He had awoken that morning next to Risella and turned away from her when she tried to run her hand over his naked chest. He didn’t know why, but even his wife’s mere touch filled him with revulsion. When she had asked him to accompany her to the Worgrim pits to watch them feed, he immediately resolved to visit Agatha and Enola. And William. He hadn’t planned to, but anything to avoid spending the morning with his wife, whose lust for blood surpassed even his father’s. He had not eaten breakfast – Agatha would make him something hearty, he knew. And off he had set, to see Agatha for the last time.
How had Vrax known? Had he led him to her? Had someone else seen Enola? Informed on her? And why now? Why, after all these years, was his father still pursuing her? What could he possibly want from a Reverof girl?
Alexander was so absorbed in his own thoughts, his heart almost stopped when he stumbled over something hard on the ground. He staggered forwards, regained his footing, then turned back around. Bending low, he reached out and felt… a hand. It was a body. A man. He had been dead for some hours now; his skin was stone cold. Alexander ran his fingers over the man’s face. When he realised who it was, the shock snatched the air from his lungs. Despite the darkness, he turned his head away, not wanting to see.
Of both his brothers, Tobias was the one he loved most. Alexander had always protected him, even when he knew his younger brother was wrong, even though his loyalty was not always reciprocated. But, this time, Tobias had gone too far. If Alexander had been here when it had happened, he would not have helped him.
A memory came to him then. Tobias could have been no more than five. His eyes were red and swollen from crying as he sat at the table, refusing to eat his cabbage. No matter how many threats Minder Poxworth made, Tobias would not swallow the wilted greens. Eventually, Poxworth threw his arms into the air and announced he was going to call for their father to come and punish him. As he marched off, Alexander turned to his brother and told him to eat the cabbage. Tobias shook his head.
‘It can’t be worse than what father will do,’ Alexander reminded him. But Tobias was stubborn, too stubborn for his own good. Both boys jumped as they heard their father’s flinty voice in the corridor outside. ‘Eat the cabbage!’ Alexander urged. Tobias pursed his lips. No. Alexander reached over, scooped the cabbage onto his spoon and quickly stuffed it into his own mouth as the door burst open and Fabian entered the hall. Alexander chewed the rubbery food as fast as he could. Fabian walked up to the table and stared down at Tobias’s empty plate. Then, he turned back to Poxworth, a question on his raised brows, and Alexander swallowed his mouthful.
‘It’s empty,’ Fabian said.
‘It…I…It wasn’t. Not when I left. He wouldn’t…he wouldn’t eat it,’ Poxworth stammered, panic in his voice.
Fabian turned quickly to his sons. ‘Is this true?’ he asked. Both boys shook their heads.
‘No, father,’ Alexander said. ‘He’s lying. He said he wanted to get Tobias into trouble. He wanted to see you beat him. It excites him.’
Poxworth’s mouth fell open. ‘Liar!’ he shouted, advancing towards Alexander. Fabian held up his hand. Poxworth stopped in his tracks.
‘Let us walk,’ Fabian said to him. Alexander and Tobias exchanged a devious look. They never did see Poxworth again.
Alexander closed Tobias’s eyes and blinked away the stinging ache in his own. His brother had paid a high price for his disloyalty. And only now did he realise that he and Tobias were more alike than he could have imagined.
He walked on numbly, his sadness tinged with relief – relief that it had not been Enola he had found dead on the ground.
Further along the passage, the left-hand wall he had been running his fingers over took a sharp turn. He stopped and went across to the other side of the tunnel, where the wall continued along a straight path. There were two passages. But which way? Some instinct was telling him to take the left path. And, as he stumbled blindly towards the opening, he saw a silvery white light flicker to life in the distance. He froze.
‘Who’s there?’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady. The silver light was growing larger, floating towards him, and starting to take shape. A trick. But no… A figure. ‘Stay back!’ he said as it came closer, closer. And then his mouth fell open. The figure flickered again and vanished. Alexander felt as if his stomach had dropped from under him. It was her, he was sure of it.
Iris.
He staggered back, taking fast breaths. Suddenly, the ground shook. More dirt crumbled down onto the path from the roof of the tunnel. In the distance, he heard a panicked voice. It was a man’s voice. But he didn’t get up.
He had betrayed her. And she had died screaming. The guilt was too much to bear. He buried his face in his hands.
She was wary when she first met him. Smart girl. Why hadn’t he just let her go on her way? Why had it been so important to change her opinion of him? He slammed his head against the tunnel wall again and again in anger. It wasn’t his father. He hadn’t done it for his father, to glean information; he knew that now. It had never been about that. He had seen the way she looked at him that day and he didn’t want her to think he was a monster. He didn’t want her to see him for what he truly was. Because, if she had, she could never have loved him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said through his tears, looking up and staring into the blackness, waiting, hoping that Iris would return – if she had ever really been there at all.
23. WAR AND WORGRIMS
Fabian stood completely still in the clearing, watching Lucian. He was taller than he had imagined - and lean, like Vrax. He looked lost on the battlefield, lost even as he buried his blade in a Mordark soldier’s side; a child with a sword. And when he stopped and looked up and Fabian stared into his eyes, he saw exactly what he had expected to see: fear.
Fabian’s lips curled back over grey, decaying teeth as he opened his mouth and released a guttural cry. He felt his power rushing through him as he screamed into the night. Lucian Mortenstone would die on his feet. Fabian threw out his arms, locked them straight, fingers splayed, palms facing his enemy. A surge of green light burst from his hands. But Lucian reacted at once; before the green fiery light touched him, he raised his arms and white light shot from his palms.
Fabian felt a jolt as the bolts clashed with a thunderous crack and began to snap and spark, climbing through the air to overcome one another, switching and jumping like lightning. He pushed harder, forcing more and more power from his body, willing the Mortenstone rat dead with every fibre of his being. But, suddenly, he started to feel strange. His arms grew heavy. His cries ran dry. And, with pain so excruciating it brought tears to his eyes, his long fingernails split in half, the cracks riding to his very nail beds. Without a second thought, he directed his green bolt at the ground between him and Lucian. It ignited in an instant, vicious flames leaping up high, creating a barrier between them. He saw Lucian’s arms drop to his sides before the fire hid him completely from sight.
‘Fall back!’ Fabian shouted, running from the battle, running from the fire. ‘Back! Back!’
He staggered through the forest, away from the screaming and the slaughter, into darkness.
When he could run no further, he stopped and leant against a tree to catch his breath. Floods of men overtook him, fleeing the battle, taking no notice of him as he vomited blood all over his boots.
‘Water,’ he said, his voice faint and raspy.
A Mordark soldier, who was bent double panting beside a nearby tree, his face covered in blood, stood and approached unsteadily. He took out his flask, held it to Fabian’s lips and placed a hand on his back. Fabian shook him off savagely. ‘I don’t need your help!’ he said, snatching the flask from him. A searing pain shot up his fingers and into his spine; his cracked nails oozed with blood. He dropped the flask and gasped. ‘Get me something for this!’
The man quickly produced a small bottle of dark liquid from beneath his sleeve. ‘This will heal them,’ he said, pulling ou
t the cork to drizzle the thick potion over Fabian’s fingers. The deep cracks in his nails sealed in an instant and the pain subsided. Fabian sighed with relief and stooped to pick up the flask of water.
‘My Lord, my Lord!’ came a panicked shout. Fabian wheeled around as a soldier bounded towards him, eyes wild with terror. ‘My Lord, they’re dousing the fires! They’re preparing to advance!’
A cold sweat broke out on Fabian’s brow. ‘Hold them back!’ he ordered.
‘My Lord!’ came another cry. Belfor was running towards them. Fabian almost didn’t recognise his cousin; his face was smoke-blackened, his hair all but completely burned away. ‘The Worgrims!’ Belfor shouted. ‘They’re attacking our men!’
Fabian’s heart stilled. He blinked at his cousin. Then, flinging the flask of water against a tree, he roared with fury. ‘Shoot them down!’
Belfor nodded and ran back the way he had come, calling men to him.
Fabian tried to follow but his legs wobbled and his head swam. He sank down against the tree and started to laugh. He was just a boy, Lucian Mortenstone, just a boy. No match for him. His laughter grew manic. The soldier who had handed him the flask watched on in alarm. Fabian threw his head back, laughing and laughing until he choked on his own blood. Defeated by a child – wouldn’t that make a wonderful song! Only, Lucian Mortenstone was no longer a boy. And Fabian remembered now, as he looked down at his withered hands, that he was an old man.
24. JOSEPHINE MORTENSTONE
Lucian hung back as his men advanced after the retreating Dark Families. His chest throbbed and every breath brought a fresh stabbing pain with it.
Bodies lay scattered, disfigured, in the clearing, flesh melting from bones. Lucian did not know whether it had been the fire or the deadly Worgrim venom that had done such atrocious things to the bodies, and he never would. The beasts had swooped down upon them so suddenly, their great black wings fanning the red flames, their scaly talons outstretched as they plucked men from battle and carried them away. Some stayed to feast upon the men, whose screams were shrill and chilling, for they were still alive when the beasts began to eat them. Lucian had taken cover beneath the trees, away from the clearing. But he watched. Watched as the Worgrims finished and flew up over the treetops to join their kin, shadows flitting across the white moon, bound for The Light.
‘Lucian?’ Thomas said, emerging from a haze of smoke and coming to stand in front of him. His face was covered in dark, dried blood. Lucian stared at him, his vision moving in and out of focus. Thomas looked at him gravely. ‘Lucian!’ he shouted suddenly, catching him in his arms as Lucian’s legs gave way.
‘I’m alright,’ Lucian said weakly, clutching his chest. Guards rushed to him but Lucian shook his head. ‘I’m alright,’ he said again.
Thomas pulled him to his feet but, when Lucian swayed once more, he carefully lowered him down to sit against a tree.
Lucian wiped the sweat from his brow. It took a great effort simply to lift his arm. And, as he sat there, staring at the devastation around him - the ash, the dead, the grey shells of fire-eaten trees, the swathes of smoke hanging over it all like a shroud - his nose began to bleed.
‘Lucian, you must rest,’ Thomas said. Then he turned to the guards around him. ‘Pull the men back. Regroup. We attack again at first light!’
‘But, my Lord, we have them on the run!’ a guard protested.
‘Pull back!’ Thomas said. ‘That’s an order.’
*
Belfor approached Fabian slowly, looking fatigued, and fell to one knee. ‘Shot two down. Lost about forty men,’ he said dejectedly.
Fabian rubbed his hands together and held them up to the small fire that had been lit for him. But he didn’t feel the fire’s warmth. And his strength, even after a bowl of meaty broth, had not returned.
‘Lucian Mortenstone has pulled his men back. Gives us time to breathe, rest up,’ Belfor continued. Fabian’s head turned at the news. ‘They’re scared, my Lord. The lot of ‘em. They don’t know what they’re fighting for. And that rat doesn’t know what he’s doing. We’ll take the castle by morning.’
‘We fled the battle. He didn’t,’ Fabian said.
‘Yes, we fled. But I saw the fear in their eyes when the beasts came down,’ said Belfor. ‘Swooped in as our men were retreating. Attacked us. Plucked and tore at us, tossed the mangled bodies to the ground when they were done. We lost good men. But not in vain. When I returned to shoot the beasts down, I saw the boy Mortenstone; horror-stricken he was. The creatures may be out of our control, but they have done all that we intended. The Mortenstones are weakened. They doubt. They fear.’
Fabian thought on his cousin’s words for a long time. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps there was still a chance. His body may have failed him, but his men would not - not with Belfor leading them. It wasn’t over yet. He looked deep into his cousin’s eyes. ‘No one harms her,’ he said.
Belfor looked at him knowingly. ‘No one harms her.’
*
The sky swarmed with creatures of darkness. The Worgrims squawked and screeched as they circled above Mortenstone Castle, searching for flesh. Archers shot flaming arrows at them but they were too far out of reach.
And then it began. The beasts swooped down and plucked guards from the towers and parapet, taking arrows to the breast like scratches from a thorn.
Josephine shrank back into the dungeon doorway. She clutched the pendant around her neck and kissed it as screaming soldiers were carried off into the black night. Her knuckles turned white and her heart thundered so fast in her chest, it almost drowned out the sound of the creatures above. She had never felt so alive. Slowly, she turned the pendant over in her hand and smoothed her thumb over it. The glinting green eye of the serpent flashed in the light. She remembered when he gave it to her. She remembered it all, as if it were a dream from which she had just awoken. It felt more real to her than any part of her life before or since.
Her father was a strict man and she had grown tired of his controlling ways. She often joked that she could not even visit the privy without him knowing about it. And she was probably right. She was fourteen years old, and at an age where she was ready to test every boundary he had set.
To defy him, as so many children in The Light defied their fathers, she crossed the border into the Dark Forest. She had done it before with her friends when she was younger. But this time was different. This time, she went alone, with purpose, walking far, far away from him and his control to make her point. And, for once, she felt free. Before she was even aware that she had walked into a trap, it was all too late. A sack came down over her head and a heavy hand pressed against her mouth so she couldn’t scream. Deft hands bound her arms and legs. Her captors spoke in hushed whispers to each other about how pleased their lord would be, for she looked wealthy, perhaps noble.
She made it no easy task for them. She fought and struggled the entire way. The men dropped her several times and cursed her. But they did not hurt her.
They arrived at Castle Mordark in the dead of night. She heard a terse conversation between her captors and a guard and the screeching sound of a gate opening to permit them. Horses scuffed their hooves against stable doors. A rotten smell hung in the damp air. Her captors carried her into the castle, their footsteps hollow against the cold stone floor, and set her down on her side before they ripped off the sack.
She remembered the fear she felt as she stared at the strange faces peering down at her. A middle-aged man bent to touch the collar of her purple gown.
‘It looks like our fortunes have changed,’ he said with the faintest of smiles. His eyes were green – as green as the tales told. He looked weary and older than his years. ‘Don’t worry, little girl, we shan’t harm you.’ He turned to look over his shoulder. ‘Fabian, take the girl to the dungeon. Ensure she is properly fed and watered,’ he said. A young man stepped forward and nodded dutifully.
The moment she saw him, she knew her fate would be entwined w
ith his. He was tall. Strong. His eyes, as green and piercing as his father’s, excited her, filled her with longing. He untied her and led her down to a dungeon cell, while the rest of them negotiated a price for her captors’ efforts and a price for her ransom. She was terrified, but Fabian’s presence calmed her. He asked her name and sat with her in the dark until she gave in to exhaustion. He came for her himself the next morning when his father wanted her for questioning. He brought her delicious food from his father’s table, not the stale muck they threw the other prisoners in the dungeon. He made sure the guards treated her well, gave her a bed to sleep on - it was made of straw and laced with lice, but it was better than the ground.
As the years passed, Fabian’s father, Edrell Mordark, granted her more freedoms. She was given a comfortable room in the main part of the castle and her very own servant to order about. Edrell profited greatly from her imprisonment; he increased her ransom every time her family sent the money he had previously demanded. And she was not the slightest bit troubled by it.
The Dark Lands were every bit as grim as she imagined they would be. The land was slowly drowning in bogs and the people looked half-dead; they went about their days in a dreamlike state, never pausing to rest or look up from the tasks they were carrying out. And, to save their strength for the relentless toil on the sodden farmlands, they hardly said a word.
The sun never shone upon the cursed lands and she soon forgot what it was like to feel its warmth against her skin. But it didn’t matter to her, really. Because she had Fabian. By the time she was seventeen and he twenty-four, they had formed a bond stronger than any she had ever known. He promised her that he would love no other. He gave her his pendant to signify the promise and his love for her. He visited her bedchamber most nights and there they would lie, entangled in one another, and plan their future together. They dreamt that, one day, they would take The Light, unite the realm once more and rule together in Avalon. They would put an end to the ancient dispute. They would find a way to break the forest’s enchantment so Fabian could cross the border. Those were the days of endless dreams.
The White Witch (The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy Book 1) Page 21
