Soon we could see the stone circle in the distance. It stood on a small hill, surrounded on three sides by trees. On my travels with the Spook I had seen such circles formed with much larger standing stones. Some of the ones here were no more than boulders. I counted twelve of them.
When we reached the circle, the wolfhounds suddenly started to whine; they lay down at its edge and would proceed no farther.
I sensed something right away. A cold shiver ran the length of my spine. Something from the dark was nearby. But, to my surprise, my master gave me one of his rare smiles.
“Couldn’t be better, lad!” he told me. “What we have here is a dragon, and a special one to boot! This is a dragon’s lair!”
We followed him into the stone circle, Shey looking nervous. Even Grimalkin looked tense, and rested her hand on the hilt of her largest blade. I vaguely remembered reading about such creatures in my master’s Bestiary.
“Most people think that a dragon is a huge lizard breathing fire and smoke, but a true dragon is an elemental,” the Spook explained. “They are air spirits, invisible but immense. This one is probably coiled about within this hill. They live their lives at a different speed than we humans. To them, our lifetimes pass in the blinking of an eye. Most people can barely sense the presence of a dragon, but this one is particularly strong. Can’t you feel its malevolence? It’s enough to keep people away—and that’s exactly what we want.
“However, it wouldn’t worry a true servant of the dark,” he continued with a frown, turning to face Shey. “We can’t guarantee that this area will always remain safe and in your hands.”
“I can cloak it,” said Grimalkin. “Even if the mages camped close to the stones, they would not suspect what was here. Of course, there are other powerful servants of the dark who might see beyond my magic. But first things first…”
“Yes, there’s no point in delaying. Let’s get on with our preparations,” said the Spook. “We’ll try to bind him here, right at the center of the circle, within the coils of the dragon. Now I need the services of a stonemason, and also a good rigger. They must be craftsmen we can trust to keep quiet afterward. Could you find them for me?” he asked, turning to Shey.
“I know an excellent local stonemason,” he replied. “The rigger might be more difficult, but I’ll make inquiries.”
“And I need something else from you,” said Grimalkin. “I must fashion spears and nails with which to bind the Fiend. I noticed that you have extensive stables behind your house—do you have a forge?”
“Yes, and an excellent smith who I’ll put at your service.”
“The forge itself will suffice. I work alone,” Grimalkin said with a frown. “I would like to begin the task as soon as possible.”
“Of course—I’ll take you there right away,” said Shey nervously, clearly intimidated by the witch.
“Aye,” said the Spook, “and while you’re doing that, the lad and I will get started on the pit.”
Back at the house, after a light breakfast, we collected our bags and a couple of sturdy shovels to do the digging. The weather seemed likely to remain fine for the rest of the day. It made sense to get started. It would be no fun at all digging in the rain.
“Well,” said the Spook as I put down our bags and the spades near the center of the circle of stones, “this is a good spot. Give me a spade, lad!”
He jabbed it deep into the soft earth and gave a satisfied grunt. “The digging should be relatively easy. But first I’ll mark out the boundaries of the pit,” he said, taking a folded measuring rod from his bag. “We’d better make it large—no doubt the Fiend will appear in the same form as he did last time, so it needs to be at least three times as big as a boggart pit. I hope you’ve recovered your strength after your ordeal, lad.”
That meant there would be a lot of earth to remove. I’d be doing most of the digging, no doubt, even though I still felt weak, and I would be left with sore muscles and an aching back.
I watched as the Spook marked the dimensions of the pit on the bare earth very precisely, using small wooden pegs and twine. When he’d finished, I picked up the largest shovel and set to work. I had a long day ahead of me. Mostly my master just watched, but every hour or so he gave me a break and set to himself.
At first, as I worked, I kept thinking of poor Alice, but after a while my mind went blank and the numbing monotony of hard digging took over. At one point I paused to catch my breath and leaned heavily on the shovel handle.
“What about the stone lid for the pit?” I asked. “It’ll be much heavier than usual, and here we have no branch to lower it from.”
When binding boggarts, the rigger usually lashed his block and tackle to a branch and used it to lower the stone. That’s why we always dug our pits beneath a large tree.
“The rigger will have to construct a strong wooden gantry, lad, with a beam from which to hang the block. It makes the job more difficult and will take extra time. Not only does the rigger have to be good at his job and able to keep his mouth shut afterward; he and his mate both need to be brave. Do you remember what happened to poor Billy Bradley?”
Billy had been John Gregory’s apprentice before me. The Spook had been ill and was forced to send Billy out alone to bind a dangerous ripper boggart. Things had gone wrong. The stone lid had trapped Billy’s fingers, and after finishing the blood in the bait dish, the ripper had bitten off his fingers. He’d died of shock and loss of blood.
I nodded sadly. “The riggers panicked,” I recalled.
“That’s right, lad. If they’d kept their nerve, that rigger and his mate could have lifted the stone off Billy’s fingers in seconds, and he’d still be alive today. We need an experienced rigger who doesn’t scare easily!”
Suddenly a thought struck me—the carving on the stone…
“Where do we leave our mark when the binding is done?” I asked. “Do we carve a symbol on the top and put our names underneath to show who bound the Fiend himself?”
“It would certainly be the pinnacle of my life’s work,” my master replied. “But we’ll leave no mark this time. Nobody must know he’s there. We’ll put a boulder on top of the stone. That way, folks in years to come will just assume it’s part of the pattern of standing stones and not think to disturb it.
“Anyway, lad,” he went on. “You’ve rested long enough; let’s stop this idle speculation and get back to work! Instead of just cutting out the dimensions of the pit, why don’t you test it for depth just about where you’re standing now?”
I’d been working methodically, following the marks the Spook had made, keeping the excavation more or less even. But what he said made sense. It was a good tip to put into my notebook for future reference; something that, no doubt, my master had learned from experience. We had to know if we could achieve the necessary depth. So I started to dig deeper.
I started to feel a chill: Was it the dragon sensing me disturbing his lair?
CHAPTER XVII
WORDS IN A MIRROR
THE following day we soon hit solid rock and could go no deeper. I hoped the pit would be big enough for our purposes. About midafternoon, when I’d just about finished, Grimalkin paid us a visit. Over her shoulder she was carrying something wrapped in sacking—no doubt the spears that she’d forged.
“Will that be big enough?” she asked, looking down at the pit doubtfully.
“I hope so. I was going to make it deeper, but this rock’s put an end to that,” I told her.
Grimalkin looked worried. “I’ve seen the Fiend bigger than that. He was a giant, a monster.”
“If he’s that big, there may be nothing we can do,” I said.
“Remember, I have given birth to his child—the child he slayed,” Grimalkin said. “He cannot come near me unless I will it. That could be our last line of defense.”
She smiled, curling her lips over her needle-sharp teeth. “And perhaps that layer of rock will be to our advantage,” she said. “I have crafted spears
and also some shorter nails. The rock will provide a firm base for the binding.”
“Well,” said the Spook, “we’re ready now—as ready as we’ll ever be. We can rest and gather our strength for the ordeal tonight.”
Grimalkin shook her head. “No, there is further work to be done first,” she told him. She knelt and unrolled the sacking on the ground to reveal the stakes and nails. I could not see even a hint of silver alloy. They seemed to be crafted of plain steel.
“I need silver to fold into the steel,” she said.
I knew I had no choice. I would have to offer my silver chain. It was a vital tool for a spook, and a present from my mam, but surrendering it would make the binding of the Fiend possible.
“You can use this,” I said, making to hand it to her.
But the Spook frowned. “Nay, lad, you’ll need it again one day. We’ll use mine. What better use could it serve? Besides, my old master, Henry Horrocks, had a chain of his own, and I inherited it after his death. It’s out of harm’s way with my brother Andrew in Adlington, at his locksmith’s shop. One day, when it’s safe to return to the County, we’ll go and collect it.”
As he spoke, there was a hint of sadness in the Spook’s face. That chain had served him well over the years. To surrender it was hard.
It took nearly two days for Grimalkin to craft the weapons to her satisfaction. Behind the house, the forge rang with the rhythmical pounding of her hammer. She melted down my master’s silver chain before forming it into strips, which she worked skillfully into the iron of the stakes and the broad-headed nails.
In the afternoon of the second day, one of Shey’s servants brought word that Grimalkin wished to speak to me alone. I entered the shed that housed the forge where she was working. Afraid of disturbing her concentration, I didn’t speak, but instead waited patiently in a corner, watching her craft a spear. She wore thick leather gloves to protect her witch’s skin from the iron and silver. The long, sharp spear in her grasp was being formed into a slender helix, a fine twisting alloy of silver and iron. It was the last of four; the nails had already been completed.
Satisfied at last, she laid down the finished weapon on a bench close to the anvil, and then she turned to face me, her gaze holding mine.
“Listen,” she said, her eyes glittering fiery red with the reflected light of the forge. “Tonight we’ll bind him—whatever it takes. I’d give my life to achieve that, if it was necessary.”
I nodded. “I fear that the moment the Fiend realizes he’s in the pit, he’ll halt time. And I won’t be strong enough to stop him—though I vow I’ll die trying.”
She frowned. “I have often thought about the Fiend and his powers. When he’s halted time in the past, the initiative has been his. So, rather than being on the defensive and trying to prevent that, why not attack by halting time yourself, at the very moment he appears?”
“I’ve managed to achieve that a couple of times in the past, but the effect hasn’t lasted. Still, I’ll do my best,” I assured her.
“Succeed, and time will halt for all those in the vicinity of the pit—all but you. The Fiend will quickly understand the situation, but by then you will already have driven your spear deep into his dirty hide.”
I nodded. It might just work. Grimalkin was right. This time I would take the initiative and strike first.
We tried our best to grab a few hours’ sleep before dark. We’d need to be strong, rested, and alert for the task ahead. I didn’t bother getting undressed—though I quickly checked the blood jar in my pocket; the crack still seemed to be holding the Fiend at bay. Then I lay on top of the bedcovers and closed my eyes.
I soon fell into a really deep, dreamless sleep, but sensing something strange, I jerked awake, sitting bolt upright.
The mirror on the bedside table was flickering. A face appeared. It was Alice! She was wide-eyed with terror; it wrenched at my heart to see her in that state.
The mirror clouded. She had breathed on the surface of the one she was using. She began to write, and her message slowly appeared.
The letters appeared backward on the glass:
Could she really escape from the dark? I wondered. All at once I was filled with fresh hope. Quickly I breathed on the mirror and wrote my reply on the misted glass.
Alice began to write again, but the words appeared only very slowly. Was she in pain? What was wrong?
I read this one with ease, in less time than it had taken her to write it: Pan found me a doorway back. But I can’t get through alone, can I? Need your help, Tom.
Could there really be a doorway back to our world? Pan must be aiding Alice in repayment for my help with the mages. But he’d said he couldn’t help—that the Fiend was too strong. And how was it possible to use a mirror to communicate from the dark? I wondered. Was that why it was taking her so long to write each message! I quickly breathed on the mirror and wrote again.
Her reply came more quickly this time.
The lair of the dragon? That was what the Spook had called the circle of stones where we hoped to bind the Fiend.
The mirror flickered and grew dark. My heart plummeted into my boots. Alice had gone before I could get that vital information from her. But just as I began to despair, the mirror filled with light again, and Alice’s finger began to write, very slowly.
She was asking me to come alone—that certainly made sense. Grimalkin had told the Spook that Pan had only dealt with me because of my mam. It was dangerous to go alone, but if that was the only way, then I had no choice.
I drew back the curtains and looked through the window. It was twilight; soon it would be completely dark. In the next room, I could hear the Spook stirring. From the pouches in my bag I quickly filled my pockets with salt and iron. Next I took my silver chain and tied it around my waist, hiding it under my shirt.
Carrying my boots in one hand and my staff in the other, I tiptoed out through the door and managed to get downstairs without meeting anyone. One of the servants saw me sitting on the step pulling on my boots. He nodded, and I nodded back before setting off down the path and letting myself out through the main gate.
I couldn’t see any of Shey’s guards, but they usually kept out of sight. They were probably hiding in the trees, watching me now, but it didn’t matter. They had been told a little of what we intended to do at the stone circle, but not enough to scare them too much. They thought it was some sort of rite to combat the dark power of the mages; when they saw me heading in that direction now, they would merely think I was setting out a little ahead of the others.
Soon I was among the trees, approaching the stones—the lair of the dragon. As I stepped over the soft ground, my feet cracked the occasional twig. A white mist lay close to the ground, but there was still enough light to avoid walking into a tree or stumbling over a log. I emerged at the foot of the hill, looking up at the standing stones, which were just visible against the cloudless sky. The brightest of the stars were out now, but the moon wouldn’t be up for several hours yet.
My heart was beating fast. Would I really be able to get Alice back?
CHAPTER XVIII
THE TALONS OF THE MORRIGAN
I walked steadily up the hill, shivering with a chill that suddenly traveled the length of my spine. It was the usual warning that something from the dark was near, but I paid little heed, intent on my purpose.
Moments later I was standing within the circle of stones, close to the pit that we had dug for the Fiend. All I could hear was my own rapid heartbeats and breathing. The mist seemed to be thickening and rising in snakelike coils. I spun slowly on my heels, checking the area through a full three hundred and sixty degrees. The mist seemed to be rising up from the ground, and there was a lot of it. It just didn’t seem normal. Could it be the breath of the dragon? I wondered.
No, that was absurd. Dragons weren’t fire breathers with hot breath; they were huge elemental spirits of the air. This was just ordinary mist.
Then I saw a sudden shim
mer in the air, directly opposite the pit. Suddenly I was face-to-face with Alice. My heart gave a lurch, but then I saw that she wasn’t smiling; she didn’t seem at all pleased to see me—she looked terrified. Her face was caked with dirt and the whites of her wild eyes were showing, her hair matted and her mouth twisted in a grimace of terror. She seemed to be standing behind that shimmering curtain. It looked so flimsy. Surely it would be easy just to step through….
All at once Alice thrust her left hand toward me. It came right through into the world where I stood. “Help me, Tom!” she cried. She seemed to be shouting, but her voice was muffled and faint. “You’ve got to pull me through. I can’t do it alone!”
Without hesitation, I gripped her hand firmly, my left hand squeezing her left hand—which felt so cold. It was as if I was holding the hand of a dead person.
I pulled hard, but Alice seemed to resist. Was she stuck? Was something holding her back? I tugged even harder, but then the grip on my hand tightened and it really hurt. It was as if Alice was trying to crush my finger bones. Then, as I was dragged forward against my will, Alice’s face began to change. It wasn’t her. It was the face of Scarabek!
I tried to resist, but the grass was slippery, my feet lost their purchase, my staff went flying from my hand—and I was dragged into the shimmering curtain, the doorway to the dark.
There was a bright flash of yellow light, and Scarabek jerked my arm and then released her grip very suddenly, sending me spinning away from her. I hit the ground hard and rolled over several times before coming to a halt against a tree trunk, which knocked the breath from my body.
The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection Page 167