by Robin Jarvis
On the hill the villagers had reached the bonfire and were wielding flaming brands. Pushing their children behind them, they waited for the huge cats to strike. The nine creatures pounced. A bitter battle began. Claws lashed out, cloth and flesh were torn, fire swung round in blazing arcs, fur was scorched and children screamed.
Then, high overhead, as he flew over the hilltop, the voice of the Ismus called out words of hope.
“Hold fast, my gentle lambs! Despair ye not! Deliverance is nigh!”
Thudding vibrations shook the hill. The monstrous felines wavered and cast their almond eyes down the slope. With a fearless shout, the Jack of Clubs, riding on Ironheart, last of the untameable steeds, came charging through the encircling wall of sulphurous smoke. After him rode a host of knights from every Royal House. Soon the hill rang with screeching yowls of pain as the horses plunged into the fray and the cats felt the keen edges of Mooncaster steel. Ironheart reared and pounded one of their heads into the grass with his hooves, mashing it like an overripe damson. Swords carved deep into tough green sinew. Double tails were sliced through and left wriggling on the ground like furry snakes. The cats hissed and roared, but could not escape. One leaped into the bonfire rather than face the terrible wrath of the Jack of Clubs and the villagers drove the rest into the path of the sweeping blades with their flaming torches.
In the sky the Ismus glared at Haxxentrot in the distance. The witch was flying away. With wand and shield in hand, the Holy Enchanter pursued her through the air.
Bursts of emerald fire and bolts of purple lightning flashed and flared between the stars as a mighty contest of magick commenced.
Down in the village, Tully and the others came running up the street, breathless and frightened. They had imagined all types of terrors chasing them through the fields.
“Come to ours!” Rufus urged. “There’s nobody in your cottages. Our grandfather is home. It’ll be safer there!”
Hurrying through the deep shadows, their only welcome was the din of Mistress Sarah’s geese. Echoing and reverberating down the narrow thoroughfare, even their honking sounded shrill and strange. The village had never appeared so sinister and threatening before. A hostile pulse threaded the night and every corner seemed crowded with unfriendly eyes. The children wished the small windows were aglow with cheery firelight to unburden their hearts and spur them on their way, but every dwelling was shuttered and deserted. They were gladder than ever to have their neepjacks with them.
They were so anxious and afraid they barely noticed the smell that hung about Dung-Breathed Billy’s hovel, but when they passed Mistress Sarah’s cottage, they suddenly realised the geese had ceased honking.
The children’s footsteps faltered. Those birds were better than guard dogs. They made a frightful racket whenever they heard footsteps on the road. Why were they now silent?
Tully looked at his brother nervously. Something was very, very wrong.
“Everyone, into ours, quick!” Rufus whispered, pushing them towards their cottage.
“But the geese,” Tully said. “We must go see!”
“No!” Rufus ordered. “This way now!”
Tully’s curiosity outweighed his fear. “I’ll be but a moment,” he promised. “Besides, Pog will protect me.”
Before his brother could grab him, Tully darted into the alley between the hovel and the cottage.
Mistress Sarah’s six geese were penned in the garden around the back. A fence of wicker hurdles, twined about with fading nasturtiums, prevented them waddling into the village to peck and hiss at passers-by.
Tully ran to the fence. Holding Pog aloft, he peered over. The turnip lantern’s candlelight flooded down into the garden. The horror of what he saw there made the boy choke with shock.
The six geese were dead. Their white corpses were strewn wantonly about the ground. It had been a frenzied attack. A bloody hole had been punched into each of their snowy breasts.
And the killer was still there.
A tall figure, dressed in a shabby, tattered robe and soil-clogged sandals, was crouching over the last limp bird – ripping out its heart. Seeing Pog’s light and hearing Tully’s strangled cry, the figure sprang up.
It was a man – but a savage, brutal distortion of a man. His black hair was long, dirty and matted and his haggard face was ingrained with filth. His straggly beard was greasy and knotted and his red, blood-wet lips parted in a repugnant, feral snarl, baring stained and broken teeth. Thick brows growing halfway down a thin, hooked nose sheltered two brown, glaring eyes that bulged outward.
It was the nightmare apparition everyone in the Kingdom feared most, even more than Haxxentrot. It was the Bad Shepherd.
Tully was rooted to the spot. His own heart thumped violently. He stared open-mouthed at the tall, ragged man, unable to move.
The Bad Shepherd’s repulsive snarl widened to a leer and the deranged malignance in those eyes burned even more fiercely. The goose’s heart fell from his fingers. Letting loose an insane shriek, he lunged forward.
His bloody fingers caught Tully by the throat and he kicked the wicker fence down. Crowing, he shook the boy wildly, squeezing the breath from him. Then he dragged him out of the alley. Pog went rolling over the ground.
The Bad Shepherd burst, berserking, into the street and the other children screamed. Rufus darted forward, but the fiend hoisted Tully above his head like a bag of apples and prepared to hurl him against the nearest wall, to dash out his brains.
“Please!” Rufus pleaded, backing away. “Don’t hurt him. Please! We’ll give you anything you want. Just don’t hurt him!”
The Bad Shepherd bawled unintelligible words in reply.
“We… we don’t have any coin,” Rufus stammered. “But we have food. You want food? Please put my brother down!”
The man growled and his awful face contorted as he gave vent to a horrendous screech. Then he swung Tully around, seized him by the ankles and ran at the wall, whooping.
“Noooo!” Rufus howled. “Help us! Someone help us!”
One of the countless shadows filling that benighted street suddenly rushed out. It slammed into the Bad Shepherd’s side. The madman crumpled before the unexpected force and went crashing to the floor. Tully was knocked from his grasp and lay on his back, gasping.
For a moment, Rufus and the others were too astonished to react. They stared at the Bad Shepherd. He was crawling on his knees, as bewildered and amazed as they were. Standing over him was a three-dimensional patch of darkness, roughly human in shape, but blurred and indistinct. It kicked out and landed a heavy blow in the fiend’s stomach.
The Bad Shepherd shrieked and tried to scrabble to his feet. Another kick sent him sprawling. Then the uncanny, living shadow ran to a woodpile and snatched up a heavy log. Armed with this, it charged. But the nightmare of Mooncaster was already back on his feet and ready. His strong hands caught hold of the weapon, spun the shadow round and shoved it viciously against a door. The wood creaked under the blow and the shadow grunted with pain. Then it rallied, wrested the log from those bloody fingers and used it to beat him across the street.
It was a desperate fight. The Bad Shepherd fell back from those hammering blows until finally the mysterious shadow had him trapped in a corner.
Rufus darted over to his brother and hastily made sure he was all right. Tully was dazed and frightened. There were tears in his eyes and ugly bruises were already forming on his neck. But he was alive. Rufus dragged him to the step of their cottage where the others were banging on the door.
“Let us in! Let us in!” they shouted.
“Grandfather must have barred it after all!” Rufus cried. “Wake up in there!”
Tully clutched at his throat and stared down the street, to where the shadow had raised the log above its head to deal a death blow. The Bad Shepherd raged and spat defiantly, daring the strange phantom to strike.
“Do it,” Tully breathed. “Kill the mad dog!”
The shadow tense
d and the weapon trembled. Then the dark shape relaxed and stepped away. With a wave of its arm, it signalled the Bad Shepherd to leave, and turned to come walking back.
But the Bad Shepherd would not depart. Incensed, he ran to that woodpile and took up a more deadly weapon. Screeching wildly, he leaped at the shadow, whirling an axe about his head.
“Look out!” Tully tried to yell, but his voice had been crushed. He could not be heard above the frantic clamouring of the other children trying to wake his grandfather.
The axe blade came rushing through the air. At the very last instant, the shadow was aware of it and dodged aside. The axe rang against a stone wall, striking a shower of sparks. The Bad Shepherd ranted in fury and whirled around, shouldering the shadow to the ground. The axe was raised again. There was no escaping now.
The children could barely watch. Whatever, or whoever, that shadow-shape may be, it could not survive pitted against such untempered cruelty and madness. Behind the Bad Shepherd’s stark, bulging eyes there was no reason, no compassion, just an unquenchable, deranged compulsion to butcher and destroy.
“He’s going to chop it up,” Muddy Legs uttered, feeling faint. “What does shadow-blood look like?”
Peasy and Benwick covered their eyes.
And then a most incredible thing happened. A torrent of orange flame blasted into the street. It came squalling from the alley between Mistress Sarah’s cottage and the hovel. For a moment, it lit up the night and everyone felt the heat beating on their faces. The Bad Shepherd hesitated, his maniacal expression consumed with doubt.
Another spout of flame roared across the street. What new, perilous creature was this?
“Is it a dragon?” Lynnet murmured, ready to believe anything now.
A third scorching spout streaked out, and then the fire-breather emerged from the alley.
Tully could not believe his eyes. He rubbed them swiftly and looked again. To his unending astonishment and wonder, Pog, the turnip lantern, came scampering into view. The fibrous roots sprouting from its chin had grown into twiggy legs and carried it along like a spider. Flames licked from the peg-toothed mouth and dripped out of the triangular eyes. The lantern scuttered into the street, and turned to face the Bad Shepherd.
It bobbed slowly up and down and a funnel of black smoke pumped up from the hole in its lid as a warning.
The man began to lower the axe. Then, emitting a hideous, bawling cry, he shook his head defiantly. Screaming insanely, he lifted the weapon high again, to hack and hew the fallen shadow-figure.
Pog roared with flame and charged forward. When it passed the children, their lanterns also burst into life and tore their strings from their hands to go chasing after.
Eight enchanted neepjacks went bouncing and hopping up the street, spitting jets of angry flame at the Bad Shepherd. The man’s tattered robe caught light and his beard burned. He screeched wilder than ever, threw the axe down and fled from the village with the turnip lanterns hot on his heels.
Tully and the others gaped as the figure disappeared into the night, pursued by their neepjacks. But how?
“Once that villain is beyond your boundaries,” a new voice said, “your charming lanterns will take the place of the warding lamps tonight and keep this village safe from harm. Henceforth on Ween Night, if you carve the same faces and call them by their names, those guardians will awaken and protect you.”
The children wrenched their eyes from the fiery neepjacks in the distance and looked down the street. A kindly-looking, elderly woman, with apple cheeks and twinkling blue eyes, was stepping lightly towards them. She wore a dress of dusty pink, picked out with gold stars, and a shawl of golden lace covered her shoulders. In her hand was a long but crooked silver wand tipped with an amber star, which she leaned on like a walking cane.
“Malinda!” the children gasped.
“Will we ever be rid of that scourge?” she remarked crossly. “He is the bane of the Kingdom. We’ve all suffered so much at his brutish hands.”
The mutilated stumps of her wings trembled slightly. The retired Fairy Godmother pulled the shawl a little tighter and gave the youngsters a benevolent smile.
“I came as swiftly as I could,” she said. “Thank Fortune I was in the castle when the alarm was raised.”
She lowered her eyes and the children saw the talking fox was trotting along beside her. A plump dead hen was in his jaws so he said nothing but gave them a lusty wink then darted off.
“We would have been killed if it wasn’t for the shadow-shape!” Rufus told her. “It saved us.”
Malinda peered along the street.
“Where is it now?” she asked urgently.
“Over there,” Lynnet said, pointing to where the shadow-figure had fallen. “It’s gone!” Benwick exclaimed.
Tully ran over to the place where the Bad Shepherd had stood over the shadow. The ground was bare.
“Whoever you are!” Malinda’s silvery voice called out to the empty night air. “I can help you. Do not be afraid! Do not run away.”
There was no response. Malinda sighed sorrowfully.
“What was it?” Clover asked. “I never heard of nothing like that before.”
The Fairy Godmother gave a sad, far-off smile.
“It is the Castle Creeper,” she said. “The poor thing must be terribly frightened. It is almost solid and visible here now.”
The children did not understand her words, but Tully came running back, greatly excited, with something in his hands.
“I found a thing! I found a thing!” he rasped with his injured voice. “A funny sort of cord, divided at one end and with two tiny hooves. The shadow must’ve dropped it in the struggle.”
Malinda held out her hand and he passed the unfamiliar find over.
“Most curious,” she said, inspecting it by a soft radiance from her wand’s amber star and blinking in perplexity. “Whatever can it be?”
No one in Mooncaster had ever seen a pair of earphones before.
“We must show the Ismus,” she said, popping them into the small purse hanging from her girdle. “He will know.”
At that moment, the door of the cottage opened and Tully’s grandfather stood there – yawning and staring out in sleepy bewilderment.
“What’s been going on here?” he asked. “Why, there’s the good lady Malinda herself and who’s this a-lying on our step?”
It was Muddy Legs. He had fainted.
Tommy Williams regained consciousness with a weak smile on his face. “Poor Muddy Legs,” he murmured groggily.
The sun was shining over the holiday camp once more and the stricken crowd was coming to, whimpering and uttering groans. Rolling over in the sunshine, Tommy reached for his throat and winced when he touched the bruising there. “I am Tully,” he whispered hoarsely. “I am a Two of Clubs.”
Beside him Rupesh opened his eyes and grinned. “I am Rufus!” he declared, elated. “I am a Two of Clubs also, and you – you are my brother!”
“Blessed be!” Tommy cried.
“Blessed be!” six other young voices repeated around them.
THE THREE BLACK Face Dames awoke and immediately rushed from the stage. The Ismus was lying face down on the ground. The scars on his back were no longer burning, but were charred and scabbed and black. The bodyguards lifted him gently and his eyes flickered open.
“Never let me do that again,” he said, exhausted but with a wry twist to his mouth.
They carried their Lord to Jangler’s cabin and laid him on the bed, on his stomach.
All across the camp, people were reviving and staggering to their feet. Marcus picked himself up, clutching the back of his head. His vision was bleary and he gazed around at the others.
Charm was swaying unsteadily, rubbing her forehead. Alasdair was doubled over, trying not to heave. Lee’s eyes were closed and he took deep gulping breaths. Jody was making sure Christina was all right and Jim was staring at his trembling hands. Spencer’s face was ashen. Maggie was
still on the ground, too weak to rise.
“We blacked out!” she exclaimed, staring at the mass of people slowly recovering in the compound. “Every last one of us. That’s damn freaky!”
“Did I imagine it?” Spencer muttered. “Or did that man fly over our heads – on fire?”
“What were in the drinks this time?” Alasdair asked.
“It really happened,” Jody told them angrily. “It did! Don’t pretend it didn’t!”
“That’s crazy!” Marcus snapped. “Just crazy!”
“Eww! Ewww!” Charm squealed when she discovered the blood in her hair and down her neck. “What’s goin’ on?”
They touched the backs of their heads then looked at the blood on their fingers. Most of them shuddered in shock and revulsion. Eight of them laughed.
Shaken and pale, Jangler dusted himself down and retrieved his clipboard. That made him feel better. Clambering on to the stage, he called for quiet and viewed the children sternly.
“Which of you have awakened to your true lives?” he demanded in a businesslike tone. “Who now can be accounted amongst the blessed?”
Tommy and Rupesh jumped up and down eagerly. Six more children did the same.
“Patrick Hunter, Daniel Foster, Beth McCormack, Oliver Gaskin, Diane Haywood, Mason Stuart,” Jangler said, jotting down their names. “Only eight of you? Most disappointing. So much effort for so very little. What a senseless risk.”
The eight new converts to the world of Dancing Jax were led away from the others by the Harlequin Priests, who took them to a sunny and peaceful corner of the camp, away from the stumbling confusion of the crowd. It was there that Kate Kryzewski interviewed them and got the “afters” her report desperately needed safely in the can.
“Wait!” Charm called to Jangler. “That’s not it, is it? Nofink happened to me. Why didn’t I wake up in the castle? I can’t remember nofink. How come?”