by Farr, Cathy;
Wil’s guilt bit harder when he knelt to look at Gisella. He didn’t need to turn her over to see where she had been hit – the bolt had gone right through her chest; its silver tip sticking out of her back.
‘Don’t die,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t die, either of you.’
A salty tear trickled down his nose and dripped onto Gisella’s neck just below her ear. With a bloody finger, he followed it down the line of her soft cheek to her chin where it dripped and disappeared into the black grass. Through the blur of tears Wil could see Gisella’s hand, still clutching the pink silk bag – she must have been about to give it to him when he asked her to look after Phinn.
While Wil didn’t expect Gisella to react when he reached for the bag, he wasn’t expecting her fingers to feel so cold. He delved into the pink silk – his own hands shaking almost uncontrollably – hoping that they would pull out a miracle. Almost immediately his fingers closed around something soft.
As always, a little label hung from the soft bundle of what felt like soft duck down. With tears still running unchecked down his face, Wil peered at the label; the words swam in front of him. He dropped his hands.
‘Well, you’re going to have to stop this blubbing, mate, or you’re never going to be able to help them.’
So he wiped his eyes with the heel of his blood-streaked palms and took a deep breath. But reading the label, his heart started to pound – this time Lady Elanor’s magical little bag couldn’t help.
The label read:
Lost for what else to do, Wil re-read the label and set about Gisella’s wounds. Snapping the head of the bolt, he did his best to pack the down around the ragged shaft sticking out from her back. The instant the down touched the wound he could feel it became wet, sucking up fresh blood like a wick. Convinced he’d done something wrong, Wil grabbed at the dressing – the down had set rock hard, there was no more blood.
Dressing the entry wound was more challenging. He rolled Gisella onto her side. Despite his shaking hands, he worked quickly and by the time he had finished the goose down was almost completely used up; although, to his relief, the bleeding from both wounds had finally stopped.
Next, Wil turned to Phinn. As he had guessed the arrow wasn’t deep and slid out of the wound when Wil tried to snap it. Phinn gave an indignant yelp and licked Wil’s hands as if to politely request that he didn’t do it again and with soft words of reassurance Wil packed the hole with the remaining down.
With the wounds dressed, Wil turned again to the silk bag. This time it gave up a bottle that Wil had seen before. A picture of Mortimer with a bright green tongue flashed into his head – the bottle held the liquid used to treat blood loss. Wil curled back Phinn’s top lip and tipped a few drops between the hound’s teeth before giving the rest to Gisella – he had no idea how much blood she might have lost, but feeling the stickiness of the grass underneath her, he didn’t think he could do any more harm.
With the tiny bottle empty and the dressings set, Wil rocked back on his haunches. He didn’t know what to do next. It was only then he realised that the room above him had gone strangely quiet and a bad feeling crept over him.
The sound of galloping hooves coming up fast in the shadow of the castle wall made Wil reach for his knife – the distinct advantage of sitting under a gigantic dragon, flanked by two enormous dogs, seemed for some reason to have passed Wil by.
Mortimer pulled Shadow up short.
‘Whoa, Wil, it’s me.’
Behind Mortimer the moons were a hair’s breadth from meeting; behind Wil, the Giant Redback spat a jet of orange flame that missed Mortimer by only a few feet.
‘Erm, I know this might sound like a daft thing to say, Wil, but you do know there’s a dragon behind you, don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ shrugged Wil. ‘I had a sort of a plan but Gisella and Phinn got hurt and it doesn’t seem like such a good idea now. Where’s the girl with Pricilla?’
‘Who?’
‘Oh, er, I meant Lady Élanor’s raven… her name’s Pricilla. I thought you knew?’
Shadow took a step forward. The Redback growled ominously.
‘I don’t think your new friend likes me,’ said Mortimer. He reined Shadow back two steps. ‘Oh, yeah, the girl – she took the bird and went back to salvage what she could of her stall. The city’s a mess! What hasn’t been burned,’ he raised his eyebrows towards the Giant Redback, ‘has been picked clean by looters on their way to the mill. It’s chaos. They’re taking every bit of gold they can lay their hands on. Rexmoore’s men are completely useless.’ He shook his head and laughed. ‘You should see Imelda – she’s livid. I don’t think they’ve had much practice with rebellion around here.’
‘Any sign of The Jackal?’ asked Wil almost hopefully. It was starting to dawn on him that his makeshift spear might have been a little too accurate.
‘No,’ said Mortimer with a frown. ‘Come to think of it, I saw that woman – the one wearing the Wraithe Wolf head for a hat – she was taking a gold brick into the mill – very odd. Didn’t seem to notice the riot at all!’
‘So he must be still up there,’ said Wil, almost to himself. He looked up at the balcony – The Jackal was skulking up there somewhere, he felt sure. ‘Mort, can you look after Gisella and Phinn. I need to find that boy – he knows where my father is and I’m not leaving Armelia without him.’
‘And what about your little friend here?’ said Mortimer, pointing behind his hand. The Redback was now dozing, her scales bright in the light of the burning city – somehow her baby had managed to clamber onto her back and was nestled behind her folded wing.
‘She’ll be fine as long as you don’t try to move him,’ said Wil pointing to the fledgling dragon. ‘Any ideas about how we’re going to get out of here?’
Mortimer let go of Shadow’s reins and slid to the ground.
‘Absolutely none.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Many Faces of Death
It was hardly a surprise that the castle kitchen was deserted; although Wil was taken aback by the absolutely delicious smell that greeted him when he entered the silent room. Outside, a huge dragon had reduced the city to little more than glowing embers while its people ransacked and ran riot; and yet, in the warm serenity of Lord Rexmoore’s kitchen, the cooking had continued.
In the middle of the vast kitchen table sat the biggest pie Wil had ever seen – although, on closer inspection he realised that it wasn’t a pie. There was no pastry like on his mother’s chicken pies and it seemed to rise out of the dish as if it had been inflated. Whatever it was though, Wil knew he just had to taste it – it smelled so good.
Suddenly starving, Wil grabbed the nearest spoon. He had never tasted anything so delicious – or so hot – in his life. He was just about to take another mouthful when the sound of heavy footsteps crunched across the courtyard. He thrust the spoon into the creamy mass and ran – behind him the steaming dish rapidly deflated.
The shouting started just as Wil put his foot on the first of the golden steps that spiralled their way up the centre of Imelda’s precious tower.
‘OH MY GAWD! MY SOUFFLE. FIRST MY EGGS AND NOW MY SOUFFLE. GALORIAN, IF THAT WAS YOU… GALORIAN, GET YER. FAERYDAE, WHERE’S YER BROTHER! OH MY GAWD!...’
Wil took the steps three at a time and as the shouting died away a twinge of guilt skipped into his mind; but then he remembered the terror of the bees in the burning skep and all thoughts of Galorian, Mhaddphat and the ruined soufflé vanished.
The stairs led directly up to the little room with the balcony; although, by the way their curve continued around the golden walls beyond the doorway, it looked like the tower was meant to go yet higher. Anger flared in the pit of Wil’s stomach. He thought about the shabby city – the canal that doubled as a well and a toilet; he thought about his mother, and many others across Thesk who eked out a living to save enough to pay every time Rexmoore’s thugs came knocking. Men had died – were still dying – just so that Rexmoo
re could indulge his wife.
The door that Phinn had so efficiently demolished earlier was still on the floor. Snuffy’s tail jutted out from under one end. The converging moons outside provided the only light – a bright, silver beam cut the darkness in half like a knife. Grisly smears glinted in the moonlight. On either side of the beam the room’s black corners were ominously quiet. Wil drew his knife from his boot.
‘I know you’re in here,’ he said. ‘If you take me to my father, I will spare your life.’
A scraping sound from the farthest corner gave away The Jackal’s hiding place.
‘And did… you give my… father a similar… choice, Wil… Calloway? Or… did you just… kill him in… cold blood?’
The voice was weak; uttered as if the speaker might be making a choice between a breath and a word. Wil couldn’t help feeling pleased – at least The Jackal was suffering just as Gisella was.
‘Your father gave me a choice,’ spat Wil. ‘And I took it.’
A shiver ran down his spine as he remembered; the freezing river, Sir Jerad Tinniswood on the rocks taunting him – Esk Falls dragging Tinniswood away. Wil shook his head to banish the memory – his only concern now was to make sure that the boy survived long enough to get him to his father before he got everyone home. There was a stomach-turning cough from the corner.
‘And if… I take you… to your… father… will you … save me?’ whispered the boy. There was an odd note in The Jackal’s voice that caught Wil off guard.
‘I…what do you mean, save you? You seem to have it pretty good here – Imelda’s favourite nephew, Mommy’s little prince!’
The Jackal attempted a scornful laugh but quickly gave in to another lung-raking cough before he spoke again. ‘My aunt… loves gold; … my mother,’ he spat the word, ‘loves hats… in case you… hadn’t noticed? And… the woman… who loved… my father… hates me for… being alive instead of… him.’
‘And Lord Rexmoore?’ A lame question Wil knew, but he was fighting a creeping guilt that had already made him lower his knife.
Another consumptive cough followed before The Jackal attempted an answer. Eventually he spat into the darkness and spoke in a bitter whisper.
‘You know… I really do think… he loves… Imelda… Sad, isn’t it?’
There was a gasp, a loud clatter and the sound of something sliding.
‘Jackal? Colin?’
Nothing – not even the sound of the boy’s laboured fight for breath.
Wil took three steps forward into the velvet blackness. With the third step his foot caught something hard, knocking it into the wall – there was a familiar click; something shot past Wil’s knee and bounced off the door post behind him. It was a bolt – The Jackal had had a second bow!
In the gloom, Wil could see The Jackal slumped in the corner. The boy’s chest was wet and warm to the touch – there was no need for light this time, Wil knew it was blood.
At his feet was the body of the only person who could have taken him to his father – and he now lay dead by Wil’s own hand. The Jackal’s last breath had already given way to the noise of the riot somewhere outside in the distance; inside the light from the rising moons crept relentlessly across the dark floorboards. It touched The Jackal’s finger lying in the dust and then one by one illuminated the letters of the still sticky words ‘THE MASON’. From the moment Wil had entered that room The Jackal had had every chance to kill, but instead he had left a message.
‘Thanks,’ Wil whispered and walked from the room without a backward glance.
In the dark corridor at the base of the tower Wil spotted the outline of a door tucked away under the stairs. He guessed that it would lead to the mill and that The Jackal’s mother must have used it earlier, as the only other way to the mill would have taken her straight past Wil outside in the grounds.
Something told Wil he had to go that way. He ducked and tried the door – it opened.
The passageway reeked of mould and Wil’s arms and face immediately felt damp in the claggy air. A dim light was provided by a very occasional, half-hearted glow-worm and twice Wil slipped on what he hoped was either moss or mould. What was strange, though, was that the route seemed to be taking him uphill – rather than dropping down towards the mill. In addition, there was absolutely no sound of the riot outside; what he could hear – and louder with every step – was the slow, rhythmic ping of a hammer hitting metal.
Wil gripped his knife in front of him and pressed on. Despite the cold, damp air, Wil was clammy and hot. His heart beat in time with the hammer. The climb grew steeper and the air got colder.
Finally, up in the distance Wil could see a pin prick of light that spread like a fan as he got nearer, turning the surrounding dimness into pitch blackness. Disorientated, Wil reached out. His searching fingers found the wall – thick with damp mould. He slipped again and landed heavily on one knee. He groaned.
The echo of his pain bounced all the way to the light at the end of the tunnel and out into… Wil wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.
Then… the tunnel groaned back – a long, hollow moan, as if the sufferer had endured the pain for far too long.
Wil quickened his pace. Was this an Alcama ghost? His heart was now pounding. He daren’t even try to imagine who had made that terrible noise – just in case he was right.
The end of the tunnel came too quickly now.
Suddenly, Wil was in a huge barn. All around him candles drowning in their own wax flickered and guttered. It was freezing. At the threshold of the open barn door, one solitary sheep’s-head lantern burned – its light only a little brighter against the struggling candles. The regular ping of the hammer echoed out of one unlit corner; in another lay the source of the pain-wracked groan.
Wil ran towards the groan, hesitated, then lifted a filthy sack. The eyes that looked up at him were pools of the saddest, palest blue. But this was not his father. He dropped the cloth and took a step back in disbelief. He had seen those eyes before – in the painting above the fireplace in Lovage Hall – this was Lady Élanor’s father.
‘Hello Wil. Élanor was right, you are as reckless as you are brave. We wondered how long you would take to find me.’
The man’s voice had a strange echo, as though it was in Wil’s head, not in his ears.
‘You’re… are you…?’ Wil started.
‘Lord Lakeston, father of Lady Élanor and Talasina? Yes, of a sort,’ said Lord Lakeston. He bowed his head with the merest hint of a smile. ‘I am a revenant, Wil. Do you know what that is?’
In the dark, the hammer pinged.
The hairs on the back of Wil’s neck prickled. He had no idea what a revenant was and was starting to wonder if his lack of food and sleep were playing tricks on his imagination. How could this man be Lord Lakeston? Tally had told him her father was dead.
The hammering stopped.
The man in front of Wil gave a solemn nod.
‘Yes, Wil, you are right. I am dead.’
The hammering started again. This time the rhythm was less regular, higher too, as if a smaller tool were being used.
Lord Lakeston continued in the same solemn voice.
‘I understand that you already know something of my family history, Wil – about how my beloved wife’s sister took the rule of Thesk while I grieved.’
Wil nodded.
‘And how Lady Élanor and Talasina came to live in Lovage Hall?’
Wil nodded again.
‘And you also know that there is a secret that protects my daughters, although Talasina knows nothing of its content?’
‘The legacy,’ said Wil.
Suspicion gave way to realisation. Anger flared.
‘Oh, I see.’ Wil gripped his knife ready to fight. ‘You’re one of Rexmoore’s men. So Imelda’s still trying to get that blinking legacy – well, for the last time, I don’t know where – or what – it is!’
The hammer continued to ping; the man’s unblinking eyes cast sudden do
ubt in Wil’s confused thinking – those eyes really did remind him of Lady Élanor and Tally. But no, this was definitely some sort of trick. The man stood up. The blade of Wil’s knife caught the lamplight. Lord Lakeston stepped forward – straight into Wil’s blade.
Wil felt the knife slide between the old man’s ribs.
‘No!’
Without altering his gaze, Lord Lakeston stood for a moment and then calmly took a step back. The knife was clean.
‘Years ago a soul seller came to Armelia,’ said Lord Lakeston, moving away towards the pinging hammer. ‘My beautiful wife, Rosalind, was already dead. Even then, Imelda’s control over Rexmoore was terrifying. It was only a matter of time before she took my girls, although thankfully she was unaware of their strange gifts – but I could never see Imelda being a loving mother,’ his eyes narrowed and he showed his teeth as he spoke. But his voice remained quiet and steady. ‘So, wretched as I was, I struck a bargain – the legacy to which you refer and its protection.’ Lord Lakeston shook his head, ‘And before you ask, no, I will not tell you – I cannot. I was allowed to share the secret with two others. The price was my soul.’
Wil stood, wide-eyed in the dismal gloom.
‘But what happens if…’ Wil hesitated, ‘If one of the secret keepers… dies?’
‘Only then can their burden be passed on,’ said Lord Lakeston.
‘But what would happen if they accidentally told someone else – if it slipped out,’ asked Wil, still struggling with what he had just seen, let alone what he was being told.
Lord Lakeston moved to the doorway and stared out into the dark.
‘That cannot happen, Wil Calloway. That was part of my bargain. You see, the soul seller sealed their lips – they could not tell even if they wanted to – if their lives depended on it. Not until their dying breath.’
Wil stayed silent. His knife had just gone into this man’s heart – and yet there was no blood. He was still standing and speaking. Lord Lakeston’s words rolled through Wil’s mind. Only the beat of the hammer filled the air.
