,’ he said. ‘What about the valley?’
‘My Lord, there are no trained fighters in the valley.’
‘Elves are fast learners.’
‘My Lord, elves do not fight. They refuse to fight. We cannot make them—’
‘We can. Send for them. And any man in the valley capable of wielding a sword.’
The advisor opened his mouth to protest when the castle doors swept open and Josephine emerged from behind them, her face drawn and pale. She walked calmly from the courtyard to the square, carrying a silver ring on a cushion of purple velvet. All around the square, people stopped to watch as she sank to her knees before the smoking ashes and offered the ring up to Lucian.
‘The Ring of Rulers,’ she said. ‘May your rule be long and prosperous, my son.’
Lucian felt a prickle of excitement as his hand curled around the cold ring. He slid it onto his finger and stared at the tree engraved in the silver. He felt stronger, somehow. Powerful.
‘Mother, ensure that this man sends word to Mortenstone Valley for the immediate enlistment of all men, boys and elves over the age of fifteen.’
Josephine bowed her head dutifully and walked away with the advisor.
‘Wingworth,’ Lucian called. Wingworth, head of the Mortenstone guards, and the ugliest man Lucian had ever seen - in a brutal, menacing sort of way - paced heavily across the square towards him. ‘I have a personal matter I’d like you to handle,’ Lucian said. ‘The Reverof girl. Kill her.’
Wingworth left without a word, heading straight for the castle.
Lucian went back to admiring the ring on his finger, when a trickle of blood escaped from his nose. He wiped it away quickly, only for another trickle to slip from his other nostril.
‘You performed extraordinary magic this past night. You would do well to rest. The body, as well as the mind, need time to heal.’ Master Hagworth was standing beside him now, staring solemnly at the ashes. Lucian hadn’t noticed him approach. He sniffed back the blood and swallowed it, tasting iron in his mouth. ‘The people loved your sister, Lucian,’ the schoolmaster continued. ‘She was a kind girl. And she has been taken in the cruellest way imaginable. Was it wise? Was it worthy of the Lord of all lands?’ he said, turning away from the ashes to face Lucian. His eyes were red-rimmed and inflamed beneath his spectacles; it was clear that he had been crying. ‘If all you offer your subjects is fear and death, you will lose them. And how can you hope lead when there is n
o one left to follow?’
Lucian had nothing to say to Master Hagworth. He looked away towards Stone Lane and kept looking that way until the schoolmaster gave up and walked back to the castle. Before Lucian had a chance to return his gaze to his silver ring, however, he saw something in the distance, half way down the lane. The family who had lived above the butcher’s were being carried out of the smoke-blackened building on stretchers. Mother, father, daughter, sons – all dead. The stretchers were lined up outside the building alongside countless other bodies. A chorus of grief-stricken wails rent the air and lifted birds from the rooftops. Lucian turned back to the ashes as the townspeople mourned their dead, and cursed the schoolmaster under his breath.
*
As they came closer to the Mortenstone border, Vrax and his men moved with caution. Dead branches lay strewn across the ground, waiting for an ill-placed boot to crack them.
Vrax held up a hand, ordering the men to stop. Through the trees ahead, he could see daylight. He tightened his grip on his sword. They had arrived. He listened for a moment to the murmur of voices at the border and the clink of pots and pans. Alexander was right; the Mortenstones had increased their forces, but by how many, he could not say.
‘All of you,’ he said, turning to his men, signalling the first two rows. ‘On my command, charge. Let them know you’re coming. Draw them into the forest. And make sure you take at least one of them down with you.’ The men looked troubled; this was a one-way journey. ‘The rest of you,’ Vrax said, looking to the larger group, ‘spread out. Use the forest. Surround them, confuse them, and drive them to the—’ His words died on his tongue. A strange, unsettling feeling crept up his spine. The noise from the border had ceased.
As he turned his head, an arrow zipped past his ear and into the throat of a man in the front line, who fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Then, in the distance, there came an almighty roar. By the time Vrax saw them, storming towards him through the darkness, brandishing swords and axes and glowing red pokers, it was too late. There was no time to follow his father’s plan, no time to flee, no time to bolt for the border. Drawing his sword, he bellowed, ‘Attack!’ and ran towards the oncoming horde.
The two sides clashed with a crunch of metal, swords locking, armour colliding. Vrax severed a man’s arm with a deft swing of his sword. Blood spattered his face and eyes. Half-blinded, he pushed on, seeing silver armour everywhere he turned. He and his men were outnumbered. Vastly outnumbered.
Suddenly, there was an eruption of wild, bloodthirsty cries behind him. Vrax looked back to see a wave of men in black armour surging into the battle. Hundreds of men, the strongest in Fabian’s army. His heart leapt with relief and he threw himself at the next man with renewed vigour.
*
Alexander seized his chance. He had been following Vrax and his troop, moving silently alongside them in the darkness. And now, as he stood on the edge of the battle, watching as the Mortenstone guards abandoned their posts and charged into the forest, a gap opened up on the border. He shot out from behind a tree and ran towards it, narrowly avoiding an arrow that came at him from the side. He could see the buildings on Stone Lane and the castle at the top of the hill. He could hear the bells ringing. He was almost there. But, as he glanced to his left, he saw Vrax, surrounded by Mortenstone guards, lashing out at them with his sword, trapped. Alexander hesitated for only a moment. Then he ran on towards the border.
*
Enola sat concealed in the folds of the curtain in the unfamiliar bedchamber, where she had been all morning, ever since the screaming had started. In her haste to hide, she had left the blue stone on the floor by the fireplace. She wanted it, but she didn’t dare come out and take it.
Maid Morgan had not come to find her and bring her down to the lower rooms, nor had she set out breakfast or laid a fire. The room was cold and quiet, save for the wind whistling in the chimney. Only, there was another sound now. A distant thudding. Enola stayed completely still as she listened. The sound grew louder. Footsteps. Someone was coming, marching with purpose, getting closer, moving faster. And then… silence.
The door burst open and the curtain was ripped from its rail by some invisible force. It fell in a heap on the floor, leaving Enola exposed, staring out across the room at the figures in the doorway.
Wingworth’s hideous, twisted mouth broke open into a smile. The two men behind him looked on cautiously as he slid a knife from his belt. As he stepped over the threshold into the chamber, the blue stone began to glow.
‘She’s a demon, Wingworth! She’s doing something!’ one of the men behind him exclaimed, pointing at the stone.
Wingworth crossed the room in three strides and lunged at Enola just as the stone’s light faded. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her to her feet. Then, he gasped and let her go, stumbling backwards, flailing his arms, his neck locked tight in Alexander’s grip. The guards in the doorway snapped out of their stupor, drew their swords and leapt at Alexander. Enola fixed her gaze on one of them and clenched every muscle in her body. With a wet pop, the man’s brown eyes exploded and he fell down against the bedpost, his brain bulging grotesquely through the empty sockets.
Alexander smashed Wingworth’s head into the mantelpiece above the fireplace and then whirled around, whipping out his dagger, and slit the last guard’s throat so fast that both men hit the floor at the same time.
Alexander stared momentarily at the body by the bed before wiping his face with his sleeve and turning to Enola. He looked perplexed. She stared back at him unblinkingly. The blood gushing from Wingworth’s head pooled around her feet, warm and thick. Alexander walked towards her and bent down, so that his eyes were level with hers.
‘Are you afraid of me?’ he asked. Enola shook her head slowly. Alexander smiled and thrust the knife back into his belt. ‘Good. We’re going now,’ he said, standing quickly and lifting her into his arms. He took the blood-spattered shawl hanging on the bedpost, wrapped it around her and carried her to the door. But then he stopped. Turning abruptly, he walked back to the fireplace, stepping over the bodies, and crouched to pick up the stone, which he wiped on his breeches and tucked into his breast pocket.
*
Alexander walked swiftly through the gloom, listening out for any other signs of life. None came. The distant echo of the bells drifted eerily through the empty corridors, which all stood in darkness. It was as if the castle had been long deserted.
He descended a set of stairs with Enola, grasping the handrail firmly. But, as he came to the next staircase and saw the castle doors standing open in the entrance hall below, he moved his hand to his knife. He walked slowly, eyes darting to every corner of the hall as he went. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he made his way quickly to the doors and looked up at the parapet across the abandoned courtyard. It was unmanned. Something felt wrong. It was all too easy. Cautiously, he stepped out into the open.
The stench in the air hit him at once and he brought a hand to his mouth, resisting the urge to vomit. He knew the smell well. Burnt flesh.
‘Look at me,’ he said to Enola. ‘Keep your eyes on me.’
He crossed the courtyard into the square. An old woman was kneeling in front of a mound of scorched wood and smoking ash. Her head was bowed. She was crying.
‘Look at me,’ he said again when Enola turned her head towards the woman, who had begun to mutter a prayer through her tears as they passed her. He walked calmly, looking ahead to the lane, when he heard something that chilled him to the core.
‘Sweet, sweet Lady Iris. The pain is over. May your soul be delivered to the White Witch in all its purity.’
He stopped dead.
‘What did you say?’ he said, turning around. The woman did not respond. ‘What did you say!’ he shouted, striding towards her and grasping her face with a bloody hand, forcing her to look at him.
‘Lady Iris. Sweet Lady Iris, born in light, taken in darkness.’
His legs gave way. He
staggered backwards in horror. Not Iris. Not his Iris, who had stood before him only hours ago. He stared and stared at the ashes, the dying embers still aglow. It couldn’t be. His heart thundered against his ribs so fiercely the sound filled his ears; soon, it was all he could hear. His throat began to close up; he couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. He had betrayed her, left her behind. And now she was nothing but ashes. If he hadn’t come to The Light, if he hadn’t killed Matthew Mortenstone, or told Vrax about the border enchantment, she would still be alive. He had killed her.
Enola tried to look but he quickly pressed her head to his chest with a trembling hand. As he did, he caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye and turned.
Thomas Mortenstone emerged into the square from the castle courtyard. He paused when he saw Alexander and stared at him blankly, his arms limp at his sides.
‘My sister’s dead,’ he said. There was a long silence. Then he spoke again. ‘Why are you taking Enola?’
Alexander tightened his grip on Enola. ‘She’s not safe here. I need to take her away,’ he said in a strangled voice.
Thomas shrugged. ‘You won’t get far,’ he said, sitting down on the ground and crossing his legs.
Alexander backed away and, when he was sure Thomas was not going to pursue him, turned and ran down Stone Lane.
At the end of the lane, he stopped, leaned against a wall and tried to clear his head and think. A boy peered out through the window of the building opposite. His mother hurriedly pulled him away and he disappeared from view. Alexander looked further along the street. Dozens of eyes were watching him from the windows. He was out of time. Heart pounding, blood pulsing in his ears, he fixed his eyes on the Dark Forest in the distance and began to run.
Hundreds of tents crowded the Grassland, all deserted, pots still steaming, animal carcases slowly being cremated on skewers over fires. He ran between the tents, using them for cover. He was almost there. He could see the men through the trees, hacking and thrashing at one another. The air vibrated with hoarse cries. Enola started to grow agitated. She wriggled and fidgeted in his arms.
The White Witch (The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy Book 1) Page 16