The tower had no moat, but any attacking force had only one point of access: a narrow flight of stone steps, two hundred of them or more, that led up a steep incline to a heavy metal door. There were arrow slits as well as windows in the high walls, and climbing those steps would be suicidal.
Hidden by the trees, I made a slow circuit of the building, keeping my distance, and was able to confirm that there was only that one door. Then, after setting some traps for rabbits, I made myself as comfortable as possible on the hilltop facing the steps, and watched and waited.
Late in the afternoon the big door opened with a grinding sound that echoed across the hills, and a party of eight witches emerged and descended the steps. Something about their manner and clothes suggested that they weren’t from Pendle. Their skirts were short, hardly covering their knees, and their hair was pulled back from the forehead and braided into a single ponytail behind. They were probably from some unknown clan beyond the County.
Behind them, the door closed, and I heard heavy bolts being slid back into place.
For a while I was apprehensive. Had they somehow detected my presence? Were they coming for me?
One thing I was immediately sure of—they were not in possession of the head. They passed within half a mile of where I was hiding and continued north. How many did that leave in the tower? I had a sense of a largish group, but exactly how many I couldn’t tell.
I had set four traps, but to my disappointment, only one held a rabbit—and a small one at that. I was hungry, but it would have to do. After dark, I descended the northern slope of the hill so that I was out of sight of the tower. Here I lit a small fire and cooked the rabbit, listening to the dripping juice sizzling on the embers.
It was delicious, and feeling better for having eaten, I climbed back up to my original position and kept watch. I intended to do so for just a couple of hours and then snatch some sleep.
As I stared at the tower, I considered what to do after that. My priority was to stop the Fiend’s head from being reunited with his body. Now that it was in the tower and not on a ship, there was no immediate threat of that happening. But I needed to reclaim it and take it back to the relative safety of Chipenden—which was easier said than done.
First, I was alone. And even if I could somehow climb the steps undetected and reach the metal door, it was locked and bolted. But this must be just a temporary refuge, I thought—maybe while they waited for a passage to Ireland to be organized? Surely they would soon transport the head toward the sea?
I was just about to lie down and try to get some sleep when the moon came out from behind a cloud and bathed the tower in its silver light. Almost simultaneously I heard the sound of a door opening. It wasn’t the harsh, grating sound of the main door; more of a click. . . from the door that led onto the wide balcony. Someone emerged and approached the balustrade, resting their hands upon it and staring out over the forest.
For a moment I was too astonished to take in what I was seeing. But there was no doubt.
It was Alice.
I stared at her in amazement. Despite the lack of evidence in the tracks, I’d expected her to be held prisoner in the tower—brought here either by the witches, or by Lukrasta (using a different route). But her appearance was a surprise to me.
In the moonlight, she looked radiant, transfigured— almost happy. Her face and slim body had always been beautiful; I remembered the first time I’d seen her at the edge of a wood close to the village. She’d been wearing a tattered black dress tied at the waist with a piece of string.
Now she wore a long dress that seemed to flow down her body like water. It was hard to determine the color in the pale glow of the moon, but I thought it was black or dark-purple silk. Her hair was different too; while before it had hung down past her shoulders, now it was lifted away from her forehead and ears and fastened into a bun with a jeweled clasp that glittered in the soft light. And around her neck was a necklace with a locket that hung down over her heart.
She seemed to be looking toward me. I was tempted to wave, but a sense of unease held me back. She was a prisoner and couldn’t escape from that high balcony. Maybe there were others behind her—guards who were permitting her to take a little air.
Then, as I gazed at her, full of wonder and foreboding, another figure emerged from the open doorway and went to stand beside her on the balcony. It was a tall man with a long mustache that fell below his chin and hooked upward like two horns. He wore a dark cloak, and his long hair hung down his chest in two pigtails.
As he came alongside Alice, he put his left arm across her shoulder. There was something protective and fatherly about the gesture. But then she turned her face up toward his, and seconds later my whole world fell apart, shattered like an icicle falling onto a slab of granite.
They kissed.
CHAPTER XII
THE COFFIN
IT was not a fatherly kiss. It went on for a long time, their bodies locked together.
Then the man lifted Alice, holding her under her arms and knees, and carried her back through the door. Moments later, it closed, and there was the distant click of a lock or bolt.
I felt as though I had been punched in the heart. All the breath left my body in a rush, and I felt powerless to replace it. At the end of our last meeting, Alice had kissed me. I had thought that meant something. And now, so soon afterward, I thought bitterly, she was kissing someone else.
I had no doubt in my mind that I loved Alice. I’d believed that she felt the same way about me. But I had never really thought about a future together. Spooks do not have wives. They are like priests, who dedicate their lives to God, putting their parishioners first. In the same way, a spook serves the people of the County; his duty is to protect them from the dark. That was what my master had taught me.
However, in some vague way I had felt that I would find a way round that. Perhaps when I became the Chipenden Spook, we would marry. . . . I had never thought about the future in those terms until now.
Until now, when she was clearly with somebody else . . .
Slowly my shock and bewilderment gave way to rage and jealousy. I couldn’t bear the thought of her being in the arms of another. It took all my willpower to stop myself from going directly to the tower and calling out a challenge.
After all, what would that achieve? I would get no chance to fight the stranger and take Alice away. Most likely I would lose my life on the steps—or be taken prisoner.
I paced up and down until, after a while, my anger subsided, and I began to think about the situation and what it meant.
Was the tall stranger the mage Lukrasta? I had no way of knowing because I had never seen him. But he had put his arm round Alice and seemed to be controlling her. He was tall, powerful, and imposing, and there had been an arrogance in his expression. I felt certain it was him.
In my head I began to work through the steps of what had happened. It seemed to me that, with the aid of Grimalkin, Alice had prepared to use the Doomdryte.
Lukrasta was supposed to be dead, having failed to complete the ritual successfully. But somehow he was here, and had enchanted Grimalkin so that she had been unable to repel a simultaneous coordinated attack by hordes of witches. Afterward, she’d been in no condition to give a coherent and detailed account of events, but I felt I could now piece together what might have happened.
Perhaps Lukrasta had used dark magic to control Alice and bring her to this tower? If he could overpower Grimalkin, I was sure he could do the same to Alice. She was not in her right mind. She was no longer in possession of her free will. That’s what I told myself. Perhaps she’d had no choice but to kiss him. . . .
That thought made me feel better. But it still did not tell me what I might do about the situation.
I tried to sleep, but I was raging inside and was still wide awake when the sun came up.
I felt sick inside, anything but hungry, but I went through the motions and set my traps anyway. Suddenly I remembered
what my master had always believed—that it was helpful to fast before facing the dark. Well, this was surely my biggest challenge yet. I should keep up my strength for whatever lay ahead, but I would only nibble on some cheese.
I wondered again how I might get into the tower. Storming the front entrance was impossible. But could I climb up to the balcony and gain access through the smaller door?
If, despite the odds, I managed to get inside, what would my priority be? It had to be the retrieval of the Fiend’s head. But what about Alice? How could I just leave her there in the power of that monster?
Cautiously I moved through the trees and approached the tower, climbing a little way up the hill on which it was built. I stared up at it. The crevices between the stones might afford hand- and footholds. But it would be difficult and very risky. The base was surrounded by boulders and scree. A fall from any but the lower sections of the wall would result in death or serious injury.
Chastened, I retreated down the slope and returned to my original position. There I thought about the stranger again, remembering his arm round Alice, the way they had kissed. . . . Try as I might, I could not force the image from my mind. If it was Lukrasta, he was a powerful, dangerous mage. The Spook’s Bestiary claimed that he had died while attempting the ritual, but it seemed that he had instead completed it.
This was why he had been able to appear before Alice and Grimalkin, taking them by surprise. His power was too terrible to contemplate.
He would have immortality, invulnerability, and godlike powers.
Just after noon I saw a party of witches climbing the track toward the tower. They were on foot, over a score of them, and they had a cart with them. They were making slow progress—the cart’s wheels kept getting stuck in the mud, and each time they had to lift it clear.
The nearer they came, the more puzzled I became. The cart was being pulled by a team of six dray horses, which seemed a lot. Usually four big horses were sufficient to manage the heaviest loads of coal, stone, or barrels of ale. The road was steep in places, and the track muddy and rutted; that might be the explanation, I supposed.
Then I looked more closely at the cart. It was long, with four wheels on each side. It looked as if it had been made specially. Perhaps two carts had been joined together. . . .
It was only as it drew nearer that I saw what it carried: a long wooden box. The best materials had been used, and it had brass handles, six on either side, to allow it to be carried.
It was a coffin.
At that realization, my heart began to pound within my chest. This coffin was far bigger than necessary for ordinary human remains. It was at least three times the length of a tall man, and twice as broad.
I knew what this meant, but at first my mind simply refused to accept it.
We had always believed that if the Fiend’s head was ever recaptured, it would be taken back over the sea to Ireland.
But they had done the reverse.
For in that coffin lay the body of the Fiend.
CHAPTER XIII
THE VAST, DARK TIDE
EVEN as I watched, it was being carried toward the dark tower where the severed head waited.
In some dark magical ritual they would join the head back to the body, and he would return to our world, able to do his worst. No doubt he would deal with the Spook, Grimalkin, and me first. After all, we were the ones who had hurt him so badly, cutting off his head and binding his body with silver spears. Or perhaps Alice would be his primary target—the daughter who had betrayed him . . . and she was a prisoner in the tower, near at hand.
I wanted to run down the slope and attack the escorting witches. I knew I would not last long—there were far too many of them for one person to deal with. But at least I would die fighting, and then find my way through limbo to the light before the agents of the Fiend could reach me. Bone witches could sometimes seize a soul after death as it moved through limbo and hold it there, torturing it.
I was in danger. Both my life and my soul were at risk, and I was truly scared.
A surge of anger went through me—anger at myself. I remembered what my master had always told me: Duty came first.
Stop thinking about your own situation! I told myself silently. Think about the people of the County and the world beyond. Put first the interests of those you are bound to protect.
Yes, I had to put all concerns about my own safety—and that of Alice—out of my mind. The shock of seeing the Fiend’s body brought to this place, and the thought of how close he was to regaining power, had jolted me to my senses. I had to focus. I had to do the right thing.
The witches had now reached the foot of the stone steps, and I watched as they gathered around the cart and struggled to lift the huge coffin. I had to be calm and think logically, keeping my emotions at bay. I had to put the image of Alice and Lukrasta out of my mind.
The witches were carrying the Fiend’s body up the steps. The huge door was slowly opening to receive it, filling the air with the sound of metal grating on stone.
I took a pace forward and put my left hand on the hilt of my sword. I could attack and attempt to halt time. If only the head had been in their possession, I could seize it and run. But what could I do with that gigantic body? I could cut it into pieces—but would that make any difference? We’d always considered it too dangerous to destroy the head itself. The Fiend had remained bound because the two parts of his body had been kept intact but separate. According to the Spook, destroying head, body, or both might somehow free the Fiend, enabling him to return to the dark, where he would quickly gather strength and, with the aid of his supporters, return to our world more dangerous and powerful than ever.
As a warning to these supporters, Grimalkin had gouged out one of the Fiend’s eyes. She had done it in the heat of the moment; looking back, I realized it had been a very risky thing to do. It might have brought about the very thing that the Spook had feared.
I watched the witches carry the coffin through the huge door. There was another grating sound as it closed behind them.
I had done nothing.
It was over.
The Fiend had won.
I walked in a daze through the trees, away from the tower, climbing hills and stumbling down into valleys. My mind was numb. I was unable to think. I had no plan, no idea of where I was going.
I had no clear sense of how much time had passed, but eventually I found myself at the summit of a bare, rocky hill, walking through a ruined building. At first I thought it was a farmhouse, but then I noticed a stone altar and a solitary arched window, the glass broken. I realized that this had once been a chapel. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a similar window in the opposite wall, next to where the door had once been.
I looked back at the altar and gazed through the window. I had never felt so low. Terrible things had happened during my time as the Spook’s apprentice: the deaths of friends such as Bill Arkwright; threats to my life and, worse, my soul; moments of extreme terror. But somehow this seemed worse.
This was a final defeat—the end of everything.
The witches now had both parts of the Fiend in their possession. How long would it take to restore him?
What had Mab said about the Wardstone?
“Creatures of the dark will be drawn to that spot—some to fight for the Fiend, others to oppose him. There’ll be witches of every type, abhumans, and other dark entities. The outcome of that conflict will change the world.”
But for all her skill, she’d been wrong before and might be wrong again. It could happen here and now, in Wales, far from the Wardstone.
No doubt it would require some form of magical ritual. This could take days, hours, or might even be near completion now. The Fiend might come for me at any second. I might never even leave this ruined church.
I looked about me.
This was what some called a house of God. Was there a God? I wondered. A supreme creator? It seemed very unlikely to me. What was it that my master had onc
e said . . . ? That there had been times during his life as a spook when he thought he was facing the end, when it was all up with him. But at these moments he had sensed something invisible standing at his side, lending him strength. That was the nearest he had come to admitting to any kind of faith.
Well, now I felt nothing, nothing at all. I was alone, with nobody to help or advise me.
A memory suddenly came to me: my dad standing in the farmyard, stamping his feet, spattering my breeches with manure and mud, facing the Spook with both bravery and impatience—the latter because he was eager to get back to the milking, the former because most people thought spooks were scary. This was our first meeting with the Spook. An agreement had been reached, and John Gregory had given me a month’s trial as his apprentice. Little had any of us known that it would end like this.
What was it that my dad had once said?
“Heaven helps those who help themselves.”
Well, I’d done my best. I’d tried to help myself. But I wasn’t getting any assistance in return. There was nothing to guide me, nobody to even offer advice. Entities from the dark banded together, sometimes in large numbers. And what did the light have? Just a few scattered spooks, helpless against the vast dark tide that would soon sweep all goodness aside.
I stared through the window. It was dusk, and the light was beginning to fail, but I could see a village in the distance. Through the trees was a church spire. Another church . . . either an empty shell like this one, or a place where deluded fools banded together to offer useless prayers that were never answered.
I felt a surge of bitter anger, and stepped out of the ruins onto the rocky ground. Advancing a few steps so that I could see the gray slate rooftops below the spire, I spotted something else. It must be quite a large village, I thought—a small town, even, for I could now see another church spire just behind and to the right of the first.
Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13) Page 7
