“Do they predict when this will happen?” asked the Spook.
“They believe it will be very soon,” she replied.
“Alice thinks she’s doing the right thing in preserving the Fiend. She thinks that destroying him will make way for the Kobalos god. . . . Doesn’t that worry you?” I asked Grimalkin. “She claimed it was only your hatred of the Fiend and desire for revenge that stopped you from joining her.”
Grimalkin shook her head. “I don’t necessarily think that finishing the Fiend will lead to the birth of Talkus. Alice’s thinking is shaped by the will of the mage Lukrasta, who certainly wants to preserve his master. I think we must deal with the Fiend first and then turn our attention to the Kobalos threat.”
The Spook nodded. “Of course, the first part’s easier said than done. They have the head once more.”
But by this time I was hardly listening. I had grasped the witch assassin’s words as fiercely as a drowning man would the hand that pulls him from the torrent.
“Do you think that Alice is really in thrall to Lukrasta?” I asked.
“In a way, yes,” she replied.
My hopes soared at this confirmation. But Grimalkin hadn’t finished yet, and she made herself clear.
“I think that Alice has also changed. I was there. I saw their meeting. It was as if their eyes sent forth coils of mutual attraction that bound each to the other. Such things are rare, but it does happen between thinking beings. Alice is strongly influenced by Lukrasta, yes. But if she is in thrall to him, he is also in thrall to her. Alice is a malevolent witch and has found a place where she feels at home: beside a dark mage. You had a bond between you when you were children, but now you have both grown up. Must I repeat what I told you? I will say it again. Forget Alice, Tom, because she is not for you.”
I thought my master would seize upon Grimalkin’s words as confirmation of what he had always believed. But he looked sad, and there was pity in his eyes when he turned to me. I was sure he was about to say something, but he just patted me on the shoulder like a father offering unspoken consolation.
He did speak later, soon after Grimalkin had left the house.
“Getting attached to somebody like Alice is hard, lad,” he told me. “I should know, because I was in love with Meg. The truth is, I still miss her. But it’s for the best that you’re apart—a witch has no business in a spook’s life.”
He and Meg, a lamia witch, had spent winters together in his house up on Anglezarke Moor. But now she had gone back to Greece with her sister, Marcia; the parting had been hard for him.
I nodded. He was trying to help, but it didn’t ease the hurt that I felt inside.
The following morning there was no breakfast waiting. The Spook was sitting there alone, staring at the bare tabletop.
“It doesn’t look good. I think something has happened to the boggart,” he told me.
“Alice wouldn’t harm it!” I retorted. “She made you and Grimalkin sleep. She’d have done the same to the boggart, I’m sure of it.”
After all my efforts summoning the boggart to my aid and forming a bond with it, I certainly hoped it was all right.
“Don’t be so quick to defend her, lad,” said the Spook. “She’s gone to the dark, so who can tell what she might be capable of? But I’m not accusing Alice. I think it’s more likely that Lukrasta did it out of revenge—he didn’t enter the garden, but he might well have been nearby. Don’t forget that the boggart slayed a lot of witches. Lukrasta was in that tower, unable to stop you from getting away with the Fiend’s head. I’ve heard it said that he’s motivated by a terrible pride. It was something you couldn’t have achieved without the boggart, so now he’s taken his revenge.”
“Do you think he’s destroyed it?”
“I fear the worst, lad. Aye, I fear the worst. And now the house and garden are undefended.”
We sat there in silence for a while, and then the Spook suddenly seemed to cheer up a bit; there was a twinkle in his eye. “Well, lad, I suppose you’d better go and burn the bacon, as usual!”
And, despite my best efforts, I did burn it. But we finished every singed bit of it—and soft bread smeared with butter helped to make it a little more palatable.
After breakfast I went out into the garden to talk to Grimalkin, and told her about the missing boggart.
“Lukrasta may have tried to destroy it, but boggarts are very resilient,” she observed. “It may eventually recover— though maybe not in time to help us again.”
Grimalkin was leaning against a tree, seemingly deep in thought. Then I noticed something different about her. Across her body she was wearing her usual diagonal leather straps, bristling with her snippy scissors and other weapons. But at her waist hung a new scabbard with an exceptionally long blade.
“That’s new,” I said, pointing toward the sword. “Is it the one you were forging the other night?”
“It is indeed,” she replied. “As you know, I like to try new methods of combat. A witch assassin must always stretch herself.”
I thought she would draw the sword and show it to me, but she made no move to do so. I didn’t like to ask—maybe she didn’t like anybody else to touch it. Perhaps it was magical in some way, and easily contaminated. So instead I asked about her leg.
“I’m now confident that it will heal fully, but I need to rest it for a couple more days. One of us needs to go in search of our enemies. I would like to know when they bring the Fiend’s body north.”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE ABHUMANS
THERE is a place in the County known locally as Beacon Fell because, generations earlier, during the civil war, it was used for signaling purposes. Fires were lit on the line of hilltops, warning of the approach of enemy troops from horizon to horizon.
It was heavily wooded, but one section, near the summit, was cleared of trees and made a good vantage point. From here I could look west and south—the two directions from which I expected the Fiend’s servants to convey his body.
I settled myself down and kept watch. I expected to be there for at least a couple of days; as usual, I set traps for rabbits to augment the chicken legs and strips of salted ham I’d brought with me. And, of course, I had my usual supply of cheese. The waiting was tedious, and sometimes I studied my most recent notebook, adding to observations and making corrections where necessary.
Memories of my dad drifted into my mind. For a man who’d had little schooling and had gone to sea at an early age, he had been wise. Later he’d become a farmer— which involved hard physical labor from dawn to dusk. But Dad knew his letters and could read and write well. He’d once told me that the best way to think through a problem was to commit all the possible solutions to paper, jotting down anything that came into your head, no matter how crazy it seemed at the time. Then, later, you could read through them, scrapping the daftest ideas and concentrating on the ones that seemed most likely to be effective—although he’d added that sometimes, what at first glance appeared daft would turn out to have real possibilities.
And I really did have a big problem. So I moved to a new page and, on impulse, wrote a heading:
Other Ways to Deal with the Fiend
I hardly thought it likely that I really could just pluck the answer out of my head and find an alternative, but there was no harm in trying. And it would keep the boredom at bay. So I jotted things down quickly as they popped into my head.
1. Burn the Fiend’s head.
2. Burn the Fiend’s body.
3. Burn both.
All these options were very risky. My master thought destroying the Fiend’s flesh on earth would free him to return to the dark to gather his power. So the third was definitely out of the question, but what about the first two? Still risky, no doubt, but burn either head or body, and he certainly couldn’t be put back together again; his spirit might still be trapped in the remaining part. It reminded me of the old rhyme told to children.
All the king’s horses and all
the king’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.
That brought a third solution into my head.
4. Cut the Fiend into many small pieces—too many to be found.
Now, that was a possibility. At present he was in two pieces, but if, like Humpty Dumpty, he was cut up into many, which were then hidden, it would be almost impossible to retrieve and reassemble them all.
I carried on jotting down ideas—some dafter than others. By the end I had quite a list, and I resolved to show them to my master when I got back to Chipenden.
Just before noon on the second day of my vigil, the weather, which had been chilly but bright for almost a week, began to change for the worse. I’d had a good view of the distant Irish Sea sparkling in the October sunshine, but now the water slowly darkened and low clouds drifted inland.
There was hardly more than a breeze, although the first cloud was overhead within the hour, and then a light drizzle began to fall. It was a lot warmer than before, but the drizzle turned to rain, and I was soon wet and uncomfortable. The visibility deteriorated steadily, with a mist rolling in from the west. I was just about to return to Chipenden when I heard a chanting in the distance, getting louder as it approached the fell. I’d been expecting witches, but these voices were male and very deep.
At first I couldn’t make out any words, but gradually the sound drew nearer and they became clear.
“Turn wheels! Push cart! Heave it up! Burst your heart!” boomed the voices.
Then, out of the mist, moving up the grassy incline, something astonishing emerged. It was the long eight-wheeled cart bearing the brass-handled coffin containing the body of the Fiend. But in the place of the six strong dray horses were four incredibly large abhumans.
“Turn wheels! Push cart! Heave it up! Burst your heart!”
My heart filled with dismay at the sight of those daunting creatures. How could we hope to fight them?
Two pulled the coffin by means of thick ropes harnessed to their shoulders. Two more were pushing it from the rear. All four were stripped to the waist, their thickset, muscular bodies glistening with rain. Their trousers were saturated and splattered with mud, their feet bare. However, their most distinctive features were the ramlike horns that sprouted from their heads. They were huge—far bigger than Tusk; each must have been at least nine feet tall.
I could attack them on my own, but had little hope of victory against such monstrous brutes. No sooner had I rejected the idea of trying to hinder their progress than other figures emerged from the mist, following the big cart.
I noticed a tall, fierce woman in the lead. Dressed in the manner of Grimalkin, she had leather straps crisscrossing her body, from which the hilts of weapons were visible in their sheaths. I saw that she also had yellow orbs dangling from each earlobe. Was she the leader of this throng? I wondered. Was she a witch assassin?
And it was indeed a throng. More and more figures emerged from the mist, all armed to the teeth. The majority were witches, with black gowns, matted hair, and pointy shoes. Among them were a few more abhumans, though none as big as the four monsters with the cart. There were other witches carrying blades like Grimalkin, and I wondered if they were the assassins of clans that dwelled far beyond the County. Some witches carried long poles with blades lashed to the end. But it wasn’t their weapons that filled my heart with foreboding; it was the sheer number of them. After ten minutes the column was still emerging from the mist. This was an army! What hope had we against so many?
I realized that instead of taking one of the possible routes to the Wardstone or coming toward Chipenden, they were heading northeast. Perhaps they intended to meet up with more of their kind in Pendle?
I left Beacon Fell and headed back toward the Spook’s house.
We talked in the kitchen as we ate our supper, the rain pattering against the windowpanes.
My master had cooked the meal, and it was delicious, but he was in a somber mood and just picked at his plate of ham and potatoes. Grimalkin, on the other hand, cleared her own dish quickly and helped herself to more.
“How many do you think there were?” she asked.
“More than a thousand—they were still coming when I left. Where have so many witches and abhumans come from?” I asked. “Is the tall woman who led them an assassin like you? She had yellow earrings in the shape of spheres.”
Grimalkin knew her immediately. “Her name is Katrina. She is the witch assassin of the Peverel clan, who dwell far to the southeast in a county known as Essex. The orbs are shrunken human skulls in which she has stored power; as you know, I prefer to use the thumb bones of my dead enemies. The quantity of bones means that a greater variety of magic is available to me—but each to her own method. They say she is formidable. We have never met, but no doubt we will cross blades soon. The Fiend’s followers will have gathered from all over this land, from clans that dwell far beyond the County, all banding together to help their master in his hour of need.”
“Aye, and there are so few of us!” exclaimed my master.
“We will be outnumbered, certainly, but we are more than you might think,” said Grimalkin. “As you know, Pendle is divided against itself, and in some cases so are the clans. There are many witches who oppose the Fiend. Tomorrow I will use a mirror to summon those who dwell in more remote locations, but I will also ride to Pendle to rally our local allies.”
At Grimalkin’s mention of the use of the mirror, I saw the Spook grimace and stare down at the tabletop. He had accepted the need to form such alliances, but still couldn’t condone the use of any form of dark magic.
“Mab Mouldheel and her sisters have already been to the Wardstone. I spoke to her when they passed through Chipenden over two weeks ago. They promised to help us at Halloween,” I told Grimalkin. “But I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her,” I added.
“You never bothered to tell me that, lad,” the Spook complained. “You’ve been a good, brave, diligent apprentice—I’ve never had a better. But there’s something that you’ve lacked. You’ve kept too many secrets from your master. And for that you should be sorry!”
“I am sorry for what happened in the past,” I said, “but this is different. It just slipped my mind.”
“Slipped your mind!” he said angrily. “You meet a witch who’s the leader of the Mouldheels and don’t think that worth passing on to me? That’s not to mention all the other things you’ve kept from me!”
“I was going to tell you, I swear it, but the day after, we found Grimalkin injured, and then I had to follow the witches. Since then it’s been one thing after another.”
The Spook nodded but didn’t meet my eyes. My omissions were piling up in his mind. He was clearly hurt by my lapse.
“I agree that Mab Mouldheel is not entirely to be trusted,” Grimalkin added after what seemed an uncomfortable silence, “but she helped us in Greece and I know she is opposed to the Fiend. Very few of her clan support him. They should come to us in numbers. Against such vast opposition, we need all the help we can get.”
Recent events had exhausted me, and no sooner had my head touched the pillow that night than I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
I awoke in the early hours. It was absolutely dark. I was finding it difficult to breathe.
There was a weight on my chest.
I felt a moment of terror, for the thing on my chest was moving.
Was this a nightmare? Was I still asleep? I wondered.
A moment later I was assured that I was wide awake by a voice whispering right inside my head.
Help me. I am desperate. Give me some of your blood or I will die.
It was the boggart, Kratch! The voice sounded weak and wobbly.
Without hesitation I spoke into the darkness. “Where have you been?” I asked. “I thought that you’d been destroyed.”
I fell away from this world toward the dark and lacked the strength to get back. I flickered like a candle in a storm on the edge of
oblivion. I struggled long and hard; now I am finally here, but fear to fall again. It is as if I am on the edge of a cliff above a dark abyss. Help me or I will fall, never to rise again!
I was afraid to offer more of my blood, afraid that I might die in the process, afraid of what the consequences might be. But if I wished to have the boggart as an ally—how could I refuse?
“You can have some of my blood. Take it!” I commanded.
There was the lightest of touches on the back of my left hand as the boggart’s claw scratched my skin. There was no pain. But then I felt the lapping of a very small, rough tongue.
It seemed to go on for a long time. After a while I felt my heart thundering in my ears. It was a slow, heavy beat, and it seemed to be laboring.
“Enough! Enough!” I cried. “If you take too much, my heart will stop and I’ll die!”
The lapping ceased and there was a new sound—the low, light purring of a cat. And then, but for the thudding within my head, there was silence. Kratch had gone.
I sat up, fumbled in the dark for my tinderbox, and lit a candle. And there I stayed, feeling weak and nauseous, the room spinning around me.
When I felt strong enough to stand, I walked unsteadily down to the kitchen to get a cup of water. I sat slumped at the kitchen table and began to sip it, enjoying the feeling of the cold water slipping down my throat, thinking over what had happened.
Of course, there was no certainty that the boggart would be able to regain its strength and help us in the approaching battle. But it had not been destroyed—that was the good news. However, the thought of what I had done still filled me with unease.
The first time the boggart had taken my blood, I’d had no choice in the matter. This time I’d given it freely. Should I have done otherwise? To deny it what it asked might have been fatal, and we needed its help more than ever.
But the process reminded me of what some Pendle witches did—they had a familiar and fed it their blood. In return, it became almost a part of them, like extra hands or a pair of eyes, able to do their bidding at a distance. In the first year of my apprenticeship, Alice had done something similar, giving her blood to the demonic creature called the Bane. But the Bane was nothing like a rat, a toad, or a bird, the small creatures used by most witches; he had threatened to dominate and control her.
Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13) Page 13