Moon Crossing - A Fellhounds of Thesk Story

by Farr, Cathy;

  ‘So Imelda would have to kill Lady Élanor to get her to give up the legacy?’ he asked after a few moments.

  Lord Lakeston closed his eyes and a single tear dripped down his cheek.

  ‘Yes, Wil.’

  ‘Or to give up the other secret keeper?’

  Lord Lakeston nodded.

  The hammering stopped. Silence filled the silence.

  ‘That boy – Tinniswood’s son – he told you about your father?’ said Lord Lakeston after a moment. The sudden change of subject threw Wil.

  ‘Er, yer,’ he answered. ‘Well, he said he knew where he was – he was going to take me to him. But then I…’

  The words caught in Wil’s throat. Lord Lakeston finished the sentence for him.

  ‘You killed him.’

  A shadow passed over his Lordship’s face.

  ‘Did he tell you anything else, Wil?’

  ‘No, why?’ asked Wil, wary again.

  ‘I will take you, you need to know.’

  A chill flurry whipped through the open door. The lantern went out. The man in the corner continued to chip away and, as they passed, Wil could see that he was carving something across a large, flat stone.

  ‘The mason!’ whispered Wil. He moved to double back but his Lordship grabbed his arm – for a dead man, his grip was extremely powerful.

  ‘No, Wil. Come with me. Leave him, he can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘But... he’s the mason. The Jackal left a message… he can tell me about my father.’

  Lord Lakeston stopped, but for the first time he did not face Wil when he spoke.

  ‘He can not tell you, Wil. He can not speak. I wrote the message.’

  Then he strode away, leaving Wil to run to catch up.

  By the time they eventually came to a halt, Wil had already realised what he would find. The headstones stretched out as far as the eye could see. Uniform lines, all with a name and the words ‘Taxes paid’ carved in beautiful precise lettering. Some of the stones were covered with thick, green moss, some engulfed in ivy and some were so new they were not even coated in the evening dew; one, at the end of the second row back, had tiny green shoots around its base – crocus, thought Wil, his mother’s favourite. The word ‘Calloway’ blurred in Wil’s tears; as with all the others, below the single name, the words ‘Taxes paid’ had been skilfully hewn.

  ‘He’s been here all along,’ said Wil in barely a whisper. ‘The Jackal… he knew. He knew and he kept promising – using my father to make me tell them something I just don’t know.’ He choked out the last few words. He was glad The Jackal was dead – he was glad it had been him – Wil – who had killed him. He hoped The Jackal’s mother would find him and that her heart would break…

  ‘He was angry too, Wil,’ said his Lordship, gently interrupting Wil’s hate-filled thoughts. ‘He was lonely and angry and he used the only thing he could to hurt you. And he picked you because he couldn’t hurt anyone else – no-one cared. You are better than that, Wil. You are better than any of them. Go now and help your friends. Go and keep my daughters safe. You cannot do anything to help your father now, I am sorry. But you can help them.’

  Wil felt a cold hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You really are dead, aren’t you,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, Wil – if you can call this a death. Being a revenant is an eternity of half-death.’

  ‘But at least you get to see your daughters!’ said Wil bitterly. He turned and walked away back towards the barn but stopped. ‘It was you – at Black Rock – wasn’t it? You gave me the staff.’

  There was no answer.

  Wil turned around – he was alone among the headstones. High above him the two moons were sliding into one.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Redback’s Wrath

  ‘Blimey Wil, I thought I was going to have to come and rescue you again!’ said Mortimer as Wil charged towards him across the grass – completely forgetting to stay in the shadow of the castle wall.

  ‘Sorry, Mort, thought I’d stop for a bite to eat,’ Wil lied. He was struggling with the surreal experience of meeting Lord Lakeston while, at the same time, trying to reconcile the reality that his father really was dead – the last thing he wanted to do right now was talk about any of it.

  He handed Mortimer a wooden bowl full to the brim with what looked like green-flecked scrambled eggs.

  ‘You want some?’

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Mortimer, sniffing the dish. His tired face brightened. ‘Ha! I was right. Quail egg soufflé… and… asparagus. Yum!’

  ‘Oh, I brought you this, too’ said Wil. He handed Mortimer a silver spoon that he retrieved from his bolt pouch.

  ‘How’re Gisella and Phinn?’

  Mortimer scooped up a huge spoonful of the soufflé and held it to his mouth.

  ‘Well, Phinn seems to be getting better all the time. He tried to get up a few minutes ago but I managed to stop him.’ He popped the loaded spoon into his mouth and added thickly. ‘Oh, this is delicious! Want some?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Wil. True, he was tired and hungry but he felt too wretched to eat. ‘So how’s Gisella?’

  Mortimer stopped mid-spoonful and frowned.

  ‘Not too good. You did give her that blood stuff, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yer,’ said Wil. He knelt down and put the flat of his hand on Gisella’s cheek. It felt cold and clammy.

  ‘So, you, er, didn’t find your father then?’ asked Mortimer.

  ‘No,’ said Wil abruptly. ‘But The Jackal won’t be bothering us again – Gisella’ll be very pleased about that!’

  Then he changed the subject.

  ‘We really need to get her home,’ he said, although putting Gisella on a horse right now was probably the worst thing they could do – but he couldn’t see that they had any other choice.

  Wil looked around; the Giant Redback and her baby were dozing peacefully, as were Mia and Farrow. Even the riot seemed to have calmed – other than flames reaching like tentacles out of the roof, the mill was quiet now; and, elsewhere, the city smouldered in a macabre peace. It was then that Wil spotted the little boat that he’d last seen down by the mill pond.

  ‘Why’s that up here?’

  Mortimer scraped around the empty bowl, popped its contents into his mouth and then waved the pristine spoon at Wil.

  ‘Because I’ve got an idea for how we’re going to get everyone out of here,’ said Mortimer and patted the silk rope that sat neatly coiled beside him. ‘I’ve checked – this should be long enough – just. And as that boat survived being dragged from down there, I’m pretty sure it’ll cope with what I’ve got in mind for it!’

  When Mortimer had finished explaining his escape plan Wil went very quiet. He knew that they had to get out of Armelia and he knew that there was no way Gisella could ride; he also knew that, despite his apparently rapid recovery, Phinn was unlikely to be able to gallop too far for too long.

  What Wil didn’t know, though, was how to make a dragon take off; how to ride a dragon; or how to make sure that a boat carrying Phinn and Gisella under said dragon didn’t fall – if they ever did get into the air.

  In the west, leaving little room for the stars, the two moons were drifting together on their way to becoming one, before continuing their solitary journeys among the stars for another seven years. Mortimer’s voice jolted Wil from his worries.

  ‘Well, come on then. Grab the other end of this rope!’

  Wil’s mind raced; there just had to be an alternative to Mortimer’s plan. In an attempt to buy some time, he said, ‘Maybe we should get Gisella and Phinn into the boat first?’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Mortimer with a firm nod. ‘Then, as soon as this rope’s attached to the dragon’s leg you can get up there and we’ll get her to take off.’ He bent to lift Gisella.

  ‘No!’ Wil said so abruptly that Mortimer jumped up, drew his sword and threw a wary glance over his shoulder. Wil stepped forward.

 
‘It alright, Mort, I, er, I’ll do that.’

  Terrified he might hurt her, Wil carefully gathered Gisella into his arms before Mortimer could object.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Mortimer. ‘But you’re going to need a hand with Phinn.’

  ‘Er, yer… of course, thanks.’

  They laid Phinn next to Gisella in the bottom of the boat and wrapped Gisella’s cloak around her as best they could. Mortimer had also brought up some sacking which they packed around the pair; although Wil wasn’t sure how warm the rags would keep them once they were over the Fells. He was still trying to think of an alternative to Mortimer’s mad plan.

  ‘And you’re sure you can get both horses, Mia and Farrow back to Saran on your own?’ he asked. Mortimer looked offended.

  ‘Gosh, yes! I’m a Fellman, Wil!’ He wound the other end of the rope around his hand as he spoke. ‘About three years ago, we had a Moon Chase that went really badly wrong. I was with Molly Edwards right up on the top of Thesker Pyke. We were chasing down a huge male Wraithe Wolf and got separated from the others. Shadow out-ran it and the hounds did their job. But Molly’s horse stumbled – she went over its neck and straight into a ravine. Killed instantly, poor thing. I tried to get her body out but it was too close to dawn.’ Mortimer absently flicked the end of the soft rope across his hand. ‘There was no time so I took Molly’s horse and Fellhound with me and got home. I don’t think her parents would have forgiven me if I hadn’t.’ He stopped flicking the rope. ‘And neither would mine.’

  ‘So will you go straight over Tel Harion now?’ asked Wil. It was, after all, the middle of the night – the favourite hunting time for Wraithe Wolves. It was also the Alcama – although Wil was sure that they’d had their fair share of awful happenings already.

  ‘No,’ said Mortimer, as if sharing Wil’s thoughts. ‘I’ll head over to Grizzledale and then come back down along Mistle Forest – other than the odd wild boar or bear, it’ll be far safer than travelling alone over the open Fells.’

  He paused and then said, ‘Was that carcass still up there?’

  ‘Yeh, no head.’

  Then Wil remembered.

  ‘Oh! They’ll come for the body, won’t they! I forgot – dawn – Wraithe Wolves come for their dead. Mort – we really have got to get out of here!’

  Mortimer moved quickly around the boat, hauling down on each of the rope fastenings as he went. The little boat creaked and groaned but the knots held.

  The Redback’s plate-size scales shimmered like some sort of iridescent armour and Wil wondered just how Mortimer was going to get her to take off. Then a shout from the mill made him turn. The glow of the city had suddenly got a lot closer – heading across from the mill and up from the canal, hundreds of torches were advancing on the tower. Wil made a decision.

  ‘Mort, get on Shadow – you need to get going.’

  ‘Yer, okay Wil, I just need to…’ Clutching the other end of the rope, he disappeared under the sleeping Redback and shouted from the darkness, ‘Just get on, Wil. And get her off the ground!’

  Wil clambered up onto the dragon’s back. From below, he heard Mortimer’s voice.

  ‘Good luck, Wil.’

  And then the sound of Shadow’s galloping hooves. Wil glanced down. Shadow, Mia and Farrow were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Right,’ thought Wil as he wedged himself in between the dragon’s scaly spine and its wing. Angry shouts echoed off the castle wall. An arrow shot past Wil’s ear and wedged in the scales between the Redback’s shoulder blades. She stirred. Then, without warning, she shook. Wil grabbed at the baby dragon to stop him sliding off. The arrow fell. A tiny trickle of green blood dripped down the dragon’s neck. Then another arrow bounced off the Redback’s snout and one more hit the wall.

  The Redback sat up.

  Wil wedged his fingers between the dragon’s scales.

  ‘Here goes!’

  With every ounce of strength he had left, Wil concentrated. Arrows whistled over his head. A spear bounced off the bow of the boat.

  ‘Save your baby,’ thought Wil. ‘They will take him. Take flight. Save your baby.’

  He pictured the man who had briefly been the proud possessor of the gold bar – the winner of the Unexpected Pets competition.

  ‘He is coming,’ thought Wil. ‘Save your baby. Fly. They will kill you and take him.’

  The Redback arched her neck. She bent her head right around and sniffed her precious baby. Then, to Wil’s alarm, he felt her hot breath as she sniffed him.

  ‘Save your baby,’ repeated Wil silently. ‘They are coming. Fly. Save him.’

  The rabble was closing in. Wil could see spears, knives – someone was brandishing an axe while a woman waved a pitchfork.

  ‘There it is,’ called a ragged voice. ‘I told you it’s hers – look it’s guarding her precious tower!’

  ‘Take our gold; then use your pet to burns our homes!’ yelled another. ‘I want my gold back!’

  ‘Hey, you up there – that’s my dragon,’ yelled a third man. ‘My Ridge Creeper! I paid good money for that – it owes me a gold bar!’

  Making a supreme effort to ignore the approaching mob, Wil tried again.

  ‘They are coming. Fly. Take him now!’

  At last he felt the dragon stir – just as a volley of arrows stopped the rioters in their tracks. Lord Rexmoore’s reedy voice called out from the balcony of the golden tower.

  ‘STOP! You will come no further!’ And then, a little quieter, he added, ‘And Master Calloway, you can stay where you are… with your new pet! Guards, watch him!’

  Wil’s concentration shattered.

  Illuminated by the merging moons, Imelda and Lord Rexmoore surveyed the throng. Imelda spoke next.

  ‘Every one of you will return the gold you have stolen from the mill – every brick and every coin.’

  A mocking voice rose from the crowd.

  ‘What! Give back what was ours in the first place?’

  Shouts of approval drowned out whatever Imelda said next.

  Below him, Wil felt the Redback shift her weight. He let his mind fill with the vision of huge wolves, vivid red eyes; two sets of needle-sharp teeth, designed to rip and tear.

  ‘The Wraithe Wolves are coming! Save him!’

  Wil sensed the dragon’s unease.

  Imelda snarled.

  ‘That gold is mine! You live in my city – you pay my taxes!’

  A spear flew out of the crowd. The Redback grabbed it in her jaws. It snapped like matchwood as she hauled herself to her feet.

  ‘Look out,’ shouted a frightened voice. Too late. The Redback spat a jet of fire right over the heads of the crowd. People screamed and scattered. On the balcony, Imelda’s shrieking laughter echoed into the night.

  ‘And this is what happens to people who steal! Ha, ha!’

  Wil did his best to shut out Imelda’s mad laughter.

  ‘They are coming. Fly. Save him!’

  Somewhere along the wall Rexmoore was yelling orders – guards lined the crumbling ramparts – all with their bows drawn; each one trained on the Redback.

  ‘Fly! Fly, NOW!’ Wil’s mind screamed. He felt as though he would burst with frustration. If the Redback didn’t take off in the next second they would all be dead, not just her baby!

  Finally, the Redback flexed her huge wings. Wil braced himself. Next to him, the baby dragon slept on. But the Redback didn’t take off. Wil felt a thud. The dragon’s wing had hit the wall – she was too near.

  ‘Move, walk… jump! Move away from the wall…. if you want to take off – move away!’

  But the Redback stayed where she was. Wil knew she was listening to him but she didn’t take off. He could feel her rage building.

  Helpless, Wil clung on. Again, she beat her giant, leathery wings; again Wil felt them smack into the wall beside them. Then, to his absolute horror, the Redback stepped backwards, only just missing the boat that was right under her now.

  ‘NO!’ yelled
Wil, unable to contain himself any longer.

  Imelda’s laugher stopped abruptly.

  ‘The seer – GET HIM!’

  The Redback’s wing smacked against the tower again. A golden brick tumbled past Wil’s ear – the large crack he had used as a foothold that afternoon sprang into his mind.

  ‘Of course,’ he whispered.

  Whether the dragon had noticed the crack in the tower or whether she was actually trapped, Wil would never know; but once he pictured the building’s weakness and suggested to the dragon that it might be a good idea to hit it a bit harder, she let loose with terrifying power.

  With three more very quick and very devastating strikes, the crack opened so wide that Wil could have walked though it. Gold bricks and coins poured out onto the ground below – and with each strike Imelda’s furious screams grew louder still.

  The castle wall collapsed first. Guards scrambled in all directions as they fled the tumbling stones – their flat grey colour a shocking contrast to the golden bricks of the tower. Roaring, the dragon clambered up onto the ruined battlements and spread her wings for one last blow. With its only support gone, the golden tower gave way. Coins slid like sand in an hourglass. The Redback leapt skywards.

  As they left the chaos beneath them, Wil peered past the dragon’s scaly rib-cage. Imelda’s screams could be heard even over the roar of the dragon; the green in front of the castle had given way to a carpet of gold and a dark wave of people was engulfing the rich pickings of the demolished tower.

  The dragon soared into the night sky.

  ‘Armelia – taxes refunded!’ Wil yelled and whooped loudly.

  The moons were almost one now. Freezing air blasted past Wil’s ears as the dragon glided over the glistening ice-covered wastes of Tel Harion. He had absolutely no idea if the little boat was below them but quickly decided that trying to peer at the underbelly of a dragon in full flight was really not a good idea.

  Instead Wil tried to call Phinn with his mind – after all, he’d managed it at the festival. But Phinn hadn’t been injured then and right now Wil didn’t even know if the Fellhound was conscious. But almost immediately Wil sensed that Phinn was close by – deeply unhappy about being in a boat that was a long way from the ground, being hauled along by a dragon, but nevertheless, he was close.