Yes! hissed the boggart. It is a good plan. They will be easier to hunt and kill out in the open. My thirst will be slaked more rapidly!
I looked up at the dark tower and the narrow steps that led to the door. With my right hand I drew the sword; with my left, the dagger called Bone Cutter.
I began to climb.
CHAPTER XV
THE BATTLE ON THE STEPS
THE steep stone steps were barely wide enough for two to walk abreast, and that would serve me well. On either side was a sheer drop to the rocks below, so it would be difficult for my enemies to surround me and come at me from behind. Their superiority in numbers would count for little.
I climbed at a steady pace, wondering if I was being watched. Were there eyes hidden behind the arrow slits? I did not expect to be fired upon. Witches did not use bows themselves, though they sometimes employed servants to carry out tasks such as cooking . . . and opening the iron gate that I now approached; direct contact with iron was painful for a witch. They might have people to fight for them, too. I just had to hope that none of these were bowmen.
Halfway up the steps, I started to wonder if Alice was still in the balcony room. At the thought of her alone in there with the mustached stranger, my anger flared. I tried to banish it from my mind. If I were to succeed in what I was about to attempt, I needed a clear head.
I reached the door and paused before it, taking a deep breath to steady myself.
Then I struck it hard, three times, with the hilt of my sword.
The sound of each blow was loud enough to awaken the dead, echoing around from valley to hill again and again. But there was no response. Nothing seemed to be moving within that dark tower.
So I struck the door three more times—harder than before.
All was still and silent. What were the witches doing? Were they gathering behind the door, ready to attack? If so, they could not take me by surprise, for the door was heavy and opened only slowly.
For the third time I beat on the door with my sword. And this time I shouted out a challenge. “Come out and fight, coward! Come out and die! What are you waiting for?”
Perhaps they were watching me through the arrow slits, surely thinking that I was touched with madness. Either that, or I had reached such depths of despair that I desired death. For what could one person do against so many enemies? But they did not know about the boggart.
The boggart had defended the Spook’s garden for many years. Early in my apprenticeship, I’d been pursued by the witch Bony Lizzie and the abhuman Tusk—but I’d reached the sanctuary of the Spook’s garden just in time, and the boggart had driven them away. Even a powerful witch like Lizzie had run from it in terror. It had also fought off that powerful demon called the Bane and, more recently, Romanian witches. It was a force to be reckoned with.
I hoped it would take these witches completely by surprise. It was unlikely that they could discover the specific danger—though some of them had no doubt long-sniffed the future and sensed the threat of death. If this was the case, they might ignore my challenge and stay inside the tower. Then I would have to command the boggart to go in. It might be able to kill many of them before they could fight back with their magic. But that would not open the door for me. The Fiend’s head would still be out of reach.
Suddenly there was a harsh sound—the grating of metal upon stone—and slowly the door began to move, no doubt dragged open by the witches’ servants. I waited, my blades at the ready. When it was less than a third open, it stopped, and I stared into a darkness that the moonlight could not penetrate. There were eyes glowing in the gloom, the strange wide eyes of witches staring out at me.
All at once my confidence wavered. Fear seized me, filling me with doubts that I had previously thrust to the back of my mind. What if I couldn’t carry out my plan? There might be skilled fighters here, perhaps even a witch assassin—someone with the ability to pierce my guard with ease and slay me on the steps.
While I stood there, the door began to open farther, pulled by unseen hands. It was almost half open when the first witch attacked. Her hair was long and hung down over her face; it parted to reveal one baleful eye, a hooked nose, and the slit of a sneering mouth. She ran straight at me, a long, thin blade in her left hand.
I took two rapid steps: the first backward, moving down; the second to the right.
Her wild swing missed my head by inches. Then I retaliated. I did not use a blade; I simply smashed my left elbow into the side of her head. That and her own momentum carried her over the edge of the steps. She screamed as she fell. Then there was a horrible thud as her body struck the boulders below. I glanced down and saw blood splattered on the rocks, black and wet in the moonlight.
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.
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