The White Witch (The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy Book 1)

by J. J. Morrison

  But, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, when she was down by the forest’s edge, the unthinkable happened. Her family, accompanied by fifty strong men clad in armour, took her back. There was no battle, no bloodshed. They simply plucked her off her feet and carried her away, just as the Worgrims had picked men from the towers.

  They brought her back to The Light and thrust her straight into a union with her cousin, Matthew Mortenstone, whom she loathed. He had been an arrogant, brash sort of boy and those qualities had not waned in manhood. The deed was done so fast she had no time to grieve the life they had stolen from her. Suddenly, she was Matthew’s wife, and pregnant. She could not go back to the forest; her father had her under his control once more. He had men following her, day and night. Her life was no longer her own. And it struck her that she had never truly been free at all. But was it so terrible to favour one kind of imprisonment over another?

  It was all she could do not to throw herself from the highest tower. The one thing driving her to stay alive was the hope that, one day, she would see Fabian again. She would be able to look him in the eye and tell him she had no part in any of it. She had not escaped - she would never have left him of her own free will. She supposed that somewhere deep down he knew that. She just had to help him remember.

  But, as the years wore on, her mind became plagued with doubt. Her father was long dead. She had had countless opportunities to slip away back to the Dark Lands. Why hadn’t she? She knew why. Fabian was an impulsive man - it was one of the things she loved most about him. But what if his rage was such that he acted before he heard her side of the tale? She was afraid. It was easier to stand back and dream of what might have been than face him as he was now, after a lifetime apart.

  She thought of Iris, terror-stricken upon the pyre, and felt a stab of remorse. She had been dealt with too harshly. Everyone knew it. Lucian’s motives were his own but Josephine was ashamed of her reasons. Iris had dared to do what she no longer had the stomach for; she had ventured into the Dark Forest. In many ways, she had been jealous of her daughter. Iris had the ignorance of youth to protect her. For a time, at least. Iris had the courage Josephine yearned for. But her courage had taken her to an early grave, Josephine reminded herself. Her own caution had spared her… for a time. But when Fabian’s son killed Matthew, she knew it was a message. He wanted her to know of his fury, she was sure of it. He was coming for her, to wreak vengeance. She was terrified. And she was elated.

  *

  Lucian woke as the last of the fires were extinguished and acrid smoke billowed across the makeshift camp. As he pushed himself up from the ground, his arms trembled under his own weight, so fragile that, for an instant, he thought his bones would snap.

  ‘Are you strong enough?’ Thomas’s question was tinged with doubt. Lucian nodded, but he could tell from Thomas’s expression that they both knew he was lying. Thomas glanced around helplessly. ‘I could lead them,’ he offered.

  Lucian barely had the energy to shake his head. The men could not fight with heart if he stayed behind and watched them charge to their deaths. It had to be him. The darkness suddenly felt thick and suffocating without the great fires. And cold, terribly cold. Lucian began to shiver.

  He had been a stern ruler, he knew - at times, senselessly harsh. But he had been a leader they believed in, one they trusted to guide them. When men looked at him, they saw strength. But now, as they regarded him, he could see the disillusion in their eyes. Had it all been a clever guise? Had Lucian Mortenstone ever been worthy?

  The men stood around him, huddled together, countless faces, names he would never know. Hundreds of men, staring at him, looking for hope in the cloying darkness. And then something strange happened. A haunting voice broke the long, brooding silence. Thomas had begun to sing.

  ‘In the Land of Light, Where good men reign, We will stand tall, Through toil and pain…’

  Every eye turned to Thomas and, as he drew breath, another man, several rows back, continued the Song of the Realm.

  ‘Great Merlin’s Light, Cast down on all, Our land of peace, Will never fall…’ His voice was deep and strong.

  The men around him stirred. And then, together, they all started to sing.

  ‘When evil gazes on us,

  And we hear the castle bells,

  We shall look back without fear,

  And we will remember well,

  ‘Those Mordark eyes of emerald green,

  The eyes of cunning, traitorous fiends,

  The men who shunned good Merlin’s love,

  And fell from grace from high above.

  ‘We will not walk behind those men,

  We bow before our master’s throne,

  Our hearts and souls, all that we own,

  Are yours Lord Mortenstone.’

  The oppressive darkness seemed to lift as they sang the old words. Lucian’s throat tightened with emotion. He looked up at the sky. A million stars glinted brilliantly in the cloudless sky. The light gently bathed his face. It was beautiful. A beautiful night. A beautiful end.

  ‘Light conquers darkness,’ he said faintly. All heard him.

  *

  When the dying words of the song faded, an uncomfortable silence settled over Fabian’s ranks. Fabian himself felt his gut clench. Those were not the sentiments of a weakened side. He looked around for Belfor but the pig was nowhere to be seen. Of course he was out of sight, he thought with contempt. Belfor was no fool.

  Fabian caught sight of a boy clad in black armour that was much too large for him. He extended his finger and beckoned him. The boy looked terrified and, with a nudge from the man behind him, reluctantly came forward.

  ‘How old are you?’ Fabian asked.

  ‘Ten,’ the boy said.

  Fabian felt a twinge in his gut again. He exhaled heavily. ‘Ten,’ he said, looking away. He shook his head slowly before turning to stare at the boy again. ‘When my boys were ten, they were as weak as chickens. You seem like a brave ten-year-old. Am I right?’ The boy turned back to the man behind him and then gave Fabian a small nod. ‘Of course you are. Bravest man here, I bet,’ Fabian continued. ‘Your sword, do you have a sword?’ The boy shook his head and looked at the ground. It was a foolish question, Fabian realised. The boy hadn’t the strength to wield a sword, nor to pierce a man’s armour. He was just fodder. Fabian wondered why they had even bothered to suit him in armour. He ruffled the boy’s hair; his touch seemed to startle him. He gave a low, gruff laugh. The boy looked up to meet his eye and Fabian could see, in that wide stare, that the boy was afraid; he knew his fate. ‘They will write songs about your courage,’ Fabian whispered, knowing that his words would mean nothing to the boy but saying them all the same. He looked at the boy once more before he turned and limped away.

  He would never forget his face.

  25. BETRAYAL

  William had begun to wonder if Enola would ever awaken. She lay there, lifeless on the ground, for what seemed like hours. He had shaken her, sprinkled water on her face, even tried to carry her the rest of the way, but it was no use. Giving up, he sat beside her in complete darkness, holding a hand over her mouth often, to check that she was still breathing.

  He let his eyes drift closed for a moment, and only then did he realise how exhausted he was. He hadn’t eaten in a day; he was famished and weak. His head started to loll to one side. Sleep was pulling at him. When he could fight it no longer, he slumped forwards and surrendered. But the second he did, there was a sharp, sudden gasp. The sound shot through him, filled the tunnel. He jumped with fright.

  ‘Enola?’ he said, putting a hand on her shoulder as she sat up and heaved fast, heavy breaths. Her hair was sticky with blood.

  ‘They wanted me to draw a picture,’ she said. Her voice was deep and croaky and, for a moment, she sounded just like Agatha.

  ‘What? Who wanted you to draw a picture?’ William said. ‘Enola?’ He couldn’t see her in the darkness. He shook her shoulder gently.

&nb
sp; ‘In the valley!’ she said. Her words echoed all around them. ‘Mother was afraid of me. Master Hagworth, he was afraid.’

  ‘Enola?’ said William, alarmed now. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘Who is the old man in the tree?’ she asked.

  ‘Enola—’

  ‘In the castle… there are secret passages… They called me the cursed one. They whispered…I heard them...’

  William edged away from her. She was rambling like a mad woman. The fall had done something strange to her head.

  ‘I… can you walk?’ He stood and groped in the darkness for her hand, helping her to her feet.

  ‘Why did—?’

  ‘Shut up!’ he snapped. He didn’t want to hear any more. She was frightening him. He held her hand tightly and began to walk. Enola stumbled, disorientated. He steadied her and then put his arm around her waist to support her. He was so focused on keeping her upright as she staggered along the tunnel, he did not see what was ahead until they had stopped to rest.

  Leaning back against the wall, breathless and dripping with both sweat and the water that leaked from the tunnel roof, he saw it. In the distance, a weak, milky light pricked a hole in the darkness. He felt a huge wave of nervous relief. They were close. He could see the end of the tunnel.

  Suddenly, the sound of boots splashing through water echoed through the tunnel. A shiver ran up his spine. Tobias flashed into his mind. But it couldn’t be him. Surely, it could not. Tobias was dead. He had seen the blood himself.

  He looked back into the blackness.

  ‘Come on!’ he said, pulling Enola forwards, towards the light.

  As they approached the mouth of the tunnel, William’s heart began to pound furiously. This was it. Low branches concealed the opening. Morning light seeped through the thin leaves. No wind stirred them. No birds sang. The thudding boots in the distance sent ripples through the black puddles on the ground. William stopped and stepped out in front of Enola, blocking her path. He could see her now, her pale face, her blood-soaked scalp, her large, staring eyes. He pressed a finger to his lips and signalled for her to stay where she was. Then he ducked beneath a branch and left the tunnel.

  *

  Enola waited, listening. Outside, a twig cracked. Then, silence. Her head throbbed. She felt sick. All she wanted to do was lie down and sleep.

  ‘All clear,’ called William.

  Enola pushed a branch aside and staggered out of the tunnel.

  The trees were sparse in this part of the Dark Forest. They seemed even more monstrous, somehow, standing alone and unobstructed. They towered over her, trunks grey and twisted, with branches bursting from them like thousands of rotting arms. William was standing beside the nearest tree, a little way in front, his head bowed. Enola stared at him for a moment and then cast her eyes up. Dusky fingers of light filtered through the large gaps in the canopy high above.

  ‘Thank you, William!’ came a low voice. Enola froze as a hand slapped against the side of her neck and pulled her in like a hook. Her throat was forced up against the crook of a man’s arm and he held her there so tightly she choked with every breath. Over his arm, she could see William watching. He did not seem surprised. ‘Do you know who I am?’ said the voice. There was a smile hidden in it, somewhere.

  ‘Vrax,’ she choked, forcing the word up as if it were poison.

  ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Clever little witch.’ He released her suddenly and smashed his fist into the back of her head. She flew to the ground, stunned, and the world turned onto its side. The trees, the ground, the light and the shadows began to merge into one another. She felt oddly light, as if she had become detached from her body. ‘Are you going to be a good witch?’ Vrax said, grabbing a fistful of her hair and tugging her head up off the ground.

  Enola could feel her hand tingling, a dull and distant sensation, like a gentle tapping at a faraway door. But the feeling was growing. And her hand was pulsing. She raised it slowly into the air.

  ‘She has powers here, my Lord! You should bind her hands!’ William said.

  Quick as a cat, Vrax let go of her hair and pulled her arms behind her back, forcing them into an impossible position. Enola felt a sharp, searing pain shoot up and down her arms.

  ‘You’ll break my arms. You’ll break my arms!’ she shrieked.

  ‘Help me!’ Vrax shouted to William, who walked towards them and crouched beside Enola. ‘Hold her arms here. Tighter,’ said Vrax, and he bound her wrists together as William held them in place. When Vrax had finished, he stood and looked at William uncertainly. ‘Perhaps I should cut them off,’ he said.

  ‘She’ll bleed to death before you get her back to your father,’ William said.

  Vrax grunted. ‘Blindfold her,’ he said, reaching into a sack and pulling out a rag, which he tossed to William.

  Enola stared at William venomously as he knelt over her with the rag. He was a coward, a traitor. She hated him. More than Agatha. More than anyone. She had never felt such fury. He didn’t look at her but kept his eyes on the strip of cloth as he brought it to her face. Everything went black as he fastened it over her eyes.

  ‘Good lad,’ said Vrax. ‘You can go now.’

  Enola heard a jangling sound as a coin pouch was tossed from one man to the other, and then footsteps. William was walking away.

  She screamed with anger and frustration as she lay there, unable to move. The pulsing feeling in her hand had gone. She felt tired, frail. Her throat dried up. Her head was splitting with pain. And then she heard something… Something to her left. Rustling. The sound stopped suddenly. Then, a rush of footsteps. A shout. A struggle. A thud.

  Enola’s blindfold was pulled off hastily and she found herself staring up at her father. He was breathing heavily and he looked pale. His eyes were red and ringed with deep shadows. He looked almost unrecognisable. He looked old.

  ‘It’s alright. You’re alright,’ he said. Vrax was lying unconscious on the ground behind him.

  Enola winced as Alexander frantically pulled and twisted the rope that bound her wrists and cursed under his breath. The rope was coming loose. She could feel the stinging pain in her wrists receding. She closed her eyes, giving in to the heavy weight of her eyelids and the queasy feeling that turned her stomach.

  Suddenly, she heard her father gasp. It was a sound that seemed to suck in all the air around them, plunging the forest into a terrible silence. Enola opened her eyes and looked up to see the tip of a blade protruding from her father’s chest. Behind him, eyes glittering with malice, stood Vrax, who withdrew the sword and then thrust it into Alexander’s back a second time.

  ‘No!’ Enola breathed.

  Alexander stared at the tip of the sword with indifference before Vrax pulled it out again. Then he looked up at the forest and his eyes rested on something in the distance. ‘Is that it?’ he said, a faint smile flickering to his lips before he dropped to the ground beside Enola. His eyes drifted shut, as if he had fallen into a deep sleep.

  ‘No. Get up!’ Enola said through gritted teeth. ‘Get up!’

  Vrax staggered towards her and hauled her to her feet by her hair. She screamed with pain. She hoped William could hear her. She hoped her screams haunted him forever.

  ‘Come, little witch,’ said Vrax. He gripped the back of her head and dug his fingers into her scalp. ‘Eyes forward!’ he said, forcing her to walk, leaving Alexander behind on the ground.

  One thought whirled around Enola’s mind as she went. If only she had her knife. If only she had her knife. The things she would do if only she had her knife.

  *

  William stood staring at the shimmering veil of mist. It hung in the air, spreading across the forest like a white wall. He had come to the edge of the realm. He could step through it, he knew, continue to the boat. And never return. But he didn’t move any closer. He thought, instead, about the promise he had made to Agatha. He said he would look after Enola, deliver her safely to the Land of the Bani
shed. He had not kept his word. Could he live with himself, knowing that he had betrayed Agatha’s dying wish? Perhaps he could… After all, he had never really been given a choice. It was expected of him, but no one ever asked him. He squeezed the pouch of coins uneasily. Regardless of whatever promise he had made or been forced to make, he had accepted payment from the man who had killed Agatha. Could he live with that?

  He had not expected to cross paths with Vrax Mordark when he left Agatha’s house the previous night. He was distraught, furious, unable to think of anything but his beloved Bette, whom Enola had sentenced to death. He knew she had revealed herself to Bette on purpose, knowing what would inevitably happen. He walked for a long time, hating her, wishing she had never been born.

  The screaming gale had masked Vrax’s approach. When, suddenly, William found himself before him, he could not resist the desire to tell him everything.

  ‘I have some information. About the girl you seek,’ he had said. Vrax’s eyes lit with interest.

  They crouched together in the hollow of a tree as the wind roared all around them.

  ‘She’s a vicious girl. A savage. She won’t go easily. She’s like a wild animal. And, one more thing, you must come quietly! If they hear or suspect you, they’ll send us to the Land of the Banished. There’s a passage. I don’t know where it is but they’ll take us to it. It leads to the edge of the Dark Forest. That’s all I know.’ His words spilled out faster than he had time to think.