Apart from the sword that Grimalkin had given to me and my silver chain, I had no weapons; I’d lost my staff on the battlefield.
But I did have two things that might help me—the small tinderbox that my dad had given me, and the candle stub I always carried in my breeches pocket.
It was the work of moments to light the candle. With that held high in my right hand, and with my left hand on the hilt of my sword, I brought a yellow glow to that dark place.
To my surprise, I found myself in what appeared to be the kitchen at the Spook’s Chipenden house. But it was greatly changed. There were cobwebs everywhere; a thick coating of dust and grime lay on the floor and on the table and chairs. Disturbed by the flickering light of the candle and the soft tread of my boots, a rat scampered away into a gloomy corner.
I looked about me. The fire was cold in the grate, and the glass of one of the windows was cracked. The house looked as if it had been abandoned for many years. It was as if there were no more spooks to carry on the work of fighting the dark.
The Wardstone could travel through time . . . but were we back in the past or in the future? Perhaps I was correct about the meaning of omega. Was I being shown the end of something?
I reflected that in the domain of a powerful mage I could not truly trust my eyes. Dark magic could create powerful illusions—not least the spell dread. I recalled how the demon’s house in Todmorden had changed at nightfall from a warm, comfortable abode into a ruin.
I could trust nothing here. Of course I was not really in the Spook’s house. Although it seemed real, this was an illusion created by the magic of Lukrasta. I turned to leave, but again, the door I’d entered by had vanished. I felt a surge of anger. He was playing games with me, feeding me untruths. I was trapped within his illusory world.
I wondered about the starblade. Grimalkin had said that it would protect me against dark magic that was intended to harm me. But right now I wasn’t actually being harmed, just shown what the mage wished me to see.
What now? How long would I have to wander through this maze before Lukrasta finally confronted me?
I had a sudden hunch that I should go upstairs. Was it my instinct, telling me the right thing to do? Or was it Mam’s latest gift, showing me where to find Lukrasta? If this was indeed the case, there was no flash of light inside my head to confirm it.
Of course, it might simply be more of Lukrasta’s magic. I began to climb the stairs anyway.
As I headed for my bedroom, the candle began to flicker violently in the draft from a broken pane of glass and almost went out. I shielded it with my cupped hand. The room was damp; there was mildew on the blankets. The bed hadn’t been slept in for a long time.
Only one thing in that room had survived the fire—that wall where each of the Spook’s apprentices had scrawled his name. I stared at it. Something was different. I could see my own name, almost lost among the others. But another name had been added to the original thirty.
Jenny
But Jenny was surely a girl’s name. How could a girl be the apprentice to a spook? What madness was this? What game was Lukrasta playing?
Angrily, I turned to leave the bedroom, and descended the stairs. I went through the kitchen again and out through the back door. But this was more trickery. Instead of the Spook’s garden, I found myself in a wood, and darkness had suddenly changed to daylight. Not that there was much of it left. The sun had set, and light was rapidly being leached from the sky.
I was being controlled by Lukrasta.
He was showing me what he wished me to see.
Soon, I resolved, there would be a reckoning.
CHAPTER XXXII
DRAW YOUR SWORD
THERE was still enough light to make out the shapes of buildings through the trees ahead. A light breeze was blowing toward me, and it carried an unpleasant smell—something fetid and unclean—in the air.
I emerged from the wood to find myself on the edge of a ruined village. The roofs had collapsed; some of the houses were just heaps of rubble, and blackened beams lay everywhere.
This sight reminded me of the aftermath of the war that had swept through the County. The same enemy patrol that had burned down the Spook’s house had attacked the village. They’d killed, burned, and looted. But the devastation here looked much worse.
It was then that I came upon the first of the dead bodies. It was that of a man; he had clearly been dead for a number of days, and decomposition was well under way. I soon saw others. Some were children; all were male. Had the women escaped? I wondered.
The next person I found lying in the rubble was still alive, though badly injured. He was lying on his back, with a heavy stone lintel lying across his left leg. His trousers were soaked with blood—the leg was badly crushed. To give him any hope of life, it should have been amputated, but it was now too late for that. The leg was already gangrenous. I could smell it from ten paces. The poison would already have spread through his body.
He groaned, opened his eyes, and stared at me.
I suddenly recognized him: It was the village blacksmith.
With a shock, I realized that the ruined village was indeed Chipenden.
But this couldn’t be real. It was just a magical illusion, surely?
This man had been the Spook’s main contact in the village, the skilled smith who had fashioned the retractable blades in the ends of our staffs, who’d kept him informed of village news and gossip—a necessary contact for a spook who, because of the nature of his job fighting the dark, was isolated from the life of the community.
The blacksmith was clearly dying, but I noticed something else. He looked older. It wasn’t just the gaunt face, perhaps a result of lying in pain without food, water, or shelter. His hair had grayed at the temples.
“Mr. Ward?” he said, his voice hardly more than a croak. “Is it you? Can that be possible?”
Illusion or not, he had spoken to me, and I replied automatically. “Yes, it’s me,” I said, walking over to kneel beside him.
“But you’re dead!” he exclaimed. “How can this be?”
I shook my head. “You’re mistaken. I’m alive. Who did this?”
“Why ask that? Surely you know. Who else but beast warriors and their mages . . . ?”
He must mean the Kobalos. . . . A terrible thought came into my mind. That while I was on the Wardstone, many years had passed back on earth. What if I’d passed through the second door and had been carried by Lukrasta’s magic to a Chipenden far in the future, when the Kobalos had invaded the County?
The smith began to cough and choke. “Water, please,” he begged. “My lips are parched. Give me water.”
I was torn. This was surely some magical deceit conjured by Lukrasta, another illusion. That’s what I wanted to believe. And yet the plight of the poor smith seemed all too real. How could I refuse him?
He raised a shaking hand and pointed toward the trees. “The stream,” he said.
At the foot of the slope was a shallow stream that bubbled over rocks. The water was ice cold and delicious. I’d drunk from it myself many times. But first I needed something to carry it in.
“I’ll be back soon,” I told the smith, and then began to search through the ruined houses. In the shell of a kitchen, I found what I was looking for. Pots, pans, and other utensils were strewn among the rubble. I picked up a large pan and carried it down the slope into the trees.
I knelt beside the stream and angled the pan against the flow of water. It started to fill.
“I wouldn’t bother with that,” a deep voice said behind me. “You’re just wasting your time. He died a few moments after you left him.”
I dropped the pan in the water and leaped to my feet, whirling round.
It was my enemy, the mage Lukrasta.
It was the first time I had been close to him. He was even more formidable than he had looked from a distance. I gazed at the long mustache, the feral mouth with sharp white teeth and lips that were unusually pin
k, as if suffused with blood. But on closer inspection, the eyes were the most striking feature. They were close set, and blazed with a fierce intensity. They were arrogant eyes, mirrors of a soul filled with the knowledge and certainty of its own power. He was almost a head taller than me, and his body was muscular, like that of the dead blacksmith in his prime.
In a scabbard at his hip he carried a sword. That pleased me. I wanted him to defend himself.
“What did you hope to achieve by all these illusions?” I asked. “Are you trying to play with my mind to give you some sort of advantage?”
“They were not illusions,” said Lukrasta. “The tower is real, and everything within it has the potential to be real, too. This is my home—the very same tower that you entered in Cymru.”
“That’s impossible,” I replied, looking him in the eye. “Here the tower stands on a flat plain. If this is Cymru, where are the mountains?”
“Over eons, mountains can be leveled, seas can evaporate, and a landscape can change beyond recognition. This is still Cymru. The place is the same, but the time is different. Did you not notice the sun?”
“That is not our sun,” I said, shaking my head. “I think you’re lying. The Wardstone carried me into the dark. We are probably still there, in another of the domains.”
Lukrasta gave me a sardonic smile. “No,” he said. “We are still in Cymru, as I told you. But we are close to the end of the world. The earth is almost devoid of life and cools as the dying sun cools. The Wardstone can travel through time and space as well as visit the dark. That enabled me to bring you to this place. But my home, the Tower of Time, can move through that dimension, but not space. It always remains rooted in this same spot.”
Lukrasta had a sincerity about him that was all too convincing. That was why the witches had taken the Fiend’s body to his tower. They had wanted him to use his powerful magic to protect it. But with the boggart’s help, I’d put an end to that.
“Then what about what I saw in that room?” I asked. “You said that everything in the tower is potentially real. What do you mean by that?”
“Yes, everything you saw is from a time and place on earth, conjured up by my magic. I have shown you what could come to pass if things do not change. It is similar to the scrying of a witch. What she foresees might come to pass. But things are not fixed, and decisions and acts by others can change the future. When the witch scrys the same thing at a later date, it will have changed—she will find something different. Thus it has always been. The future is never fixed. You can help to change it.”
What he was telling me was very close to what my own master had always believed—that each of our actions shapes the future, that it is not fixed. Well, I was about to change the future again.
“Yes, I think I’ll do just that!” I told him bitterly, images of Lukrasta and Alice together flickering into my mind. “I’ll start by putting an end to you. Draw your sword!”
“Haven’t you listened to a single word I’ve said?” Lukrasta asked impatiently, an edge of anger in his voice now. “You have made a great mistake in putting an end to the Fiend. Now the Kobalos god has been born. He will steadily grow in power until none of the Old Gods will be able to resist his will. Through that birth, the mage strength of the Kobalos has already been tripled and will continue to grow. They are breeding new creatures to fight a war of conquest and extermination against mankind. You will play a part in our defense. You must do so! That is the least you can do to make up for your foolishness.”
“What I intend to do is go back to Chipenden and continue to fight the dark in the best way I know—as the Spook’s apprentice.”
“In that case you will need a new master. John Gregory died in the battle.”
I felt a mixture of grief and anger, but I knew it was true because I’d glimpsed his dead face—though to hear it from Lukrasta’s lips was unbearable. So I vented my feelings in the only way I knew.
“Draw your sword!” I commanded him. “I won’t give you another chance.”
“What a fool you are to challenge me! What do you hope to achieve? Who do you think you are?” demanded Lukrasta.
“I am a seventh son of a seventh son,” I told him. As I drew the starblade with my right hand, flakes of rust fell onto the grass at my feet. “I’m the son of a good man, a farmer who taught me right from wrong, who taught me manners, who taught me what goodness is. But I’m also the son of the first lamia, who, although a loving mother, could be fierce and cruel beyond your imagination. I’m the child of them both. And I’ve been trained by John Gregory, perhaps the greatest spook the County has ever known. I’m Thomas Ward, your worst nightmare. You’ve lived too long, Lukrasta, and this is the time of your death. And now I’ll say it for the third time: Draw your sword!”
Lukrasta muttered under his breath and made a sign in the air.
I tensed. This was the moment of truth. Would the starblade be strong enough to protect me against his magic?
Sparks flickered at his fingertips, and a blue light flashed toward me. But I held the sword vertically before my face, and the light played around its sharp tip before changing to orange and fading away.
I smiled then, showing my teeth.
Grimalkin had forged a powerful weapon for me. The mage couldn’t hurt me with his magic. I was about to have my revenge. I would pay him back for taking Alice from me.
“Where did you get that weapon?” he demanded, his voice cold and imperious.
“It was fashioned by the witch assassin Grimalkin, and she gave it to me,” I told him. “She calls it the starblade because of what it was made from. While I possess it, your magic is powerless against me. So let’s see how well you can fight. Let’s see how well you can die.”
Lukrasta straightened his back, held his head high, and looked down at me. “The last thing I took you for was a fool!” he growled. “It looks like I was wrong.”
Then, finally, he drew his sword.
CHAPTER XXXIII
LAMIA BLOOD
LUKRASTA drew his sword but did not attack. He waited, his weapon held vertically like my own. His expression was inscrutable, but his eyes were fixed upon my blade.
I would have to initiate the fight.
I took a tentative step toward him and thrust the tip of my sword toward his chest. He made no attempt to parry. He just took two rapid steps backward, taking us away from the stream.
I jabbed again, and he retreated farther. There was a tree behind him; soon his back would be against the trunk. So, thinking to force him to retreat, I ran at him, bringing my sword round in an arc toward his head. For the first time he used his own sword. Its blade met mine in midair, and the woodland was filled with the sound of clashing metal and the beating of wings as a flock of frightened birds took flight.
I pressed home my attack, getting into the swing of things, seeking an opening in his defense. But he too was moving now, on his toes, his weapon blocking each thrust and swing of my own. Lukrasta certainly knew how to use a sword, but I sensed that he was not fighting to his full ability, and that angered me. He was moving sideways in an arc rather than backward, and now my own back was to the trees. Even though he was on the defensive, he still managed to manipulate me, choosing his position and maneuvering me where he wanted me.
So I stepped up the pace and drove him toward the stream.
I was really getting into a rhythm now, using all the tricks that Grimalkin had taught me. The sword felt light, the balance just right. It was the perfect weapon for me. I was getting my second wind, my speed gradually building. It was as if I could predict each of Lukrasta’s moves in advance, but that was relatively easy because each was a reaction to what I did. He was still fighting defensively.
I had him at the edge of the water now, and I saw my chance. He seemed to hesitate and glance backward, down at the stream.
Was he like a witch, unable to cross running water?
Seeing his hesitation and temporary loss of concentration, I t
ook my opportunity. The scything stroke of my sword should have sundered his head from his body. But he suddenly stepped back into the water, with far more grace than he had so far displayed.
My blade missed.
But his didn’t.
Passing within a hair’s breadth of my left eye, the tip of his sword cut my cheek to the bone.
I staggered back, my cheek burning, feeling the blood run down my face and onto my neck. Lukrasta was smiling at me arrogantly, standing up to his knees in the fast- flowing stream. It had been a trick. He had been waiting for me to overextend myself.
“Only one side of your face will be handsome now!” he mocked. “But never fear. I’m sure there is a woman somewhere who will take pity on you!”
He could have said anything but that. He had taken Alice from me; he had ended my dream of being with her someday; he had shattered our friendship as casually as a drunken man hurls an empty glass against a wall.
I fought on, filled with increasing fury, desperate for revenge—although that did not lessen my skill. I was one with the sword, pressing harder and harder against my opponent. But he matched every jab and every swing I made.
All but the last one.
I moved without thinking, repeating the ruse I’d used against Grimalkin when she had hunted me down after the battle on Pendle Hill. Then, I had flicked my staff from my right hand to my left and driven its blade through her left shoulder, pinning her to a tree, never dreaming that we would later become allies.
Grimalkin had taught me how to fight with a sword, but John Gregory had taught me to wield a staff, and it was my master’s teaching that now came to my aid.
I flicked the sword, caught it with my left hand, and drove it through Lukrasta’s shoulder. His eyes widened in surprise, and he dropped his own weapon into the water. When I pulled the blade from his flesh, he groaned and fell to his knees.
The water was up to his waist, swirling away the blood that dripped from his shoulder. That was nothing to the blood he was about to lose. I grasped my sword with both hands and held it above my head. Lukrasta looked up at me. He was stupefied, unable to believe what was about to happen.
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