The Spook's Destiny (Wardstone Chronicles Book 8)

by Joseph Delaney

  “Do you know why they go to Killorglin?” my master wondered. “Why there? Why don’t they just perform the ceremony in the safety of their fort?”

  Shey shrugged. “We think that the site of the market in Killorglin is important: It’s a place where natural dark power emerges from the earth. As far as we know, they have never attempted the ritual elsewhere….”

  That made sense. There were indeed special places on earth where the practice of dark magic was made easier; the whole County was a haven for boggarts. Within its boundaries there were sites of great potency, especially around Pendle Hill. Despite the flowing streams, which they could not easily cross, Pendle had attracted several large clans of witches.

  “Can’t the mages be driven from their refuge once and for all?” asked my master.

  “That’s impossible,” Shey replied. “The Staigue fort is a formidable place, built by an ancient people who inhabited this island two thousand years ago or more. To attempt to storm it would cost us too dearly. In practical terms, it’s invulnerable.”

  “What about the Celtic witches?” I asked. “Do you have any problems with them, Mr. Shey?”

  I was thinking of the eyes in the cloud and the witch who had threatened us after we’d dealt with the jibber. Celtic witches were supposed to be allies of the mages.

  “They sometimes act as spies for the mages but do not form clans. We’re dealing only with the odd isolated witch—they’re an occasional nuisance rather than the serious threat posed by the mages,” explained Shey.

  “Tom might just be in special danger from the witches,” Alice told him. “Helped to kill a Celtic witch back home, he did. Before she died, the witch threatened that the Morrigan would kill him if he ever dared to set foot on this island.”

  “Probably just an empty threat,” said Shey. “Most of the time the Morrigan sleeps—she only awakens and enters our world when summoned by a witch. This happens rarely, for she is a difficult goddess to deal with and often vents her wrath on her own servants. So don’t concern yourself unduly about it, boy. It’s the mages who pose the greatest threat to us. And tomorrow, as we press on into Kerry, that threat will increase.”

  Shey brought a map across to the table, unfolded it, and spread it out. “That’s where we’re bound for,” he said, jabbing his finger at the heart of the map. “That’s my home. I call it God’s country!”

  It was a good name for a place you liked—but it was full of evil mages who practiced dark magic and, no doubt, more than one Celtic witch. I studied the map and committed as much of it to memory as I could. In the work of a spook, you never know when knowledge of the terrain might come in useful.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE MIRROR

  THAT night I had another lucid dream, reliving a scary incident from my past—the final encounter with the Celtic witch that Bill Arkwright and I had faced back home in the County.

  I could see the witch just ahead of me now, running through the trees in the dappled moonlight. I was chasing her, closing fast, readying my silver chain, feeling confident that I could bind her. But I was about to cast it when she swerved away so that a tree stood between me and my target. Suddenly the burly figure of Bill Arkwright rose up to confront her, and they collided. He fell, but she only staggered for a second, then continued faster than ever.

  We were now in the open, beyond the trees, sprinting toward a grassy burial mound. But just as I was about to throw my silver chain, a brilliant light blazed straight into my face, temporarily blinding me. Briefly, the witch’s silhouette stood out against a round yellow doorway. Then, suddenly, there was darkness and silence.

  I came to a sudden halt, gasping for breath, taking stock of my surroundings. The air was warmer now, and absolutely still. Inside, beyond the doorway, lights flared on the rocky walls—black witch candles. I could also see a small table and two wooden chairs.

  To my dismay, I realized that I was now inside the burial mound! I’d followed the witch through the magical door she’d opened—and there she was, standing before me, an expression of wrath on her face. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself and slow my pounding heart.

  “What a fool you be to follow me!” she cried.

  “Do you always talk in rhyme?” I asked, trying to throw her off her guard.

  It worked, and the witch didn’t get a chance to reply, because as I spoke I cast my silver chain. It brought her to her knees, the links stretched tight across her mouth to silence her. It was a perfect shot. I’d bound the witch, but now I had a real problem. I could no longer see a door. How was I going to get out of the mound?

  Perhaps I’d be trapped inside the mound forever. Never being able to wake up…it was a terrifying thought.

  I searched the inside of the chamber carefully, running my fingers over the place where I seemed to have entered. But the rock was seamless. I was in a cave with no entrance. Arkwright was still on the outside; I really was trapped inside. Had I bound the witch, or had she bound me?

  I knelt close to her, staring into her eyes, which seemed to crinkle with amusement. Beneath the chain, her mouth was pulled away from her teeth; half a smile, half a grimace.

  I urgently needed to find out how to leave the place. I needed to remove the chain from the witch’s mouth so that she could speak.

  But I didn’t want to do it, because I suddenly remembered what happened next.

  The conscious part of me—the bit that knew I was having a dream—desperately fought for control. Somewhere, I knew I shouldn’t be doing this. But I couldn’t help myself. I was a prisoner of the dream, forced to follow that same risky course of action. So I eased the chain from her mouth. Now I had to face the consequences.

  Her lips free of the chain, the witch was able to cast dark magic spells, and she started immediately. Speaking in the Old Tongue, she uttered three rapid phrases, each ending in a rhyme. Then she opened her mouth very wide, and a thick black cloud of smoke erupted from it.

  I sprang to my feet and staggered backward as the threatening cloud continued to grow. The witch’s face was slowly being eclipsed, the cloud becoming denser and taking on an evil dark shape.

  I could now see black-feathered wings, outstretched claws, and a sharp beak. The cloud had turned into a black crow. The witch’s open mouth was a portal to the dark! She had summoned her goddess, the Morrigan!

  But this was not a bird of normal size and proportions; it was immense, distorted, and twisted into something grotesque and evil. The beak, legs, and claws were elongated, stretched out, reaching toward me, while the head and body remained at a distance, looking relatively small.

  But then the wings grew, too, until they reached out on either side of that monstrous bird to fill all the space available. They fluttered, battering wildly against the walls of the chamber, smashing the table so that it broke in half. The claws struck out at me. I ducked, and they raked against the wall above my head, gouging into the solid rock.

  I was going to die here! But suddenly I was filled with inner strength. Confidence replaced fear; there was anger, too.

  I acted without conscious decision, and with a speed that astonished even me. I stepped forward, closer to the Morrigan, released my staff’s retractable blade, and swept it across from left to right. The blade cut deep into the bird’s breast, slicing a bloody red line through the black feathers.

  There was a bloodcurdling scream. The goddess convulsed and contracted, shrinking rapidly until she was no larger than my fist. Then she vanished—though black feathers smeared with blood fluttered slowly to the ground.

  Now I could once more see the witch. She shook her head, her expression one of acute astonishment. “That’s not possible!” she cried. “Who are you that you can do such a thing?”

  “My name’s Tom Ward,” I told her. “I’m a spook’s apprentice, and my job is to fight the dark.”

  She smiled grimly. “Well, you’ve fought your last battle, boy. There is no way you can escape this place, and soon the godde
ss will return. You will not find it so easy the second time.”

  I smiled and glanced down at the blood-splattered feathers that littered the floor. Then I looked her straight in the eye, doing my best not to blink. “We’ll see. Next time I might cut off her head….”

  I was bluffing, of course. I was just trying to appear more confident than I felt. I had to persuade this witch to open the door of the mound.

  “Don’t ever visit my land, boy!” she warned me. “The Morrigan is much more powerful there. And she is vengeful. She would torment you beyond anything you can imagine. Whatever you do, stay away from Ireland!”

  I awoke in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, relieved to see that it was almost dawn.

  I remembered the dark days we’d spent on the Isle of Mona, struggling to survive. Then, it had been the Spook who was plagued by nightmares. Mercifully, his had gone, but now I’d inherited them. Now I rarely enjoyed a restful dreamless sleep.

  I went over in my mind what had actually happened next back in the County. I’d made a bargain with the witch. In return for her opening the magical door, I’d promised she could go free as long as she left the County and returned to Ireland. But once outside, I’d no sooner released her from my silver chain than Bill Arkwright threw his knife into her back, killing her on the spot. Later he’d cut out her heart, and it had been eaten by his dogs—thus ensuring that she could not return from the dead.

  So there was no way the same witch could be here in Ireland, seeking revenge. I tried to convince myself of that, but I still felt uneasy and had a strong sense of foreboding—as if something had followed me back from the nightmare and was in the room with me.

  Suddenly, from the far corner of the room, just by the door, I heard a faint noise. Could it be a mouse or a rat?

  I listened carefully, but there was nothing. Maybe I’d been mistaken…. Then it came again. This time it was like a footstep, and it was accompanied by another sound—one that filled me with new terror.

  It was the sizzle and hiss of burning wood.

  That sound brought back the memory of one of my worst experiences since becoming the Spook’s apprentice. It usually heralded the approach of the Fiend, his cloven hooves burning into the floorboards.

  My heart lurched up into my mouth as I heard the terrifying sounds twice more in quick succession. I could now actually smell the burning wood!

  But just when I thought the Fiend would appear by my side at any second, the sizzling ceased and the burning smell faded away. Then there was silence. I waited a long time before I dared to get out of bed. At last, summoning my courage, I got up, carrying my candle across to examine the floorboards. The last time I’d seen the Fiend manifest himself in this way, deep grooves had been burned into the floor. Here, the prints had left only faint marks on the wood. But they were unmistakable: four cloven hoofprints leading from the door toward the bed.

  Trying not to wake the household, I went to fetch my master and Alice and brought them to the room. My master shook his head; Alice looked really scared.

  “There’s little doubt, lad,” the Spook said. “It’s the Fiend for sure. I thought that jar was supposed to keep him at bay.”

  “Let me see it again, Tom,” Alice asked, holding out her hand.

  “I fell on the jar when we faced that first jibber,” I told my master, handing it over. “But I showed Alice, and she thought it was all right.”

  “Ain’t sure that it’s all right now,” she said, shaking her head and looking worried. She carefully traced her finger along the line of the crack. When she held it up, there was a very faint red smear on it. “It’s hardly leaking at all—but there were only six drops of blood in the jar to start with. Its power to keep the Fiend at bay is slowly lessening. Time is running out for us….”

  She didn’t need to finish her sentence. As the jar’s power weakened, the Fiend would be able to get closer and closer. Eventually he’d snatch me away into the dark—and destroy Alice, too, in revenge for the help she’d given me.

  “We thought we had plenty of time to deal with the Fiend,” I said to my master. “Now it’s becoming urgent. The jar could fail at any moment.” I turned to Alice. “Why don’t you try and contact Grimalkin again?”

  “I’ll do my best, Tom. Just hope nothing’s happened to her.”

  The Spook said nothing, but his expression was grim. From his point of view, it was all bad. By depending on the blood jar, we were already in collusion with the dark. If we didn’t summon Grimalkin, the jar would eventually fail and the Fiend would come for me and Alice—the Spook, too, if he tried to get in the way. But in asking for Grimalkin’s help, we were using the dark once again. I knew he felt trapped and compromised by the situation—and it was of my making.

  The night had been cold and windless, and a heavy hoarfrost whitened the ground as we set off west for Kerry. The early morning sun glittered off the still-distant snow-clad peaks ahead. Yet again Alice had failed to contact Grimalkin. She had been using a mirror, but in spite of her best efforts, the witch assassin hadn’t responded.

  “I’ll keep trying, Tom,” she told me. “That’s all I can do. But I’m scared. There’s no knowing how long we have before the jar fails.”

  The Spook just shook his head and stared out the window, watching the dogs as they ran alongside the carriage. There was nothing to be said. Nothing we could do. If Grimalkin didn’t answer soon, it would all be over. Death and an eternity of torment awaited us.

  Within the hour, a group of armed riders in emerald-green tunics joined us to provide an escort—two ahead of our carriage, four behind. All day we continued southwest, our elevation increasing as the brooding mountains ahead reared up into the cloudless pale-blue sky. Then, as the sun began to sink toward the west, we saw the sea below us, and a small town huddled on the edge of a river estuary.

  “That’s Kenmare, my hometown,” said Shey. “It’s a haven from the mages. They have never attacked us here—at least not yet. My house lies on the edge of a wood to the west.”

  The house proved to be an elegant mansion built in the shape of a letter E; the three wings were each three stories high. The doors were stout, and the windows on the ground floor were shuttered. Additionally, there was a high wall completely encircling it. Entry to the grounds was through a single wrought-iron gate, which was just wide enough to allow our carriage to pass. It certainly provided a good deal of protection from attack. There were also armed guards patrolling both the inside and outside of the wall.

  The hospitality of our host was excellent, and we dined well that night.

  “What do you think of this green country of ours?” he asked.

  “It’s like home,” I told him. “It reminds me of the County where we live.”

  His face broke into a grin. I had said the right thing, but in truth mine was an honest reply. I had meant every word.

  “It’s a troubled land with a proud but good-hearted people,” he said. “But the Otherworld is never very far away.”

  “The Otherworld?” asked the Spook. “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s the place where the dead heroes of Ireland dwell, awaiting their chance to be reborn.”

  The Spook nodded but was too polite to air his true thoughts. After all, we were guests, and our host was generous indeed. By the Otherworld, Farrell Shey probably meant the dark. I knew nothing about Irish heroes, but it was certainly true that some malevolent witches had returned from the dark to be born again into this world.

  “We don’t have many heroes in the County, alive or dead,” Alice said, grinning mischievously. “All we have are spooks and their daft apprentices!”

  The Spook frowned at Alice, but I just smiled. I knew she didn’t mean it.

  My master turned to Farrell Shey and asked, “Would you tell us something of your Irish heroes? We’re strangers to your land and would like to know more about it.”

  Shey smiled. “Were I to give you a full account of Ireland’s heroes, we�
��d be here for days, so I’ll just tell you briefly about the greatest of them all. His name is Cuchulain, also known as the Hound of Calann. He was given that second name because, as a young man, he fought a huge, fierce hound with his bare hands. He killed it by dashing its brains out against a gatepost.

  “He was immensely strong and skilled with sword and spear, but he is most famed for his battle frenzy—a kind of berserker fury. His muscles and his whole body would swell; one eye would recede back into his skull, while the other bulged from his massive forehead. Some say that, in battle, blood erupted from every pore of his body; others that it was merely the blood of the enemies he slew. He defended his homeland many times, winning great victories against terrible odds. But he died young.”

  “How did he meet his end?” asked the Spook.

  “He was cursed by witches,” Shey replied. “They withered his left shoulder and arm so that his strength was diminished by half. Even so, he continued to fight and took the lives of many of his enemies. His end came when the Morrigan, the goddess of slaughter, turned against him. She had loved him, but he had rejected her advances. In revenge, she used her powers against him. Weakened, he suffered a mortal wound to the stomach, and his enemies cut off his head. Now he waits in the Otherworld until it is time for him to return and save Ireland again.”

  We ate in silence for a while: Shey was clearly saddened by the memory of Cuchulain’s death, while the Spook seemed deep in thought. For my part, I had been unsettled by that mention of the Morrigan. I met Alice’s eyes and saw that her mischievous teasing had been replaced by fear. She was thinking of the threat to me.

  “I’m intrigued by your talk of this Otherworld,” said the Spook, breaking the silence. “I know that your witches can use magical doors to enter ancient burial mounds. Can they also enter the Otherworld?”