Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13)

by Joseph Delaney

  “Do you remember what you told me soon after we first met?” I asked Alice.

  “Yes. The moon cast your shadow onto a barn wall, and I said that the moon shows the truth of you.”

  “And you’ve never spoken truer words. That’s me, Alice,” I said, pointing to my shadow. “The scrawny boy is only what you think you see. I’m the hunter. The hunter of the dark. So don’t make me hunt you! I never want to see you again. Keep well away from Chipenden,” I warned, pointing the sword at her. “This will protect me from your magic, and I’ll put you in a pit as soon as look at you. You’d better believe me.”

  “There’s lots of things you don’t know, Tom. I won’t waste my time trying to explain now, because you’re bitter and angry. But I will tell you one thing. We’ll meet again, and you won’t put me in a pit. Thanks for sparing Lukrasta’s life. You don’t know how important that was.”

  I didn’t bother to reply. I opened the door and gazed out at the Cymru of our time. Without looking back at Alice, I slammed it shut and began to hurry down the steps. The ice had gone; the sun was back to normal, about to retreat behind a cloud that threatened rain. It was early morning—the morning after the battle—so I needed to make the most of the daylight hours.

  It was a long journey home, and my cheek throbbed with every step that I took.

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  THE LAST LESSON

  IT took me nearly three days to walk back to Chipenden. I arrived at dusk, intending to spend the night there, resting, before returning to the Wardstone to collect my master’s body and bring it back to the house for burial. But when I reached the edge of the garden, I found Grimalkin waiting for me under a tree, her horse grazing on the lush grass beside her.

  I had lots of questions for her. Who had died? Who had survived? I was particularly concerned about James. But what I saw silenced me.

  Beside her, bound within a blanket, lay a body.

  She had brought the Spook home.

  We sat by the hearth in the kitchen, with the Spook’s body laid out on the table. I had stared at his face for a while, thinking of our time together until tears came into my eyes. When I turned away, Grimalkin had tied the blanket about him for the final time.

  “Is James all right?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Yes, he’s gone back to the farm.”

  “And Judd?”

  “He lost a couple of fingers, but what bothered him most was that one of the dogs was killed, the one called Claw. He said he should never have taken them to the battle. There were other deaths—the Deanes suffered badly, and the Mouldheels, too. One of Mab’s sisters was killed, the twin called Jennet. But the lamia, Slake, survived. She intends to return to Greece. Despite their numerical advantage, the enemy suffered far heavier losses than we did. Romanian and Celtic witches fought on their side, and every one of them died. Perhaps less than half the Essex witches escaped the County.”

  I nodded, then described all that had happened to me afterward. Toward the end of my account, I asked her about the sword. “I fought Lukrasta and defeated him. He tried to use his magic against me, but it had no effect. The starblade protected me. So why didn’t it keep the dark magic at bay during the battle?” I asked. “I was paralyzed like everybody else.”

  “It was a spell that joined the power of all the enemies who faced us,” Grimalkin replied. “Combined with that was the magic of Lukrasta. Alice also probably added hers, too. The starblade has its limits. I did my best, but nothing is perfect.”

  “It must have been Alice!” I exclaimed angrily. “It protected me against Lukrasta when we fought—she didn’t add her magic then.”

  “Such bitterness is bad for you,” Grimalkin said. “It achieves nothing. Put her from your mind.”

  For a while I said nothing. Then, as I gradually calmed down, I went on with my account, ending with my decision not to kill Lukrasta.

  “Alice thanked me for sparing his life,” I told her. “She was crying. I think she loves him very much.”

  “Maybe she does and maybe she doesn’t,” replied the witch assassin. “But for now their fates are bound together. You did the right thing, of that I am certain. We must deal with the Kobalos now, or at least begin the process. Despite her grief at the loss of her sister, Mab scryed for me to see what she could about our new enemies. Their god, Talkus, has been born, but it will take him time to reach his full strength and gain dominion over the other gods, demons, and entities from the dark. The Kobalos are preparing for war, but that will also take time. We must use this interval to ready ourselves. And Lukrasta will be important in helping to deal with their mages. I intend to begin by finding out more about their strengths and weaknesses. Will you join me? I intend to travel north tomorrow.”

  I shook my head. “No, I’ve had enough of killing. I intend to follow in my master’s footsteps and become the Chipenden Spook, protecting folk in the County from the dark. It’s what John Gregory trained me for—it’s what he’d have wanted.”

  “Whether you help me now or later is your decision,” Grimalkin replied. “But eventually you will be forced to do so, because the Kobalos will come here. Then they will kill all the people you seek to protect—but not the women. For the women and girls they will have other uses.”

  “If that happens, I’ll have to help, but it’s a long way to the land of the Kobalos. There are many kingdoms between us and them. If those human kingdoms unite, the Kobalos may lose. They may not venture this far. Here . . .” I said, drawing the starblade and holding it out toward her, hilt first. “Thanks for the loan of this blade, but I won’t be needing it any more. I’ll use the traditional weapons of my trade.”

  Grimalkin shook her head. “It’s a gift, not a loan. It was made for you and nobody else. I won’t take it back.”

  “In that case, I’ll hide it in a place where I won’t be tempted to use it,” I told her. “I’ve seen too much death recently. I’ve killed again and again until it sickens me. Swords are not for me. I’ll go back to using a staff; back to my silver chain, salt, and iron. I’ll fight the dark in traditional ways. I’m sorry, but I’ve thought it over on my way back from Cymru. It’s what I want to do.”

  “It’s your decision,” she told me, “so let’s speak of something else. I could improve your face. I cannot get rid of all the scarring, but the disfigurement would be greatly reduced. Would you like me to try?”

  I nodded.

  “It will hurt,” she warned. “For that kind of magic, there is always a price to be paid. But unlike the pain caused by the silver pin in my leg, it will be of only short duration.”

  “Yes, it would be worth it. I’ve already seen the way people look at it. Being a spook puts people off enough without this scar.”

  After we’d talked, I walked down to the village and bought a coffin from the village carpenter.

  “I’m sorry to hear of your master’s death,” he told me, shaking his head sadly. “He was a good man.”

  The Spook was a tall man, and so I was surprised to find that the carpenter already had a coffin big enough to accommodate his body. Otherwise it would have spent another night unburied.

  “Mr. Gregory ordered and paid for this last month,” the man told me.

  The Spook had sensed the imminence of his own death, I realized.

  Grimalkin helped me to dig the grave. As we prepared to slide my master’s body into the dark hole in the damp earth, I nodded at the sword that I had laid down on the grass to one side.

  “I’m going to put it under the coffin,” I said. “You won’t take it back, and this way there is less chance that anyone else will be able to get their hands on it.”

  “But what if you change your mind? You would have to disturb his grave to retrieve it.”

  “That’s another good reason for placing it here,” I answered. “I would never disturb my master’s grave. May his body rest in peace.”

  Grimalkin said nothing, but she stared at me for a moment, then shook her hea
d. I shivered at the expression in her eyes. She was not only a powerful witch, but also an excellent scryer, and you never knew what she glimpsed in the future. Whatever it was, she didn’t tell me. Even if she had, I would have disregarded it, because the future is not fixed.

  So I put the sword in the grave, and we lowered the coffin on top of it. Then we stood there in silence for a few moments. What Grimalkin thought I do not know, but her eyes were downcast.

  I do not make a habit of praying, but I remembered what I had said at Dad’s grave. Now I repeated the words to myself.

  Please, God, give him peace. It’s what he deserves. He was a good, hardworking man and I loved him.

  For in truth he had been a teacher, a friend, and also a father to me.

  Then, together, without speaking, Grimalkin and I filled in the grave. The only sounds to be heard were the thrust and lift of our spades, and the soil falling upon the wooden casket. The air was very still; even the birds had fallen silent.

  Immediately afterward, Grimalkin attended to the scar on my face. For some reason known only to herself, it had to be done in the dark. I sat in a chair in a storeroom adjacent to the house.

  “Keep still!” she hissed. “However severe the pain, you must not move.”

  I felt her finger touch my face, tracing the line of the scar that began just below my eye. She muttered three words under her breath, and then I felt a strange sensation in my left cheek. At first it felt like ice, then like fire. Whether she cut me with a blade or some other instrument, I don’t know. But the pain was intense, and I felt blood running down my face.

  Although it was extremely difficult, I did not move— though inside I was crying out in pain.

  Later I examined my face in a mirror. She had opened the scar again; in my opinion, it looked worse than ever. But I thanked her anyway. I didn’t care how I looked anymore. I felt flat, my emotions deadened.

  At dawn we said a brief good-bye. Grimalkin gave me a nod and headed over to where her horse was grazing. She told me neither where she was bound nor when she would return. I had refused her request to help with the new threat, so we had probably reached the end of our temporary alliance. She would go back to her business of being a witch assassin.

  I wondered if I would ever see her again.

  That night I dreamed of Alice . . .

  Alice looked terrified. She stared up at me, and I could see her whole body trembling.

  I was shaking, too, sick to my stomach.

  Alice was tied to a large flat stone on a raised platform.

  There was a large mound of stones nearby, but it wasn’t a cairn such as was often found at the peak of a high fell. It was hollowed out, and a fierce fire burned within. It was a furnace created for a terrible purpose.

  It was Halloween, and I was about to begin the ritual that would destroy the Fiend.

  Standing on the other side of Alice, directly opposite me, was Grimalkin. She was balancing Bone Cutter and the Blade of Sorrow in the palm of her hand. The first would be used to slice the thumb bones from Alice’s hands, the other to cut her beating heart from her chest.

  If Alice cried out while I sliced the first bones, the ritual would fail. Her silence and bravery were essential to a successful outcome.

  “I’m ready, Tom,” she said softly.

  “It is time to begin,” added Grimalkin.

  I loved Alice.

  And Alice loved me.

  But now I was about to kill her.

  “Good-bye, Tom,” she said. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me. I have no regrets.”

  I tried to reply, but my throat seemed to swell and I couldn’t get the words out. My eyes brimmed with tears.

  “Do it now! Quickly!” Grimalkin commanded.

  I blinked the tears out of my eyes and, very gently, took Alice’s left hand. Next I held it firmly against the stone. Now I had to position the knife. I took it from Grimalkin and readied myself for what must be done. It was difficult, because my hand was shaking violently, my palms sweating, making it difficult to grip the blade.

  I took a deep breath and forced the blade through the base of Alice’s thumb. I was screaming as I did so, but Alice was brave. Not one cry escaped her lips.

  I awoke suddenly, my heart racing. It had been a nightmare of what might have been. That terrible dream had seemed real, but we had taken a different path, and the future had changed.

  Then I became aware of a weight resting on my legs and heard the sound of purring.

  So the boggart had survived, after all.

  It did not speak to me; it did not demand my blood. Had it done so, I would have given it willingly. John Gregory had begun the process by doing a deal with the boggart to guard the house and garden. My own partnership with the boggart was far closer, and I knew not where it would take me. I knew that I was very unusual, but the dark was changing. The battle would perhaps demand different tactics.

  We keep notebooks so that we may learn from the past, but now I know that a spook must look to the future, and adapt and change. A wise man continues to learn until the day he dies. John Gregory was wise, and he realized that sometimes a compromise with the dark is necessary. That was perhaps the last lesson that he learned.

  CHAPTER XXXV

  THE CHIPENDEN SPOOK

  LATE in the afternoon the day after we laid the Spook to rest, the bell rang at the withy trees.

  I found a red-faced farmer in muddy boots waiting for me there, nervous and frightened and badly needing help.

  “My name’s Morris—Brian Morris from Ruff Lane Farm just south of Grimsargh. There’s a boggart made its home in my barn,” he told me. “It’s throwing great big rocks at the house. One went right through the kitchen window. Luckily my wife had moved away from the sink to tend to the baby. Had she been standing there, she’d have been killed for sure.”

  It was routine spook’s business, so I nodded and answered in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. “It sounds like you’re under attack from a stone chucker. Get back home as quickly as possible—you and your family should leave the house. Stay with a neighbor. I’ll follow as soon as I collect my things. With luck, I’ll sort it out tonight. Otherwise two nights at the most, and it’ll be gone.”

  “No disrespect, lad, but I’d prefer it if your master attended to my problem.”

  “That won’t be possible,” I told him firmly. “Unfortunately John Gregory is dead. My name is Mister Ward, and I’m the Chipenden Spook now. I’m offering you my help.” I stared hard at him until he lowered his eyes.

  “I won’t be able to pay you right away,” he said. “Times are hard.”

  “After the next harvest will do,” I replied. “Now be on your way. Get your family out and leave the rest to me. I’ll deal with it—don’t worry.”

  He turned and, with a barely perceptible nod of acceptance, trudged off into the distance.

  I went back to the house to collect my bag, not forgetting a small parcel of cheese for the journey.

  My life as the Chipenden Spook had begun.

  EPILOGUE

  ONCE again, I’ve written most of this from memory, just using my notebook when necessary.

  I am no longer John Gregory’s apprentice. Now I am the Chipenden Spook, and I must do my best to keep the County safe from ghosts, ghasts, boggarts, witches, and all manner of creatures from the dark—some, perhaps, as yet unknown. For, as my master taught me, life as a spook is one long process of learning.

  Out there in the County, many incidents are, as yet, unexplained. We can learn from the past by using the legacy of knowledge left to us by former spooks, but the dark is always throwing up new challenges and surprises, and we must adapt and learn to counter any new threat.

  Although I am no longer an apprentice, there is one local spook who will still be able to contribute to my learning. Judd Brinscall has offered his aid and experience, should I require it. I am practicing regularly to enhance my skills with staff and chain, the main weap
ons of a spook. As for the scar on my face, it is greatly improved. There is now just a faint white diagonal line running down from my eye. So Grimalkin’s magic did its work.

  That is the difference between me and previous generations of spooks. I am prepared to accept the use of magic, but only if the ends justify it and there is no cost to others. No doubt that is because of the lamia blood coursing through my veins. And I have another potent ally to help me should I require it—the boggart.

  It had been the Spook’s boggart; now it is mine.

  But the sword will remain under my master’s coffin. I am sick of killing. Now I will concentrate on dealing with the dark in the County.

  As for my master, John Gregory, I will never forget what he did for me. In the eyes of most priests, spooks are no better than witches and cannot be interred in holy ground. Some are buried as close as possible to the boundary of a churchyard. But I didn’t want that for my master.

  We buried the Spook in what I guessed must be one of his favorite locations, next to the seat in the western garden—the place where we had often sat for my lessons. It was full of happy memories, with a view of the fells in the distance and the sound of birdsong filling the air. I was the thirtieth and last of his apprentices, and he must have spent many satisfying years here as he trained boys to fight the dark.

  One day, perhaps, I will have an apprentice of my own. Maybe this is the place where I will also be buried.

  I had the local mason craft a gravestone, and on it carve the following:

  HERE LIETH

  JOHN GREGORY OF CHIPENDEN,

  THE GREATEST OF THE COUNTY SPOOKS

  It was a fitting epitaph. What I had ordered to be written there was true; there was no exaggeration. For more than sixty years, my master had fought the dark and kept the County safe. He had always done his duty, and done it well, displaying great skill and courage. Finally he had laid down his life in order that the Fiend might be destroyed.