The creatures he’d been warned about were supposed to be asleep in the houses that bordered the garden. But what if there were other things of which the Chief Mancer was unaware – something new that had attacked the rescue party and their cargo?
At the bottom of the slope the ground became very soft again, and the sound of their squelching boots was all Crafty could hear. Then, suddenly, he thought he heard a cry. Donna held up her hand as a sign that they should halt.
They listened intently. The cry came again, so they cautiously set off towards it. A prickle of dread ran up Crafty’s spine – and within moments they had found the Duke’s son.
The Chief Mancer had never mentioned his age, but Crafty had expected him to be young, perhaps even younger than them.
He was wrong. This was a youth of perhaps eighteen or nineteen, and he was weeping softly. He was stuck up to his waist in what appeared to be a small bog.
Crafty had never seen him before, but his clothes betrayed his standing. People who walked the streets of Lancaster didn’t wear clothes like that. Around his neck was a big white ruff above a purple silk tunic with silver buttons. This was definitely the person they were looking for.
Still sobbing, the lad stared up at them. He had a smooth round face and the faintest of blond beards at his chin. His eyes were red from crying.
‘Help me! Please help me!’ he begged pitifully.
‘Don’t you worry, sir,’ Donna told him, trying to sound cheerful. ‘We’ll have you out of there in no time at all.’
But it wasn’t easy. Their first attempts to reach him were cautious – they didn’t want to get sucked down into the bog themselves. However, although the ground was soggy, it proved to be relatively firm, and after a bit of testing they found they were in no real danger. It seemed that the Duke’s son had been unlucky enough to find a small spot that was soft enough to suck him in.
Soon all three of them were close enough to tug him free. But no matter how hard they tried, they could barely budge him. And as they struggled and strained, he kept wailing and sobbing. Then there was a squelching sound as, at last, with a Herculean effort, they managed to raise him a couple of inches.
It was then that they became aware of the full horror of the situation.
They realized that the Shole had indeed changed him: he no longer had any legs.
His whole lower body had been transformed into a mass of twisty, fibrous, woody roots.
Finding the gate without trouble, Crafty ran to report back to the Chief Mancer.
Ginger Bob stared at him through the circle. His face was impassive, and Crafty hadn’t a clue what he was thinking. He assumed they’d be told to leave the Duke’s son where he was. Surely nothing could be done to help him now …
But he was wrong.
‘Well, Benson,’ said the mancer, ‘the Duke’s orders were very clear. Even if his son had been changed by the Shole, he wished him to be brought back to the castle – no matter what the difficulty or cost. He is the Duke of Lancaster and his word is law. We must obey him. Wait here,’ he added. ‘I’ll arrange for the necessary implements to be brought to you.’
Crafty waited anxiously in the cold, wondering what the Chief Mancer had meant by ‘necessary implements’. When he returned, Crafty understood with a chill of horror exactly what they were going to have to do.
Through the gate he was handed three spades – and what at first glance looked like a large pair of scissors. Then Crafty realized that they were for pruning trees. His mother had had a similar pair.
‘Bring him back to this gate,’ the Chief Mancer ordered sternly. ‘Only this gate. And do whatever it takes.’
Crafty shuddered, and headed back towards Donna and Lucky. He knew that they were being ordered to cut through what had once been the young man’s legs, pull him free and bring back what remained of his body. It would be a grim task.
‘We have to dig him out as best we can and take him to Ginger Bob’s gate,’ he told the others, in a voice too low for the whimpering young man to hear.
Donna nodded. Wasting no time, she took one of the spades, strode over to where the Duke’s son was buried and started to dig energetically. Her limbs looked uncoordinated, but she was using the spade effectively, chucking earth back over her left shoulder.
‘Donna certainly doesn’t mess about!’ Lucky observed. ‘Just gets on with what needs doing.’
Crafty had a bad feeling about that. Perhaps Lucky did too, because at first they both simply watched from a distance without making any attempt to help.
All at once the youth’s whimpers erupted into a shrill scream of agony.
Donna stepped back, clearly appalled. It seemed that cutting through the roots would cause the lad terrible pain, just as if they were his legs. Crafty’s heart sank – he’d wondered if that might be the case.
‘Donna!’ Crafty called, beckoning her towards him. Donna came over, looking doubtfully at the spade she was carrying.
He led her further away so that they were completely out of earshot of the trapped young man. Lucky followed, casting an anxious look over his shoulder.
Crafty laid out his plan. ‘My mother liked gardening, and sometimes I used to watch her work. I even helped her out from time to time – I’ve read all her books on the subject,’ he told them. ‘If the Duke’s son was a small tree, his roots would be spread out quite a way, further than you might think. We need to start digging a lot further out. If we make a large enough hole around him, we might be able to tug him free without using these,’ he added, showing them the sharp pruners.
Lucky and Donna both squirmed – they were clearly as unhappy as Crafty at the idea of snipping through the young man’s roots.
‘We’re bound to hurt him a bit – we can’t avoid cutting through some of the finer roots,’ he continued. ‘But there may also be what’s called a taproot. It’s the main central root, which is often very thick and goes deep into the ground. We mustn’t damage that or I think it would kill him.’
Donna nodded. ‘Fine. You seem to know what you’re talking about, Crafty, so we’ll do as you say. I only have one worry. This’ll take quite a while, and the longer we stay beyond noon, the more dangerous it will get. We don’t want to be here when it gets dark.’
Crafty knew that it got dark in the Shole a lot earlier than it did in the Daylight World. Once the sun grew low in the sky, it could no longer penetrate the gloom, and that could happen as soon as late afternoon, even in summer.
So they set to work as quickly as they could, all three of them digging with the spades, creating a wide pit around the youth. Occasionally he gave a yelp, but after a while they saw that he had lapsed into unconsciousness. Maybe he’d fainted from the pain and fear, thought Crafty. He was certainly in a sorry state.
Then Crafty had another dark thought. Maybe the Duke’s son was continuing to change … Perhaps in time he’d be completely made of wood, the blood in his veins and arteries replaced by sap, his brain changed to fungus? Maybe if that happened, he’d feel less pain. But could they be sure of that? Some people thought plants did feel pain. Perhaps a weed screamed silently when you pulled it up, tearing it free of the earth? Crafty shook his head at the idea and got back to work.
It took hours. As the three grubs got closer to the young man’s body, they saw that the roots became thicker. They dug around these very carefully and then eased them free of the slimy soil. At last they reached a big root that went down directly below him. Crafty’s prediction had been correct: this was the taproot, and they had to dig very deep before it grew thinner. They tugged at this together – until at last they pulled the youth free with a loud slurping, sucking sound.
Only then did the Duke’s son open his eyes. He stared around in terror before his gaze settled on Crafty.
‘I feel dizzy,’ he complained. ‘The whole world is spinning …’
‘Don’t you worry, sir,’ said Donna, smiling kindly in an attempt to reassure him. ‘We’ll soon get
you safely back to the city. The worst is over.’
But it wasn’t. At least not for them. Their troubles had only just begun.
They lifted the young man up as gently as they could and carried him towards the Chief Mancer’s gate. He began to moan, and Crafty knew that dragging his roots across the ground was causing him pain. But what else could they do? They were trying their best – they just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.
Crafty was pleased that he’d been able to suggest a way to free the youth. Donna’s method would have caused him terrible pain, and the Chief Mancer’s sharp pruners might have killed him on the spot. Now at least there was a chance that he would survive. Maybe one day the people in the castle laboratories would be able to reverse the effects of the Shole, he thought. For now, maybe they could plant the young man in soil again? But would he want to live like that? Was it really preferable to death?
Soon the three gates were in sight, and they carried their strange burden towards the Chief Mancer’s. Through the circle Crafty saw a couple of guards standing behind him, peering curiously at them through the gate’s shimmering blue frame. All three figures in the room recoiled when they saw the Duke’s son.
Crafty, Donna and Lucky carefully eased him through, head first, and the guards gingerly took up the burden.
‘Well,’ said Ginger Bob when the youth had been taken away. ‘Henderson and Proudfoot, go back to your own gates. I only want one pair of muddy feet tramping through my office, thank you very much.’
Crafty shivered. It was starting to get dark, and the danger from the creatures in those houses would be increasing by the minute. Surely it would be better if all three of them came through this gate. After all, the mancers’ offices were only a few doors apart. And who cared about a bit of mud? Yet here was Ginger Bob, pointing at the gate and asking Donna and Lucky to take a very risky walk of at least fifty yards!
Then the mancer turned to Crafty. ‘You, Benson, had better go and get the spades and the pruners and bring them back here. We can’t afford to lose castle property.’
Crafty looked at him in dismay, but saw that he meant it. He turned to look at the gathering gloom.
Donna must have guessed what he was thinking. She shook her head and said, ‘We’ll come with you, Crafty, and help you collect the tools. It’s getting more dangerous by the minute.’
Lucky murmured his agreement. ‘We can’t let you go back alone.’
Crafty felt a rush of relief, and thanked them for their offer. He knew they’d probably get into trouble with Ginger Bob – they were disobeying orders, after all – but he would be really glad of the company.
All three of them hurried back. The visibility was deteriorating rapidly; in the garden now only the nearest trees could be seen. The wall and the houses beyond were already lost in darkness.
They soon approached the place where they’d left the tools, though they could barely see anything now. Then Crafty heard the first howl, quickly followed by another and another. Those chilling cries turned the blood in his veins to ice. The three of them stopped and looked at each other in horror.
‘Forget the spades!’ Donna shouted, pointing ahead. ‘Run for your lives – back to the gates!’
A pack of four-legged creatures came bounding towards them over the wall, saliva dripping from open jaws. Howling with hunger, they sounded like wolves but looked like giant hairy cats. Huge fangs curved down over their lower jaws, and their long limbs ended in long sharp claws. The three gate grubs turned and ran.
For a few seconds they kept together, panting hard. But soon Crafty found himself in the lead, with Lucky at his shoulder. He glanced back and saw that Donna, sprinting as best she could in her uncoordinated fashion, was falling far behind. And the beasts were gaining on her – fast.
Crafty realized with a jolt that they should have all headed for the nearest gate – Ginger Bob’s – in spite of their orders. No doubt Donna and Lucky were panicking just as much as him, because they had split up, each making for their own gate.
It was then that the howls came again, much louder this time. Crafty could hear the fanged predators bounding along behind him, getting closer and closer. His breathing was ragged now, his legs trembling with effort and fear. It was going to be a very close-run thing – for the first time he wondered if he might not make it to the gate in time!
Crafty risked a glance back, and saw that one of the creatures was practically upon him. His heart pounding, he raced up to the gate and dived through. The Chief Mancer was standing to one side, his foot positioned over the guillotine pedal. But Crafty immediately turned and focused his mind on the gate, thinking of clouds. The swirling opaque barrier filled the frame, and the danger was over.
He lay on the floor, panting and trembling. That had been close – too close.
‘I see that you didn’t manage to recover the tools,’ Ginger Bob said, raising his eyebrows.
‘It was either that or be eaten alive!’ Crafty told him, astounded that he should even mention the tools now. Didn’t he realize that they’d nearly died?
But the mancer just nodded and gave a little smile. ‘Yes, of course. We can recover them another day. Well, go and get some rest, Benson – go straight to your room. There’ll be plenty of time tomorrow to talk things over with your colleagues. I’ll order a hearty supper to be brought up to you. Well done on the mission today – you did well.’
So Crafty trudged wearily back up to the tower. He was almost too tired to eat the bread and ham that were delivered to him.
But he wouldn’t have been able to eat at all if he’d known what had happened.
Not all of them had made it back through their gates.
When Crafty awoke, the aching muscles of his arms and back reminded him of what had happened the previous day. But there was a sense of accomplishment too – and a touch of exhilaration. He had helped rescue the Duke’s son, and he was looking forward to talking it over with Lucky and Donna.
As usual, Crafty ate breakfast in his room and then reported directly to the Waiting Room. He was normally the last to arrive, but to his surprise only Lucky was sitting at the table. Crafty was just about to ask him about Donna when the far door opened and the Chief Mancer came in. His face looked particularly sombre. Crafty and Lucky exchanged a look. This couldn’t be good news.
The mancer gave a little cough before speaking. Crafty thought he was about to make a snide remark about Donna’s absence, but instead, to his astonishment, he began to applaud their achievement.
‘I must congratulate you both on your exemplary conduct yesterday. Despite the danger, you worked long hours in treacherous conditions, and freed the Duke’s son from that terrible predicament with minimal damage to his somewhat … transformed person.’
Ginger Bob paused and gave another cough. ‘However, I do have some rather dreadful news. Unfortunately … I’m sorry to say … Henderson died at the scene.’
For a long time nobody spoke.
Crafty couldn’t believe it. Donna was dead? A sudden pain in his chest made it difficult to breathe. Crafty hadn’t known her long – less than a week – but so much had happened in that time, and they’d spent long days together. Donna had quickly become his friend.
He was angry with the Chief Mancer. If he hadn’t sent him back to collect the tools, it wouldn’t have happened. Then, if Donna hadn’t insisted on helping him to collect them, she’d probably still be alive and chatting to them now. And now he’d never see her again – just like his brothers, his mother … and maybe his father.
‘How did she die, sir? Was Donna caught before she reached the gate?’ Lucky’s voice sounded choked and quavery.
‘She reached the gate, Proudfoot, but the aberrations that pursued her were close on her heels – extremely close. It was necessary for her mancer to use the guillotine. Unfortunately, it was brought down just too soon, and it severed Henderson’s legs as she came through the gate. The poor girl died of shock and blood loss.�
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Out of the corner of his eye Crafty saw Lucky’s face twist in rage and pain. They could only imagine the agony Donna must have suffered. Lucky looked ready to explode. Then Crafty heard him suck in a big breath, clearly trying to calm his fury as he bowed his head and stared at the floor.
Crafty was seething too. Viper had killed other gate grubs before – two of them with the guillotine. Now he’d done it again. How could he possibly be allowed to continue as a mancer?
‘As is customary following the death of a team member, you will not be required to work today. Donna’s death is very sad and a great loss. You will of course report for work at the usual time tomorrow morning.’
With that the Chief Mancer left the room.
‘I need to get out of here,’ Lucky said, his voice full of bitterness, his eyes brimming with tears. ‘I’m going out into the city. Want to come?’
Crafty nodded silently. He wished there was something he could say to comfort Lucky – after all, he’d known Donna much better than Crafty had – but nothing seemed right.
Five minutes later they were tramping through the cobbled streets of Lancaster, neither of them saying a word. They followed a rough circle, with Lucky setting a furious pace – up Meeting House Lane, then round the back of the castle and down Church Street. They were about to cross over to Market Street when they saw a procession winding away to the east.
‘What’s going on? Where’s everybody going?’ Lucky asked of a ragged old man at the back who was struggling to keep up.
‘They’re going to hang the witch,’ he wheezed. ‘Up on Gallows Hill. There’ll be a big party afterwards. But bring your own drink!’ Crafty saw that he was clutching a large bottle of ale in his hand.
‘Let’s follow them, Crafty,’ Lucky said. ‘I’d like to watch that old witch die.’
Crafty wasn’t keen on the idea, but felt unable to protest. There was something newly grim and determined about Lucky. He’d always seemed a cheerful lad – though maybe a little fatalistic. He was clearly taking Donna’s death very hard.
The Beast Awakens Page 8
