‘’Elp me! Mister, MISTER!’
At once, the Witchhunter sped across the room in a sweeping stride and cut the corpse down by its legs. As it fell it lost hold of Niclas, and knocked the boy back against the cage – bringing him within inches of Castor’s snapping jaws.
The Witchhunter turned to look back at the witch. She was gone. There was only the billowing black smoke and the flames catching on the roof. He raised his sleeve over his nose and mouth, searching the room with flickering, fire-lit eyes.
Where was she?
Where?
Suddenly, a sharp jolt grabbed his arm and his whole body went stiff.
She was behind him. He tried to turn and drive one of the blades into her, but instead caught her gaze. And that was about the worst thing you could do with a witch. She leered into his eyes with black, lightless mirrors of darkness. He felt her voice reach down vertebra by vertebra, travelling the length of his spine and penetrating deep into the marrow of his bones. It was as if a thousand needles had been inserted at once into his every joint and tendon.
‘Yes! Fight it,’ she said ‘fight it with every fibre of your thread.’
Across the room was a headless Greg trying to stand. He reached blindly for the cage release and pulled it down.
The bars shot open. Castor shot out.
Niclas was sure that that would be the last sight he would ever see – a demon dog leaping for his face. But the dog was set on another smell. It leapt past him and galloped down the stairs.
The boy wiped the sweat from his eyes and took a moment to breathe. It was then that he noticed just how hot the room had become. The fire was raging out of control all around them.
And through the smoke he spotted the Witchhunter falling to his knees, the mad witch standing over him, clinging to his arm like a crab.
‘Just let it go… let it go… there… there… it’ll be over soon…’ she was saying.
The Witchhunter was defenceless. His arms were no longer his to command. He turned his hand towards his chest and angled the blade inwards.
He’s gonna do ’imself in, thought Niclas.
The witch felt the boy’s fearful stare and craned her head to look at him. She grinned a demonic grin; her eyes black and fire raging all around her; a vista of pure, undiluted malevolence.
She twisted so the boy could watch. And now the Witchhunter was staring at him too. Pleading through his swollen eyes. But Niclas couldn’t move and the blade had started easing into the man’s chest. He’d stiffened up, made a statue by fear. The fear had gripped hold of him so much so, that he didn’t notice Castor run back up the stairs and into his cage whimpering like a spooked pup.
The man’s arm shook violently.
The witch cackled viciously
The boy trembled cowardly.
And the blade sunk a quarter of an inch into the flesh. Then a quarter of an inch more. Niclas expected blood to pour out, to burst and spray like a fountain. But it didn’t. The blade just travelled deeper, determined to find his heart.
Then, seemingly for no reason at all, the tide changed.
The man’s arm grew strong against the witch’s spell. His other hand dropped the needle and joined with the short sword. Together, his arms pulled the blade out of his breast and away from his chest. Then, slowly, it tilted back towards the witch.
‘Impossible!’ cried the crone. ‘Your will is broken! Your might is shred! Impossible… How do you defy me so?’
The Witchhunter didn’t understand what was going on either – not until his eyes fell upon the top of the stairs. The witch followed his bewildered gaze, and Niclas followed hers.
There stood Balthazar, black eyed and chanting under his breath.
‘How?’ demanded the witch in an eldritch cry.
The blade stuck her in the belly.
She gasped and it drove further in.
Niclas, overcome with courage, shuffled across the floor and snatched up the fallen needle before the witch could reach for it. He looked up into her fading eyes.
‘Don’t think!’ said the Witchhunter.
So he didn’t. He looked away, squeezed the needle in his hand and slipped it into the witch’s side.
Balthazar gave an exhausted sigh and lost hold, but the spell was already broken.
The Witchhunter ripped out the blade. He stuck the witch again. She bellowed out with an ear-splitting banshee wail and her darkening eyes flooded black. He stabbed her again and she fell to her knees snatching for Niclas’ shoulders, trying with all her strength to get a grip around his throat. In squeamish panic, Niclas withdrew the needle and stuck her with it again, and she groaned a noise that seemed to come from the bottom of her stomach.
Her arms fell limp.
Niclas jumped back. He stared at his hands. They were red and the blood had got underneath his fingernails. He’d never seen so much of it. Bright red like scarlet milk up to his wrists.
‘Niclas, time to leave,’ said Balthazar.
In the drama of the fight, they had forgotten the fire, and the flames were now dancing on the ceiling and the building was creaking and moaning as if alive and in agony.
Niclas didn’t have to be told twice, he got up and ran for the stairs.
The Witchhunter pushed himself up. A bloody sword in hand. The witch coughing blood at his feet.
‘Well? What will it be, witch-killer?’ asked Balthazar.
The two stared at each other for a moment, whilst a maelstrom of fiery mayhem raged around them.
Then, a flash of blue light startled them.
Greg, Pollux and Castor had burst into sapphirine flames. The light flickered much faster than the orange fire, and within its quivering heat, hundreds of screaming faces climbed upwards and vanished into the air. The threads of a hundred souls were sizzling free into the black smoke.
Whilst the monstrous manifestations burned away to nothing but dust, Balthazar turned his back on the man and fled.
The Witchhunter stared down at the dying witch. She was no longer so youthful. An old woman with cratered skin, liver spots and sagged eyes looked up at him. Her teeth were like rat teeth. Her hair thin and white. And she was getting older by the second, wasting away under her gown.
He always watched them die, just to make sure. But there was no time to watch her die, if he hung about he would likely follow her.
So he began to make a move.
And there it was again…
One last, final mercurial cackle.
‘Ahahahaha! Can’t you hear him? The Whisperer! The Whisperer whispers. He whispers to me now…Nothing matters! This. You. I. All of it. ’Tis but the tapestry of his design. The answer’s in the blood… watch the needle, see the spindle… for the end cometh… and all will be as if all never was… As above, so below… Yes! As above, so below…’
She would perhaps, have continued on like that until her last breath. But her hysterical cries were cut short. Under fierce assault by the fire, the roof above gave up and a falling load of flaming rubble crushed the witch in a shower of smoking ash and burning embers.
The flames too, would have continued to roar until that whole horrid district was reduced to a smouldering rubble. But they soon reached the vials of essence below, and, on exposure to their heat, a ghostly, obsidian flare burst into existence and devoured the witch’s lair. Then, just as soon as it had appeared it vanished, and everything with it.
All that remained was the burnt out shell of a house. A house that had once been, but was no more, the fountainhead of nightmares.
Mr K had only made it two hundred yards down the street. The Princess hadn’t made it easy. With every step, Cassandra’s kicks, punches and pinches became more ferocious.
The thug slung her from his shoulder and she spat the gag from her mouth; screaming as soon as she caught breath.
‘Shut it, wench!’ He slapped her across the face. It was a hard slap. The kind that echoes.
‘Let me go. Let me go!’
&n
bsp; Mr K looked back at the plume of black smoke rising up over the buildings, and caught a glimpse of the dark, otherworldly flash. He checked his pockets to see if it was still there.
It was.
A single vial of extracted thread.
Cassandra snatched it.
‘Give me that!’
She raised it above her head and spun away from him.
‘I’ll break it – touch me and I’ll break it!’
‘I’ll kill you.’
‘Princess!’ came a voice, accompanied by the patter of running feet. ‘Princess!’
Niclas had heard the screams the moment he’d reached the street, and had chased after them while fresh heroism still flowed through him.
But the heroic euphoria had had its day.
He skidded to the floor having not expected to see the scarred face of Mr K; and on seeing it, was crippled by nostalgic terror.
‘Nicky-boy?’ said Mr K, who too was taken aback.
‘Mister K?’
‘Fate’s too kind.’ Mr K reached for his club and began advancing towards the boy – forgetting the Princess in an instant.
Niclas crawled backwards, but it wasn’t something he could do very fast.
‘Hey!’ cried Cassandra.
Mr K stopped. Turned.
She gave only a moment’s notice before tossing the vial of essence into the air. It spun up, wringing Mr K’s face like a dirty rag. Its glass chimed above and shattered in a crystal splash on the cobbled stones below.
She’d done it.
Now she’d done it.
And she hadn’t thought about what to do next.
At once Mr K turned his wrath on the girl, moving for her with brutal intent, the way a hound rips and roars after a fox.
The Princess back peddled – tripped – and landed with a thud on her rear right smack in a puddle.
Mr K was far past threats, insults or scares; like an enraged bull, he had seen red and was only concerned with violence.
And who knows what violent end the Princess would have met in that one fatal blow, had Balthazar not leapt between the thug and the girl.
The cat let out a sour hiss.
Mr K paused.
Considered this.
Then a tar drenched laugh surfaced from the deepest crevices of the thug’s lungs.
A laugh that was brought to an abrupt end, for something strangled Mr K and wet him with fear. All Cassandra saw was the tormented expression on the brute’s face.
Balthazar’s eyes washed black…
The children watched the Bowler Gang boss drop his club, stagger backwards and run.
He ran down the cobbled street, turned off into an alley and disappeared from view without even looking back.
Niclas couldn’t believe what he had seen. Mr K, the most frightening man in all the city, had run away from a small black cat. Such things ruined a man’s reputation, and put an end to a boy’s nightmares.
Cassandra offered her dirty hand to Niclas’ bloody hand and said: ‘Are you ok? Niclas?’
‘Yes, miss?’
‘Are you ok?’ she asked.
‘Yes, miss. Are you ok, miss?’
‘Well, I’m not hurt, if that’s what you mean.’
Niclas looked around them. Someone was missing.
‘Where’s…’
‘Gone,’ said Balthazar. ‘Perhaps he felt his task was done. He got what he came for after all.’
‘Won’t he come after you, sir?’
‘Perhaps. Let’s hope not.’
Niclas looked back at the black smoke melting away over the buildings. Those narrow streets were no longer as threatening as they had once been. And above, the blue shimmer in the sky was fading to dark and the moons were coming apart.
Balthazar looked up and watched mournfully as the two celestial bodies pulled away from each other. It would be another year before he’d see the midnight sun again. Another year spent in his whiskered existence.
He decided to be stoic about it.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said. ‘Anyone else hungry?’
Niclas licked his dry, cracked lips.
‘A little thirsty, sir…’
‘Yes, well, we could all use a drink.’
PART SIX
The End where it Begins
Pete’s was a shabby looking tavern on the other side of the canal to Bog End. It was the nearest place to buy a drink, and Niclas was at the bar getting a round in.
‘So, you want two tap waters and a saucer o’ milk wiv some liquor in it?’ said the barkeep, looking across suspiciously at the table in the corner, where the Princess and the cat were waiting.
‘Baileys, sir.’
‘We ain’t got nuffin’ called Baileys ’ere lad. Plenty o’ gin? Gin alright?’
‘Errr… I reckons that’s alright, sir.’
‘Alright…’
Niclas cradled the two glasses between his hands, clasped the saucer between his fingers, and journeyed cautiously to the table.
Balthazar sniffed at the milk.
‘Didn’t ’av’ that Baileys stuff sir.’
‘Gin?’
‘Yessir, is that alright?’
‘It’ll have to do.’ Balthazar took a moment, then pushed his tongue into the milky beverage and began to lap it up.
Cassandra wasn’t impressed with her glass. It was dusty and stained with watermarks and fingerprints, as if it had never been washed. She gave the rim a squeaky wipe with her sleeve, but it didn’t make it much cleaner.
Niclas had no problem with his glass. It was just as dirty, and his water even had little hairs and particles of dust floating in it, but he gulped it down none the less. Then he thought to try the bread that had been served in the middle of the table. It was common courtesy in some of Laburnum’s establishments to serve a piece of bread with a drink. It helped keep things down, the noise and the booze. He broke off a piece of the stale bloomer and crunched it between his tawny teeth.
‘Sorry ’bout your rit’wal, sir,’ he said, when his mouth was completely full.
‘Don’t look at me when you talk, look at her or look down. We’re in public you fool,’ said the cat.
Niclas apologised to the table.
‘Wot ’appens now then?’
‘Now? As in, as of now? Or right now? Right now, I’m going to drink this and then you’re going to get me another and then perhaps another and then I’ll begin to come to terms with our circumstances. That’s what people do in these places, isn’t it?’
‘Guess so, sir.’
‘It’ll be another year before the moons crossover. Another year of licking my fur until I throw it back up. Another year of being unexplainably excited by birds. Another year of being chased by uncontrollable dogs. Another year of fleas, this intolerable stench, and having insolent morons blow kisses at me for reasons I couldn’t care to understand. I’ve a lot to look forward to, as of now.’
‘Err…’ Niclas tried to gauge whether this was a good moment to ask about his employment… it probably wasn’t, but then, there probably wasn’t going to be one. ‘Will you, errr… be keepin’ me on, sir?’
‘Keeping you on?’ said Balthazar, pausing to think about it. Then he said, ‘Unfortunately.’ But for Niclas that didn’t seem to be clear enough, so he added a, ‘Yes,’ which had to be further hammered home with a, ‘Yes, I shall be keeping you on.’
Niclas showed off his despicable grin. ‘Awh! I’m so happy to hear that!’
‘Well, I’m glad someone is.’
Niclas was smiling so hard that his face hurt. He hadn’t had much practice using those particular muscles before, and so looked a little like a deranged psychopath.
This unnerved Balthazar.
‘Stop it,’ he said.
‘Sir?’
Stop smiling.’
‘Yessir.’ Niclas ironed out his expression.
Cassandra was detached from their conversation.
Niclas took note of this and asked, ‘Yo
u alright, miss?’
‘I cannot unsee what I have seen,’ she mumbled to herself.
‘Sorry, miss?’
Cassandra met Niclas’ clueless eyes across the table. How could he just carry on like that? As if nothing had happened. Didn’t he see it too? The dogs. The dead man. The witch. And there was the thing that stuck with her most, the sight that made her sure she could believe anything. She had seen a piece of Niclas. Something that even now, even as they sat there drinking and talking, still lived within him.
‘It came out of you. A blue… smokey… living thing… it came right out of your mouth… as if it were a… a part of you?’
‘You saw his thread,’ said Balthazar.
‘And what is that?’
‘Ah yes. Oblivious. Totally oblivious aren’t you?’ said the cat, and he lapped away at his milky beverage until the two blinking blank faces forced him to elaborate. ‘His life force, you know life thread, soul thingamajig. His essence of being. Call it whatever you want. No doubt the witch tried to extract it, and no doubt she failed… else he wouldn’t be sitting here now.’
‘Wot’s me wot-fred?’ said Niclas, holding his chest uncomfortably. It wasn’t as if he’d forgotten about it, it’s just, Niclas had a remarkable gift of not dwelling on things.
‘It’s a complicated science. I’ll need a few more drinks in me if you want it explained.’
‘You shouldn’t drink so much, sir, it’s a slippery slope… So I ’ear…’
Balthazar looked up at Niclas. He didn’t say anything, not with words, but his eyes said enough.
‘I mean… you can drink as much as you like, sir. I ain’t gonna stop you.’
‘What is this thread you speak of?’ said the Princess.
‘Ugh,’ said Balthazar, ‘did you learn nothing from that book you stole?’
‘I didn’t steal it!’
‘Calm it you two, people’s lookin’.’
The three returned to their drinks while the wandering eyes in the tavern settled down.
‘We are mere mortals, child,’ said Balthazar, eventually. ‘Mere shadows and dust. We are all just floating specks of nothingness. Then we are bound. We are stitched together, piece by piece with a single thread. That thread is made of a pure unrelenting energy and each of us living things has one. Without it, you cannot exist. The universe itself is a fabric made of such threads. They can be cut, they can be stitched, they can be borrowed and they can be consumed, but they cannot be destroyed. Only the forms they create can be destroyed. Do you understand all that?’
Widdershins Page 31