The Witch's Revenge

by D. A. Nelson

  Also by D. A. Nelson

  DarkIsle

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2010 by D. A. Nelson

  Jacket art copyright © 2011 by Xenia Schmidt

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in paperback in Scotland as DarkIsle: Resurrection by Strident Publishing Limited, East Kilbride, in 2010.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at

  www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Nelson, D. A.

  [DarkIsle 2, resurrection]

  The witch’s revenge / by D. A. Nelson. — 1st American ed.

  p. cm.

  Sequel to: DarkIsle.

  Summary: Orphaned Morag and her friends (Shona the dragon, Bertie the dodo, and Aldiss the rat) face the vengeful wrath of the witch Mephista, as they travel once again to DarkIsle to restore the magic.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-98360-3

  [1. Orphans—Fiction. 2. Dragons—Fiction. 3. Animals—Fiction. 4. Fantasy.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.N43377Wi 2011

  [Fic]—dc22

  2010041113

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  In memory of my friends

  Katrina Grant and Anna Lauw,

  two wonderful women who

  will never be forgotten.

  With thanks to

  Keith, Graham and Alison at Strident for all

  their support over the past few years;

  to all the DarkIsle fans (young and old)

  I’ve met during my travels;

  to Ian for making me sit at my computer

  when I’d rather watch TV.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  1

  350 years ago

  Breathless and desperate, the boy staggered across the beach. The hard sand was covered in broken shells that jabbed his feet like tiny knives. He ignored the pain and took a deep breath of the fresh sea air. Overhead, gulls screeched: fool, fool, fool! He closed his ears to their goading and tried to clear his head.

  His knuckles began to throb again. The numbness that had spread after the punch had subsided and he clasped his fist to dull the ache. He was cold and sore and hungry. But he was free, and his father would never hurt him again. The boy smiled as he remembered the blow he had landed on his old man’s stupid face. His father had been on at him again, calling him a fool and pushing him around to go out and bring money in to feed his hunger.

  “You’re a lazy good-for-nothing boy!”

  The words still echoed around James’s head and he shut his eyes, squeezing with all his might to rid them from his mind, but he could not purge himself of the memory of the wicked look in his father’s eyes as the man once more raised his fist. Even the thought of it made him catch his breath and his eyes flew open in terror.

  He looked around, his heart beating ten to the dozen, scared he was being followed. The beach was empty save for a few seabirds digging for razor clams. The only sounds were the calming whoosh of the waves as they smoothed the sand.

  The punch had been totally out of character for James. Normally, he would have taken the beating, but something inside him had snapped. He had decided he would never suffer at his father’s hands again. So he had knocked him down and run out of their tiny farmhouse forever. To go where, he didn’t know.

  Now he found himself on a beach, kicking up stones and wondering what to do next. He couldn’t go home, no matter how hard his mother pleaded, so the only alternative was to go south to seek his fortune.

  Roawwwl.

  His stomach grumbled, reminding him he had not eaten yet. Not that hunger was unusual. His father drank the few pennies he and his brothers and sisters made from working the land, so there was never enough food. However, today was the start of his new life and he wasn’t about to start it hungry. He searched for a good sharp stone to prize the clams off the jagged rocks. A few looked promising, but as he lifted them he knew they would shatter. On the other side of the beach he spied the perfect specimen. It was a large flattish stone lying at the shallow end of one of the larger rock pools. He bent down, scooped it out of the icy water and weighed it in his hand. It was solid. Perfect. He smiled. The prospect of eating those clams sent his brain into a frenzy of longing.

  He was about to walk away from the rock pool to collect some driftwood for a fire when something else under the water, something large and smooth and very white, caught his eye. What was it? It glowed enticingly, almost as if calling to him. Without thinking, he knelt by the edge of the pool and plunged his arm in. There was something strange about this particular stone. It was warm, and as his fingers wrapped around it, the stone began to glimmer as though a shaft of light had struck it. It made a buzzing sound that intensified as it was pulled from the water. James stared at it in astonishment. It was a smooth lozenge-shaped stone, a little bigger than a rugby ball and unlike anything he had seen before. The buzzing grew even louder and the stone’s light even brighter, until suddenly there was a flash and the boy was thrown backward onto the sand. He momentarily blacked out.

  “Are you all right, lad?” a stranger’s voice said from somewhere far away.

  The boy dragged himself back to consciousness. His eyes fluttered open and he looked at the kindly face peering down at him. He nodded dumbly.

  “You’ve found it!” said the man, staring in wonder at the stone in James’s hands. “There were legends of it falling from the sky. Such a bright light, our ancestors said. And they searched the sea for it. The tides must have washed it ashore. What’s your name?” The man’s green eyes sparkled as he helped the boy to sit up.

  “James, sir,” the boy replied weakly. “James Montgomery.”

  “Colm Breck,” replied the man, holding out a hand in friendship. As James went to take it, the man unexpectedly fell to his knees. “Hail young James Montgomery: finder of the Eye of Lornish!”

  Marnoch Mor. Now.

  The dodo frowned and waggled his tail feathers as he read and then reread the online article. A ritualistic dagger in a human museum had, according to the only witness—a white-faced curator—simply vanished before his eyes. Nothing vanishes in the human world, the dodo thought, without something being affected here, and he clicked the video link to pick up more clues from the interview.

  The curator was a thin man with wispy yellow hair and a squirmi
ng nervousness that made Bertie flinch with embarrassment for him. Wringing the bottom of his jacket with his hands, the man related his extraordinary tale. He had been on his usual late-night rounds checking the exhibits when he had stopped in the armory section. In the dim light the gleaming dagger, housed in an unbreakable glass case, had caught his attention.

  “I went over to look at it, to check it was all right, and then … well … I watched it vanish like a wisp of smoke,” he told the interviewer, his eyes darting about apprehensively. “One minute it was there, the next it wasn’t. Pop, it was gone. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life,” he continued. “It was almost as if it was magic.”

  Bertie’s little dodo eyes narrowed. Magic? In the human world? He hoped not. The video clip showed the empty glass case as a grim-faced blond reporter closed the story.

  “Police are baffled by the incident and confirm that the museum’s security systems show no one broke into the building,” she said. “One thing’s for sure, this will go down as one of the most puzzling disappearances of this century.…”

  The dodo stared at the screen for a few seconds before closing the link. This was all wrong. “It was almost as if it was magic.” The curator’s final words jigged about in his head and he frowned. If magic had been used, why would someone from his world need a ritualistic dagger from a human museum? There were many excellent shops in Marnoch Mor where you could get anything you wanted, including magical daggers. It didn’t make sense.

  He slid from his chair and grabbed a bundle of news stories he had printed off earlier. He shuffled over to a large red sofa wedged up against the far wall and took from its broad back a yellow ring binder marked: Weird Happenings of the Human World. He opened it and placed the cuttings inside: “Cursed Egyptian Charm Disappears” read one; “No Clues to Whereabouts of Priceless Jade Cup” read another; “Reward for Return of Ancient Spell Book” said the third. They had all gone missing in the last two days, and Bertie was beginning to feel uneasy about what that might mean.

  He closed his binder with a snap and returned it to the sofa. He yawned. This would have to wait until the morning; it was too late to do anything about it tonight. Maybe if he slept on it, a pattern behind the disappearances might come to him. With that thought, he left his study and made his way down the hallway.

  Bertie’s little round bedroom was opposite the study.

  Without switching the light he removed his Cosy Claws slippers, pulled on his tartan nightshirt and drew back the duvet. He hopped into bed and cuddled down. Within seconds, he was asleep and snoring.

  Bang, bang, bang!

  Bertie forced open his eyes and grimaced. What now? he thought, sitting up and ruffling his feathers.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  A muffled voice seemed to be calling his name. The dodo glanced at his bedside clock: it was seven in the morning. Who would be calling at this time?

  With a dark cloud of irritation hanging over him, the bird got out of bed and stomped out into the hallway.

  “Lights!” he squawked, and the hallway was immediately lit by the soft glow of a hundred little Moonstones sunk into the ceiling. Muttering angrily to himself about rude people waking him up too early, he made his way to the front door.

  Bertie lived in a burrow under a grand old oak tree. Gnarly as a witch’s hands, the tree stood in the middle of the Oval, Marnoch Mor’s park. The dodo wasn’t the only resident of this large green space; fairies, elves and wood nymphs had houses in the trees, or under them, and their lives were taken up with making the Oval as beautiful as possible.

  His burrow went far belowground, stretching between the tree roots, and over the years he had dug out new rooms when he felt he needed them. So far, the burrow had a bedroom, a study, a large kitchen, a living room and a guest room (although Bertie was always too busy to entertain). A long tunnel led from the bedroom up to a round front door cut into the base of the tree. The door was grass green, with a brass plate that announced his full name: Albert Alonzo Fluke, Trainee Wizard.

  It also had a brass door knocker shaped like a pineapple that someone was currently banging very hard while shouting his name through the letterbox.

  “All right, all right, I’m coming!” he yelled.

  “Bertie! Hurry up. I must speak to you!”

  Ever cautious, the dodo squinted through the letterbox. All he could see were black shiny buttons and a fuzzy red coat.

  “Who is it?” he called, his voice wavering. “Stand back and show yourself!”

  The person bent down quickly and a pair of blue eyes stared back at him.

  The bird shrieked with fright and fell backward to the floor, clasping his downy chest with a wing and breathing rapidly.

  “It’s me—Morag,” said the person. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m … fine … fine,” the bird spluttered. He sat up and dusted down his trembling feathers. “You just gave me a bit of a turn, that’s all.”

  “Sorry … I didn’t mean to … Look, will you let me in! There’s something I need to speak to you about!”

  Breathing deeply to calm his speeding heart, and with one wing fanning his hot beak, Bertie shakily stood up and unlocked the door.

  “Come in,” he said as the cold November air blasted him.

  Morag didn’t need a second invitation and scuttled into the warmth. To be safe, Bertie took a quick look outside to check that she hadn’t been followed. Despite its being morning, it was dark and gray. There was a sharpness in the air that Bertie knew heralded the winter’s first snow.

  “I didn’t know who else to talk to,” a rosy-cheeked Morag said as she took off her red duffle coat and white bobble hat, hanging them on the coat-stand. “Shona would only panic.”

  “Oh no. Has it happened again?” Bertie asked.

  The girl nodded. She patted her pocket. “I’ve written everything down,” she said.

  They sat at Bertie’s big wooden table, and as the dodo made tea, Morag pulled out a battered leather-bound book. It was the only reminder she had of her parents, who had left it with her before they disappeared when she was a baby. She fished out a piece of paper from between the pages and handed it to him.

  Bertie took it and read it, his eyes widening at every sentence.

  “Another dream about the drowned maid from Murst,” he said when he’d finished. He folded it over and handed it back to Morag. “How many is that now?”

  “Five,” replied Morag with a stifled sob, “but this was the worst. She says my life is in danger and I am going to be joining her soon.”

  “But why should you take them seriously? They’re only nightmares, just like the ones you had after you killed Devlish.”

  “I didn’t kill him, the Eye of Lornish did it,” she said firmly. “Oh, Bertie, they are so real. I wake up shaking after every one.”

  “And it’s definitely her?”

  “Yes, she told me how she died. She said Mephista had chained her up and dropped her into the sea near the jetty.”

  “But why is she coming to you? You didn’t know her,” said the dodo, pouring her a cup of tea. Morag took it gratefully.

  “It must have something to do with the Eye of Lornish,” she replied. “The night Devlish was killed on the jetty something strange happened to me. I can’t quite explain it, but since then I’ve been dreaming about dead people. I talk to them in my dreams. I’m scared, Bertie. What am I going to do?”

  “I’ve never come across anything like this before,” he replied. “And it cannot be ignored. The time has come to tell Shona, whatever your misgivings. She is your guardian, after all. Hopefully she’ll know what to do.…”

  2

  Shona was in her kitchen when Morag and Bertie arrived. She was polishing the bright buckle of her Special Chief Constable’s helmet. The Marnoch Mor Volunteer Police Force had been set up by Montgomery after the theft of the Eye of Lornish. The evil warlock Devlish had spirited it away to his lair on the DarkIsle of Murst. From th
ere, he had planned to use its magic to enslave Marnoch Mor and attack the human world. Without its protection Marnoch Mor had been thrown into chaos and had started to crumble. Montgomery was certain that if it hadn’t been for Morag and her friends, the stone would never have been restored to its rightful place at the top of Marnoch Mor’s tallest tower. He had established the Police Force to ensure it would never happen again, giving his trusted friend Shona the dragon the top job. Although at this stage the Volunteers were still a straggly group of well-meaning townspeople led by a grumpy dragon, it was just as well he had done this, for the evil powers on the DarkIsle continued to threaten them. Both Montgomery and Shona were convinced of that. And so they kept a watchful eye on the town, each in their own way.

  “Hello, Bertie,” Shona said as the dodo entered the room. She gave the brass buckle one final rub before quickly plonking the hat on her head. “Sorry, I can’t stay and chat. Got my first job as a detective. Something has disappeared from the Museum of Weird Things and Magic.”

  “But …,” started Morag. “We need to speak to you. It’s important!”

  “Can’t it wait till later?” the dragon asked, opening the back door.

  “No, we need to speak to you now!” Morag insisted.

  “Her life might be in danger,” the dodo added.

  Shona narrowed her large yellow eyes. Muriel Burntwood, the Curator of the Museum of Weird Things and Magic, had told Shona she was needed urgently, as something extremely dangerous had been stolen. But now her best friend was looking frightened for her life. What should she do and who should she help first? She chewed her lip and let a spiral of smoke escape from her nostril in frustration.

  “Come with me and you can tell me about it on the way,” she said as she led them into the garden.

  The museum was not far from Morag and Shona’s cottage, and unfortunately it was quicker to walk than to order the Super Glider service, where a witch would pick you up at your front door on a hover bike and drop you off at your destination. Shona led the friends toward the gate, past a castle-shaped birdhouse on top of a tall pole. Here Morag stopped, and before Shona had time to complain the girl yanked a rope that was hanging down. A bell tinkled in the silence of the wintery garden.