‘What?’ he said angrily.
The figure floated towards Enola, who sank to the ground, heart pounding, unable to move, as it stopped and stretched out a hand to her. Its fingers were wispy and insubstantial. But its face… She stared long and hard. She knew the face well, the eyes - no longer blue.
‘Mother?’ she said.
‘Enola, look at me,’ William said, kneeling beside her. ‘She isn’t here. There’s no one here. Just us. We need to go.’
Enola shook her head. ‘She’s here.’
‘She’s not here. She’s dead.’
‘I know she’s dead,’ Enola said. She wasn’t a fool. And yet she couldn’t deny what she was seeing, couldn’t deny the face she had looked at every day until she was four years old - her mother’s face, ugly in death, as in life. ‘She is here. And she’s not alone. There’s a man next to you. And a woman. And a boy,’ she said, peering at the silvery shapes bent over William, who shuddered violently and scrambled away from the wall.
‘This is a sick game!’ he hissed. And he turned and stormed off, crashing through the puddles, disappearing into darkness.
‘William!’ she called. Her own voice echoed back in reply.
The figures drifted away into the passage, merging together like smoke, except for Iris; she lingered and stretched out her hand again. Enola hesitated, looking in the direction William had gone. When she turned back to her mother, she was surprised to see that she had moved to the tunnel opening. For some unknown reason, Enola had a strong feeling that she should follow her, that Iris Mortenstone’s path was true. She felt drawn to her, like they were being pulled together by powerful magic. She took one step towards her. Iris moved deeper into the passage. Another step. Iris’s hand remained outstretched. Her lips moved but didn’t make a sound. Her fingers began to clutch for Enola, dancing in the darkness like silver smoke. Enola took another step and reached out for her. As she touched her mother’s hand, it became solid and a wave of heat hit her with such force, she was almost knocked off her feet. The fire was eating into her skin, melting it away; she could taste the smoke, see the crowd below, nameless faces, watching, silent. She wanted to scream but her mouth was filled with dark, thick smoke.
William’s fingers curled around her arm. She jumped at his cold touch. The fiery pain ceased, the faces disappeared. She was in the tunnel again. And the figures were all drifting further and further away. She could no longer tell which was her mother. She took several long, deep breaths, running her fingers over her face and finding it whole, the skin undamaged. Sweat trickled down her forehead as the wind rushed past her through the tunnel. She remembered the day her mother died; she remembered the screaming as she hid behind the curtain in that strange bedchamber; she remembered the foul smell as her father carried her out of the castle into the square. Remembering was one thing, but feeling it… Her hands shook uncontrollably. That’s what they would do to her if they found her, the Mordarks. They would burn her. There was no worse a death than death by fire.
‘Come this way,’ William said. He looked afraid. Enola let him guide her along the path. And, as they walked, she noticed him staring at her.
‘I wasn’t making it up,’ she said.
‘No,’ said William. ‘No, I don’t think you were.’ After a long silence, he spoke again, ‘Didn’t you ever wonder how I ended up with Agatha?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But no one ever told me.’
‘Your grandfather banished my family from The Light when I was an infant. He stripped us of magic. My mother and father made it to Agatha’s house and then died of a fever, along with my brother. That’s Agatha’s version of things. But you know how it is. They were probably robbed or attacked. Probably by your father,’ he said.
‘Probably,’ she concurred. William looked at her crossly.
Suddenly, a sharp pain bit deep into her chest. Gasping, she put a hand to her heart and her legs gave out from under her. As her head hit the ground, an image of Master Hagworth came into her mind as he looked from the dead fairies to her with dawning realisation. Then Agatha was before her, sitting across the room in her chair, staring at her with contempt. And Agatha turned suddenly into Josephine Mortenstone, who hissed that the cursed child should be killed in her sleep. The memories flashed before her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t shut her eyes.
‘Enola!’ William shouted.
In front of her now was a Silver Tree, standing alone, its branches bare. Inside the tree, trapped within its bark, was a withered old man with long white hair and a white beard. The man from her dreams. He looked at her gravely and then closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. He did not take another.
Enola felt a plummeting feeling in her stomach. The man vanished. Her mouth flew open and black tendrils of smoke spiralled out, rising from the depths of her body, escaping, dissipating into the icy air.
Lying there in the darkness, she felt weightless, free, as the curse left her.
21. THE MEETING OF TWO LORDS
Lucian staggered down the stairs to the entrance hall, snatching breaths through the pain that swelled in his chest. He mopped the blood that streamed from the gash in his head with the sleeve of his tunic. He had fallen outside his bedchamber, hit his head. A bad omen; the first blood spilt had been his own.
The entrance hall was in total chaos. Servants and cooks were fleeing from the lower floors, laden with silverware, dashing for the doors as hunting hounds bounded in from the courtyard, yelping and howling, the chains that secured them to their posts in the kennels trailing on the floor behind them. Guards were shouting incoherent orders in their vain attempts to bring order.
Still winded, Lucian pushed his way through the throng to the castle doors, where he collided with Gregory Vandemere, who looked relieved to see him.
‘My Lord, we must hurry. The attack has begun. What is your command?’
‘Push them back! Don’t let them break our lines!’ Lucian said. Gregory nodded, threw his arms into the air and vanished.
Lucian looked around the hall and spotted Langlot, head of the Mortenstone guards, emerging from a darkened corridor.
‘I want one hundred men to stay behind and protect the castle!’ he shouted.
Langlot looked at him, banged his fist against his armour and then bellowed the order in a gruff, commanding voice that drew guards into the hall from every direction. As they gathered, Lucian turned to leave the castle. But he stopped suddenly and looked back. Eve was standing at the top of the great staircase. She looked like a lost child, shoulders hunched, eyes wide with fear. And, in that moment, he felt a dreadful, heavy feeling in his heart. Crossing the hall again, he climbed the steps and went to her. She looked startled as he placed a hand on her arm, and the gesture felt so unnatural to Lucian that he withdrew it gladly.
‘Hide, Eve. Go somewhere far away. Take a horse. Ride now!’ he said.
Eve looked at him. Her sunken eyes seemed too large for her drawn, hollow face. ‘I want Thomas to come,’ she said in a small voice.
‘I need Thomas here. Go. I’ll send guards with you. You’ll be safe.’
She regarded him mistrustfully. Lucian could hear the shouts from the courtyard growing more urgent. He didn’t have time for gentle words anymore.
‘Go!’ he shouted. Eve flinched and shrank into herself. Lucian looked to the three guards waiting at the bottom of the staircase and nodded.
As they escorted Eve down the stairs and out into the courtyard, he followed. And he saw his sister half turn to look back at him before thinking better of it.
Lucian almost passed his mother by as he strode across the courtyard, but something made him glance at the dungeon doorway. Josephine was standing in the shadows, watching men flood from the armoury with shields and swords and leave through the open gates. When Lucian saw her pale, gaunt face, he at first thought her expression was wrought with fear. But, as he approached, he saw that her eyes were wild with nervous excitement. She looked truly mad.
‘No,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the gates.
‘But mother—’
‘This is my home. This is where I will wait,’ she said, gathering her shawl about her.
‘The spells are dead; the old magic is gone!’ he snapped. ‘If we can’t hold them back, they will come here and they will kill you!’
‘If you cannot hold them back then I am lost no matter where I run,’ she said finally.
Lucian gave up. Sighing exasperatedly, he turned and ran towards the gates.
‘Lucian!’ Josephine called suddenly. He stopped and looked over his shoulder. For a fleeting instant, her eyes were filled with regret and sorrow, but then a stony calm passed over her face. She closed her mouth, and whatever she was about to say remained unsaid.
Lucian hurried on. He used to make a point of looking at the scorch marks in the square where Iris had been burned, but now, as he passed them, he averted his eyes. Looking down the sloping lane towards the Grassland, his mouth fell open. The Dark Forest was burning as brightly as the pyre his sister had perished upon, great flames and plumes of smoke rising from the treetops, surging up to meet the black sky. His heart turned over in his chest. He began to run. Behind him, with a steady rumble, soldiers and Mortenstone guards came charging from the castle courtyard and Merlin’s Way, bound for Stone Lane. They formed a tight circle around him as they ran. Lucian saw the sigils on their shields and breastplates: Mortenstone, Vandemere, Doldon, Stonedge, Le Fay.
All along Stone Lane, townspeople were emerging from their houses and screaming when they saw the forest ablaze in the distance. Mothers wrapped their arms around their children and vanished into the night, escaping while they still could, abandoning Lambelee, abandoning him, their Lord.
‘I want every man and boy down at the forest!’ Lucian shouted. Four Vandemere soldiers peeled off from the pack and began kicking down doors in the lane, searching for recruits.
The deep crackling of the fire grew louder as Lucian and his men crossed the Grassland and stormed through the deserted camp towards the forest.
‘With me!’ Lucian shouted, breaking out in front, drawing his sword and leading them into blackness.
He crashed through the forest, blind, and ran head-on into a tree. Roaring with pain, his head spinning, he cried, ‘Stop!’ Behind him, the sound of thudding boots ceased.
‘Lights!’ shouted Brinston Tarolock, a seasoned soldier in the Mortenstone Army. The old man’s face was illuminated suddenly as he flicked a ball of light to life above his palm and tossed it in front of them. The ball lit the surroundings as it flew through the gloom. There was a sharp, collective intake of breath as the men bore witness to the impossible – magic, in the Dark Forest. Tarolock himself looked stunned. One by one, the men conjured balls of light in their hands.
‘No!’ Lucian shouted. ‘Save your strength.’ The men extinguished their lights.
They continued on through the forest, following Tarolock’s orb as it glided through the darkness, throwing light across the greying trees, which creaked and groaned so loudly it sent a shiver down Lucian’s spine.
When the smoke reached them, passing by silently like a cloud of poison, he tightened his grip on the handle of his sword, his heart thrumming in his ears. They were close. An unnatural orange haze backlit the trees ahead, swallowing Tarolock’s orb. Lucian pushed on faster. He could hear the distant din of battle now. Faster, faster he went. And then, through the trees, in a vast clearing, he saw them. Hundreds of men; a frenzy of thrashing limbs and swords. The trees on the other side of the clearing were on fire, ferocious flames roaring and climbing and showering down over the figures below.
Lucian gasped for breath as he ran, the smoke thick in his lungs. The screams were shrill in the air now. And he could see, as he drew nearer, that the lines had dissolved; his men had lost all order. He opened his mouth to shout, to announce his presence, let them know that help was here at last, when a wall of heat hit him. He flew backwards, dropping his sword, and landed hard on the ground. The silver ring on his finger turned hot, burning into his skin. He cried out, trying to pull it off, but it was stuck fast. Sitting up, eyes watering with pain, he abandoned his efforts and seized his sword. Then he got to his feet, looking around wildly, trying to form a plan. For the first time in years, he thought of his father. What would he have done? How would Matthew Mortenstone have brought order to his men, re-formed the broken lines? How would he have saved them?
Suddenly, a green bolt of light shot past his cheek, exploding against a tree behind him. With a groan, the tree buckled, and the men around him scattered. Lucian jumped out of the way and rolled across the ground, feeling the earth tremble beneath him as the tree fell. Lurching to his feet again with a guttural roar, he charged forwards, his face dripping with blood, his right cheek scorched and peeling. Tarolock was at his side now; he took down the first man who ran at Lucian and quickly pulled his sword from the man’s belly to hack off another man’s head.
Lucian staggered on without him, looking for black armour to stick his sword into. But, all around him, men were silhouetted by the intense light, indistinguishable.
He heard a terrible screeching sound and whirled around to see a man running from the battle towards him, his entire body engulfed in flames. Lucian leapt aside and the man tore past him, his screams turning to gurgling rattles as the flames licked at his throat. Lucian watched him fall and felt his own throat constrict. He was suddenly aware of the dirty smoke that filled his nostrils, the stinging pain in his eyes, the ferocious roaring of the fire, the ringing of swords and shields deflecting spells. And, in that moment, as the battle unfolded around him, he felt an overwhelming sense of his own mortality. He, Lucian, descendent of Merlin the Good, whose blood possessed more power than the whole of Lambelee and the Low Lands combined, could die tonight just as easily as any of them.
A great beast of a man emerged from the orange haze and stomped towards him then, baring his teeth, an axe raised above his head. Lucian threw out his left hand instinctively, spreading his fingers. A ball of blinding light burst from his palm and careered through the air, smashing through the man’s armour. He flew onto his back without a sound, eyes cast up to the heavens, as the white-hot fire ate through his heart.
Breathless, Lucian stumbled onwards. He felt weak. Ahead, he could see a man in black thrusting a sword into a Mortenstone guard repeatedly, until the guard’s pulverised innards spilled out over his silver armour. Lucian ran at him, brimming with rage, and plunged his sword into the man’s side, deep enough to kill him, but slowly. The man screamed and dropped his weapon. As Lucian withdrew his sword, he looked up to see a figure silhouetted against the fiery mist, long black feathers adorning the collar of his cloak, which hung still despite the wind. He had heard the tales. Every child had heard the tales. The Lord of the Dark Lands; his cloak of feathers plucked from creatures of darkness. A chill ran through him. This was the man who haunted his dreams. The man he had pictured a thousand times in his mind. The man he had grown so used to imagining that seeing him now made him feel as if he had stepped into another nightmare. He felt himself shaking. All those night terrors. All those years, plagued by the figure who now stood before him.
The battle cries were swallowed by black silence as Lucian stared into the eyes of Fabian Mordark.
22. THE SPECTRE
Alexander opened his eyes and blinked up at the orange mist that hung in the air. It was dark now. He was in the forest. The dirt was cold beneath his head but the air was hot, stiflingly hot. His lungs stung as he took a breath. He sat up and looked at the mound of rocks beside him. And, as if a thick fog had cleared, he remembered. Agatha. He pushed himself to his feet and looked down at
the grave in despair. Agatha was dead.
Distant shrieks punctured the silence; bloodcurdling, tortured cries. Alexander’s head snapped up. He stared around, alert. Who was that? What was happening?
Suddenly, the ground shook. A thunderous explosion knocked him down onto his back and a blinding light blistered through the air above. He screwed his eyes shut. A hot wind rushed over him. He could feel the blood trickling from his head into the dirt. Disorientated, ears throbbing, he rolled onto his stomach and dragged himself across the ground towards Agatha’s house. When he reached it, he groped for the door but found that it was open, hanging precariously on one hinge, the wood around the frame splintered. He got unsteadily to his feet and stumbled inside.
The strange light from the forest seeped dreamily through the doorway into the living room. As Alexander looked around at the upturned chairs and shredded books, the day’s horrors stung him afresh. Agatha’s whole world was now nothing but debris on a soiled floor.
And then his heart stilled. Over by the hearth, the trap door lay open. The rug had been hastily pulled aside, so that a part of it sank over the opening.
Enola.
In his own selfish grief, he had forgotten all about his daughter.
He hastened towards the trap door and climbed down onto the first rung of the ladder. Cursing himself, he clambered back up again and began to look for the weapons he had placed by the fireside that morning. As he reached beneath the upturned armchair, his hand brushed over something smooth and cold. He knew it at once and quickly pocketed the blue stone before continuing his search. But he could not find his weapons.
As he jumped from the last rung of the ladder into a freezing pool of water, his boots filled and he shuddered.
‘Enola!’ he called. ‘William!’ His voice was swallowed by a deep, cold, empty darkness. He staggered forwards a few steps, the water spilling out of his boots. Everything was black. The smell of death permeated the air. Heart pounding, he began to walk, brushing his hands against the pocked walls for guidance. There came a rumbling boom from high above. Dirt crumbled from the tunnel roof a foot above his head, powdering his hair, slipping down the back of his tunic. Startled, he quickly shook it away and wiped his eyes with his forearm. What was happening out there?
The White Witch (The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy Book 1) Page 20
