Now my fear was gone. My objective was to retrieve the Fiend’s head, and to do so, I first had to clear the steps of witches. Grimalkin had once told me that she fought within the present, living in each moment, without thought of the future. I had to do that now. So I concentrated and stepped into another place where all that mattered was the need to deal with each attack.
Almost immediately, two more witches came for me, shrieking and spitting curses as they emerged through the door. This time I quickly retreated farther down the stone stairs. Although there were two of them, their attack was uncoordinated and they posed little threat. Their blades were easily parried, and I thrust quickly with my own. One fell away to the right; the other collapsed sideways across the steps, forcing the next attacker to step over her body.
I continued my descent, fighting my enemies in ones and twos, driving them back, parrying their blows. But inevitably, they started to advance in larger numbers; perhaps eight or nine emerged at once from behind the iron door. Faced with this, I turned and ran—though halfway down the steps I halted, spun suddenly, and readied my blades. They were many, and I was but one. Yet barely two could attack me together; the others must wait behind while I dispatched their vanguard.
But they were not helpless. While I fought those closest to me, the others gathered their collective strength and began to use their magic. Their faces distorted and became demonic; their hair clustered into coils of writhing snakes; forked tongues spat poison toward me. I knew it was an illusion—part of the common witch spell known as dread.
A seventh son of a seventh son has some immunity against the dark magic of witches; but this is not totally effective. The illusions soon faded, but the force of their magic filled me with a fear that was more difficult to banish. It also repelled me. I was pushed backward as if by a great wind, struggling to stand my ground.
I gritted my teeth and fought on, and as I gathered my own strength and rallied, the ruby eyes in both sword and dagger began to drip blood that was far redder than that which now streaked the blades. I regained control. My retreat was once again slow and steady, as I had planned, even though more and more witches came hurrying out above me.
Soon there were fewer than twenty steps remaining before I reached the ground and passed beyond my staff, at which point the boggart would attack. But then I heard a noise from above—the click that I remembered from the previous night. And out onto that high balcony came Alice and the tall mustached stranger who I took to be Lukrasta, the dark mage of the Doomdryte.
At that moment, the witch to my left thrust her blade toward my shoulder with such speed that I could not avoid it completely. The distraction from above almost cost me dear, but just in time I twisted away, and the stinging cut I received was shallow. I swung with the sword and toppled the witch from the steps.
After that I dared not glance upward again, but I could feel the eyes of Alice and the mage on me. I continued down, growing more tired with every step. My arms felt heavy, my breathing ragged as I struggled against the press of witches. I was aware of other cuts, two to my forearms and one to my left shoulder. If I stumbled and fell, it would all be over—though at least I’d have the small satisfaction of knowing that the boggart would attack immediately; there were enough witches out in the open now to make that devastating. But nevertheless, I would have failed. My pact with the boggart would end, the Spook’s Chipenden house would be once more unprotected . . . and at Halloween, servants of the dark would converge from every direction to join the head of the Fiend to his body and return him to power.
I was struck by a sudden blow and for a second was blinded. I swayed but did not fall. The attack had not been mounted by one of the witches. In a flash of fear, I knew that it came from the balcony above. Some kind of magical force had been deployed against me. It had to be the mage—for surely it couldn’t have been Alice . . . she wouldn’t try to hurt me, I thought. But perhaps she was not in her right mind. In that case I would be in danger.
Despite the risk, I glanced upward and saw an orb of orange fire hurtling toward me from the balcony. I ducked—just in time! Had I not done so, it would have taken off my head.
Faced with this new threat, I decided to turn and run down the final steps. As I passed beyond my staff, I looked back at the steps. Instantly I heard a low purr and felt the invisible boggart rub itself against my left ankle. Then it spoke to me right inside my head, as before.
You fought well and executed a perfect plan. Most of them are out in the open. I thank you for this feast of blood!
CHAPTER XVI
A TIDE OF BLOOD
THE boggart suddenly made itself visible.
It no longer took the shape it sometimes showed to us back in Chipenden, that of a small domestic ginger tomcat; the creature that had just rubbed itself against my ankle. Earlier I had thought it scary when I felt its large body lying across my legs, but now it was fearsome indeed.
It was huge; even on all fours its muscular shoulders were at least two feet taller than my head. It was still catlike in shape, but now its face was demonic, its canine teeth protruding from both upper and lower jaws. Its stripy ginger fur stood up on end like the quills of a hedgehog, and its right eye was a glowing orb of fire.
All at once it gave a terrible howl that halted the witches in midstride. No words were articulated either out loud or within my head, but the message was clear.
The hour of your death has arrived! it seemed to say. I will crunch your bones and drink your blood, and there is nothing you can do to prevent it!
Then the boggart attacked. As it sprang toward the steps, the witches turned and fled, shrieking in their terror. Their frantic retreat was uncoordinated; the ones nearest to the open door did not turn fast enough. Witch collided with witch, and some fell onto the rocks below.
I saw the boggart swipe one with its paw, then bite her head from her body. But it was already losing definition; the monstrous cat was changing into a vortex of orange energy that spiraled upward into the mass of witches, filling the air with a mist of blood and tiny fragments of bone.
It took less than three seconds for the boggart to kill all those on the steps and enter the tower through the open door. Then there was an eerie silence—for there were no witches left to scream. There were no bodies to be seen, either. A tide of blood was flowing down the steps, carrying with it dozens of pairs of pointy shoes.
I ran up toward the door, twice almost slipping in the blood. At the top I paused before entering very cautiously, for I could now hear shouts and screams from within.
In a second, inner doorway lay a severed head, twice the size of a human one. It belonged to an abhuman—I saw the horns jutting from its forehead, the open mouth crammed with teeth. Its eyes were open, and they stared up at me with a puzzled expression, as if the creature was wondering what had happened to its body.
I stepped over it and went through the doorway. The vast space ahead of me was flagged and devoid of furniture, but for two items. The first was the huge coffin, which had been placed on the floor beneath a wide mullioned window. It was empty.
The second was a long wooden table. Lying upon it was the huge body of the Fiend. For a moment I thought that the head had already been attached, and I ran forward in alarm, my sword at the ready, but I soon saw that this wasn’t the case.
It was positioned precisely, the two stumps in perfect alignment. And I could see evidence of new growth: tendrils of fleshy roots were reaching out, as if to link together, binding head to neck. It was the slow beginning of a process that would be completed at Halloween.
One of the Fiend’s eyes was a ruin, thanks to Grimalkin’s blade, but the other was intact, and the lid slowly opened and that remaining eye stared out at me. And then the mouth opened to reveal the yellow stumps of broken teeth—another blow from Grimalkin.
“You cannot win!” The Fiend’s voice was hardly more than a croak. “My servants are too many. Hundreds of them are even now converging upon this
place. Any small triumph you achieve here will be short-lived. Flee while you can!”
There was no point in replying, so, wasting no time, I grabbed the head and attempted to tug it away from the body. I pulled hard, but something was holding it in place. Then I noticed that some of the tendrils behind the ears had advanced farther than the ones I’d first noticed. They had formed bonds between head and neck. I would need to cut them away. So I drew the dagger called Bone Cutter and readied its blade.
“You have lost Alice to the dark,” continued the Fiend.
I knew he was trying to distract me, maybe to buy time so that someone else could intervene on his behalf—perhaps Lukrasta—and I knew I should ignore the bait, but I replied before I could stop myself.
“I will end the life of the mage, and with it the enchantment that gives him power over her,” I snapped back angrily.
“He uses no enchantment!” cried the Fiend, his voice filled with triumph and growing in strength. “By her choice she is his. By his choice he is hers. He is a dark mage and she a malevolent witch. They are a perfect pair and delight in each other’s company! She met him for the first time when she attempted the ritual. From the moment their eyes beheld each other, they were bound together for all time.”
Fear and dismay filled me. The Fiend was sometimes called the Father of Lies; I knew that, but I could not get his words out of my mind. What if he was speaking the truth for once? What if Alice’s trip into the dark, followed soon after by her willingness to attempt the Doomdryte ritual, had finally turned her into a malevolent witch?
Savagely I cut away the fleshy strands that held the head to the body and snatched it aloft. Then, carrying it by the hair, I ran through another door and came to a spiral staircase. As I climbed, I passed door after door, all of them open.
I could tell which rooms had been occupied. The flagged floors were slick with blood. At last I reached the one where Alice and Lukrasta had been: an inner door was open, revealing the balcony beyond. There was no blood on the flags. Had Kratch been thwarted here—halted or even destroyed by the power of the mage?
I entered the room cautiously, my heart beating quickly. It was empty, but there was evidence that it had been occupied. On a dressing table lay a small mirror, a comb, and a hairbrush. In the very center of the room stood a large double bed; it was clear that it had been slept in. And then I noticed something on one of the pillows: a folded piece of paper. I placed the Fiend’s head on the dressing table, walked across to the bed, and snatched up the paper.
I recognized Alice’s handwriting immediately, and began to read. It was a note to me.
Dear Tom,
We now belong to different worlds. We were friends once, but now that friendship must come to an end. We can never see each other again. I bear you no malice, but I cannot help you again because now I belong to the dark.
Alice
As I read it again, my hands began to shake. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Perhaps it was a forgery? I thought. It certainly looked like Alice’s handwriting, but Alice would never have written such a letter.
The truth was staring me in the face: the Alice I had known no longer existed.
It was something that I had always feared, and now it had finally happened. I felt the bile rise into my throat as my insides twisted.
Alice had gone to the dark.
I stuffed the letter into my breeches pocket, picked up the Fiend’s head, and ran up the remainder of the stairs, checking in every room. I soon reached the top. There was no sign of Lukrasta or Alice, but I saw blood in two more of the rooms. The boggart might have slain the mage, but it was a creature of its word, bound by the pact between us, so I felt confident that it would have spared Alice.
I had not seen her leave the tower. So what had happened? Was she somewhere close by, cloaked by dark magic, watching me?
Slowly I turned and began to descend the steps. All was silent. Nothing moved. There was no sign of the boggart, either. Having feasted well, it had no doubt returned to Chipenden. I owed it my life.
Then I remembered the Fiend’s words—that hundreds more of his servants would be converging on this place. I knew this was more than likely, so I hurried out the main door. My eyes swept the horizon, but I could see no one. I continued down the steps, snatched up my staff, and ran east, clutching the huge head.
I had it in my possession, but only half of my task was completed. I had to get it back to Chipenden.
CHAPTER XVII
THE DARK RIDER
I stopped briefly to quench my thirst at a stream that crossed my path, scooping the water up into my mouth. I looked round, continually fearful of attack from behind. I’d been traveling for more than two days now and had barely slept or eaten. The wounds I’d suffered were slight and I’d lost little blood, but I was sore and very close to exhaustion.
My enemies were following me, some walking parallel to me, hidden among the trees. When I halted, I heard the crunch of their feet and the frequent snapping of twigs.
They made no attempt to conceal their presence; I assumed they were certain of ultimate victory. They might decide to rush me at any time, but perhaps they felt they didn’t need to. I was still many miles from the relative safety of Chipenden; soon I would be too weak to take another step.
The Fiend’s head, which I held by its hair, seemed to be getting heavier by the minute. I stumbled out of the trees onto a vast, featureless, grassy plain, and in the moonlight saw perhaps a hundred servants of the Fiend ahead of me in the far distance. They were waiting in groups of five or six, and as they caught sight of me, they began to advance. They walked slowly. They were still in no rush, but they had evidently decided to finish it now.
Mostly they were witches in long tattered gowns, but among them were larger, bulkier creatures. At this distance I could not be sure, but I assumed they were abhumans, creatures born of witches and fathered by the Fiend. They were strong and ferocious, and I remembered my first encounter with such a creature. His name had been Tusk, and he had finally been slain by my master.
How I wished my master were standing beside me—not the man with failing health who I had left behind in Chipenden, but the strong, formidable Spook who had first collected me from my family’s farm to train as his apprentice. I felt absolutely alone. I had come so far only to fail.
Then I thought of Alice. The image of her kissing the mage came unbidden into my mind. All the previous memories I had of her—the dangers we’d faced, the adventures we’d shared, our conversations, and feelings of warmth and friendship—were eclipsed by that. I felt bitter and angry.
I could now hear footsteps closing in behind me. More figures emerged from the trees on each side. I was surrounded.
I would die here, but I resolved to take as many of these creatures with me as possible. A cold rage began to fill me as I reflected that not only had Alice betrayed me; after all those years of training to be a spook, I would never become one. It seemed so unfair.
But I took a deep breath and thrust those thoughts of injustice, betrayal, and despair out of my mind, for they threatened to overwhelm me. I was a spook’s apprentice, and here, facing my last battle, I would leave the sword and dagger in their scabbards. I would take up my staff, as John Gregory had first taught me.
As I glanced about me, attempting to judge which of these denizens of the dark would reach me first, out of the corner of my eye I saw a figure on horseback approaching at a canter, a dark rider, clothes black like the horse.
I turned to face my first opponent, wondering who it could be, mounted like that. Witches didn’t usually ride horses. But then I remembered how Wurmalde had led a horde of Pendle witches to loot the farm, capture my brother and his family, and steal Mam’s boxes. She had come on horseback. So, although unlikely, it could be a witch.
Perhaps it was the mage Lukrasta. Maybe this was my chance to save Alice from his dominance. If I could kill him before the others reached me, I might somehow be able to
reclaim her from the dark.
It was then that I noticed something strange. The figure sat very upright, with legs that gripped the horse oddly. There was no saddle; the rider was tied to the horse with a number of leather straps that passed underneath its belly.
At that moment I realized who it was.
Grimalkin!
She brought her mount to a halt at my side and smiled at me without showing her teeth. My heart soared, filling with sudden hope. Perhaps I could escape after all.
“You have done well!” she cried, pointing to the Fiend’s head.
She took it by the hair and tied it to the leather straps before bidding me to mount up behind her. I handed her my staff while I struggled onto the horse’s back. I glanced around as I did so, hearing cries of anger and seeing that some of the witches were now running toward us.
Once I was in position, Grimalkin gave me back my staff and drew two of her blades. Then, without further ado, she rode straight for our advancing enemies.
As we galloped through the line, her blades flashed in the moonlight. Howls of anger and pain filled the night sky. The only horses I had ever ridden had been heavy shire ones used for plowing, so with one hand I clung to Grimalkin, fearful of falling. Nevertheless, I managed to stab my staff downward with the other, helping to fend off the witches.
Soon we were through, and riding north toward Chipenden. As we rode, a strong stench of urine filled my nostrils. That was little wonder. No doubt Grimalkin had ridden for over a day to reach me, and she would have been unable to dismount. I thought of her broken leg and remembered the terrible sight of the bone jutting through the flesh. I knew that she must be in terrible pain.
At dawn we halted at the edge of a dense wood. Saplings fought for space and light below the mature trees. We could hear the roar of water nearby.
I dismounted and, using my blades, cut a path down to a fast-flowing stream. It took a long time because I was so weak; all I really wanted to do was sleep. From the bank I looked up and saw, high above, a waterfall crashing down into the torrent. There was also a rocky ledge beside it, where a few of the saplings had been able to take root. I decided to make camp there.
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