“She’s too well hidden,” Mab retorted. “Must have used an incredibly powerful cloaking spell to hide from me.”
“So she’s too strong? You can’t scry her whereabouts?”
It was a measure of Alice’s tremendous power that not even Mab could find her.
“I wouldn’t go looking for her anyway!” snapped Mab. “Me and Alice never did see eye to eye, and she wouldn’t thank me for meddling in her affairs.”
“So you won’t help?”
“Can’t, and wouldn’t if I could. There’s Grimalkin to worry about, too. It doesn’t do to cross her. Anyway, it’s been nice talking to you, Tom. We’re off to visit the Wardstone. Need to learn the lay of the land so that we’ll know what’s what at Halloween.”
“You’re wasting your time, Mab. I’d already decided not to carry out the ritual, and now that Alice is using the Doomdryte, I won’t even be there at Halloween.”
“Don’t be so sure about that, Tom. Scrying is difficult—sometimes the future changes from minute to minute—but I do know one thing. Something really big and powerful is going to happen near the Wardstone this Halloween. Creatures of the dark will be drawn to that spot—some to fight for the Fiend, others to oppose him. There’ll be witches of every type, abhumans, and other dark entities. The outcome of that conflict will change the world. And guess what! You’ll be there too. That’s one thing I’m sure of.”
With that, Mab gave me a wave of farewell, turned her back, and led her grinning sisters off into the trees.
I stayed in the same spot for quite a while, deep in thought. My instincts told me that Mab was correct in at least one thing. Even without the ritual, something significant would happen at Halloween, and I felt certain that the Wardstone would play a part.
My mind returned to Tibb’s prophecy again; to the part that came before “and finally she will die for you.”
I remember what had preceded it: Tibb had claimed that “she will betray you . . .”
Isn’t that what Alice had just done? She’d been back from the dark for almost a week before bothering to tell me that she was safe, that she’d survived. And she’d known that I’d be desperate for news. Not only that; she’d gone off to use the Doomdryte, knowing that it was against everything my master and I believed in.
Wasn’t that a betrayal?
CHAPTER VII
A TERRIBLE SCENE
THE following night I didn’t dream at all. It was a wonder, because I’d enough worries and anxieties to conjure a dozen nightmares.
There was no nightmare.
It was something far worse.
Well before dawn, I suddenly awoke in a cold sweat, certain that something was terribly wrong. I got out of bed, trembling from head to foot, full of dread and a terrible sense of loss. I felt sure that somebody close to me had died—or at least been badly injured.
My master!
I ran downstairs. The Spook was in the kitchen. He didn’t sleep in his bed every night. Sometimes his back felt stiff and sore of a morning, so he dozed upright in a chair. He was in his armchair now, close to the embers of the fire. He was very still.
Was he breathing?
I walked slowly across the flags toward him. I was expecting the worst, but suddenly he opened his eyes, stared up at me, and scratched his beard.
“What’s wrong, lad? You look as white as a sheet.” “There’s something not right. Something’s happened to someone, I feel sure—something terrible.”
“Perhaps it’s nothing, lad.” My master rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Maybe you just woke from a bad dream and carried the feeling of unease back with you. That happens sometimes.”
“I wasn’t dreaming.”
“Dreams can be forgotten at the instant of waking. You can’t be sure of that,” said the Spook.
I shook my head. “I need to go outside,” I told him.
Full of apprehension, I went out into the garden. The dark sky was covered with uniform light-gray cloud; it was starting to drizzle. I shivered. The feeling of dread and loss was stronger than ever.
Suddenly there was something like a flash of light right inside my skull, and a pain in the center of my forehead. And now the wrongness had a direction. Its source was some distance away, in a southeasterly direction.
I heard the Spook approach and stand at my side.
“Whatever is wrong, it’s over there. . . .” I pointed through the trees.
“It could be dark magic,” said my master, “luring you out into a trap. The servants of the Fiend will never give in. We must be on our guard.”
“It’s strange. I’ve never felt like this before. I’m scared. . . . But you could be right—it might just be a trap.” I began to pace up and down, my stomach churning with anxiety while the Spook stared at me, clearly concerned and alarmed.
“Take deep breaths, lad. Try to calm yourself. It’ll pass in a few moments.”
“But what if it doesn’t?” I demanded, coming to a halt and looking him right in the eye.
All at once the need to go and investigate became overwhelming. “I have to go!” I cried out. “I have to see for myself what’s wrong or I can never rest.”
The Spook stared into the trees for over a minute without speaking. Then he simply nodded.
Five minutes later we’d left the garden and were striding southeast. I was carrying both bags, as usual, as well as my staff. In addition to his own staff, the Spook had also brought a lantern, as dawn was still some way off. I didn’t know how far we had to go.
The source of my unease proved to be much nearer than I expected.
Years earlier, when I first met Alice, she had been staying in the area with Bony Lizzie and an abhuman called Tusk. Lizzie’s plan had been to rescue Mother Malkin from a pit in our garden, and also to kill my master, John Gregory. They had all been living in an abandoned cottage southeast of the Spook’s house. Of course they failed, and the cottage had been burned out by local people who were outraged by the proximity of a dangerous witch.
Now I could just glimpse that cottage through the trees, and the nearer we came, the more certain I was that this was the source of my fear.
The lantern light showed us the first of the dead bodies: a man lying on his back, his eyes wide open; rain streamed down his face like tears. Blades were still clutched in both dead hands, but they had availed him not. His throat was cut from ear to ear.
There were other bodies closer to the blackened walls of the cottage—maybe a dozen or more. Most were female, and almost certainly witches. They were armed with blades, some lashed to the ends of long poles in the Pendle manner. All had died violent deaths. Their wounds were fresh, and there was a lot of blood splattered on the grass.
All was silent, but I was drawn to the cottage. I led the way in, shaking nervously at what I might find there. The doors and windows had been burned out years ago and never replaced. All at once, in the gloom, I saw someone propped up against a far wall. At first I thought it was another dead body. Could it be Alice? The thought made me tremble with anguish.
My eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness, but when my master came in behind me, the lantern illuminated a terrible scene.
I saw that it was the witch assassin, sitting in a pool of her own blood. She was breathing hoarsely, and her eyes were half closed. It was hard to tell whether she was conscious or not. Her body was covered in stab wounds that looked like open mouths.
She was still gripping a skelt dagger in her left hand. This was Bone Cutter, the blade I’d loaned her to help in her running battle with the Fiend’s supporters. Additionally, her left leg had been broken just below the knee. I could see a piece of bone jutting through the flesh.
Of the leather sack containing the Fiend’s head, there was no sign.
I just stared down at Grimalkin helplessly, feeling emotions surge through me. A torrent of terrible possibilities churned through my mind.
I had never imagined a situation where she would be bested i
n combat. How could this have happened? I wondered. The servants of the Fiend had been hunting her for a long time. They were numerous and relentless, and a number of them were very powerful—it was perhaps inevitable that they would finally prevail. She had put up a good fight, as the dead bodies scattered around the cottage showed.
My heart sank even further as I suddenly remembered that Grimalkin and Alice had been planning to use the Doomdryte. Was this where they had been hiding and preparing for the ritual?
If so, where was Alice now?
My thoughts were still racing and I couldn’t move. I stared dumbly as the Spook knelt close to the witch assassin.
“I’ll make a splint for her leg,” he said, coming to his feet, “but I can’t do much for her wounds—she’s lost a lot of blood. We’re close to the western boundary of Clegg’s farm. He has a cart. Run there and get him to bring it here. We need to get her back to Chipenden and a doctor. There may still be a chance to save her. Stop gawping, lad! Run!”
CHAPTER VIII
ONLY YOU CAN DO IT
SO I ran—but nothing proved to be straightforward. Clegg was a very sound sleeper, and he apparently lived alone. I woke the dogs all right, but it was a good fifteen minutes before the farmer came to the door, bleary-eyed and cantankerous, wielding a stick.
“What time do you call this to come knocking on my door fit to wake the dead? Be off with you, before I give you a taste of this!”
“My master, John Gregory, sent me. Could he borrow your horse and cart? There’s somebody badly injured over at the ruined cottage. We need to get them to a doctor.”
“What? Ye want my cart? Who’s injured? Nobody lives in that cottage. It’s a ruin.”
“Look, there’s been a fight. People are dead. But there’s one still alive and we can save her. We need your cart. Don’t worry—my master will pay you well!”
At the offer of money, Clegg led me to an outbuilding; he found it locked and had to go back to the house for the key. At last we dragged out the cart and harnessed it to a horse.
By the time I got the cart back to the cottage, almost an hour had passed. I expected the Spook to complain about my delay, but he said nothing. He’d made a fire and boiled water in a small pan he’d found in the kitchen.
After cleaning up Grimalkin’s wounds as best he could, he’d managed to push the bone back into place and had used two thin branches as rough splints on each side of the leg. He was binding them into position when I arrived. Grimalkin was still unconscious, her breath rasping through her open mouth. There were beads of sweat on her forehead, and her upper body twitched as if gripped by a fever.
The dagger lay on the ground beside her. I picked it up and tucked it into my belt.
Carefully we lifted her up into the cart and set off for the Spook’s house. Once there, we carried her upstairs and put her in my bed. Then my master sent me off to fetch the local doctor. Fortunately he was at home, and within half an hour was treating his patient.
When he took his leave, we walked him across the garden to the boundary, protecting him from the boggart. There he halted and shook his head. “By rights she should be dead,” he said.
“As you saw, she’s no ordinary woman,” the Spook replied.
“I’ve known you a long time, Mr. Gregory,” the doctor said. “The people around here owe you a lot. You’ve kept this village safe. The whole County is in your debt. So I won’t ask why you’re harboring a witch.”
“I have good reason. I wouldn’t do it if it weren’t absolutely necessary for the good of us all. Now I need your opinion. Will she live, do you think?”
“If she survives the night, she has a chance. But even then she won’t be out of danger. There’s the risk of infection. And if she does survive, life will never be quite the same for her again. It’s an extremely bad break. She’ll have a permanent limp. Anyway, I’ll come back tomorrow and see how she’s doing.”
Poor Grimalkin, I thought. Much of her potency as a witch assassin relied on her speed—that whirling dance of death was what made her so formidable. She would no longer be such a powerful opponent.
“Come back at noon,” the Spook instructed. “I’ll meet you at the edge of the western garden.”
With a nod, the doctor went off down the hill.
We decided that Grimalkin would have to be observed at all times in case she took a turn for the worse. The Spook sat with her for the rest of the day; I volunteered to take over at sunset.
I sat beside the bed, staring at her anxiously and wondering what had happened to Alice. Grimalkin muttered in her sleep, and sometimes gave a low groan, but she showed no sign of regaining consciousness. I felt helpless, but I did what I could, occasionally mopping the sweat from her brow or lifting her head and holding a cup of water to her lips—though each time this brought on a fit of choking.
Her breathing was hoarse and irregular. Sometimes it seemed to stop for almost a minute; each time this happened, I thought she was dead. Then, about half an hour after midnight, there was a change. Grimalkin’s breathing became steadier, and then she finally opened her eyes and looked at me.
She tried to speak, opening and closing her mouth, but no words emerged. Then her face twisted with pain and she attempted to sit up, so I pulled the pillows into position behind her back and helped her upright. I held a cup to her lips, and this time she was able to sip without choking.
She stared at me for a long time in silence. At last I could hold back no longer.
“Alice?”
Grimalkin dropped her gaze, as though unable to meet my eyes. Then she replied with one word: “Lukrasta!”
I knew the name. Lukrasta appeared in the Spook’s Bestiary in the section that dealt with mages. He was supposed to have been the dark mage who had written that grimoire in the first place, taking dictation from the Fiend! Despite this, he had died while attempting the full Doomdryte ritual. He’d supposedly made an error and been destroyed.
“Do you mean the mage who died?” I asked.
“No! No! Not dead,” Grimalkin protested, struggling to speak, her voice very faint; I had to lean over the bed and bring my ear close to her lips. “When Alice opened the grimoire to begin the ritual, he appeared before us, right out of thin air. He took us by surprise. Blasted us with power. Later the Fiend’s servants attacked.”
“Where’s Alice?”
Grimalkin shrugged. “I was stunned. Befuddled. Far less than what I am . . . too many to hold off . . . didn’t see what happened to Alice . . . think Lukrasta has her.”
Alice was the prisoner of Lukrasta! What exactly had happened? I had to know.
Grimalkin began to cough, and I brought the cup to her lips again. This time she drank greedily, draining every drop.
“They have the Fiend’s head,” she continued. “They’ll try to return it to Ireland . . . reunite it with the body. . . . You have to go after them. Bring it back!”
“Which direction did they take? Did they go west?”
“I didn’t see—but, yes, I expect they’ll have gone west toward the coast. No doubt they’ll follow the river. . . . It’s up to you to find them.”
With the help of the kretch, a creature fathered by a demon, the Fiend’s servants had seized the sack from Grimalkin once before. They had boarded a boat north of Liverpool but had been thwarted by Alice, and Grimalkin had recaptured the Fiend’s head. Would they make for the same place again, or go north to the main County port, Sunderland Point?
“How many are left?” I asked.
“A dozen or more—certainly enough to have slayed me had they pressed home their attack. Others will surely join up with them later.”
I wondered what I could do alone. By now they could have reached the river estuary and headed south, or maybe crossed by the Priestown bridge and gone north. “They’ll probably have too much of a start on me,” I said. “They’ll have set sail before I can reach the coast.”
Grimalkin seized me fiercely by my collar and drew
me close, so that our noses were almost touching. Wounded as she was, I could feel the strength in her grip. Her eyes blazed into my own.
“Only you can do it!” she hissed. “If they cross the sea to Ireland, then you must do the same. Follow them as far as is necessary! You’re not a boy any longer. You’re a man. You have the sword. Was Bone Cutter still in my hand?”
“Yes, it’s safe.”
“I know Alice gave you the other dagger, Dolorous. You have all three blades now, and the gifts from your mam. What’s more, you’re a seventh son of a seventh son. So go and do what’s necessary. Kill anyone who stands in your way, but bring back the Fiend’s head!”
CHAPTER IX
THE AMBUSH
GRIMALKIN collapsed back against her pillow, fighting for breath, her eyes closed. The effort had exhausted her.
I quickly left the room and went to find the Spook. As I expected, he was sleeping in his chair in the kitchen, close to the embers of the fire.
“My turn, is it, lad?” he asked, opening his eyes at the sound of my boots crossing the flags toward him. He thought I’d come to wake him for his turn to watch over Grimalkin.
I realized I had to make my mind up about how much to tell him. I decided to leave out any reference to Alice and Grimalkin’s use of the Doomdryte. He would have considered that unforgivable, and the greatest of follies. I just concentrated on the need to recapture the sack and its contents.
I shook my head. “Grimalkin said I had to go after those witches and try to recover the Fiend’s head.”
“The odds against you are very great, lad. You might well be going to your death.”
“It’s death and worse for all of us if those witches reunite the head with the body.”
I thought my master would protest more, but all he did was apologize.
“I’d go with you if I could,” he said sadly, “but I haven’t the speed for such a pursuit. You’d never catch them with me dragging at your heels.”
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