Vrax craned his neck to listen, before the wind took the secrets. ‘I know of The Passage,’ he said with a nod. ‘I’ve seen where it ends. I can find it again, if I must. But it won’t come to that, will it? They won’t know I’m coming, unless someone is going to give me away? Are you?’
William shook his head vehemently. ‘No, my Lord. I want her dead as much as you do.’
‘Do you?’ Vrax said, regarding him suspiciously. ‘Why is she still alive then? Don’t want to get your hands dirty, is that it?’
William shrugged. ‘I just want to live in peace.’
Vrax rolled his eyes. ‘Hah! Well you won’t find peace here. Go to the Land of the Banished. Now, listen. This goes no further. Do not tell a soul.’ His eyes flashed and his finger shook as he pointed at William. ‘Or I’ll come for you and I’ll gut you! It must be me. I must make the discovery! Tell me how to get to this house.’
‘I would ask a favour first,’ said William. ‘Please, please don’t harm Agatha - the old woman. She only keeps Enola there because your brother told her to.’
Vrax nodded impatiently and stood to leave the tree hollow. ‘Yes, boy, you have my word. I won’t harm her.’
William regretted what he had done the instant Vrax departed. He clawed at the skin on his face in anguish. How could he have placed Agatha’s life in the hands of Vrax Mordark? He bit his nails down to the quick as he thought about the irreversible thing he had done. His life would not be the same after this night. Agatha’s would not be the same. And Enola… well, she would lose her life come morning time. What had he done? Did he truly expect Vrax to let him live at the end of all this? He, who had helped conceal Enola Reverof from him for all these years? No. He had doomed them all.
In the morning, when he awoke to the sound of Agatha grumbling about something unimportant downstairs, he convinced himself it had all been a dream. Perhaps it would be easier to go on pretending that it was.
He rattled the pouch of coins Vrax had given him. It was heavy, bulging with gold and silver. Enough for a lifetime. He let it fall from his hand and felt instantly lighter.
*
Enola cried out as Vrax sank his nails into her arm.
‘Quiet! You’ll frighten my horse,’ he said, removing his hand. His nails left deep red marks in her skin, which stung enough to bring tears to her eyes.
As they rounded a dense briar thicket, Enola saw a white horse with piercing blue eyes in the distance. It was an enormous creature, larger than any normal horse. It stared at her warily as she came closer.
‘Hurry up,’ Vrax said, shoving her hard in the back. Enola stumbled and fell to the ground, her chin smacking the cold dirt with a soft thud. ‘No, no, no!’ she heard Vrax shout over the thunder of hooves. The ground shuddered as the horse galloped away. Vrax ran after it, cursing furiously.
As soon as his back was turned, Enola seized her chance. She pulled her arms free of her loosened bindings, pushed herself to her feet and ran.
She saw Vrax in the corner of her eye, abandoning his chase, coming for her now, cutting across the forest to intercept her. She ran faster, faster, her legs burning. She could not slow. She would die if she did.
‘Bitch!’ Vrax shouted. He was behind her. She could feel his rage. She ran, blind with terror, weaving left and right around the trees like a hunted animal, trying to shake him off. But he was closing the distance between them, crashing over dead branches, which shattered beneath his weight. Crows squawked and hissed in their nests above. Enola gasped for breath but the air that filled her lungs didn’t seem enough. Her chest ached. He was going to catch her.
Her heart skipped a beat when her foot caught on a tree root. She plummeted to the ground, her ankle twisting sharply, and landed hard. The wind was knocked from her. Wheezing, she dragged herself forwards, clawing at the dirt, until she could go no further. She rolled onto her back, too tired to go on, and looked up at Vrax. He was standing over her, eyes alive with hunger. But as he reached down to grab her, there was a flash of movement. Something large collided with him and knocked him off his feet. Enola sat up and stared in disbelief as William fell down on top of him. Next moment, they were fighting, rolling on the ground, trying to overpower one another.
Enola scrambled to her feet without a second thought and ran. The trees passed by in a blur. And when the ferocious shouts were long behind her, she dared to hope that she would escape with her life after all.
The pain in her injured ankle grew steadily worse as she raced through the forest. She pushed on as far as she could, until it became unbearable. Then she stopped and tucked herself behind a tree to catch her breath and gather her senses. That was when she saw it.
The white horse spooked as she staggered towards it, grunting and kicking its front hoof out as if to ward her off. Its mane shone purest white and almost appeared to glow as it tossed its head in distress, trying to free itself from the branch around which its reins were tangled. Enola approached the creature. It shifted about uneasily, as if it sensed what she would do next. Reaching up, she untangled the reins from the branch. As soon as they were free, the horse began to back up, but Enola didn’t let go. She pulled the horse towards her. It came reluctantly, rearing its head and stamping at the dirt, its flanks rippling with muscle.
Latheerian horses moved faster than the east winds. This horse would save her life. Heart pounding, she looped the reins back over its head, put her foot in the stirrup and hoisted herself up onto its back. The horse screeched and reared up on its hind legs. Then, it leapt into a gallop. Enola clung on, willing it to slow down, but if it understood her thoughts, it did not heed them. She saw the ground rushing by. The reins hung slack around the horse’s long neck as it charged deeper into the forest, back the way they had come. Enola felt a cold flood of panic. She could not go back. Her father was dead. Agatha was dead. William had betrayed her. She had nothing to return to. Only death. She sat up in the saddle, grasped the reins and pulled them taut. The horse slowed momentarily, before straining against the reins and continuing on at a gallop. Enola slipped from side to side in the saddle. Stop, she willed it. Stop. She could not go back there. The Land of the Banished was her only hope now. She had to turn around.
‘Stop!’ she screamed.
*
William choked as Vrax pinned him to the ground by his throat. He spat blood in Vrax’s face in desperation and, as Vrax recoiled, smashed his fist into his jaw. The skin on his knuckles split open. Vrax fell backwards. William lunged after him but, as he did, Vrax drew a dagger from his belt and thrust it upwards towards him. William grabbed his arm to stop him. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow as they struggled and the dagger inched closer and closer to his chest. William’s hands began to shake as he pushed back against Vrax with all his strength. This was for Agatha, he thought with mounting rage. He would avenge her if it was the last thing he did. He gritted his teeth and pushed harder. And, slowly, Vrax began to weaken; his arm bent inwards and the dagger turned to point now at his heart. Vrax’s eyes burned with determination as he forced the knife back towards William. They fought on, silently, the cold blade twisting and turning. And then, at last, it sank deep into its target.
William’s eyes bulged as he looked down at the dagger. Blood spurted out over his hands. He began to tremble. An empty silence drowned out the sound of his ragged breaths.
He felt cold.
26. THE WHITE WITCH
It was a dark morning. Lucian led his men in silence through the forest in a steady line. Thomas walked beside him, a comforting presence. And it struck Lucian then that he had never thanked his brother for his years of loyal service. Thomas could have deserted him after Iris’s death - it was clear that he wanted to - but he had stayed by Lucian’s side and done his duty. He had married who he was told to marry, when he was told to marry. He had counselled Lucian and endured endless torment.
Lucian wanted to say something to Thomas now, as they walked, but found he could not. Instead, he glanc
ed at him, caught his eye and nodded - a swift gesture of his gratitude. Thomas nodded back.
The Worgrims had begun to circle again, waiting to swoop down and enjoy a fresh feast. There would be no avoiding them; the fires had burned away great parts of the Dark Forest, leaving Lucian’s army exposed as they advanced. But there was no point fretting over this. It was just one of many ways to die. And most would die today. Of that he was certain.
*
Fabian put a hand up to stop his men as they came to an abandoned house on the edge of the eastern path. The men fell still almost at once and looked on as Fabian stooped down beside a mound of rocks and picked up a silver ring. It was cold. When he turned it over and saw the serpent engraving, his stomach dropped. It was Alexander’s ring. Beside a makeshift grave.
‘Move these rocks!’ he ordered. ‘Now!’ His heart began to race. He had not heard from Alexander in two moons. Part of him did not want to see what was buried beneath the rocks, for fear it would be him. It then occurred to Fabian that Vrax and Tobias were not there, either. None of his sons had accompanied him into battle. ‘Where are my sons?’ he said, as five weary men came forward and began to remove the rocks from the heap. ‘Send for them. I want them brought here, now!’ He staggered towards Belfor, away from the grave.
‘My Lord, a word of caution,’ said Belfor, clutching his arm and looking around anxiously. ‘We must not give away our position. If they hear us, our plan will fail.’
Fabian scowled at him. No one could tell him what to do, especially not his fat cousin. But when he spoke next, it was in a hushed voice. ‘Find my boys.’
‘We cannot afford to spare even one man. Do not forget, my Lord, what it is you have worked so hard to gain.’
Belfor’s boldness stunned Fabian. And every one of the three hundred men they had selected for this undertaking had witnessed it. Fabian did not know how to respond. He could not stand there idly and allow Belfor to speak to him that way. But nor could he harm his cousin. He did not have a strategic mind like Belfor; without him, the mission was doomed.
It had been a hurried plan, devised as the first of the grey morning light bled into the dark sky. They had had little time to move these men to the eastern path, away from the battleground. And they would have even less time, once the battle had begun, to circle in and surround Lucian Mortenstone’s army. It was a plan filled with risks and uncertainties. But, in Fabian’s weakened state, it was the only hope he had.
‘My Lord?’ The voice broke the stony silence. Fabian let his eyes linger on Belfor before he looked to the man who had spoken. It was a young soldier; he was standing beside the mound of rocks, the top of which had been removed. The soldier stared down into the cavity and then shrugged at Fabian. ‘Just an old woman, my Lord.’
Fabian walked over to the grave and looked at the body. He felt an enormous rush of relief as he set eyes on the old woman. He stood up straight and breathed a deep sigh. Alexander was not dead. But he had been here. He was in the forest.
‘Would you have us cover it back up, my Lord?’ asked the young soldier. Fabian shook his head and glanced at the body again with indifference.
‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘Save your strength.’
He turned and walked slowly back to Belfor, wondering what he should do with him, when, suddenly, he heard a low rumbling noise. He stopped dead. Belfor looked at him, eyes widening. The sound grew and grew. Fabian felt the ground tremble beneath his feet. As he listened, there came a distant and almighty roar, which gathered momentum like a wave, until the very air was vibrating.
It had started.
*
Lucian’s heart thundered in his chest as he charged. With his men around him, he felt strong. He filled his lungs and shrieked, tears streaming from his eyes as the cold wind rushed past.
The Dark Families emerged from the gloom like shadows, surging through the forest towards them, the rattle of their black armour and shields drowning beneath their murderous cries. Above, the Worgrims’ screeches were shrill. But Lucian felt no fear. He fixed his eyes on a soldier with a steel, horned mask, moving through the trees at the front of the Mordark army. Everything else seemed to melt into the darkness around him. Lucian ran faster, faster. He could see the man’s cold breath steaming through the slits in the mask. As he closed the distance between them, he raised his sword into the air; it sang as he brought it down to strike, but the man blocked his blow with his own blade and, pushing back with the force of a beast, sent Lucian staggering backwards. The man advanced without pause. Lucian choked up a clot of blood and quickly spat it to the ground. Then, letting his sword arm fall limp at his side, he focused intently on the two black eye holes in his opponent’s mask. The man was mere inches from him now, lifting his sword, preparing to deliver the killer blow… when he froze. His arms began to jerk and spasm, but he didn’t let go of his weapon. Lucian felt a throbbing pressure behind his own eyes; the man was resisting him. Lucian squeezed every muscle in his body, straining, clenching, until he heard a loud popping sound. The pressure eased. Blood spurted from the holes in the mask. Then, with such suddenness Lucian could only gawp, a Worgrim dived down, plucked the man off his feet and launched back up into the air with him dangling lifelessly in its beak. The sword dropped from his hand, landing in the dirt before Lucian, who doubled over and put his hand out to steady himself against a tree. His vision blurred for a moment and then returned.
Screams rang out all around him as men clung desperately to life. And he felt it, beneath his skin. Death was here, in the forest, waiting for them all. He would die today, without any heirs. He knew it, as he knew day followed night.
Oh, how he had tried to do what was expected of him. Five stillborn children. A wife who had paid the ultimate price for it. And, after all the pain and anguish, he, Lucian, marked the end of his line. He had failed to secure for The Light what it needed most. If he could just achieve the one thing he desired before his time was up, he knew his rule would not have been a complete, hopeless waste. If he could kill Fabian Mordark, his rule would have meant something.
‘Where is he?’ he demanded as Tarolock fell back against the tree to pull an arrow from his left arm. Tarolock held his breath as he snapped the arrow and tossed it to the ground. He turned to Lucian.
‘He isn’t here!’ he shouted.
‘What do you mean he isn’t here?’ Lucian said, looking around wildly. Was this merely the first wave? Did Fabian Mordark have more men in reserve?
The battle raged around him; men fell, Worgrims swooped, fires blazed once more, and Fabian Mordark was nowhere to be seen. Lucian watched with mounting despair; his battle strategy was failing yet again. The lines had broken. The men seemed to have forgotten their training, using magic to kill where a swing of the sword would have sufficed. They were growing weaker by the minute.
‘Get the men back into line!’ Lucian barked at Tarolock. ‘Tell them no magic! They’re losing strength!’
Lucian stayed by the tree as Tarolock ran back into battle screaming the order. And he turned his attention to the men of Draxvar as they cut their way through the Mordark forces. They did not need to be told what to do, these fierce men of the north. They relished the hunter’s kill, slicing through flesh and bone. They moved as if in a dance; figures in black with masks of purest silver, which bore the faces of dragons, sweeping through the enemy as fast as the east winds.
Lucian watched them, transfixed. And then he broke out of his trance and his fear came rushing back. Where was the Lord of the Dark Lands? Why was he hiding?
*
Josephine began to shake as she stood in the castle entrance hall, surrounded by whimpering maids and servant girls, who huddled together and prayed to the White Witch, as if it would make a difference. All of the guards were dead. The castle stood defenceless.
Josephine could hear the screams coming all the way from the Dark Forest. It chilled her to the core. She was afraid. And yet some instinct was telling her to leave the cast
le and go there, to the heart of the battle. She looked around at the women waiting to die. They remained at the castle not out of loyalty but fear. Fear to act. If they were wise, they would be miles away from danger by now, heading for Latheera or fleeing through Mortenstone Valley towards Draxvar. They were weak. She was not like them. She was not weak. She gathered up her skirts and passed through the doorway into the courtyard. She heard them all calling for her to come back and crying hysterically when she continued towards the gates.
Saskian the elf emerged from the stables and limped after her. He was decrepit now, his eyes milky-white and unseeing, but he reached her quickly.
‘No, my lady! Please, come back inside!’ he said, pulling at her arm.
Josephine turned. He was a pitiful sight. She remembered a time when had stood tall and proud beside her husband. But those days were long gone.
‘Saskian,’ she said gently, steadying him. ‘You have done your duty. Save yourself.’ And then she walked on, out through the gates, across the square, towards the Dark Forest. He didn’t pursue her. And even if he had, she would not have listened to him. She had to do something. They could all live if she stopped them and told them the truth. She only hoped she was not too late.
*
Five Mortenstone guards formed a barrier around Lucian, blocking every blade and enchantment directed at him as he hastened towards Thomas, who had fallen back against a tree, gasping for breath.
‘Where is he? Have you seen Fabian Mordark?’ Lucian shouted, crashing into the tree beside his brother. Thomas shook his head and grimaced, clutching his leg. He was wounded.
The White Witch (The Serpent and The Sorcerer Trilogy Book 1) Page 23
