‘Call on your army!’ he shouted. ‘Now!’
Eric looked up. His mouth opened and closed dumbly.
‘Get them here! Go!’ Lucian bellowed. Eric nodded, half-stunned, swept his hands upwards through the air and vanished.
An orange burst of light lit up the courtyard. Lucian turned. Smoke and fire were rising into the sky from Stone Lane. The screams rang out in the square, and people were tumbling down over the castle gates into the courtyard.
‘Lucian!’ His mother was beside him now. ‘Go with Thomas, up to the tower. Use all the strength you have to force them back! Your magic is strong. Force them back!’ she said, pushing him away. He turned, ears still ringing with the screams. Thomas was behind him. They ran together up to the East Tower.
From the turret, Lucian looked down at the dark figures surging towards the castle. His breaths came fast and ragged. A cold feeling settled beneath his skull. There were too many of them. How could he hope to fight them all back? They were getting closer, closer to the castle gates. He glanced at Thomas, who looked at him with defeat in his eyes, and felt a swell of bitter rage. Iris had doomed them all.
Suddenly, a hand came down on both their shoulders. Lucian turned to see Master Hagworth standing behind them. His heart leapt with a strange and unexpected relief.
‘Remember what I taught you. From the gut,’ said Master Hagworth, his face hard and unflinching.
Lucian clenched every muscle in his body, straightened his back and focused on the men below, willing them to fall back, away from the castle, imagining it. As he did, he felt movement within him, a tingling feeling that turned suddenly fierce. His belly, his fingertips, his feet, his heart shuddered with the current that blistered through him, racing through every nerve and fibre of his being. He shrieked with the pain. Next to him, Thomas began to convulse.
Master Hagworth kept a firm hand on their shoulders. ‘Keep steady!’ he said.
Down below, it was as if the men had run head-on into an explosion. They were blasted backwards, hurtling through the air out of the square, back and back and back, crashing onto the cobbles of Stone Lane.
One man remained, continuing on alone into the square. But before Vrax Mordark reached the gates, a torrent of arrows rained down around him. He hesitated, and only then did he appear to notice that his men were gone. He looked back in the direction of Stone Lane, as more arrows flew at him from the castle towers, but the arrows changed paths at the last moment, bending away from him and clattering on the ground by his feet. His magic was powerful, there could be no doubt, but it wasn’t enough. The castle gates opened. Mortenstone guards poured out into the square. Outnumbered, Vrax spread his fingers and a ball of flames appeared, swirling ferociously above his palm. As he prepared to launch it at them, something astonishing happened. Men in steel-grey armour began to materialise in the square. Five men, fifty men, two hundred men, five hundred men. Eric Vandemere appeared with them; raising a sword up into the air, he released a guttural cry, which the men echoed, and began to charge. Vrax hurled the ball of fire at them and turned to run.
‘Retreat!’ he cried as he disappeared down the lane.
*
Alexander staggered through the forest, his legs burning with fatigue, so drained after transporting himself to the border that even his heart was beating weakly. He saw his father in the distance, torchlight illuminating his face so that it seemed to hang suspended in the darkness. As he moved towards him, he heard a low murmur of voices. There might have been a thousand men or more standing amongst the trees, their forms half-outlined in the faint glow of the firelight. A hush crept over the men as he passed. He felt their eyes following him as he walked the last excruciating steps to his father and collapsed at his feet.
Fabian bent low and put a cold hand to Alexander’s cheek, looking searchingly into his eyes. ‘Do we have our hostage?’
‘No,’ said Alexander.
Fabian’s hand slipped from his cheek. He stared at Alexander blankly for a moment, then dropped his gaze.
‘The blood?’ he said.
Alexander looked down at his blood-spattered hands. He could still hear Iris screaming, see the horror in her eyes, as if she were standing there in front of him. ‘I killed Matthew Mortenstone,’ he said. ‘The border spell ran its course. Vrax is advancing on the castle.’
Fabian stared at him for a long time. The torch flickered in the wind, throwing shadows across his face. Two identical flames danced in his hungry eyes. The forest was still around them, the men watching on in silence as Fabian grasped Alexander’s hands and pressed them to his face, inhaling deeply, smearing Matthew Mortenstone’s blood over his face. Then, eyes swimming with tears of triumph, he rose and turned to his men.
‘The time has come to take back what is ours! At last, the enchantment has broken! Matthew Mortenstone is dead!’ A ripple of agitation spread through the ranks. ‘This night will be remembered for all time! Go forth and fight with valour! For Avalon!’ Fabian shouted, raising a gloved fist into the air.
‘For Avalon!’ the men cried.
They cascaded past, a deafening rattle of shields and swords. Fabian screamed with laughter as they went.
Alexander watched through drooping eyes, feeling his head sink lower to the ground, unable to stop it.
When the men had gone, Fabian bent over and kissed him roughly on the head. ‘Stand up, my son. Come, I want to see their faces. I want to watch them scream before I kill them all!’ he said.
‘You said you would spare Iris and my child,’ Alexander said.
‘Did I?’ said Fabian.
‘That was the agreement.’
‘You didn’t honour your part of the agreement.’
‘I went beyond what you asked,’ Alexander said, trying to rise, his stomach twisting with unease.
‘Yes, you did. And now, because of you, Vrax is taking the castle without me. I should have been the first to set foot in that place. Me! The agreement no longer stands.’
Alexander pushed himself to his feet in anger, clenching his fists so tight he lost all feeling in his hands.
Suddenly, a hoarse scream punctured the silence. Alexander stiffened and turned towards it. Something was moving in the distance, and with it came a clanking sound. The sound grew louder, accompanied by the low, frantic beat of boots against earth. Shouting. That scream again. And then, out of the darkness, a man in black armour emerged, eyes wide, arms flailing, two arrows jutting from his back, screaming as he passed them, hurtling away towards the Dark Lands. More followed. A great mass of men, running for their lives.
‘Retreat! Retreat!’ Vrax’s cry was unmistakable.
Fabian did not hesitate; he gathered his cloak around him, turned and ran.
Alexander tripped and stumbled as he fled. He felt as though he were no longer a part of his own body. He was an observer, a stranger, seeing through his eyes, watching the trees in the darkness rushing by, glimpsing figures as they overtook him, listening to the pounding of his heart, his gasps for breath, the thump of his feet as they carried him away.
When he reached the Dark Lands, he dropped to the boggy ground and vomited. Vrax came to him at once and rolled him onto his back, slapping his cheeks.
‘Are you hurt? Can you hear—’ But before Vrax could utter another word, Fabian was upon him, hauling him to his feet.
‘Well?’ he hissed. ‘Alexander breached the walls of Mortenstone Castle on his own. Why couldn’t you, with three hundred men at your back?’
When Vrax didn’t answer, Fabian spat in his face and walked away in disgust. He went to stand beside a stout man of middling age, who was gulping down water from a ladle offered to him by a young, tired-looking woman.
‘You went with my son. Did he fight bravely, like a true leader, or did he run like a frightened pup at the first sign of danger?’
The stout man choked on his water. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, looking entirely surprised to have been approached by Fab
ian Mordark.
‘He led well, my Lord, given the circumstances. We were outnumbered,’ he said, eyes darting nervously to Vrax.
‘They were unprepared and they overpowered us. Now they know we are coming,’ Fabian said with one eye on the Dark Forest, from which the wounded were still emerging. ‘They’ll bite back. We must all be ready.’
‘Oh, we’ll be ready, my Lord. This is only the beginning. We’ll win the war. It’s written in our destiny,’ the man said. Fabian looked perplexed. ‘The prophecy, my Lord. The time has come, I’m certain of it. The border is no longer enchanted. The old magic is dying… Merlin’s magic—’
‘Don’t speak his name,’ Fabian said.
‘Forgive me! I only meant that, without the old magic to keep us from them, we’ll have our war at last, as the prophecy says.’
Fabian rolled his eyes and began to move away when he stopped abruptly and turned back to the stout man.
‘The prophecy states that a witch will rule after the War of Wars. Are you waiting for my demise? Waiting to pledge allegiance to a woman? To betray me?’
‘No, my Lord—’
‘Then what makes you so sure we will win?’
‘I-I’m not... I don’t —’ the stout man spluttered.
‘Then you believe we will lose? Have you so little faith in me?’
The man fell into a desperate silence and looked around for support. No one met his eye.
‘Something wrong with your tongue, man?’ Fabian said.
‘I have faith we will win and you will rule, my Lord. No White Witch,’ he said.
Fabian smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder and ran a long, pointed fingernail up his neck and traced it along his jaw. Then, seizing the man’s throat with both hands, he snapped his neck with a deft twist.
No one disturbed Fabian as he stood over the man’s body. He was frowning, his eyes moving quickly as if he was working something out, piecing fragments together in his mind. And, suddenly, his mouth fell open. Stunned, and looking almost afraid, he strode back to Vrax and put his lips to his ear.
‘If you want to redeem yourself, fetch me the Reverof girl,’ he said.
Alexander’s eyes flicked open. He saw Vrax nod. He tried to lift his head but it felt as heavy as stone. Then his eyes closed and shut out the world.
15. IRIS
Iris pressed herself against the wall of her cell, trying to find a footing on the slimy ledge that ran the length of the back wall. Her feet kept slipping down but she persevered, frantic with terror, as rats flitted about the dungeon floor. One ran over her foot and she screamed, and a chorus of laughter echoed through the darkness from the other dungeon cells.
‘Please! Let me out!’ she begged. No one answered. The laughter died away.
When she awoke, she was standing upright against the wall. She didn’t know how long she had been there. Hours? Days? No one had come. Her throat was dry and her belly ached with hunger. The rats were huddled in darkest corner of the cell, a sleeping, quivering mass of filth that made her shudder all over again when she saw them.
There wasn’t a chamber pot, nor rags or cloth of any kind, so she lifted her skirts, squatted in the corner and grimaced as she relieved herself and watched the liquid splash onto the floor and seep beneath her shoes. As she crouched there, she thought of her father, his glassy eyes, the dagger protruding from his chest. She had held that dagger once, in the forest. Had she known what it would be used for, she would have buried it in Alexander’s chest instead. Or, at least, she hoped she would have. But, probably, she wouldn’t. Her eyes stung with tears. She had always thought herself brave and strong. Venturing into the Dark Forest, confronting Alexander Mordark - her siblings would never have been so bold. But now she saw what her bravery had cost her. Her father was dead. Alexander had betrayed her. The people were under attack. And she was locked away in a dungeon, pissing on her own shoes. And she realised that she wasn’t brave at all. She was nothing but a fool. A selfish, weak fool.
A jangling noise disrupted the quiet and a mangy-looking man came into view as he tramped down the dungeon steps and walked towards Iris’s cell with a set of keys. Iris stood at once and pulled her skirts back down over her legs.
‘Your presence is requested,’ the man said, peering through the bars into the gloom of the cell as he jammed a key into the lock. Pulling open the door, he beckoned Iris forward.
‘What happened out there? Are my family alive?’ she asked, moving warily out of the shadows towards him.
‘Your father’s dead,’ he said.
‘And the others?’
‘All fine,’ he said, looking her up and down appraisingly.
‘The Mordarks?’
‘Gone. For now,’ he said, staring greedily at her boots. ‘They’re nice. I’ll be ‘avin them.’
Iris pulled off her boots distractedly and handed them to him.
So, they had come. The Mordarks had crossed the border. Alexander had brought them here to kill her family, her children, to take her home away from her. But why hadn’t he killed her? He’d had countless chances. Would he not have done it already, if he had wanted to?
The stench from the man’s rotten teeth caught her by surprise as he smiled, stroking the boots affectionately before setting them aside in the corridor. Then he pointed to the ceiling and his eyes became wild with excitement.
‘Up there,’ he said. ‘They’re waiting for you.’
Iris followed a few steps behind the man as he made his way, barefoot, up the stairs, which were slick and wet with a foul-smelling black sludge. The man forced his shoulder against the door at the top of the stairs and it screeched open. A blinding light burst into the stairway. Iris shielded her eyes. She felt the man take hold of her elbow and pull her towards the open door.
The morning smelled of smoke and death. A bitter chill sank its teeth into her skin as she stepped out into the courtyard. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. All of the guards stationed along the parapet were looking out towards the square.
The man led Iris to the gates, where two guards stood, shoulder to shoulder, facing her. The guards came forward, took hold of her arms and turned around. Only then did she see what was waiting for her beyond the courtyard. In the square, surrounded by a silent crowd, was a pyre. And, rising from a small platform above it, was a stake.
The guards walked her out into the square and around the side of the great structure, which loomed above them, casting them in shadow. Iris’s heart was beating wildly. She looked at the grave faces staring back at her as she passed; bloodied, withered faces, full of sorrow. And anger.
When she saw Lucian, standing in front of the pyre, her throat tightened and she fought back the urge to cry. His face was pale and haggard, his eyes cold. The guards stopped and pushed her forwards.
Lucian stepped towards her and stared at her with a contemptuous look that, for an instant, gave way to unbounded pleasure.
‘You were always the disobedient one,’ he said softly. ‘I warned you, Iris. You can’t say I didn’t.’ He exhaled heavily and looked up at the sky. The crows had begun to circle. ‘You thought you were smart. But you aren’t. Because you never learn. And now you have brought war and death to our door. You have betrayed your own blood. What can I do? Forgive you, as father would have, and end up in an early grave like him? No. I will not spend my life clearing up the destruction you leave in your wake. You want to see us all burn, sister. But you shall burn first.’ He nodded to the guards, who seized her roughly and began to drag her towards the steps of the pyre.
‘No!’ she screamed, struggling to break free. ‘No! Please!’
Thomas forced his way to the front of the crowd and clapped a hand on Lucian’s arm. ‘What are you doing? This was meant for father!’ he said, looking up at the pyre as the guards pulled Iris to the top of the steps, kicking and screeching. ‘Lock her in a dungeon, put her in the stocks, send her away – don’t do th
is!’
Lucian shrugged his hand off. ‘It’s what she deserves.’
‘No! Not this! Lucian—’ As Thomas reached out to grasp Lucian’s arm again, three guards took hold of him. He thrashed and fought against them but they held him firmly. Suddenly, he fell still and closed his eyes, his brows drawing together in concentration. But whatever magic he was attempting to use against them did not work. With a scream of frustration, he opened his eyes. Tears of blood streaked his cheeks and his neck ran red with the blood that gushed from his ears. Weakened and powerless to stop them, he pleaded once more, ‘Lucian…’
‘Thomas! Thomas, help me!’ Iris shouted as the guards pushed her against the wooden stake and began to bind her to it with thick rope. Thomas looked at her and shook his head despairingly. ‘Thomas,’ she whimpered.
A guard picked up a torch and held his hand over the oil-soaked cloth at the end. As the cloth began to smoke, the other guard hurriedly climbed back down the rickety staircase.
Iris looked desperately at the crowd. Eve was screaming and writhing in the grip of a guard, reaching out for her, shouting her name. Her mother was staring up at the pyre behind Lucian. She looked straight through Iris with eyes of flint.
Iris looked away towards Stone Lane. Alexander would come. He would save her. That’s why he had spared her life. He loved her. Any moment now, he would be here. She watched the lane, waiting for a figure to appear.
The guard tossed the blazing torch onto the pyre below. The crowd began to murmur as the fire caught on the wood and spread. In moments, it had engulfed the pyre.
Iris could feel the heat rising, hear the ferocious roar of the flames; she tore her eyes away from the lane, forgetting Alexander, forgetting everything but the fire.
People were weeping now and praying to the White Witch. Some looked away, most didn’t, as the flames climbed towards Iris and jumped onto her white dress.
Iris screamed in agony. Smoke filled her lungs, fire licked her skin and, as she choked and cried, she saw Lucian through the haze, smiling.
The White Witch (The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy Book 1) Page 15
