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

by J. J. Morrison

  ‘We need to retreat,’ Thomas said. ‘It’s a trap!’ As he uttered the words, a Mortenstone guard lunged forwards and thrust his shield out to protect Lucian’s head. Lucian wheeled around as a bright spark bounced off the steel. When the guard lowered the shield, his eyes widened with horror.

  A vast horde surged through the forest towards him. Hundreds of men, roaring triumphantly as they came. Fabian was at the front of the charge, his eyes wild with hunger, his long cloak billowing behind him as he closed in to surround Lucian’s army.

  The Mortenstone guards looked to Lucian for instruction. Their eyes burned with fear. They were shouting. Thomas was shouting, shaking his shoulder, signalling frantically for men to form a shield wall, some form of resistance. But Lucian could not hear them; it was as if he had been plunged into a deep, dense silence, in which his shallow breaths were all that filled the void. He saw their lips moving, saw eyes looking at him while he looked out. And he felt that familiar pulsing sensation in his gut. The feeling was growing, rising through his tired body. This was the end.

  He felt quite calm as he pushed past the guards, away from their protection, and began to run. Towards Fabian. Towards his fate. He threw down his sword, running faster now, a growl in his throat. And, as he drew near, he saw a word form on Fabian’s pale lips, a word Lucian had never spoken, a word from a time… before. Avalon.

  Lucian stopped and threw out his arms. Power rushed up through him with blistering force. And, shrieking like a man on fire, he let it burst free. A blinding bolt of light shot from his palms. Fabian stopped and raised his hands. Lucian felt a burning, stinging swell of pain in every part of him as Fabian’s bolt of light clashed against his.

  The winds howled and the trees thrashed. All around them, men were falling, flying backwards, dropping their weapons, shielding their eyes from the bright light. The Worgrims abandoned their hunt and scattered, disappearing into the clouds. Lucian staggered towards Fabian. The hot, white light stung his eyes as he closed the space between them. His legs felt like stone. He could feel his heart fading, feel the life leaving his body. But he wanted to stand before him, this monster who walked his nightmares and darkened his dreams. He wanted to look into Fabian Mordark’s eyes as he killed him. With one final push, Lucian unleashed everything he had left in him. He roared as the light from his hands intensified and surged through Fabian’s green bolt, swallowing it, moving towards his chest.

  Fabian stared at him in stunned surprise, his mouth falling open.

  Lucian moved closer, closer and, as the light illuminated his face, his eyes flashed emerald green.

  *

  A clap of thunder crashed overhead as Josephine crossed the Grassland. The ground shook. A fierce wind blasted from the Dark Forest, hitting her so forcefully she was knocked off her feet.

  She looked up at the sky as she lay there, stunned; dark clouds were swirling above, splitting open as lightning coursed through them. Another clap of thunder rumbled through the air. Josephine rolled onto her front and crawled the rest of the way to the forest. When she reached it, she slowly pushed herself to her feet, gasping for breath, her chest heaving as she began to sob. In her heart, she knew it was over.

  She ran through the darkness, forcing herself onwards, deeper into the forest, crying so furiously she could not see.

  Gone were the screams, the war cries, the ringing screech of swords that, from the castle, had seemed too much to bear. Now, there was only silence. Only her. For a moment, she was a girl again, running through the Dark Forest, away from her father. Running home.

  Her breath caught in her throat when she came to him, sprawled on the ground among the dead. The living watched on, enemies alike, their swords lowered. Every eye in the forest followed her as she walked to Fabian and sank to her knees beside him. It was over. But, as she put a hand to her mouth to stifle her grief, Fabian’s eyes opened wearily. She stared at him in shock. The web of lines around his eyes deepened as he smiled weakly up at her. He looked so very different now, and yet exactly the same.

  ‘Is this a dream?’ he whispered. Josephine shook her head, tears spilling from her eyes. Fabian gazed at her longingly. ‘Would that it were… an eternal dream.’

  Josephine stroked his cheek softly and smiled. Then she lifted his hand and curled his fingers around the pendent that hung from her neck. ‘I never left you,’ she said.

  Blood leaked from Fabian’s mouth as he tried to speak.

  ‘Shh,’ Josephine said softly. She reached out to wipe the blood away when there was a high-pitched screech. She turned quickly towards the sound. In the distance, she could see a white horse. It was glowing in the darkness, galloping towards them over the burnt earth. As it came closer, Josephine saw the figure upon its back. She knew that face - from a time long ago.

  Fabian laughed feebly as he stared at the white horse. Then he turned back to look at Josephine. ‘I took too long, my love,’ he said, his fingers slipping away from the pendant. ‘We are old now.’ A single tear rolled down his cheek as he closed his eyes. They did not open again.

  ‘In our dreams we shall meet. We shall have endless adventures,’ Josephine whispered, clasping his hand in hers.

  ‘Mother?’ came a gentle voice. Josephine looked up. Thomas was kneeling on the ground across from her, a perplexed expression on his face. He was cushioning a man’s head with his hands. Josephine drew a sharp breath. It was Lucian.

  ‘My boy!’ she said, letting go of Fabian. She began to crawl towards Lucian, her vision blurring with tears, her skirts dragging along the ground, sweeping earth and twigs along with them. She cupped her hands around Lucian’s face and kissed his forehead. His eyes were open and vacant. He was dead.

  *

  Enola’s knuckles turned white over the reins as the horse hurtled through the forest towards a clearing. All around, faces were appearing out of the darkness, turning to look at her. A scattering of weak fires burned on the ground and across the charred trunks of fallen trees. The Mordark serpent blazed emerald green on discarded shields in the firelight. The ground was littered with bodies. There had been a battle here. Enola’s heart pounded faster and faster as she swept by. Fabian Mordark had hunted her for years and now she had come to him. And, with cold dread, she felt the horse begin to slow. She kicked it and jerked the reins desperately but, in spite of her efforts, the horse fell into a walk.

  The men parted as the horse moved into their midst. They stared up at Enola curiously as she passed but made no move to seize her. There were more men ahead, standing in the dull blue light of the clearing. And bodies, piles of bodies - more than Enola could have counted - strewn across the ground. She looked around wildly, searching for an escape, as the horse crossed into the clearing. If she could jump down, could she outrun them? Weave a path they could not follow? Perhaps - if she did it now, darted straight to the other side of the clearing and slipped into shadow…

  The horse stopped abruptly as it neared the edge of the clearing. This was her chance. Enola stared at the ground and prepared to jump. She moved to swing her leg over the saddle when the horse started to back up and toss its head in distress. Enola froze. There was something out there, moving through the darkness towards them. She could hear rustling. It grew louder. It was coming closer. The men turned their heads towards the sound. The horse was grunting now, twitching nervously. Enola’s breath curled into white smoke as a chill crept into the air. She looked deep into the darkness, not daring to blink. Suddenly, the horse reared up. Enola clung to its neck and closed her eyes as a blinding light engulfed them, spreading outwards like shards of white fire. An icy wind rushed through the trees, whistling, howling. Leaves and ash flew through the forest, whipping past Enola’s face. The wind was screaming now, shrill in her ears. And then it stopped, as suddenly as it had begun. The light faded. The shadows returned. The horse crashed down onto its front hooves. And the forest fell back into silence.

  Enola blinked away the dazzling light that lingered behin
d her eyelids. Around her, the men began to murmur. She stared at them as, one by one, they dropped to their knees and laid down their swords. She heard a man whisper, ‘She has come’ and followed his gaze to the shadows beyond the clearing.

  When the figure emerged, her heart stilled.

  The old woman was pale-skinned and her white hair hung in thin wisps over her shoulders. She looked at Enola knowingly as she walked towards her, feet bare and blue with veins, a dark bloodstain on her nightgown. She no longer limped, as she once had, nor did she use a stick for balance. She moved calmly and swiftly. She looked younger somehow, the lines in her face less distinct, her back straight, eyes twinkling.

  Agatha.

  Enola stared at her blankly as she came to stand beside the horse. What dark magic was this? She shook her head in disbelief. Agatha was dead. They had killed her - Tobias Mordark had told them so in the tunnel. “The old hag feeds the crows” he had said. And yet… here she was. Had Tobias lied?

  ‘You’re not dead, then,’ said Enola.

  ‘No,’ said Agatha. ‘Why are you here, girl? I sent you away.’ She cast her eyes around the clearing searchingly. ‘Where is William? And your father?’

  When Enola did not answer, all trace of Agatha’s smile disappeared; her eyes became cold, her thin lips even thinner. She turned her head and walked on without another glance at Enola, who felt strangely ill-at-ease. There was something odd about Agatha, something unfamiliar. A presence, or perhaps an absence, of something. Whatever it was, Enola did not think Tobias had lied.

  Agatha approached Thomas and Josephine Mortenstone in her bloodied dress. Thomas stared up at her in astonishment while his mother glared at the men around them, whose heads were bowed low before Agatha, their faces almost touching the dirt. Lucian’s body lay between them. Agatha stopped in front of the new Lord Mortenstone but looked at the men instead, gazing down at them thoughtfully before she spoke.

  ‘Look around you at the waste,’ she said, gesturing the bodies, her nose wrinkling with disgust. Slowly, the men raised their heads. ‘Ask yourselves why. Why did it happen? Who is to blame for this?’ she said, stabbing a long finger towards a headless body propped against a tree. ‘Your brothers, your fathers, your sons. Gone. Lost. You will never get them back. Who killed them? I will tell you who. The ones who built the barrier. The ones who banished their kin to a world of darkness. Their cruelty, their greed, did this,’ she said, signalling the headless body once more. ‘When you die, they thrive. They feed on your misery. I will not allow it. The time of Mortenstone has come to an end. I have come to end it.’ She raised her arms. The cold wind began to blow. The men looked at her with fear in their eyes as the wind thrashed and roared through the forest. When Agatha lowered her arms, the wind calmed.

  Josephine stood suddenly and spat at the ground before her feet. Thomas, too, began to rise, shaking his head in bewilderment.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘but I have done you no harm. You cannot—’

  ‘You may have my forgiveness, Thomas Mortenstone,’ said Agatha. ‘But you’ll pay for it with your life.’

  Thomas moved for his sword but Agatha was too fast. She waved her hand and he flew back against a tree. And there he struggled, unable to move, as a thick tree root began to slither towards him and coil around his body, lashing him to the tree.

  Agatha looked at Josephine next, then nodded to the men kneeling around her, whose armour bore the bold green Mordark serpent.

  ‘Her, too,’ she said.

  Josephine shrieked as the men seized her and dragged her to the tree. The roots snaked over her feet and around her legs, binding her to the trunk next to Thomas.

  ‘We have Jacobi Vandemere, son of Iris Mortenstone!’ came a shout. There was a disturbance as a young boy, no older than fifteen, was hauled to his feet and pushed through the crowd towards Agatha by two Mortenstone guards. They looked at her expectantly, awaiting an order.

  ‘Yes, him as well,’ she said after a moment’s pause. Her brow furrowed slightly as they led the boy to the tree. ‘Disloyal,’ she muttered. She raised her chin and, instantly, the two guards were thrown back against the tree with him. They shouted and writhed, but the tree roots only coiled tighter around them all.

  Enola watched in stunned silence. She remembered Jacobi. He was her brother. He looked around wildly, tears streaking his dirty face. His silver breastplate had a deep crack down the middle and his fair hair was red with blood.

  ‘Agatha, what are you doing?’ Enola said. Agatha had always been hateful, but she had also been fair. This woman standing before her now was nothing like the Agatha she once knew. Even her voice had a strange edge.

  Agatha turned to look at her. ‘Your father loved you, girl. And I made him a promise. So, I will show you mercy,’ she said.

  Suddenly, there was a bloodcurdling cry.

  ‘Run!’

  Agatha whirled back around as Jacobi and Josephine vanished. The tree roots drooped, falling slack where the two had stood. The remaining guards began to shriek, fighting desperately to free themselves, while Thomas continued to shout at the top of his lungs, ‘Run! Run!’ He was pale. He heaved the words as if it pained him to do so. And then Jacobi appeared again, mere metres from the tree, gasping as he staggered away. He was weak. His body flickered into nothingness again and then reappeared. He fell to the ground.

  ‘Run, Jacobi!’ Thomas shouted. The boy pushed himself to his feet and began to run.

  Agatha stared after him until he disappeared into the gloom. Then she turned to the men with serpents on their breastplates and said, ‘I think it’s time for a hunt. Bring them to me alive.’ The men sprang to their feet at once and went after Jacobi.

  Agatha drew a deep breath and, as she did, a great stillness fell upon the forest. Every sound, every movement ceased.

  ‘Avalon shall be restored. We will build it together,’ she said. ‘But there is no place in the new world for traitors.’ She looked at Thomas Mortenstone and spat at the ground. Thomas, however, was not looking at Agatha. He was staring upwards. The treetops high above had begun to stir, shaking and rustling as if alive with a thousand birds. Agatha smiled darkly and held her palms up towards the sky. She tilted her head back and opened her mouth, snatching, gathering the air. Her throat made a rattling sound.

  Enola’s horse began to shift about restlessly. The men near her took the horse’s distress as an ominous sign, stood and began to back away.

  Agatha closed her mouth and slowly lowered her head. Then, with a suddenness that sent Enola’s horse rearing up with alarm, she flung her arms out in front of her and released a monstrous cry. From her mouth blew a ferocious wind, which hit the first line of men and sent them flying backwards.

  Enola’s horse bolted, hurtling out of the clearing towards The Light, spurred on by the wind that rushed behind it. The gale was gaining momentum, tearing through the forest, ripping branches from trees. The horse cut around them as they fell, impaling the ground like spears, and galloped on faster as a deep, creaking noise sliced through the wind. Enola looked back. The men were running for their lives; behind them, a tree was rocking, straining against its roots. And, suddenly, there was a loud snap as the roots broke. Enola kicked the horse on; as it raced across another clearing, a great shadow slipped over them. With a mournful groan, the tree began to plummet towards the men, towards her. Enola squeezed her eyes shut and held fast to the reins. There was an almighty crash as the tree smashed into another trunk high above her head. The horse screeched and continued on, unscathed, as the other tree began to sway. Soon the ground, the very air, was quaking with crashes and screams.

  The horse burst from the forest and stormed through an abandoned camp, knocking aside pots and cauldrons, leaping over upturned chairs and mounds of firewood, racing all the way to the other side of the Grassland, where it slowed and finally stopped beneath a small, solitary tree. The castle loomed up ahead on the hill.

  Enola slumped forwards, breathing heav
ily, dripping with cold sweat. The ground shook again so violently she was almost thrown from the saddle. She grabbed a tuft of the horse’s mane to steady herself and looked over her shoulder. Men were pouring out of the forest like ants fleeing a burning nest; the trees followed, crashing onto the Grassland, crushing them in the final moments of their escape. Others - the strong and able - appeared out of nowhere, safe from the reach of the falling trees, and collapsed as the effect of the transportation took its toll.

  When Agatha materialised, she did not drop to her knees, overcome with exhaustion, like the men. She stood calmly in the middle of the Grassland, as chaos raged behind her. She remained this way for a long while, her back to the forest, eyes fixed on Mortenstone Castle, until there was a deep, ground-trembling boom.

  Enola sat up. Her jaw dropped as she stared unblinkingly at a sight too astonishing to comprehend. The Dark Forest had fallen.

  In the hours that followed, the Grassland slowly filled with survivors, who clambered from the ruins sickeningly maimed, some half-dead already. But Agatha was not there to see it, to offer help or comfort, for she had gone to the castle, escorted by a host of Mordark soldiers. They followed her without hesitation, while others watched on silently. Enola thought that perhaps Agatha had seen her as she passed on her way towards Stone Lane but, if she had, she made no outward sign of acknowledgement.

  Enola got down from the horse and sat beneath the tree, wondering what to do, where to go, how it had all come to pass. Of all the people destined for greatness, Agatha seemed the unlikeliest of them. She was a mean old hag who had spent most of her life hidden away in the woods. She had never given Enola reason to think she was anything more than she appeared.

  As the horse grazed and Enola peeled strips of bark off a stick, she noticed a middle-aged man staring at her. He was sitting with a group of men on the ground nearby. The men were muttering to one another soberly as they tended their wounds - but not this man. He was watching her curiously, his bushy brows pulling together as he frowned. Enola looked away; her heart was beating quickly now. What if the Mordarks were still hunting her? What if this man knew who she was? When she turned back a moment later, the man was still watching. And then he rose to his feet and began to walk towards her. Enola stood with the stick in her hand, brandishing it like a knife. And then the horse’s head snapped up. To Enola’s surprise, it grunted excitedly, tossing its head up and down, its white tail swishing, and trotted over to the man, who stopped, his weathered skin crinkling as he broke into a smile. He threw his arms about the horse’s neck and his eyes filled with tears.