The Darke Toad
Page 1
DEDICATION
For Karen and Peter Collins, with love. May you never meet a Darke Wombat.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter 1 ♦ Trick or …
Chapter 2 ♦ Treat?
Chapter 3 ♦ Knock, Knock …
Chapter 4 ♦ Who’s There?
Chapter 5 ♦ Blood
Chapter 6 ♦ Going Out
Chapter 7 ♦ Alice at the Window
Chapter 8 ♦ Invisible
Chapter 9 ♦ Working the Crowd
Chapter 10 ♦ Gribbles
Chapter 11 ♦ Follow the Toad
Chapter 12 ♦ Goldfish
Chapter 13 ♦ Truth
Excerpt from Fyre
1: What Lies Beneath
2: A White Wedding
About the Author and Illustrator
Other Works
Copyright
Back Ads
About the Publisher
1
TRICK OR …
Flick. Flick. Flick. Simon Heap walked slowly around the darkening Observatory, Lighting the candles. He was using the old Darke trick of clicking finger and thumb together to produce a small black flame. It was the first thing he had mastered when he arrived at the Observatory some six months previously, and although he had learned Darker and more dangerous skills since then, he was still proud of his Darke flame.
Flick. Flick. Flick. Simon touched the wicks of the candles that he had placed on the old slate worktops, which were built into the circular walls of the underground chamber in the manner of a laboratory. Soon an orange glow took hold and began to light the large dismal space. Simon knew he shouldn’t be cheered by the light of a flame; he understood only too well that he should love the dark and damp shadows of an October evening, but he didn’t. He missed the light and warmth of a fire; he also missed the prospect of a hot supper in the company of friends. And even though he tried his hardest not to think about it, he missed his family—well, most of his family. He didn’t miss his new so-called youngest brother one little bit.
Flick. Flick. Flick. The thought of the scrawny kid who now called himself Septimus Heap and who was living in splendor at the top of the Wizard Tower, prancing around being ExtraOrdinary Apprentice—taking the Apprenticeship that Simon had dreamed one day would be his—made Simon seethe. Fueled by his anger, the Darke flame on his thumb leaped high into the air and very nearly singed his eyebrows.
Simon approached the last candle with trepidation. Fat and white, it stood alone at the far end of the benchtop opposite the stairs. But it was not the candle that filled Simon with dread; it was the thing that sat beside it—the skull of his Master, DomDaniel. Simon’s hand shook as, under the disapproving glare of the skull, he put the flame to the wick and watched the yellow light flare up, sending dark, dancing shadows deep into the eye sockets.
Simon shivered and pulled his black woolen cloak around him. The cloak, heavily embroidered in Darke symbols, was one of his Master’s castoffs. According to DomDaniel it was steeped in Darke Magyk, but so far all Simon had found it steeped in was the smell of old sweat. He had also found a damp toffee stuck to the lining, three dead spiders squashed inside the collar and a mouse skeleton in one of the pockets. Simon sighed. He glanced at the rest of his Master, which was propped up in a carved oak chair a few feet away, guarding the top of the stairs. The headless skeleton gave him the creeps, and the two nasty green faces on the thick gold ring that was wedged tight on DomDaniel’s left thumb bone stared at Simon malevolently. The prospect of the long, cold night ahead with nothing but Darke bones for company filled Simon with gloom.
Phut. The candle flame went out. Simon looked down and saw, to his shock, that the skull was now hovering in the air. As he watched, the form of his Master’s face slowly became visible, with DomDaniel’s lips pursed in blowing-out-a-candle mode.
Simon stared in amazement. DomDaniel had been trying to get his Clothing Bones Spell right ever since his bones had been picked clean by the Marsh Brownies when his ship, the Vengeance, had sunk with all hands. However, Clothing Bones was, DomDaniel informed Simon, the kind of Magyk that was very difficult to do for oneself. To DomDaniel’s frustration, Simon had been no help at all—“about as much use as a chocolate teapot, Heap.” But after witnessing several failed attempts by DomDaniel to Clothe his bones, Simon had begun to wonder whether his Master really was the powerful and talented Wizard he had made himself out to be when he had recruited Simon into his service.
But now at last DomDaniel was having some success. Simon watched with a kind of revolted fascination as the outlines of the skull slowly faded below the blobby contours of DomDaniel’s face, and the old Necromancer’s cylindrical stovepipe hat appeared out of the shadows and planted itself onto the thinning hair. DomDaniel’s head was now looking unpleasantly realistic. The disembodied head, which was hovering some six inches above the workbench, turned an almost complete circle until it was facing its bones, which sat—still UnClothed and displaying a distinct lack of interest—in their chair. The head now set off to join them. Floating about four feet off the floor, it traveled sedately across to its bones, lined itself up with the top vertebra—the atlas—and then slowly descended until once again it sat upon its body.
The head swiveled around and gave Simon a triumphant smirk.
“Amazing,” said Simon. “Quite superb.” Simon knew that the easiest way to keep his Master happy and to stop him from indulging in petty little nuisance Spells like hair-tangling, itching in embarrassing places—or, even worse, itching right in the middle of his head—was to lay on the flattery with, as his mother would have said, a trowel.
“It’s nothing compared to how I used to be,” said DomDaniel’s rather squeaky voice. “But I’ll show them, Heap. I will. And then they will all be …” His voice faded away into the clammy night air.
“Sorry?” Simon finished for him.
The head nodded and began to topple. Simon leaped forward and caught it as it tumbled toward the floor. It glared at him ungratefully. Very carefully, his hands trembling slightly, Simon balanced the head on top of the broad, flat vertebra and snatched his hands away. He felt quite sick.
“Not like that, you idiot!” said the head, beginning to wobble. “Push it down, man. It’s got to fit. Properly.”
Simon swallowed hard. DomDaniel’s head was cold as ice, and although the Clothed skull did have substance, it felt unpleasantly squishy and Simon was afraid his fingers might push through its surface at any moment. Gingerly, he pushed the head down until he could feel the connection between the base of the skull and the atlas.
For once, the expression on DomDaniel’s face was one of satisfaction. “Ooh, nearly there … a bit to the left … yes, yes … now push. Got it! Hey, Heap—where are you going?”
But Simon was gone, racing to find a bucket to be sick in.
He returned, white-faced and shaky, to find DomDaniel standing at the top of the stairs, waiting impatiently. The Necromancer had wrapped himself in his newest Darke cloak and was wearing a stout pair of boots. But beneath the cloak, Simon glimpsed white bones going into the boots and he knew that there was no more than a skeleton beneath the dark folds of cloth.
“Ready?” DomDaniel demanded.
“Er, yes,” said Simon, wondering what it was he was meant to be ready for.
“Get a toad, will you, Heap? A nice big one. Then we’ll be off.”
“Oh. Right.” Simon quickly unscrewed the top of the toad jar and peered in. A large, particularly googly-eyed toad blinked up at him. Simon grabbed it and held it out to show his Master.
DomDaniel eyed the toad with approval. “Very nice. It should go down well. Put it in a toad bag, Heap.” Simon took a black, shiny bag from beside the toad
jar and dropped the toad into it. The newly Clothed skull smiled. “Off we go!” it said.
Simon followed an unusually jolly DomDaniel as he began to lurch toward the stairs. Suddenly something clattered to the floor—something white and thin.
Arm bones, thought Simon, steeling himself to pick them up.
DomDaniel looked impatiently at Simon trying to put together all the little wrist bones. “Oh, put them in the toad bag for later. Give me your arm, Heap.”
Simon looked horrified. “But … but …”
A slightly hysterical laugh echoed around the Observatory like a door swinging wildly on its hinges. “To lean on, Heap—to lean on. Ha ha ha.” And then, menacingly, “Don’t go giving me ideas, will you?”
Simon and DomDaniel began the long descent down through the cold slate cliffs. At the foot of the stairs outside the Magog Chamber, DomDaniel stopped and drew his lips back into what Simon guessed was meant to be a smile. Taking courage from the smile, Simon asked where they were going.
DomDaniel looked exasperated. “Why do I always get the stupid ones? Toad, boy—toad!”
“Oh,” Simon said, none the wiser.
“We are going to pay a little visit to our fan club in the Port.”
“That’s nice,” Simon said politely, although he had not heard of a Port DomDaniel fan club. He supposed that was because it was rather small.
DomDaniel seemed to find Simon’s puzzled expression funny. A series of squeaky chuckles came from somewhere in his neck. “You didn’t know I had a fan club did you? Ha ha! Ha ha ha!” DomDaniel’s head rocked from side to side as though it were on a hinge.
Simon looked horrified.
“You may well look shocked, Heap. We are going to visit the Port Witch Coven! Oh!”
DomDaniel’s head gave one last wobble and fell off.
2
TREAT?
Marcia Overstrand, ExtraOrdinary Wizard, was regretting her decision. It was the first time she had taken her new Apprentice, Septimus Heap, away from the Castle, and it was turning into a nightmare.
Septimus had been working hard in the Wizard Tower for six months now, and Marcia had decided that it was time he had a break. She had arranged what she called a “treat” for Septimus—a treasure hunt through the bookshops in the Port in search of a book that she knew Septimus loved: A Hundred Stories for Bored Boys. Marcia had already tracked the book down to Woollie Wottery’s Pots’n’Books, an odd little shop that she was fond of. With the help of Woollie Wottery, who owned the shop, Marcia had devised a series of clues to lead Septimus to the book, which Miss Wottery had hidden in a Magykal box under the counter. Not only would the treasure hunt be fun for Septimus, it would also be a good way for him to learn how to get around the Port safely. Marcia had been very pleased with her idea—until now.
Right now she and Septimus were sitting on the Port Barge, which was itself sitting on a sandbank that the skipper swore had moved overnight. Using the Port Barge had been part of Marcia’s plan. She wanted to show Septimus how to get around for himself, so that he did not need to rely on Magyk or the Wizard Tower ferry boat—which meant that everyone always knew where you were going and why. But right now Marcia wished she had taken the easy way and used the Wizard Tower ferry.
Marcia was wet, cold and an uncomfortable focus of interest for the other passengers from the Castle, who had not expected to find their ExtraOrdinary Wizard keeping them company. Marcia, in her turn, had not expected her fellow passengers to look so very weird. There were three young men wrapped in bandages stained with what Marcia hoped was fake blood, two young women wearing vast quantities of black netting and someone in a ferret costume, the head of which he or she wore throughout the voyage. Marcia supposed they were all going to some kind of fancy dress party.
As the waves of the incoming tide bashed against the side of the barge and darkness fell, Marcia felt miserable, but she was relieved to see that Septimus was still excited to be on a journey just for fun. When Marcia had proposed the trip, it had come as a shock to her that Septimus had clearly never thought it might be possible to go anywhere purely for pleasure. It had caught Marcia somewhere in her throat and made her eyes water when she realized that all her Apprentice’s previous outings from the Castle had been terrifying Young Army maneuvers from which he had had a well-founded fear that he might not return. This had made Marcia even more determined that Septimus would have a really good time in the Port. But, as she watched Septimus smiling broadly and gazing excitedly at the lights of the Port—which were tantalizingly close—Marcia realized that there were more important things in life than being annoyed at being stranded on a sandbank, and she smiled too.
Five minutes later there was a round of applause from the passengers, and the Port Barge was floating free. They now made rapid progress to Castle Quay, where the mortified skipper saw her strange passengers off the barge and into the nighttime Port.
Like all ExtraOrdinary Wizards, Marcia had the use of a suite of rooms in the Customs House on the main harbor front. She was looking forward to getting there, where she knew the fire would be lit and supper awaiting them. She hurried Septimus off into the network of alleyways that would take them to the harbor front. After about ten minutes, Septimus, who had been lagging behind, said, “Are we there yet?”
Marcia tried very hard not to be snappy. This is meant to be fun, she told herself. “Nearly there,” she said.
Ten cold minutes later, Septimus said, “We’ve been here before.”
Marcia stopped. “Bother,” she said.
“We’re lost, aren’t we?” said Septimus.
“No. No, not at all,” Marcia insisted.
Septimus fished out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “It’s a good thing I’ve brought a map.”
“A map?” Marcia wished she had thought of that.
“Yes. ‘It’s a fool who travels to places new, without a map to guide him through.’”
“Well, really!” Marcia said indignantly—and then she remembered. “Oh, that’s one of your Young Army sayings, is it?” she asked in her gentle, talking-about-the-past voice.
Septimus nodded. “They were quite useful, really,” he said—and then he remembered some rude ones they had had to learn about Marcia. “Well, most of them.” Septimus and his map now led the way and they quickly emerged from the maze of alleyways into a wide and well-lit street.
“I thought it best to get out of the alleys,” said Septimus, “and then head back down the bigger streets to the harbor. It’s safer at this time of night.”
“Yes, good idea,” Marcia agreed, thinking that maybe Septimus wasn’t in need of learning how to get around the Port safely after all.
A cold rain began to spatter down and Septimus shivered. The street felt somewhat creepy, and something, he didn’t know what, was making the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Marcia set off briskly and Septimus hurried after her, checking his map for the first turn that would take them down to the harbor. Suddenly he heard Marcia hiss, “Unseen number three. Now, Septimus. Right now!” Excited at the urgency in Marcia’s voice that told him this was for real, Septimus quickly did as he was told.
A few seconds later, two Unseen shadows were walking along very quietly, watching two figures coming toward them on the other side of the street. One was hooded and swathed in a dark cloak; the other looked very strange.
“Goodness,” Marcia whispered to Septimus. “For a horrible moment I thought it was DomDaniel. It’s got his face, but look at the way it’s walking—how it lurches from side to side like a huge puppet.”
“It looks like someone dressed up, like those people on the boat,” Septimus said. “But it feels really horrible.”
Marcia was pleased with her Apprentice. “Exactly,” she said. “I suspect it is some kind of Darke illusion. There are, unfortunately, a few places here where you can buy those kind of things.” She sighed. “There are some very strange people living here in the Port, Septimus.”
Marcia watched the two figures turn a corner and disappear into the night. “We can let go the Unseens now, Septimus,” she said.
At the end of the road, Septimus found his shortcut to the harbor. Known as Drab Dive, the alleyway ran between the backs of small, drab houses, but despite its name it was bright and cheerful. Septimus and Marcia hurried along, noticing that the lights that lit their way were of an unusual variety. Balanced on the sills of windows that looked out over the Dive were all kinds of hollowed-out gourds with candles placed inside them. The gourds had been carved with fiendishly grinning faces, which stared down into the Dive and appeared to laugh and leer at them from their perches. Septimus was entranced; Marcia less so. “How very peculiar,” she said.
Things rapidly became even more peculiar—as they rounded a corner, they met three white-faced ghouls leading a dog on a string. The ghouls were laughing in a happy, unghoul-like way. As they approached Marcia and Septimus they said cheerily, “We know who you are!”
“Jolly good,” said Marcia frostily.
“Oh, ha ha. Very good. That’s just what she’d say, isn’t it?” the ghoul asked its companions. They laughed in agreement and stopped to talk.
“Yeah, but you know, the real Marcia’s much scarier.”
“Oh?” said Marcia.
“And taller,” added another ghoul.
“Yeah, man, a good foot taller, I’d say. And seriously weird. I wouldn’t like to meet the real one down the Dive on a dark night, ha ha!”
“Well, really!” said Marcia. “How rude!”
“Love it! Keeping in role. Very good. See ya—Marcia!” The ghouls departed, still laughing. One of them turned back and shouted, “And the new Apprentice too. Good touch. Have a good night!”
Bemused, Marcia watched them go. “I don’t know, Septimus,” she said. “The Port never fails to surprise me.”
Some ten minutes later Septimus and Marcia were sitting by a small—and highly luxurious—coal fire. Septimus had never seen coal burning before and he was amazed at the heat it threw out. Outside, the rain was falling heavily and a wind was blowing in from the sea, sending the ropes thrumming against the masts of the boats tied up in the harbor no more than a few feet from the Customs House. Septimus felt really happy—for the first time in his life, he was away from the Castle and not outside in foul weather. And, even more amazingly, he was not scared. Not one little bit. He wriggled down into the warmth of the squashy armchair and breathed in deeply. Something smelled delicious.