The
White Witch
Book One of
The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy
J. J. Morrison
Copyright © J. J. Morrison 2018
Published by White Raven Books
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author and publisher.
Map artwork by J. J. Morrison
ISBN 978-1-9999589-0-9
First Edition
Instagram: @jjmorrison_author
For mum
Contents
PROLOGUE
1. THE BANISHED
2. THE FAILED REBELLION
3. THE LORD OF THE DARK LANDS
4. THE DARK FOREST
5. AGATHA
6. AGE OLD ENEMIES
7. THE DEAD SPELL
8. THE PROPHECY
9. A MOTHER’S BLOOD
10. REVEROFS
11. ENOLA
12. MORTENSTONE VALLEY
13. THE FINAL FEAST
14. INTO DARKNESS
15. IRIS
16. FABIAN’S WAR
17. THE CURSED ONE
18. A DEADLY DISCOVERY
19. MERLIN’S OLD MAGIC
20. THE PASSAGE
21. THE MEETING OF TWO LORDS
22. THE SPECTRE
23. WAR AND WORGRIMS
24. JOSEPHINE MORTENSTONE
25. BETRAYAL
26. THE WHITE WITCH
27. A NEW AGE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When young milkmaid Bessy came out of the shed,
She saw a great snake and lopped off its head,
But her cheers turned to screams as she noticed with dread,
A man in its place, headless and dead.
But do not fret, dear Bessy, the villagers said,
You have taken this life and spared ours instead.
For surely you see, said Butcher Hogsled,
That he came from the place where we fear to tread,
And would, had he lived, tear our people to shreds,
Even Mortenstones wouldn’t be safe in their beds.
So, maid Bessy, we thank you, said Baker Wortstead,
You shall have, for all days, free meat and free bread.
PROLOGUE
The man picked his way carefully through the forest, treading lightly to avoid making a sound. It was cold, far colder than he had anticipated, and he wished he had brought his cloak with him.
When he came to a tree stump, he stopped and sat down, pulling a round, leather bottle from his bag. He took a long swig. The sweet wine warmed him nicely. As he sat there, he stared at a warped tree on the other side of the path. The trunk was thick and twisted, and its branches stretched out like broken fingers. It was a monstrous thing, so tall he had to lean all the way back to follow its ascent to the heavens. Often, when he looked at the forest from Stone Lane, he couldn’t see the treetops at all, for they disappeared into the clouds.
He took a final sip of wine and pushed the cork back into the bottle. Then he paused, frowning. Peculiar… He stood and approached the tree. He ran his hand over the rough bark, inspecting it, and peeled a piece away from the trunk. It was grey. When he rubbed it between his fingers, it crumbled into dust. Interesting. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment and a stick of charcoal. He made a note of his observation and picked another piece of bark from the tree, folding it into the parchment and tucking it back in his pocket.
A crow cawed high above. He froze, listening, breathing slowly, quietly. Nothing stirred.
Soon it would be nightfall and he did not wish to find himself alone in the Dark Forest then. He looked around in the gloom, trying to remember his way home.
A branch groaned mournfully. He turned towards the sound, his heartbeat quickening, and noticed a thin mist drifting through the forest, coiling around the trees and creeping over the ground towards him.
The skin on the back of his neck prickled as an unnatural silence settled over the forest. He was suddenly aware of how moist the palms of his hands felt.
Somewhere behind him, a twig snapped. He whirled around. A hand came down over his mouth, muffling his scream. His eyes bulged as he felt the cold steel of a blade pressing against his throat.
PART I
1. THE BANISHED
‘Thomas, can you tell me why the Dark Forest is so dangerous?’ asked Master Hagworth, staring eagerly over the spectacles on his hooked nose.
Thomas Mortenstone shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Because it’s the border between us and the Dark Families?’ he said, as if asking a question himself.
The schoolmaster’s face lit up. ‘Exactly! And…?’
Thomas’s brow furrowed. ‘Err…’
Master Hagworth’s smile withered and he rolled his eyes. ‘Lucian?’ he said, turning away from Thomas to the dark-haired boy at the next desk along.
‘The Dark Families are vicious, traitorous filth. And no magic – defensive or otherwise – can be used in the Dark Forest. That makes all who enter vulnerable.’
‘Well done, Lucian! And who are the most despicable of them all?’
‘The Mordarks. They are evil, cold-blooded snakes.’
‘Very good. My top student!’ Master Hagworth exclaimed, with a pointed look at Thomas. Then he walked back to his desk at the front of the schoolroom. While he busied himself rearranging sheets of parchment, Lucian turned to Thomas and smiled smugly. Thomas’s cheeks reddened with embarrassment.
Iris watched this exchange from her desk. Besting their younger brother seemed to bring Lucian immense pleasure; his eyes were glinting - he looked happier now than he had on his thirteenth birthday, when their father had given him a dragon’s tooth. Well, she would soon wipe that smile off his face. She stared at the ink pot on Lucian’s desk, focused all her attention on it, imagined it toppling. The wooden pot started to shudder. She narrowed her eyes, pushed the pot with her mind. Push, push, push. Suddenly, there was a loud pop and the contents of the pot exploded all over Lucian’s neat work, splattering his hands and face. He jumped up and gasped. The pot toppled over, rolled across the desk, dribbling the last of the ink across his papers, and went over the edge, landing on the floor with a clunk.
‘You!’ Lucian shouted, lunging for her.
Before Iris had a chance to stand, he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her from her chair. She screamed and kicked as he hauled her across the floor and slammed her down onto the cold flagstones. Face purple with anger, he put his foot on her throat and pressed down with all his weight.
‘Enough!’ bellowed Master Hagworth, banging his fist on his desk. Lucian was snatched off his feet in an instant; he flew backwards across the room, crashing into a bookcase, which shook violently and spat out two large volumes. Iris choked and spluttered, clutching at her throat as she sat up. ‘Never again in my presence!’ Master Hagworth’s hands trembled with fury.
They got to their feet. Iris did not look the schoolmaster in the eye, but Lucian stared back at him vengefully.
Eve, their younger sister, began to whimper at her desk in the corner of the schoolroom.
‘You are dismissed,’ said Master Hagworth, crossing his hands over his bony chest and vanishing.
Eve continued to snivel in the corner. Her limp hair clung to her arms and back in dark strands, outlining her fragile frame. Lucia
n glanced at her irritably.
‘Why are you crying?’ he said as he approached, pushing past Iris and Thomas. Eve wiped her eyes and sniffed. ‘I said, why are you crying?’ He kicked the leg of her desk and she shrank into herself, letting her hair fall across her face.
‘Lucian, don’t,’ said Thomas, gripping his arm.
Lucian flung it away. ‘What are you going to do?’ he challenged. Thomas said nothing. Lucian turned back to Eve with a look of contempt. ‘She’s weak. Blubbering like a little baby. Mortenstones aren’t weak. If I were father, I’d have her whipped.’
‘But you’re not father,’ said Iris.
Lucian’s blue eyes flashed. ‘One day, I’ll be head of this family, Lord of all Lands, and you’ll wish you’d been a little bit nicer to me,’ he said. Then he crossed his hands over his chest like the schoolmaster and, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.
Iris bent down beside Eve. ‘Don’t cry, Evie. Do you want to see father?’ she said. Eve nodded and buried her face in Iris’s neck.
They left the schoolroom and climbed the steps from the castle basement in silence. Eve gripped Iris’s hand tightly; she was frightened of the dark, and almost everything else. At the top of the steps, they emerged into a darkened corridor and turned left, towards the Great Hall, where their father held important meetings. Iris knew that one must be taking place because all was quiet, as curious ears strained to hear what was happening within.
When they came to a tapestry depicting the great battle between their ancestor Merlin the Good and Lysander Mordark, the Serpentine Wizard, they stopped. The scene was set in a field of red, to symbolise blood, and Merlin’s long beard stood out, a brilliant white, to symbolise his goodness and purity. Master Hagworth had dedicated a whole week’s worth of lessons to the wall-hanging, which wafted now in the dimness, roused by a draft that whistled down the corridor. Iris looked around to make sure no one else was there and then snapped her fingers. The tapestry disappeared and, in its place, set into the vast stone wall, was a door.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed along the corridor. Thomas’s eyes widened. He looked at the door and flicked his wrist; it burst open violently and crashed against the wall, sending pieces of stone crumbling to the ground.
‘Thomas!’ Iris hissed.
The footsteps quickened and a voice called out, ‘Who’s there?’
There was a sudden whooshing sound as wall torches began to ignite themselves along the corridor. The footsteps drew nearer. Iris pushed Eve through the doorway. Thomas followed, pulling the door shut with a bang as the torch next to it lit up.
A breathless servant rounded the corner then and looked around suspiciously. No one was there. Everything was as it should be. The torches burned brightly, the flames flailing in the cold breeze, which picked up sharply and made the great tapestry ripple dreamily in the empty corridor.
Iris, Thomas and Eve crept along a narrow passage until they reached a small door at the end, on the other side of which came the sound of voices. Thomas stuck out his palm to open the door but Iris batted it away, lifted her hand and gently swept it sideways through the air. The door opened noiselessly under the spell and a weak sliver of light leaked into the passage. Iris pressed her face to the gap and stared out at the Great Hall.
A dull light seeped through the high, arched windows and hundreds of candles burned in candelabras scattered about the hall. A fire roared ferociously in the great hearth and, beside it, three large dogs were snoozing.
From the shadows in the upper corner of the hall, Iris pushed the door open wider to let her brother and sister see.
Their father, Matthew Mortenstone, sat at a round table in between five middle-aged men and one older, leaner man with pointed ears and large eyes that seemed much too big for his head; Saskian the elf, Matthew’s most trusted advisor. Together they sat, crowded around one half of the table, facing a gaunt-looking man, who stared about the room anxiously. The man’s clothes were covered in muck and his greying beard was patchy and unkempt.
Iris held her sister back when she tried to pass through the doorway and approach their father. She shook her head at Eve and pressed a finger to her lips.
*
Matthew dragged his fingers through his beard as he stared at the man. This was not the way he had hoped his day would begin.
‘Why did you try to break into my home?’ he said in a low, even voice.
The man looked down. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, nervously picking at the skin around his thumbnail.
Matthew watched him carefully. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
The man’s face crumpled and his skin folded into a thousand tired creases. ‘We are starving. I have two children to feed, a wife. You have everything. I just wanted some food!’ he cried shrilly, his hands trembling as he held them out in appeal.
Matthew drew a deep breath. There was nothing he could do to save this pitiful man. He sighed and shook his head slowly, his dark hair grazing his shoulders.
‘My sympathies, sir, but crime is crime. You know the consequences,’ he said, a dreadful feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. The man went rigid in his chair at these words. Matthew glanced at Saskian, who gave a sombre nod. He had almost hoped the elf would not concur, that there was another way. After all, it was a petty crime, the foolish blunder of a desperate man. But these were the Old Laws. They followed the Old Laws. There were no exceptions.
Matthew cleared his throat. ‘I hereby banish you—’
‘No! Please!’ the man shrieked, rocking forwards onto the table and clutching it tightly. His knuckles turned white.
‘I hereby banish you from The Light and sentence you to a lifetime without magic. You, and your family.’
‘No! I didn’t take anything! No, you can’t do that! Please! Please!’
The great doors at the end of the hall swung open with a deep groan and six guards in purple cloaks entered. They strode towards the man, their black boots thudding against the stone, their silver breastplates glinting in the light.
When the man saw them, he got up and tried to run. But, as he staggered past the fire, the dogs sprang up and began to bark. The sound echoed, deafeningly, around the vast room. The man froze as the dogs closed in, snapping and jumping at him. His legs shook violently and he looked around helplessly. The guards seized him and hauled him, roughly, by the arms, back towards Matthew, who stood and waited until the man was in front of him.
‘How old are your children?’ he said.
‘My eldest is f-f-five. My youngest is still a babe,’ the man said, his lips glistening with mucus, which streamed from his nose. ‘Please!’ he begged, struggling against the guards, trying to break free. ‘Please!’
Matthew felt sick. He could make it quick, but never painless. He hoped the children would forget, one day. He held up his hand reluctantly. His palm felt hot and his arm began to tingle. The sick feeling in his stomach drowned under a burning wave that surged upwards through him.
The man stopped struggling. He stared at Matthew’s hand as if he were in a trance. The guards let him go and stepped back. The dogs whined softly, sinking to the ground again beside the fire.
Matthew’s palm grew hotter and hotter. He held his arm steady against the power pulsing through it. The man began to convulse, his eyes swelling in their sockets, as his magic was drawn up through his body. Then, Matthew flicked his wrist and the man dropped to the ground, sucking in an endless, rasping breath, his mouth stretching open grotesquely. He made a half-hearted attempt to support himself on all fours but collapsed, wheezing.
Matthew watched, his jaw set, as the last of the man’s magic drained out of him, white tendrils curling up into the air from his mouth. His arm stopped tingling. His palm turned cold. The feeling in his belly receded. It was done. He looked at the guards.
‘Round up his family. Bring them to the square.’
*
Thomas pulled Eve away from the door as the guards began to file out, dragging
the limp man behind them. Iris resisted when he tugged her arm, transfixed by the scene. She was older than Thomas, but he was stronger and he used his strength to force her back into the passage. He closed the door and they were plunged into darkness again.
Iris couldn’t make sense of what she had witnessed. She loved her father; he was the greatest man she knew. She never dreamed that he could be cruel.
‘Master Hagworth said he’s going to test us on the history of the Dark Families. Perhaps we should go up to the library, or…’ Thomas’s words died in the grave silence.
They stood there for a time, saying nothing, listening to the distant thrum of voices, to the sound of pots banging and ovens roaring in the kitchens deep beneath the castle.
Thomas sighed. ‘Come on,’ he said, guiding Eve by the shoulders back down the passage.
Iris followed. When she came to the end of the passage, Thomas had already snapped his fingers and cast the spell. But, as he opened the door, it struggled against the weight of the thick tapestry hanging in front of it. She was too preoccupied to scold him or to correct the spell herself. She watched him shove the door open wide enough to let Eve slip through and went after her, pushing against the musty material as Thomas shut the door and the tapestry fell back against the wall, enveloping them all. Iris elbowed her way through, pushing Eve with her other hand. When she stumbled out from behind it, back into the cold, drafty corridor, a passing servant stopped in his tracks. The ear covers on his purple cap flapped as he looked from Eve to Iris to Thomas, who staggered out after them and froze.
‘We were playing a game,’ Iris said. The servant was young, perhaps only a year or two older than she was. He looked down at the silver tray in his hands; it began to tremor slightly. ‘Don’t tell father,’ Iris warned him. His head snapped up. ‘We’ll know if you do,’ she said. His eyes widened. He shook his head vehemently. Then he bowed and hurried away.
The White Witch (The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy Book 1) Page 1
