“Well, lad, thanks for bringing Judd and the dogs to our aid. Tomorrow morning you can set off for the farm to collect that big blacksmith brother of yours. No doubt you’ll enjoy meeting up with your family again.”
I felt annoyed—I’d already told him that I didn’t want to involve James again. Hadn’t he listened to what I’d said? My master was certainly persistent, but he meant well, so I tried to keep the anger from my reply.
“No,” I told him firmly. “As I said, I’ve caused enough trouble for my family. Jack and Ellie and Mary could have died when they were taken prisoner by the witches. They’ll always be in some danger because of the job I do—but no, not this time. I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. Not when the risk is so great.”
I thought back to those dark days when I’d helped to rescue my family from a cell in Malkin Tower. The experience had almost killed Jack and driven him to the edge of insanity. And then James had risked his life in the battle on Pendle Hill.
“I understand, lad.” The Spook looked grave. “But I would still like you to think again. Sleep on it overnight. If you change your mind, let me know in the morning. After that, I won’t mention it again unless you do. Now, there is something else we need to talk over. What about the boggart? You know that several ley lines run through the Wardstone . . . you could summon it again. But should we use it in the battle ahead?”
“It’ll be weaker after what’s happened,” I said. “Even at its full strength, it would have been no match for Lukrasta and all those witches, had they been prepared. This time they’ll be ready for it.”
“That may be so, but it would destroy some of them and help us to achieve our aims. You aren’t willing to put the life of James on the line. I understand that well enough— sorry!” The Spook held up his hand. “I promised I wouldn’t mention that again. But this is a boggart we’re talking about—a fearsome creature of the dark that would take your life and mine but for the bargains we made with it. Surely you can see that?”
I nodded. “I won’t squander its life, but I’ll summon it if our need is great. If we face defeat. . . .”
The Spook nodded. “That’s good to hear, lad. Now for the most important thing of all—how are we to deal with the Fiend? I’ve been thinking about that lately. The ritual’s out of the question, we agree on that, and the girl’s foolish experiment with the Doomdryte came to nothing. Is there another way?”
“I’ve been thinking about that myself,” I told him. “I’ve jotted some ideas down in my notebook. . . .”
“Then read them out to me, lad.”
I did as he asked, but I suspected that he already had some ideas of his own.
I had nine: some sounded really stupid to me now, but I read them out anyway.
“The fourth one seems the most promising,” said the Spook. “Cutting the Fiend into small pieces is gruesome, but it could work. Hiding them might not put an end to the Fiend, but it would certainly make it difficult for his supporters to locate and reassemble the pieces. In Ireland, we should have thought more carefully about simply separating the head from the body.”
“So you think that’s a good idea?” I asked.
“It’s as good as anything I’ve been able to come up with, lad. It will be very difficult to implement, but we can do it. . . .” He sighed, and then added, “We’ll be greatly outnumbered. We must prepare to fight to the bitter end. And we’ve got to believe that we’ll succeed. Maybe a few of us will get through to the Fiend. In that case, we should just take pieces of him and scatter. . . . You have those three blades—the hero swords which were to be used to sacrifice Alice. What if we use them against the Fiend in a similar way?”
“What, cut off his thumb bones?”
“Aye, lad, why not? They have great significance to witches. They’re a source of magical power. That’s why Grimalkin wears them as a necklace. For one witch to lose them to another is a source of shame; some believe that it means that after death they’ll be trapped in the dark forever, never able to return to this world. So my advice to you is to take his thumbs and carry them away with you if you can. Do to him what you were supposed to do to Alice!”
“Cut out his heart?”
“I doubt you’ll get the chance to do that, but sever the head from the body if it’s already reconnected, then take the thumbs and run. That might buy us some time. If more of us get through, we’ll each take another piece of him.”
We sat in silence for a moment, thinking about the huge challenge that awaited us. I did feel better now that we had a plan in place.
The Spook stirred. “Get yourself off to bed, lad. You must be tired after your journey. Grimalkin agrees with me that they will probably attempt to restore the Fiend at sunset. So gather your strength—Halloween is only four days away.”
I went up to my room and crawled into bed. The journey to and from the mill had indeed tired me out. I was exhausted, and my eyes closed the moment my head touched the pillow.
I woke up just as swiftly.
The boggart was lying across my legs again. I could hear it purring loudly.
I need more of your blood. Give it to me now! Kratch demanded in a rasping voice.
“Why do you need my blood so urgently?” I asked. “Won’t your strength return without more? Haven’t you taken enough already?”
I need more for the coming battle! the boggart cried.
“Why does it have to be my blood? Can’t you take the blood of an animal? Or I could walk with you down a line until we reach one of the many enemies who seek our lives. Why not take the blood of a witch?”
Your blood is special to me. It is the blood of a brother.
“We are brothers?”
Yes, we are brothers in spirit. And without me you will be defeated. “But if you fight alongside us, you may be destroyed,” I pointed out.
Nothing lives forever. I have dwelled on this world too long already!
The boggart seemed prepared to sacrifice itself. Was it really tired of existing? But what it said changed nothing. I would still be cautious and avoid using it if at all possible.
“I will not summon you to certain destruction unless we face defeat.”
Then give me more blood and I will await your call.
“I am afraid to give you more,” I admitted. “You might take too much and stop my heart.”
It is good that you say that. Only the truly brave can admit that they are afraid. I look forward to fighting alongside you again. Fear not. You will not die in this bed. I will take what I need—not one jot more. Trust me, I will leave you your life, and within a day you will completely recover your strength.
But I remembered the threat to Alice from the Bane. The third time blood was given was truly dangerous. Who knew what the consequences might be? I had to weigh Grimalkin’s advice against that. She saw the dangers but had argued that the boggart wasn’t as powerful as the Bane. One day, because I was strong, I might achieve a very useful partnership with it. But then another thought struck me. . . .
“But will giving you more of my blood change me? There is a significance attached to the third gift of blood.”
Yes, it will change you. All exchanges between conscious beings result in change. I will become more human, and you will become more boggart. Isn’t that fair?
I didn’t know what that would mean for me, but my instincts told me to go ahead. My master had always taught me to follow my gut feelings. And it had proven good advice—that inner sense of what was right had rarely let me down.
“Then take my blood,” I said softly.
I felt the scratch on the back of my left hand, and then the rough tongue of the cat-boggart began to lap. Soon the metallic smell of my blood filled my nostrils. It seemed to go on for a long time, and eventually my heart began to labor and the pulse in my temple turned into a throbbing headache.
I fell into a deep, dark, dreamless sleep, aware that the boggart was still lapping.
Would I ever wake up? I was too weak
and weary to be truly afraid. At that moment I didn’t care what happened to me.
The next thing I remember, morning light was streaming in through the window. I felt the boggart lying across my legs again, but it was invisible.
Can you hear that? it asked.
“What?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
I can hear the birds singing!
“The birds sing every morning,” I said.
I took little notice of them until this moment. I thought no more of them than I did insects buzzing around a stagnant pool. But their singing is like music. I would rather listen to them than eat them.
And then the weight of the boggart left my legs, and it was gone. When I got out of bed, I felt weak and dizzy. I hoped that I’d recover quickly. I was going to need all my strength for the coming battle.
After breakfast the Spook went up to his library. I headed into the garden for a stroll. Grimalkin was turning her horse out to graze. She had evidently just returned from a ride.
“I have been out to scout the movements of our enemies,” she reported. “There is a large encampment on the lower slopes of Beacon Fell. They seem to be preparing to head north.”
“Did you manage to enlist more allies for the battle?” I asked.
“Yes, but some I had counted on are afraid to join our cause. Still, we will have enough to carry the fight to our enemies.”
She pointed toward the eastern garden and gave me a strange smile. She was wearing her many blades, but I noticed that the long one that she had recently forged was no longer at her hip.
“Walk with me,” she commanded.
So I followed her among the trees to her forge. It was cold now, filled with ashes. The sword lay on the grass beside it. She picked it up and held it toward me, hilt first.
“I forged this for you,” she said. “It is a gift. Take it!”
I looked down at the sword in astonishment. The first thing that struck me was that it was ugly. It was nothing like the ornate, carefully crafted hero swords, supposedly fashioned by the Old God Hephaestus. This one looked unfinished, and lacked any embellishment. Rather than glinting in the sunlight, the blade was dull and rusty.
Grimalkin smiled as if reading my mind. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth,” she warned. “This blade may not look pretty, but combat is not about that. Embellishments are often an affectation that pleases the creator. I prefer functionality. The sword I have crafted is a formidable weapon. It is designed to win. It is designed to kill your opponent. Take it!”
So I accepted the blade. As soon as I held it in my right hand, the one I used for wielding the Destiny Blade, I knew that the balance was perfect. The skelt sword had not been made for me, and I had only slowly learned to adjust to its feel and weight. This was much lighter, and instantly felt perfect in my hand. I would fight more easily with such a blade.
“I made it from a meteorite that fell to earth far to the north,” Grimalkin explained. “The ore is very rare. This starblade retains its edge without the need for sharpening. And it will never break—it is exceptionally strong.
“That ore has an additional quality,” she continued. “It readily absorbs the magic of the person who crafts it. After that, it will accept changes from no one else. Thus I have built into it a powerful shield against any dark magic that is intended to harm you. While you wield it or wear it on your person, you will be impervious to such threats. With that blade in your hand, you may face the strongest witch or mage and be in no fear of them. But it will not make you invulnerable. My own magic would fail if I directed it at you, but that would not daunt me. I would use my blades and kill you anyway. So beware. Another may do the same. Many mages are also warriors.”
I nodded, and then remembered my recent conversation with my master.
“I was talking to the Spook about the best way to deal with the Fiend. We think we should first sever the head from the body again and then take the thumbs. After that, we could cut away as many pieces of him as possible and scatter them to the winds. I think I should make the main cuts with the hero swords. After all, they were to have been part of the ritual that involved Alice. What do you think?”
“I agree. It will at least make the task of his servants more difficult next time they attempt to restore him,” she replied. “But I doubt whether that alone will prove sufficient to destroy him completely. . . .” She stared at the ground, frowning.
“I thank you for the blade.” I smiled at the witch assassin. “But why give it to me now? Have you scryed that I’ll have need of it soon?”
“Use the hero swords against the Fiend, but take the starblade along as an additional weapon. Sooner or later you will need it.”
I resolved to do as she advised. Magic would be used against us, and this blade would help to protect me.
CHAPTER XXV
BREWER’S FARM
LATE in the morning I was in the library with my master. I was jotting down information about the new sword in my notebook; he was updating his Bestiary.
I’d told him about Grimalkin’s gift, but he had made no comment. I knew why. It might ward off dark magic, but magic had also been used to create it. He would never fully come to terms with that.
He caught my eye and gave me a sad smile. And in that second I changed my mind.
Sometimes we don’t make decisions as a result of careful reflection and a step-by-step process of logical thought. It is as if something deep within the mind has been considering a problem, and suddenly makes a decision, which we accept.
I’d said I wouldn’t risk my brother James, but suddenly I realized that something far greater than an individual life was at stake here. I was willing to lay my own life on the line. Shouldn’t I at least go and give James that option? After all, he had been a formidable figure, leading the charge against the witches during the battle on Pendle Hill.
“I’ll visit the farm and ask James if he’ll join us,” I said to the Spook.
“Thanks, lad. I know it’s hard for you to involve your family, but I believe you’ve made the right decision. I could send word to my only remaining brother, Andrew, the locksmith, but he isn’t a fighter, whereas James will be a real asset.”
“If James is killed in the battle, I’ll have made the wrong decision,” I muttered.
“The odds against us are great. We could all die,” replied the Spook, weariness and resignation in his voice. “Many of us surely will. But if we succeed, then the sacrifice will have been worthwhile. I am not a vengeful person, but I’ve seen a good deal of evil in my life. I’ve seen families brought to their knees by war; I’ve seen brother fight brother and son turn against father— and all those things were the result of the Fiend’s influence in this world. Not to mention the direct attacks by servants of the dark, which I’ve tried to thwart all my life. Aye. As I’ve said, I’m not a person who would ordinarily seek revenge, but it’s time to pay them back for what’s been inflicted, not only upon the County but on the wider world beyond.”
I nodded. I knew that he was right.
Within the hour I had set off for the farm that was once my home—where I was raised alongside my six brothers, four of whom were now dispersed across the County, with families of their own. Jack still ran the farm, but he now had the help of James, who was also working as a blacksmith there. I certainly wasn’t going to ask Jack to help us in the coming battle—he had a family, as did my other brothers.
I had mixed feelings about going home. So much had changed. Mam was no longer there; both she and Dad were dead. I remembered I had been happy there as a child. But I could never go back to that. It had changed into something else.
I halted and made camp overnight, still some miles from the farm. It was best to arrive in the light, as Jack had requested.
Early the next morning I came down through the wood on Hangman’s Hill, crunching through the fallen leaves. Here, on a cold winter’s night, a select few could doubtless still hear the ghasts of the dead soldiers execu
ted during the civil war, swinging from their ropes. But now the trees were full of morning birdsong and the sun was shining through the chilly air, casting twig patterns on the grass.
There was no hint of a ghast, but to one side I could see the huge swath of trees felled by the Fiend when he’d come for me. I’d taken shelter in the special room where Mam had once kept her boxes; the Fiend had been unable to prevail against the magic she’d used to defend it.
At last I could see the familiar shape of Brewer’s Farm below me—the locals called it that because it had once been the only source of locally brewed beer. Dad had never bothered with brewing, though, and we had just called it “the farm” or “home.”
The farm dogs warned of my arrival, and Jack came out of the barn and strode toward me. He was a big man whose bushy eyebrows often met in a scowl. But today he was smiling.
“Tom! Tom! What a surprise! It’s good to see you!” he cried.
He grasped me in a bear hug, but without his usual trick of trying to crush my ribs. As we broke apart, I saw that he didn’t tower over me as he’d done formerly. I would never be as tall as Jack, but in a couple more years I might come close.
“How’s the family—Ellie and little Mary?” I asked.
“Oh, they’re just fine. You won’t recognize Mary. She’s bright as a button and a right little tomboy, full of mischief. She’s always climbing things and getting into trouble.”
“And James?”
“He would never admit it, but he was more than a little shaken by his ordeal at the hands of those thugs. He’s back to his usual self, though. His forge makes more than the farm now—he’s very generous and does more than just pay his way. He’s been a good brother to me.”
This was going to make things even harder. If James came with me, I would be depriving my other brother of his help and financial support.
“So what brings you out this way, Tom?” Jack continued. “No doubt you’re here to sort out a few of the problems we’ve been having locally.”
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