Its ears pricked up, it raised its clawed forepaws, and it hissed, cat eyes gleaming sickly yellow in the gloom and shadows of the forest path.
Alastor. He knew that name. Nicodemus’s familiar. But it had been an ordinary cat. This couldn’t be—
Then it no longer mattered.
The cat-creature hissed again, and then it sprang across the path at him, claws descending.
Chapter Seven
Timothy dove out of the cat-creature’s path. Excruciating pain flared in his side, as if someone had jabbed a knife into him. The explosion of agony took his breath away and he stumbled, falling to his knees, colorful stars dancing before his eyes.
The cat-creature—this monster that had once been known as Alastor—landed in a crouch, then spun around to face him, its hairless tail twitching in the air as it crouched, hungrily eyeing its prey.
What happened to you? Timothy’s mind raced as he stared at the monstrous feline. When last he had seen Nicodemus’s familiar, it had been nothing more than a hairless house cat—a minor annoyance, at best—but now? He had no idea what it had become. It was huge and its body was no longer built like a cat. It was almost as if the cat had become more … manlike.
The monstrosity sprang at him with a throaty growl and he tried to dodge again, but the beast was too fast. Before he knew it the thing was on top of him. Its needle-sharp claws pricked Timothy through his clothing and he was forced back down to the ground. Pinned beneath its weight, he was forced to look up into its hideous features and, for an instant, he saw something in the large, yellow eyes, something familiar.
It lashed out at him, then, running the claws of one strangely shaped paw quickly down his right cheek.
Timothy cried out in pain, the five scratches burning like hungry fire.
“Get off of him!” Caiaphas screamed from somewhere behind them. And then the navigator’s voice was replaced by another.
“You heard the man,” Grimshaw growled. “Off the boy—now.”
The cat-creature looked down into Timothy’s face and hissed, baring its teeth. And then it left him to return obediently to its master.
Timothy crawled to his feet, the throbbing in his side now partnered with a burning pain on his cheek, but both discomforts were quickly forgotten as he caught sight of the latest horror to be played out before him.
“Caiaphas,” Timothy whispered. The navi-mage dangled in the air, with what appeared to be a tentacle of pure magic wrapped tightly about his throat. And “tentacle” was the right word, for the appendage grew from the stump of Constable Grimshaw’s missing arm. Caiaphas struggled in its grasp, and Timothy started toward him.
“No tricks, boy,” he said with a snarl. “Or your friend’s life is forfeit.”
“He can’t breathe,” Timothy said, moving one step closer.
Alastor hissed, crouching at his master’s side, ready to pounce yet again.
“I’m warning you, boy, I’ll snap his neck with nary a thought. Keep where you are.”
Timothy’s mind raced with a hundred thoughts and then a hundred more after that, but no plan occurred to him that would guarantee he could save his friend before the Constable did the unthinkable.
“Please,” he begged. “He can’t breathe.”
Grimshaw chuckled before slowly lowering Caiaphas to the ground and loosening the magical tendril from about his throat.
The navigation mage gasped, gulping air.
“Nothing would please me more than to kill the two of you now,” the Constable spat. “But that is not my master’s wish.”
Master, Timothy thought. All right, so you’re holding Alastor’s leash, but who is holding yours?
Leander had hinted of an evil mastermind, someone working in the shadows of the world. Though Nicodemus had been defeated and Grimshaw’s own efforts had been thwarted, mages had continued to disappear. The assumption was that they had been abducted or murdered, and Leander had been assigned the task of helping to investigate those disappearances. So far, however, there had been not a single clue as to what had happened to all of them.
It seemed the only mage who had disappeared and then reappeared was Grimshaw himself, which made Timothy fairly certain that whoever was behind those abductions was the mage that Grimshaw now called master.
Caiaphas was on the ground, still recovering. The Constable’s bizarre magical arm writhed in the air above him, ready to attack at the first sign of resistance. Timothy’s hands were still tied, and he seethed with anger. There was nothing worse than feeling helpless.
“Do you like it, boy?” Grimshaw asked, glancing at that tendril of shimmering magic that had replaced his missing arm. “Almost as good as flesh and bone—perhaps even better.” He uttered a curt, ugly laugh devoid of any humor. “It was a gift. A gift for my services.” He drew the limb away from Caiaphas, studying it, as if seeing it for the first time.
Timothy caught the eye of the navigation mage, who had yet to rise from the forest floor. He was on all fours, apparently still trying to catch his breath. But when their eyes touched briefly, Timothy saw something in the man’s gaze that warned him to be ready—to be prepared.
“A gift from your master?” Timothy asked, mocking Grimshaw.
Rage blossomed upon the Constable’s face. The tentacle of magic shot out toward Timothy, away from Caiaphas, only to crackle and dissipate as the negating field around the boy disrupted the magic that had constructed that terrible arm.
“Such a wonderful gift,” Timothy continued calmly. “But you still can’t touch me.”
Grimshaw’s face contorted with fury and frustration, and he drew back his tentacle of magic as one would pull back from the searing heat of a ravenous flame. “Right you are, boy,” he agreed, a cruel glint appearing in his dark, malevolent eyes as he made sure that his gift had not been damaged. “But I can touch your companion.”
He might have attacked Caiaphas again, then, but the navigation mage chose that moment to act. He worked his fingers into the dirt of the forest floor and suddenly the woods around them were swept into a frenzy. Dirt, rocks, leaves, and twigs shot up into the air, briefly forming a barrier between them and their foes.
“Toward the lake, Tim,” Caiaphas bellowed.
The boy did not hesitate. He bolted into the trees with Caiaphas thundering at his heels, the two of them whipping past low branches and darting between the thick trunks of ancient trees. Timothy chanced a quick glance over his shoulder to be sure that Caiaphas was right behind him. The navigators diversion would only buy them so much time before Grimshaw and his pet were in pursuit. They had to make this work.
Finn had spoken of Lake Dwellers, and Timothy hoped they could reach that settlement before the Constable caught up to them.
“Faster!” he heard Caiaphas gasp behind him, and he quickened his pace, trying not to stumble in the darkening shadows of the deep forest.
His side and face ached with each rapid-fire beat of his heart, but it did not deter him. In fact, it spurred him to run faster. The river was close. He could smell its rich dampness in the air.
“Almost there, Caiaphas,” he gasped.
There came no response.
Timothy faltered and glanced behind him, peering into the darkness. But Caiaphas wasn’t there. He did not want to stop, was desperate to reach safety, but he had no choice. What if his friend had fallen, twisted an ankle, perhaps? He had to help.
“Caiaphas,” he called out, coming to a full stop. “Caiaphas, where are you?” He looked about the darkened forest for a sign of his friend, wary for any hint of Grimshaw and the monstrous Alastor, but saw nothing. Timothy began to slowly retrace his steps. “Caiaphas,” he called again into the infringing darkness. “Where …?”
A whistling sound filled the air, then something struck him in the back of the head, knocking him to the ground. Six figures suddenly emerged from the shadows, converging upon him. He tried to stand, but dropped back to his knees, overcome by a sickening dizziness.
One of them rushed at him and launched a savage kick to his side that sent Timothy sprawling to the damp forest floor yet again. His injured ribs seared with such pain that he nearly passed out, but he struggled to hang on, to stay conscious.
The shapes loomed over him now, their features clouded in the shadows of night. Timothy lay on the ground, aching so badly that it felt as if his entire body were one enormous injury.
“Caiaphas,” he said again.
“Don’t worry, little one,” said another coarse voice. “The navigator is just fine. In fact he’s sleeping quite soundly”
They all began to laugh.
And then he heard the voice, unmistakable in its malevolence and cruelty. “Do you have him?”
Grimshaw.
“Of course, Constable,” said one of the six. “And we didn’t hurt him very much, just as you asked.”
“That is best for all of you,” Grimshaw snarled as he emerged from the trees to join the assailants. “For it is not I who wishes the boy to remain unharmed, but the master.”
“The master,” hissed one of the attackers. “Yes. All praise and glory to Alhazred.”
Timothy could fight the pain no longer, and the darkness pulled him into oblivion, the name of his enemies’ master echoing through his mind … the master who was supposed to have been dead for over a century.
Alhazred.
Shortly after dawn, Edgar flew above the Yarrith Forest, keen avian eyes searching through the breaks in the trees below for a sign that Timothy and Caiaphas were still alive. He had yet to find anything to give him hope, but Yarrith was a very big place, and he would not give up until he had searched every inch.
Feeling a need to rest his wings, Edgar dropped down into the thick woods and perched upon the branch of an ancient and gnarled tree. He fluttered his wings, shaking the aches of his long journey from his muscles. A short rest will do me good, the familiar thought as he peered about.
Yarrith was more than a bit creepy, the bird determined, as he heard strange sounds rising from shadows below him. I need to he careful, he mused, winding up in the stomach of some wild beast won’t do Timothy and Caiaphas any good.
Something moved in the brush below, and Edgar cawed loudly to frighten it off. With a crackle of twigs and a swaying of branches, it hurried away. There came another sound, right behind it. At first Edgar mistook it as the soft whispering of the wind through the leaves, but then he realized the sound was coming from nearby. Investigating, he found a large hole in the body of the tree on which he perched. The sound was coming from the darkness of that hole.
Edgar sprang back, prepared to defend himself with beak and talon if necessary, but something told him that wasn’t going to be the case. He tilted his head inquisitively.
“Hello?” he asked, and from inside the hole, he heard the rustle of feathers, and caught the smell of something incredibly ancient wafting out from within.
At first he glimpsed only its large, round eyes, covered in a glistening milky sheen. The orbs floated in the darkness of the hollow in the tree as though there were nothing more to the creature but eyes. Then, after a moment, it emerged, an owl more ancient than any Edgar had ever seen. It was twice his size, faded feathers speckled white and brown.
Edgar searched his memory for the language of the owl. It had been quite some time since he’d had to speak the dialect. “Good morning to you, revered owl,” he said, hoping that he remembered all the pronunciations correctly. He didn’t want to insult the great old bird.
The owl studied him with his large, cataract-covered eyes. “Why have you awakened me, rook?” he asked in a quavering voice that sounded as old as he looked.
“I meant no disrespect. I did not know that you slept within this tree,” Edgar told the owl. “I’ve stopped only to rest my wings before continuing on with my mission.”
The owl considered his words. “Mission?” Owls were an extremely curious race. “What sort of mission?”
“I am a familiar in search of his master,” the black bird explained. “The sky carriage he was riding in was attacked two days past, and I believe that he and the carriage’s navigator fell from the craft somewhere in these vast woods. Perhaps you know something of this?”
“A sky carriage attacked, you say?” the old bird asked as he gazed off into the great woods around them. “Let me see,” he mused aloud. “Sometimes it is difficult to remember. At my age, things have a tendency to slip easily away. I do seem to remember something about two strangers to these woods, but I’m afraid little else.”
Edgar cocked his head to one side, feathers ruffling. Strangers did not necessarily mean Timothy and Caiaphas, but it was possible. And if so, it would mean that they were alive.
“Might you know, venerable one, if they had suffered any injuries? Or can you give me a hint as to where they could now be?”
The great owl slowly shook his head. “I am truly sorry, rook, but the years have robbed me of memory.”
Edgar felt his body grow slack with disappointment. “That’s all right, good owl. At least you have given me some hope that I may yet find them both well.”
He knew it was time to be on his way. If these strangers to the forest were indeed his friends, he could at least narrow the area of his search. “Many thanks to you for your time and for this resting place,” he said with a bow. “I take leave of you now, for there is still much of the Yarrith Forest left to search.”
“I remember that I fed upon fire weasel last night.”
Edgar furled his wings, not sure how to respond to the owl’s bizarre statement. “Excellent,” he replied. “Perhaps this evening you’ll feast upon squirrel, but now I must be off and—”
The owl ruffled his ancient feathers in annoyance. “You misunderstand me, rook. I fed upon the fire weasel as it was startled from its hiding place.”
Edgar raised his beak and stared, still unsure of the old bird’s purpose. “Go on,” he urged.
“There was a commotion in the woods yesterday; the dwellers who live by the lake captured two, I believe. Yes, there were two of them.”
Edgar stared at the owl. “These Lake Dwellers, are they hostile? Do you have any idea where the strangers would have been taken? Or how long ago it was when they were taken captive?”
The owl considered the many questions, then turned and headed back to his home in the tree.
“Please, old one,” Edgar begged. “Can’t you tell me anything more about last night?”
“Yes,” the ancient bird said, his head turning almost completely around to gaze at the rook. “Yes I can. The fire weasel, it was truly delicious.”
Cassandra rapped lightly on the heavy wooden door to Leander Maddox’s living quarters. Each time she visited him she found the poor mage in worse shape than the last. The healers were baffled, treating the man with special herb drinks to help boost his strength, but other than that, they could do nothing.
She was about to knock again, fearing that she had not been heard, when the door suddenly opened a crack and a pale face warily peered out from the darkness within.
“What is it?” Carlyle asked in a perturbed hiss. He saw that the visitor was Cassandra, and his tone dramatically changed. “Ah, Mistress Nicodemus. What may I do for you?”
The Grandmaster’s assistant looked tired, large black circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. He may be an annoying man, she thought, but he is loyal to his employer. Carlyle had not left Leander’s side since the Grandmaster’s return.
“It is not what you can do for me,” she explained, “but what I can do for you.”
He eyed her suspiciously, allowing the door to open a little wider. The sitting room and bedroom beyond were in near total darkness, illuminated only by small ghostfire lanterns. A sickly smell mixed with that of poultices and herbs wafted out into the hall, and Cassandra could hear Leander moaning softly in
his sleep within.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Carlyle asked doubtfully
“You have been with Leander for days, never taking any time for yourself. Allow me to sit with the Grandmaster. Go and have a hot meal—perhaps even a bath and a few hours’ rest.”
“I couldn’t,” he said, turning from her toward the darkness of the other room where Leander lay. “What if he needs me? What if he calls my name and I am not here?”
“Then I shall send someone to find you,” she reassured him. “Do not worry, the Grandmaster will be in good hands while you replenish your strength.”
Carlyle looked back to her and she could see that his resolve was crumbling. Days without proper rest and food had taken their toll.
“You’ll come find me if he should speak my name?”
Cassandra nodded. “Immediately. Now go, take care of yourself so that you may better take care of him.”
He allowed the door into the Grandmaster’s quarters to open wider. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” Carlyle said. “I’m taking care of myself so that I can best see to his needs. Yes, that’s it.” He smiled tiredly, stepping out into the hall and gesturing for Cassandra to enter the room.
The Grandmaster’s assistant suddenly tripped over nothing, catching himself on the doorway. Cassandra’s eyes grew large as she watched the man recover. Carlyle looked about the hall, embarrassed.
“I’m so tired that I am tripping over my own feet,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “Perhaps it is a good thing that you have come to relieve me.”
He smiled at her then and started to leave, only to stop and return. Cassandra had begun to close the door, and he reached out to stop it with his hand.
“Yes, Carlyle?” she said.
“I’ll be in the kitchen having a bit of supper, and then I am going to retire to my room to wash up and rest for a few hours.”
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