by Kate Forsyth
‘I shall fight!’ cried Sir Kevyn.
‘And I! And I!’ cried many more voices.
‘So shall I,’ Lord Wolfgang said, standing tall in his filthy, tattered robe. ‘I am the lord of this castle and I shall fight for my people.’
Elanor gazed at him, marvelling. Despite his emaciated frame and grimy face, he looked more alive than she ever remembered seeing him. Was it the enchanted water? Or perhaps the spell Mistress Mauldred had cast over him had finally been broken?
‘Sebastian has gone to find weapons,’ she said. ‘And Tom will be ringing the warning bells any minute now, to call in help from the town and the countryside.’
Except the bells had not rung.
Tom drifted slowly into consciousness.
His shoulder hurt. So did his head. It was freezing.
Tom opened his eyes groggily. All was dark. For an awful, frantic moment, he thought he had been blinded. A dim light was filtering down from overhead. Far above was a small bright circle of light.
Memory began to return. He tried to sit up. Water surged around him, splashing his face. Tom realised he was lying half-in, half-out, of water. Something hard was beneath him, cutting into his armpit and his stomach. Then he remembered.
Lady Mortlake had thrown him down the well.
He had been running, full-pelt, from the gatehouse towards the Bell Tower. If he rang the bells, his father would come. Perhaps the whole countryside would rise to defend the castle.
He had heard a thunder of hooves behind him. He had glanced over one shoulder.
Hurtling towards him was the giant boar, yellow tusks curving up from either side of its snout. On its broad and bristly back rode Lady Mortlake, her black hair whipping out behind her. Her lips were drawn into a snarl and her eyes were lit with madness.
Tom tried to bolt for the cover of the garden, but in seconds she was upon him. She seized him by the hair and somehow dragged him up onto the boar in front of her. Tom tried to jerk free, but she had too tight a grip on him.
‘I’ve had enough of you and your troublesome friends,’ she had hissed. ‘It’s time to get rid of you once and for all.’
With a skid, the giant boar drew up in front of the knights’ well, set in the corner under the stairs that led up to the Bell Tower. Tom fell heavily, banging his elbow on the paving stones. Lady Mortlake hauled him over to the well. He tried to break free, but it felt like she was ripping out every hair on his head.
‘Well, you won’t be troubling me anymore.’ With unbelievable strength she had lifted him and hurled him down the well.
I must have hit my head on the way down, Tom thought. He felt cautiously around him. His fall had been broken by the big wooden bucket. He was lying half across it, his legs dangling in the water. They were numb with cold.
He looked back up at the circle of light above him.
What had happened to Fergus? And Wulfric? The last Tom had seen, they had been running behind him. Had Lady Mortlake killed them?
And his friends? Had they been caught too?
He had to get out. He groped along the wall. His head swam. Gritting his teeth, Tom put one foot in a crack and heaved himself up. His muscles protested.
Slowly, laboriously, he climbed out of the well.
When he finally crawled out of the well-mouth, his arms and legs trembled uncontrollably and his hands were torn and bleeding. He collapsed onto the paving stones, trying to catch his breath.
Smoke drifted everywhere, the dark shapes of fighting men looming up, then being obscured again. It was hard to tell what time it was, for the sun was nigh invisible behind the clouds of black smoke. The light was strange and reddish. He could hear a shrill whinnying, the clash of arms and the pound of running feet.
Then Sebastian hurtled past him, the golden sword in one hand. He came out of the smoke so unexpectedly and flashed past so fast that Tom barely had time to call out. Lord Mortlake thundered after him, a sword in his hand. He shouted back over his shoulder, ‘Fools! I’ll get him. Find those other brats!’
Tom ducked. Lord Mortlake ran past, his spurs ringing each time they hit the paving stones. Tom heard him clattering up the steps to the Bell Tower.
I have to warn Sebastian!
Tom ran through the hedged archway into the garden. The battle surged around him, but he stumbled on till he reached the shelter of the old oak tree. He looked up at the Bell Tower. Sebastian was hauling something up the wall.
‘Sebastian!’ Tom shouted. ‘Watch out!’
His friend did not hear him. He was concentrating hard, arm muscles bulging as he pulled on the heavy chain. The sun lit his curly hair to a fiery nimbus.
The next moment, Sebastian lifted up the heavy iron cage. Beltaine was crammed inside, the bars cutting into her wings. Tom also saw that Lord Mortlake had reached the floor below Sebastian and was climbing fast.
‘Sebastian!’ Tom’s voice was croaky and did not make much noise. He tried again.
The squire unlocked the cage and lifted the baby dragon out. Beltaine burst into flight, looping around Sebastian’s head. Tom saw Lord Mortlake sprinting up the stairs. He was almost upon Sebastian.
Tom screamed his name at the top of his lungs. Sebastian heard and turned just in time. A huge grin broke out on his face and he waved his arm. Then he disappeared behind the battlements, just as Lord Mortlake reached the top of the stairs. The armoured lord stopped, looking around for Sebastian.
A great cacophony filled the air. Sebastian had climbed the final set of steps to the belfry and was now ringing the warning bells. Tom punched the air in victory. The townsfolk would hear the bells and come to the castle’s rescue. Tom’s father would hear the bells and come too.
A shadow fell upon him.
Lady Mortlake stood behind him, a long obsidian knife in her hand. The great boar stood beside her, as big as an ox, his eyes glaring red, drool dripping from his jaws.
‘Why will you not die?’ Lady Mortlake complained.
Elanor heard the bells ring out and cheered. She looked up at the Bell Tower, shading her eyes from the glare of the setting sun, hoping to see Tom.
But it was Sebastian up there ringing the bells. She could see his red curls and the darting shape of the baby dragon against the crimson-streaked sky.
Elanor’s father had followed her out and was issuing orders to his men-at-arms. Sir Kevyn found a leather sack of weapons lying near the stables and shouted to his men to come and seize them.
A neigh rent the air and Elanor spun around. Quickthorn cantered towards her, his black mane and tail flying. Elanor ran to meet him, throwing her arms about his neck and burying her face in his neck.
The bells jangled into silence. Elanor looked up at the Bell Tower, but could see nothing. It was black against the smoky red sky. Sebastian must be running back down to the inner ward. Elanor wondered if Tom was with him.
Suddenly, she heard a distant explosion. It came from the dungeons below her feet. The whole castle shook and giant ravens rose up from the towers in a storm of black wings that darkened the whole sky. Elanor staggered. She would have fallen if it wasn’t for the unicorn by her side. ‘No! Mistress Mauldred must’ve escaped!’
Elanor’s legs felt weak. She looked around for help. Every one of her father’s men were fighting desperately, barely able to hold their own against the endless ranks of bog-men. Lord Vaughn could barely be seen for the black-armoured knights that surrounded him. Mistress Ifanna was down on one knee, only just managing to keep her shield above her head. The skeleton horse reared, Lady Rhianwyn struggling in the grip of a dozen bog-men. Only Sir Geraint held his own, arrows whizzing from his bow into the crowd as he sought to save his friends.
Elanor was amazed and gladdened to see folk from the town below in the struggle—butchers in striped aprons, fishermen with nets, a brawny-armed woman striking out with a frying pan. They all fought hard, but were being beaten back by the sheer number of bog-men and the knights with their swords and maces.
The door to the kitchen was blown off its hinges. Mistress Mauldred appeared, her fist surrounded by a ball of fiery power. She struck out, and one of the castle men-of-arms went flying backwards, hit the wall and then lay still.
Elanor vaulted onto Quickthorn’s back. ‘We have to stop her!’ She dug her heels into the unicorn’s side and he sprang forward into a gallop, wielding his horn with deadly accuracy as they raced through the battle. Each time his horn pierced the skin of a bog-man, the leathery creature burst into flame. Soon the air was filled with swirling ashes.
Mistress Mauldred stormed, livid, out into the inner ward. She saw Elanor and made a sharp gesture. Lighting crashed down. If the unicorn had not leapt, Elanor would have been struck.
Quickthorn spun and slashed with his horn. Mistress Mauldred stumbled back, blood welling from a deep gash on her arm. She looked up, furious, and made another quick motion with her hand. Lightning stabbed down again. Quickthorn neighed and bounded away. The lightning hit a knight in his metal armour and sent him flying. Mistress Mauldred struck again. This time, the lightning missed Quickthorn and Elanor by only a hairbreadth. Elanor could smell the burn of it in the air and feel its sizzle on her skin.
She wheeled Quickthorn around and galloped through the inner ward as Mistress Mauldred struck out left and right. It seemed her fiery magic would further turn the battle against the castle folk. Elanor saw her father fighting desperately, backed into a corner. Arwen was beside him, but the old witch was thin and frail from her weeks in the dungeon and her staff had been broken. It looked as if she would fall down at any moment.
Then Elanor saw Quinn racing towards her. A great silver-and-black serpent was draped around her neck and she carried a glass jar.
Elanor drew Quickthorn up. ‘Like a ride?’
Quinn nodded. Elanor pulled her up onto the back of the beast. ‘Is that … is that Sabre?’ Elanor looked at the snake wrapped around Quinn’s neck.
‘Yes. Wilda had shrunk him as small as a sardine, but I made him grow again. The only thing is, I didn’t have much magic left. He only grew this big.’
‘Wilda?’
‘Yes.’ Quinn waved the jar. ‘I have her right here.’
Elanor squinted to see, then laughed out loud. The hunchbacked old witch was inside the jar, no bigger than her thumb.
‘Where are the boys?’ Quinn asked.
Elanor frowned. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen them for hours.’
Just then, the bells began to clash together loudly.
Sebastian had been fighting Lord Mortlake for a long time. His legs trembled and his sword arm screamed in pain. A red mist swam before his eyes.
His only advantage was that he was younger and quicker than the iron-clad lord. He ducked and veered and swerved and rolled, grateful for the many hours of mob-ball training. Beltaine helped, swooping around Lord Mortlake’s head and spitting fiery sparks at him.
Then Sebastian stumbled. Lord Mortlake heaved him backwards and Sebastian fell over the parapet and onto the largest of the bells. As Sebastian scrabbled madly, trying to keep himself from sliding off and falling down into the dark spaces below him, the bell swayed and smashed against the other bells.
Groping out, one of Sebastian’s hands caught hold of the bell-rope. He swung from side to side, trying to catch his breath. The clangour of the bells rang in his ears, deafening him.
Sebastian ached all over, bruised and bloodied. But Lord Mortlake was relentless, slashing at him with his sword. Sebastian scrambled up onto the curve of the bell, keeping its brass weight between him and the furious knight.
To the west, the sun was little more than a melting blob of liquid gold on the sea. Sebastian thought of the awakened warriors turning to dust and turned to look back down at the castle.
It was then that he saw a large army galloping up the road, banners fluttering amid a cloud of fiery-red dust.
Sebastian groaned. ‘What now?’
Quickthorn was surrounded by bog-men on all sides, grabbing at the girls’ legs and arms and trying to drag them free. Just then, a whiplash of lightning flicked over their heads. It hit the jar in Quinn’s hands and smashed it into smithereens. Wilda tumbled down, down, down. As soon as she hit the ground, she rolled over and planted her witch’s staff into the earth. At once, she began to grow rapidly. Her ancient face was contorted with rage.
‘Uh-oh!’ Quinn cried.
Elanor urged Quickthorn into a gallop. The unicorn sped through the battle, Elanor clinging to his black mane and Quinn clinging to her. The snake lifted its triangular head and hissed.
The sun was sliding down behind the castle walls.
‘It’s almost sunset,’ Quinn cried in despair. ‘Then it’ll be the time of the dark moon. We have to stop them before they destroy us all!’
Tom felt for his dagger. It was gone. So too were his bow and arrows. He was without weapons.
The giant boar pawed the ground with one foot, digging a great furrow in the soil. His red eyes were fixed on Tom.
Lady Mortlake smiled. She feinted towards Tom with the black knife. He ducked away. She struck again. Tom stumbled backwards.
She pressed him hard against the oak tree, her dagger against his throat. ‘The sun is setting, and then comes the dark moon,’ she whispered. ‘Then will be the time to kill you. Even a pot-boy’s blood can curse a king.’
Sebastian bolted down the steps, Lord Mortlake close on his heels.
To Sebastian’s dismay, he saw that the battle had swung against the awakened heroes. All four were on their knees, each trying to stave off the spears and swords of dozens of knights and bog-men. Sir Kevyn’s men-at-arms and the townsfolk were doing their best, but it was clear they would soon be overwhelmed.
The sky was darkening as the sun sank down in a welter of bloody colours. Then Sebastian heard the high, clear call of the horn. Sir Geraint had it to his lips, blowing a desperate retreat. A wild sweet-scented wind sprang up. It whirled about the inner ward. Dust and smoke and ashes swirled into little whirlwinds that danced back and forth across the darkening sky.
To his despair, Sebastian felt the golden sword in his hand turn into a spray of fiery sparks that swirled away on the wind.
When the air cleared, the awakened heroes were gone, and with them the magical weapons the children had won with such difficulty. The skeletons had all fallen into heaps of old bones, their animating blue light snuffed out.
‘It’s sunset,’ Lord Mortlake exulted. ‘And you’ve lost.’
He swung his sword. Sebastian could do nothing but duck and run. As he raced through the archway into the garden, he saw Tom backed against the oak tree. Lady Mortlake had him cornered, an obsidian knife to his throat.
Quickthorn was rearing and prancing, Elanor and Quinn on his back. Mistress Mauldred was smiling as she forced them back towards the tree with one well-placed lightning bolt after another. Wilda advanced from behind. Sebastian glanced over his shoulder. Lord Mortlake’s sword gleamed in his hand as he stepped closer and closer, smiling ferociously.
‘Your heroes are nothing but dust now,’ the lord gloated. ‘Your weapons are all broken and your protectors are dead. It is sunset, and the moon is dark. Now is the time to cast the death curse.’
‘All we need is blood.’ Mistress Mauldred drew a black blade from within her dress. She darted forward and seized Elanor’s ankle, dragging her from the unicorn. Quickthorn reared, trying to protect her.
Quinn fell to the ground. As she painfully drew herself to her feet, Wilda darted forward and drew her own witch’s knife. She dragged Quinn backwards, holding her in front of her, the knife to her chest. Sabre coiled before them, rearing high and hissing his defiance, but unable to strike with Quinn between him and the witch.
‘Ela!’ Tom stretched out his hand in horror as Mistress Mauldred pressed her blade against Elanor’s throat. He could not run to help her, though, for he was still pressed back to the tree, Lady Mortlake’s knife sharp and cruel agains
t his skin. He could feel blood sliding down his skin. She laughed and pressed the blade closer.
An eagle’s scream split the twilight sky. A magnificent golden griffin swooped down and landed in the garden. He could do nothing to save Tom, though, and his long lion’s tail thrashed in angry frustration.
Sebastian was backed closer and closer to the tree by the point of Lord Mortlake’s sword. ‘How much more satisfying it will be to kill you myself,’ the lord said. ‘And with the death of the four of you, we shall rid ourselves of all who stand between us and the throne.’
Beltaine swooped about Lord Mortlake’s head, desperately, spraying fiery sparks. Lord Mortlake simply swatted her away with his gauntleted fist. Whimpering, the baby dragon spun away, head-over-heels, then crashed to the ground. ‘Bel!’ Sebastian cried, but he could do nothing.
All four children were backed against the oak tree, blades at their throats.
‘Start the spell!’ Mistress Mauldred commanded.
Lady Mortlake laughed. ‘By the power of the dark moon, with bloodied corpses of battle here strewn …’ the witch chanted. As the blade cut deeper, Tom felt the trickle of his blood flow faster.
‘… with the shedding of royal blood, I open Death’s dark flood …’ Mistress Mauldred pressed the dagger into Elanor’s throat. Blood streaked down her pale skin. Lord Mortlake smiled and pressed the point of his sword into Sebastian’s shoulder so he gasped with pain. Wilda grinned toothlessly and began twisting the blade above Quinn’s heart so blood bloomed on her white dress.
‘Stop!’ a voice commanded.
Arwen limped into the shadowed circle under the oak tree’s ancient branches. ‘Kill me instead,’ she begged. ‘I am old, and these brave children are so young …’
‘A Grand Teller’s blood will make powerful death magic indeed,’ Lady Mortlake cried. With a scream of triumph, she leapt forward and plunged her dagger into Arwen’s breast. The silver-haired witch fell, her blood spilling out to stain the churned mud.
