The Spook's Destiny

by Joseph Delaney

  That hope was short-lived. I heard the sound of galloping hooves and knew that I was just moments from recapture or death. The first rider came at me from the right. I saw the glint of a sword in the moonlight, and ducked to my left as it swept down towards my head. Whether the blow was intended to kill me or he’d just been using the flat of his sword, I couldn’t tell, but other horsemen quickly surrounded me, pointing their weapons at me, waiting until the runners caught up.

  Moments later rough hands seized me, and I was dragged back up the slope towards the marketplace. Magister Doolan was waiting beside the tower, grim-faced.

  ‘You have a lot to answer for, boy!’ he said, cuffing me twice about the head, making my ears sing. ‘I’d love to slice you up slowly myself, but I’ll give you to the witch. She’ll know best how to make you suffer.’

  With that, my hands and feet were tied and I was thrown over the back of a horse. All around me I heard a bustle as the mages and their followers prepared to leave Killorglin. Soon we were off, heading south in a long convoy. No doubt the mages feared that the Alliance would take this opportunity to attack, and we hurried along so quickly that those on foot had to jog to keep up with the horses.

  I’d had a brief taste of freedom. Now it seemed that we were bound for the refuge of the mages, the Staigue ring fort. According to Shey, its defences were impregnable. Once inside, I’d be as good as dead. They’d hand me over to the witch.

  Despite everything, I allowed myself the small satisfaction of reflecting that the mages had been forced to abandon their ceremony.

  It had failed, and I had been the one to stop it.

  BY DAWN WE were deep in the southern hills. It was now raining hard and I was soaked to the skin. I hung face down against the horse’s flank, bouncing up and down uncomfortably, so my main view was of the boggy ground.

  My first glimpse of the Staigue fort came when I was dragged off the horse and my feet were freed. I looked up at what appeared to be a gigantic dry-stone wall towering over us, the stones skilfully positioned one upon the other, without the use of mud or mortar to bind them together. The ‘ring fort’ was a good name for it, because that’s exactly what it was – a huge defensive circle of stones. Everyone was dismounting, and I soon found out why. The fort could only be entered by a very narrow gate, which was far too small for a horse.

  Once through that gap in the wall, I got my first sight of the inside of the mages’ fortification. It had no roof, but the walls were very high, with nine separate flights of stone steps leading up to ramparts, from which attackers could be repelled. The ground within it was churned to soft mud, but dotted about were a number of timber buildings. The stone fort was clearly very old, but these wooden constructions looked relatively recent. Some appeared to be dwellings, but the central one, which was round in shape, probably had a different purpose; it was towards this building that I was dragged.

  We didn’t enter right away. I was forced to sit down in the mud and surrounded by four guards armed with swords. While we waited, the narrow gap through which we’d entered the fort was sealed with stones. The job was done so expertly that there was no sign at all of where the entrance had been. I assumed that someone had remained outside to take the horses away to shelter.

  At last I was hauled to my feet and the Butcher led the way into the large building. Inside stood a circular, elevated dais. It was stained and polished, and marked upon its surface was a large pentacle of the type mages used to summon a daemon or other supernatural entity. A number of chairs and a table were set out at the centre. Around the dais, the floor was mud, and there must have been at least nine armed guards standing up to their ankles in it. Upon the dais stood seven barefoot mages, and near its edge was Thin Shaun. He was cradling his son, Konal, who was still wrapped in a blanket. Shaun’s hood was pulled forward, his head bowed and in shadow.

  Doolan approached the edge of the wooden structure to address him. ‘Where is Scarabek?’ he snapped.

  ‘I failed – despite my best efforts she is still a prisoner. But her enemy is prepared to exchange her for the boy. I advise you to let him go’ – Shaun nodded at me – ‘then you’ll have Scarabek to sacrifice next time we attempt the ritual.’

  ‘Who is this enemy?’ demanded the chief mage angrily.

  Thin Shaun lifted his head, and with his left hand pulled back his hood so that his face was visible. Even before he spoke I knew the identity of the enemy who had bested him. Her sign was carved into his forehead and it was still weeping blood.

  ‘Her name is Grimalkin – she’s an assassin, and has come from a powerful witch clan over the water. Never have I encountered someone with such skill. All my strength and magic proved useless against her. I was completely at her mercy,’ Shaun admitted.

  Suddenly I was filled with new hope. Grimalkin was here!

  ‘Is she alone,’ demanded Doolan, ‘or supported by other clan members?’

  ‘She is alone.’

  ‘Then she can be dealt with.’

  Shaun looked away.

  ‘Although we failed to raise the god, the attempt did bear some fruit …’ The Butcher’s voice was full with confidence. ‘It has made our magic stronger. She is only one; if we fill a mage with our combined strength, just one of our number will be enough to kill her. I will be her executioner!’

  Doolan bowed his head and started to mutter to himself; the words he spoke were in the Old Tongue – he was using dark magic. As he did so, the seven other mages knelt in a huddle at the edge of the dais and chanted for a minute or so before suddenly falling silent.

  Then they moved close to Doolan and stretched out their arms, laying their hands on his head, shoulders, upper back and chest. They began to chant again, and in response, the man they called the Butcher closed his eyes and began to shudder.

  I remembered how they had performed a similar ritual with the gunners at the siege of Ballycarbery Castle. Before the mages had invested them with power, they had been ineffectual; afterwards, they had become devastatingly accurate and had breached the castle wall. Doolan was formidable already. How much more dangerous would he become? Could he pose a real threat to Grimalkin?

  At last the mages fell silent and withdrew their hands. ‘I go now!’ the Butcher told them, showing his teeth. ‘I’ll bring back the head of our enemy!’

  He left the hall, and I was dragged out after him. I wondered how he was going to leave the fort. Surely they wouldn’t have to remove the stones that now blocked the entrance? The mage headed for the nearest set of steps that led up to the ramparts at the top of the wall. Beside them stood an iron pillar. Fastened to it and coiled beneath it was a long length of strong rope. He seized the end and dragged the rope after him as he ascended. I watched him throw it down outside the wall. Then he clambered across the top and disappeared from view. He was climbing down the rope to reach the ground.

  After a few moments he gave a shout, and one of the guards ran to the pillar and began to haul on the rope. The end appeared over the wall and slithered down the steps like a snake. At that point I was forced to squat in the wet mud again. Then we waited.

  * * *

  We waited all day; nothing happened. They changed my guard twice. I was wet through again, shivering from the cold and damp and close to starvation.

  Then, at dusk, I heard a distant cry. It sounded like something in great pain.

  One of the guards spat in the mud. ‘Just an animal,’ he said. However, my experience as an apprentice spook told me that it was more likely to be human.

  From time to time a mage climbed the ramparts and peered out into the night. By now, even allowing for the elevation of the land, the moon should have been visible to the east. But the thick clouds promised more rain, and the night grew darker. Lanterns were hung from hooks on the wall, but for some reason the light they cast was weak, as if the darkness itself was viscous and thick. I could hear the voices of the mages, but they were muffled and indistinct.

  Then a voice
called loudly and clearly from beyond the wall. ‘Lower the rope!’

  I recognized that deep gruff voice. It was the Butcher. Had he been successful? I wondered.

  A guard threw the end of the rope down, and moments later Doolan was standing on the ramparts; the soldier held a lantern close to his face. Doolan led the way down the steps again. When he reached the mud at the bottom and approached the first wall-lantern, I realized that he was carrying something in his left hand. By now Thin Shaun had emerged from the round hut, half a dozen mages following close behind.

  They waited behind me as Doolan strode through the mud. With his right hand he drew a long blood-stained knife from his belt; in his left, casually held by the hair, was a severed head. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach. The Butcher raised it up so that the mages could get a good look at it.

  I recognized that face – both beautiful and cruel, with high cheekbones and lips that were painted black.

  ‘Behold! The head of the witch!’ he cried.

  I was looking at the face of the witch assassin.

  Grimalkin was dead.

  MY HEART SANK into my boots. Everything was lost. My hope of escape had been snatched away. Grimalkin had also offered our only real hope of binding the Fiend. I felt sad too. She had been a malevolent witch, the assassin of the Malkin clan, but we had fought alongside each other. Without Grimalkin’s help, I would be dead already.

  ‘Where is Scarabek?’ asked Thin Shaun.

  ‘She’s safe enough,’ Doolan told him, ‘but was hurt in the struggle. I came on ahead to bring you the news. She is happy for me to deal with the boy and give him the slow death he justly deserves. I will start now,’ he said, lifting the knife and licking the blood from its long blade.

  I was pulled to my feet and my bonds were cut. Then Shaun seized me by the hair and dragged me towards the chief mage.

  ‘Death has come for you, boy!’ he cried. ‘Look upon his fearsome face!’

  The Butcher, Doolan, smiled grimly. Then he said something very strange:

  ‘Death has sent his dark angel instead!’

  Dark angel? What did he mean?

  I looked at Doolan and saw that there was something weird about him. A purple light shimmered around his head, and his face seemed to be melting. He was shifting his shape. His lips were now black. The forehead seemed narrower too; the cheekbones higher. It was no longer the face of the chief mage.

  It was Grimalkin.

  As usual, the witch assassin was dressed to deal out death: her body was criss-crossed with leather straps, each holding more than one sheath; they housed her blades, and the scissors she used to snip away the thumb-bones of her defeated enemies. From her left shoulder was suspended a small hessian sack. What new weapon did that contain? I wondered. Her lips were painted black, and when she opened her mouth I could see those terrifying teeth, each one filed to a sharp point. She looked dangerous; every inch a killer.

  The witch assassin had used a cloak of dark magic to deceive her enemies. I felt a surge of joy: I wasn’t dead yet. In her left hand Grimalkin held the severed head of Doolan, which she now tossed disdainfully into the mud at her feet. In one fluid motion she hurled the long knife towards me with terrible force. But I was not the target, and Grimalkin rarely missed.

  Thin Shaun screamed, and his hand convulsed before releasing my hair. I turned and watched him fall to his knees in the mud, the knife up to its hilt in his chest. The mages around me panicked and started to move backwards, away from the witch.

  Grimalkin ran forward, grabbed me by the left shoulder and spun me behind her. I slipped and went down on my hands and knees in the mud. Now she was between me and our enemies, crouching, ready to attack. A guard launched a spear towards her chest. The aim was good and it was fast, but at the last moment she knocked it aside with the edge of her hand, simultaneously hurling another knife. The guard died even before his spear had been deflected to the ground. I scrambled to my feet.

  ‘Run for the steps! Use the rope!’ the witch cried, pointing towards the wall.

  I did as she commanded, but I was unfit after long days and nights of imprisonment and ill-treatment. My legs felt sluggish, the mud sucking at my boots and delaying my progress. I glanced back and saw that, as yet, Grimalkin was making no attempt to follow me. She was fighting a dozen mages and guards, whirling and cutting. I heard screams and groans of agony as her blades slashed and stabbed, driving back her foes.

  I’d reached the steps; I began to climb as fast as I was able, my legs as heavy as lead. I was now at the ramparts and glanced back down again. Grimalkin had retreated, and was fighting next to the iron pillar to which the end of the rope was tied.

  I suddenly saw a great danger. Once she left that position and tried to make her own escape, they would cut through the rope. Surely she must be aware of the danger, I thought. I clambered over the edge of the wall and began to climb down. I felt dizzy and spun round and round on the rope, finding it hard to hold on.

  At last, breathless and weak with exertion, I reached the ground and looked up. There were cries from beyond the ramparts; then Grimalkin appeared at the top of the wall and began her rapid descent. My heart was in my mouth, but she was suddenly there at my side, pointing to the east.

  ‘Our best hope is to follow the coast that way!’ she told me.

  Without waiting for a reply, she ran off; I kept up as best I could, but she began to get further and further ahead. She halted and came back towards me. Turning, I could see the lights of torches on the distance.

  ‘There are too many of them to fight,’ she said. ‘Soon they’ll send for horses as well. You’ve got to move faster. Our lives depend on it.’

  My mind was willing, but my body simply couldn’t match its demands. ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I’ve been tied up for days and I’ve eaten little. I’m sorry but I just haven’t the strength.’

  Without another word, the witch seized me by my legs and heaved me up onto her shoulders as if I were no more than a sack of feathers. Then she headed east.

  Grimalkin ran for at least an hour. Once she leaped across a stream; on another occasion she slipped to her knees on a slope. The next thing I knew, I was being taken into some sort of shelter and lowered to the ground. Then I fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke, Grimalkin was cooking something over a fire, the smoke drifting up a chimney.

  I sat up slowly and looked about me. It was daylight, and we were sheltering in an abandoned cottage. I could see no furniture, and animals had obviously been using the place before us. There was sheep dung on the stone flags near the doorway. The cottage had no door, and the single window was broken. It was draughty, but the roof was still intact and it was dry.

  The witch assassin was crouching in the hearth, slowly rotating two rabbits impaled on spits. She turned and gave me a smile, showing her sharp teeth.

  Then, to my surprise, I saw my staff leaning against the wall in the far corner of the room.

  ‘I retrieved your staff from Scarabek’s cottage and left it here on my way to Staigue. Are you feeling better now?’ she asked.

  I nodded. ‘Yes, and thank you for saving my life. Again.’ I gestured towards the fire. ‘Aren’t you bothered about the smoke from the chimney? Are they still searching for us?’

  ‘Yes, but they won’t find us here – I’ve cloaked this place with magic. Once night falls we’ll continue our journey.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ I wondered.

  ‘To Kenmare, to meet your master.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him already?’

  ‘Yes. He made his way back there – though Alice wasn’t with him and I’ve had no further contact with her. She’s well beyond the protection of the blood jar.’

  I bowed my head. ‘The blood jar can’t help her now,’ I said sadly. ‘The Celtic witch, Scarabek, gave Alice to the Fiend, and he took her away into his domain.’

  ‘The poor girl,’ Grimalkin replied. ‘Then she is lost. There is nothing we can do for her.
I wish I’d known that. I let Scarabek go. She’d served her purpose – she was just a way to free you. I should have killed her!’

  When I heard these words, I felt a stab of pain in my heart. It confirmed what I already believed about Alice but coming from the witch assassin’s lips they held a terrible finality.

  ‘Now that she’s free, Scarabek will come looking for me again,’ I told her. ‘I was with Bill Arkwright when he killed her twin sister. She seeks revenge before giving me to the Fiend.’

  ‘You needn’t worry. You’ll be safe with me at your side,’ Grimalkin said. ‘Besides, I took something else from the witch’s cottage.’

  She handed me the hessian sack I’d noticed earlier. I opened it and, to my delight, saw that it contained my silver chain.

  ‘Put it away,’ Grimalkin said. ‘Even lifting it in the sack burned my fingers. I can’t bear to be near it!’

  Then she held out one of the spits towards me. ‘Eat up. You’ll need your strength.’

  For a while we ate in silence. The rabbit was delicious. I was starving, and kept burning my mouth in my eagerness to wolf it down.

  ‘How did your master take the news about the blood jar?’ Grimalkin asked. ‘He said little to me; he seemed subdued and deep in thought. He can hardly find it easy to accept that his apprentice is protected by dark magic.’

  ‘He took it very badly,’ I answered, automatically checking that it still lay in my pocket. ‘For a moment I thought he was going to smash it immediately – sending the three of us to the dark for ever, but then he relented: it was as if your plan had given him new hope. Life’s dealt him a bad hand in recent months. His house and library were burned to the ground – the heritage it was his duty to keep safe. He’s never been the same since.’

  ‘Well, he won’t have expected us to be allies again after Greece. That won’t be easy for him either,’ she remarked.

  ‘Did Alice tell you that the jar is cracked and starting to fail?’