Fury of the Seventh Son

by Joseph Delaney

  was done so long ago,

  but its name has endured.

  They call it

  The Wardstone.

  “Well, lad, you’ve read it. What have you to say for yourself?”

  “It might have been someone with my name who bound the evil, whatever it was,” I suggested.

  “Aye, it might—that’s a possibility. But the word ‘ward’ also means something else. It’s the old name for a district. So the stone might simply mark the corner of some plot of land whose ownership has long been forgotten; it might be nothing to do with your family name. Does anything else come to mind?” my master asked.

  “Whatever happened here was a long time ago. How long ago was the last ice age?”

  “Thousands of years, lad. I reckon it was thousands and thousands of years back in time.”

  “That’s a long time ago to have an ancestor called Ward— and language changes, doesn’t it? You once told me that during an ice age, when it is difficult to survive, men forget knowledge and live in caves and hunt, concentrating on survival. How old is this inscription? It might not be that old—just somebody commemorating a legend.”

  “It’s hard to estimate its age, but it was there at least a hundred years ago, because my own master, Henry Horrocks, saw it when he visited the spot as a new apprentice in the company of his master. The truth is, we’ll probably never find out when that lettering was carved into the stone. It’s one of the great mysteries—another example of the unexplained. However, I want to put something else to you, lad. What if this big rock really can move through time? If that were true, it would open up two possibilities. The inscription might be a record of something that happened long ago in the past. But what else could it be?”

  I didn’t have to think. It was as if a deep part of my brain had always known and now surrendered the knowledge to my conscious mind. When I opened my mouth, the words just fell out, as if they had been readying themselves to escape.

  “It could point to something that’s going to happen in the future. It could have been written in the distant future, looking back on events yet to happen in our time. It could be a prophecy.”

  The Spook seemed deep in thought. He didn’t believe in scrying—for him the future could not be fixed. But during my years of training with him, I had seen that belief challenged over and over again.

  “On the other hand, the Wardstone might go somewhere else but stay in our own time,” he suggested.

  “What do you mean? Where else could it go?”

  “Some folks believe that there are other worlds, invisible but very close to ours. You should know, lad. You’ve been to one of ’em yourself—the Hollow Hills, where you got that sword, is one example. Of course, that could be just an extension of the dark.”

  “Could the Wardstone go to the dark?”

  “Who knows? It’s part of the unexplained, and another mystery to be solved.”

  Then, without another word, my master led me off the fell, and we headed back toward Chipenden.

  CHAPTER VI

  THE DOOMDRYTE

  AFTER spending another night outdoors, we arrived back at the Spook’s house early in the afternoon. I was tired, but my master seemed bright and full of energy.

  “That was just what I needed, lad. Despite the wet weather on the way there, the pains in my joints have gone. That walk has done me a power of good.”

  I smiled and nodded. It was good to see the Spook’s health and attitude so much improved, but I was feeling down again. I had hoped to find Alice waiting for me at the Chipenden house, but she wasn’t there. Moreover, the Spook’s suggestion that the inscription on the stone might be a prophecy troubled me.

  It said that a “man died there.” Who could that be . . . the Spook? But I was turned sixteen now, so I probably counted as a man, too. Was the end in sight for me? Perhaps I wouldn’t be the Spook’s last apprentice, after all.

  “Cheer up, lad!” my master said. “Things have a way of sorting themselves out.”

  I forced myself to smile back at him. He meant well.

  That night I didn’t sleep well. No sooner had my head touched the pillow than I was plunged straight into a nightmare. And in that dream I was reliving one of the scariest experiences I’d ever endured as a Spook’s apprentice.

  I was back in Read Hall, south of Pendle Hill, living moment by moment the night, years ago now, that I’d been visited by the evil creature called Tibb. He had been created from the body of a sow by the Malkin clan, in order to see into the future. They needed a powerful seer because they were being challenged by the young Mab Mouldheel, who had tremendous powers of prophecy.

  I was lying in bed, paralyzed by a dark magical spell. Tibb was above me, and I could hear the sound of his claws biting into the wood as he clung to the ceiling. He resembled a giant spider, but he had four limbs and his head hung down backward from his long neck. The mouth was open wide, and I could see his sharp teeth. In the dream I was just as terrified as I’d been then. Something fell from his gaping mouth onto my shirt. It was sticky and warm. At the time I hadn’t realized what it was, but now, despite the terror of the dream, I knew that it was human blood; Tibb had been in the next room feeding on Father Stocks. I had heard the poor priest crying out in anguish.

  It was then that Tibb spoke to me—the terrible words of a prophecy:

  “I see a girl, soon to be a woman. She will love you, she will betray you, and finally she will die for you.”

  I awoke dripping with sweat, my heart racing.

  Alice would be using dangerous magic, perhaps even at this very moment.

  Had Tibb foretold her death?

  Early in the afternoon I went to collect the week’s groceries from Chipenden, visiting the butcher’s, the greengrocer’s, and then the baker’s, as usual. The village had been attacked during the recent war, a patrol of enemy soldiers killing some of the inhabitants and setting fire to several houses. I was pleased to see that things were almost back to normal.

  Like the Spook’s, most of the damaged houses had been rebuilt, and the main cobbled street that sloped down between the shops was bustling with housewives clutching shopping baskets. People came to Chipenden from distant farms and hamlets, for here they could find the best cheese in the County, and mutton and beef of the highest quality.

  I threw the sack of provisions over my shoulder and set off back toward my master’s house. I was trudging up the lane toward the gate when I saw that I was being watched.

  To my left, not far from the place where I had first met Alice, three people were standing underneath a large, wide-branched oak. I knew them of old, and automatically put down my sack and brought my staff up into the diagonal defensive position—for they were witches.

  It was Mab, Beth, and Jennet Mouldheel.

  They came toward me, but halted about five paces away. I kept my staff at the ready.

  Mab was a girl of about seventeen; despite her youth, she was a dangerous malevolent witch and the leader of the Mouldheel witch clan. I’d found out what she was capable of on my first visit to Pendle. I’d gone there with the Spook to rescue my brother Jack and his family, who’d been kidnapped. She had a strong personality, powerful magic, and was without a doubt the best scryer in the County. She was attractive, too, with big bright-green eyes and fair hair. Like the rest of her clan, she went barefoot, and her feet and legs and tattered skirt were spattered with mud.

  Her two younger sisters, Jennet and Beth, were twins, and it was difficult to tell them apart. They lacked the good looks of their elder sister and had thin, pinched faces and hooked noses.

  All of them appeared a little older than when I’d last seen them. They were taller, and their faces and bodies were now those of young women.

  “You’ve taken your time! Been waiting here for you for almost an hour, we have. And you don’t seem too pleased to see me, Tom.” Mab smiled. “Should be glad, because we’re here to help you again.”

  I didn’t trust her
one bit. Before the battle on Pendle Hill, she had tried to force me to open one of Mam’s boxes for her—the trunks that the Malkins had stolen after raiding the farm and kidnapping my family. When I’d refused, she’d threatened to murder Mary, my young niece. And I’d known instinctively that it was no idle threat. Mab was a blood witch and would kill to get what she needed in order to practice her dark magic.

  However, she had since formed an uneasy alliance with us. She had accompanied us to Greece to fight Mam’s mortal enemy, the Ordeen.

  “Help us to do what?” I demanded.

  “Help you to finish off the Fiend, of course—destroy him near that big rock. Must make you feel really important to have a hill and a rock named after you!”

  I felt cold inside. I’d thought that this knowledge was confined to just a few people—me, the Spook, Grimalkin, Alice, and the lamia witch Slake.

  Mab gave me a wicked smile. “I suppose you thought it was a secret! But nothing stays hidden from me for very long. It was easy-peasy to scry what you’re up to. And I know others will find out too, and at Halloween they’ll all head for that hill where you’re supposed to kill Alice! Many will be servants of the Fiend. You’ll need our help to fight ’em off, so don’t you scowl at me like that. I thought you liked me once.”

  “He was a bit soft on you, that’s for sure!” Jennet said. “Once Alice is dead, he’ll soon come round to that way of thinking again.”

  Of course it wasn’t true. Mab had used dark magic to make me kiss her, hoping to sap my will and control me. But her attempt was doomed: when we first knew each other, Alice had gripped my forearm so tightly that her nails pierced my flesh, leaving scars. She’d told me it was her brand. And it meant that no witch could control me in that way. So Mab had failed. I’d never felt anything for her but anger and revulsion.

  “Should I tell him about Alice?” she said, smiling slyly at each of her sisters in turn.

  “Yes! Yes! Tell him now. I want to see the look on his face,” Beth gloated.

  I thought I knew what was coming. No doubt she was going to claim that she’d scryed Alice’s death again. Had she seen me slay her as part of the ritual? If so, she was mistaken. I wasn’t going to do it. And for all her power, Mab had been wrong about Alice before.

  Scrying could be uncertain. In Greece, Mab had predicted Alice’s death. But when Alice had been seized by a lamia and dragged deep into its lair, I had saved her with a spell—a dark wish given to me by Grimalkin.

  But what Mab now told me came as a real surprise.

  “You saw Alice, didn’t you?” she said. “Well, guess what—she’d been back for nearly a week before she bothered to contact you! She can’t care that much about you or she wouldn’t have let you go on worrying, would she?”

  I just stared at Mab, wondering if she was simply lying to hurt me.

  “Tell him the rest, Mab!” said Jennet. “I want him to hear all of it!”

  “Alice has found another way to finish off the Fiend. Grimalkin is helping her,” Mab gloated.

  “I know that already,” I snapped angrily. “She told me what she was doing.”

  “Did she now? Well, I bet she didn’t tell you everything. Alice is going to use the Doomdryte,” Mab crowed.

  That word, Doomdryte, was like a blow. I couldn’t hide my feelings, and all three girls grinned at the dismay on my face.

  Grimoires were books full of dark magic spells. And the most notorious and dangerous of them all was the book Mab had just referred to—the Doomdryte. It contained one very long spell. It had to be recited perfectly, without even the slightest pause for rest or mispronunciation of a single syllable. That task had never been accomplished. Every mage or witch who had attempted the incantation had failed.

  And the price of failure was death.

  I didn’t know what to say. My master and I had found that grimoire in a private library in Todmorden while fighting witches and demons from Romania. I had been unconscious for three days and nights, then confined to my sickbed for two more weeks after almost dying in the grip of Siscoi, the vampire god. While I lay helpless, Grimalkin had killed or driven away the remaining vampiric entities. She said she had searched for the Doomdryte, but in vain. But if what Mab Mouldheel said was correct, I knew exactly what had happened.

  Grimalkin must have found that deadly book, hidden it away, and then taken it to Alice when she emerged from the dark. It was no wonder Alice hadn’t come to see me at Chipenden right away! She’d waited a whole week and then visited me on the edge of the garden without my master present. And she’d told me only half a tale. The Spook and I would have been in full agreement: it was madness to even attempt the incantation. I was hurt, really hurt, by Alice’s failure to confide in me.

  My master considered the Doomdryte to be totally evil. He had wanted to burn it. Alice would surely die attempting such an impossible task. And even if she did succeed, what would be the result? Would it help her destroy the Fiend? My fear was that, in using that evil grimoire, she would finally become a fully fledged malevolent witch.

  Alice would have finally joined the dark.

  “Do you know where Alice is now?” I asked Mab. “Could you take me to her?”

  As I uttered these words, I remembered the last time Mab had taken me to her. It had been a trap: Alice had already been a prisoner of the Mouldheels.

  “She’s too well hidden,” Mab retorted. “Must have used an incredibly powerful cloaking spell to hide from me.”

  “So she’s too strong? You can’t scry her whereabouts?”

  It was a measure of Alice’s tremendous power that not even Mab could find her.

  “I wouldn’t go looking for her anyway!” snapped Mab. “Me and Alice never did see eye to eye, and she wouldn’t thank me for meddling in her affairs.”

  “So you won’t help?”

  “Can’t, and wouldn’t if I could. There’s Grimalkin to worry about, too. It doesn’t do to cross her. Anyway, it’s been nice talking to you, Tom. We’re off to visit the Wardstone. Need to learn the lay of the land so that we’ll know what’s what at Halloween.”

  “You’re wasting your time, Mab. I’d already decided not to carry out the ritual, and now that Alice is using the Doomdryte, I won’t even be there at Halloween.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that, Tom. Scrying is difficult—sometimes the future changes from minute to minute—but I do know one thing. Something really big and powerful is going to happen near the Wardstone this Halloween. 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. And guess what! You’ll be there too. That’s one thing I’m sure of.”

  With that, Mab gave me a wave of farewell, turned her back, and led her grinning sisters off into the trees.

  I stayed in the same spot for quite a while, deep in thought. My instincts told me that Mab was correct in at least one thing. Even without the ritual, something significant would happen at Halloween, and I felt certain that the Wardstone would play a part.

  My mind returned to Tibb’s prophecy again; to the part that came before “and finally she will die for you.”

  I remember what had preceded it: Tibb had claimed that “she will betray you . . .”

  Isn’t that what Alice had just done? She’d been back from the dark for almost a week before bothering to tell me that she was safe, that she’d survived. And she’d known that I’d be desperate for news. Not only that; she’d gone off to use the Doomdryte, knowing that it was against everything my master and I believed in.

  Wasn’t that a betrayal?

  CHAPTER VII

  A TERRIBLE SCENE

  THE following night I didn’t dream at all. It was a wonder, because I’d enough worries and anxieties to conjure a dozen nightmares.

  There was no nightmare.

  It was something far worse.

  Well before d
awn, I suddenly awoke in a cold sweat, certain that something was terribly wrong. I got out of bed, trembling from head to foot, full of dread and a terrible sense of loss. I felt sure that somebody close to me had died—or at least been badly injured.

  My master!

  I ran downstairs. The Spook was in the kitchen. He didn’t sleep in his bed every night. Sometimes his back felt stiff and sore of a morning, so he dozed upright in a chair. He was in his armchair now, close to the embers of the fire. He was very still.

  Was he breathing?

  I walked slowly across the flags toward him. I was expecting the worst, but suddenly he opened his eyes, stared up at me, and scratched his beard.

  “What’s wrong, lad? You look as white as a sheet.” “There’s something not right. Something’s happened to someone, I feel sure—something terrible.”

  “Perhaps it’s nothing, lad.” My master rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Maybe you just woke from a bad dream and carried the feeling of unease back with you. That happens sometimes.”

  “I wasn’t dreaming.”

  “Dreams can be forgotten at the instant of waking. You can’t be sure of that,” said the Spook.

  I shook my head. “I need to go outside,” I told him.

  Full of apprehension, I went out into the garden. The dark sky was covered with uniform light-gray cloud; it was starting to drizzle. I shivered. The feeling of dread and loss was stronger than ever.

  Suddenly there was something like a flash of light right inside my skull, and a pain in the center of my forehead. And now the wrongness had a direction. Its source was some distance away, in a southeasterly direction.

  I heard the Spook approach and stand at my side.

  “Whatever is wrong, it’s over there. . . .” I pointed through the trees.

  “It could be dark magic,” said my master, “luring you out into a trap. The servants of the Fiend will never give in. We must be on our guard.”

  “It’s strange. I’ve never felt like this before. I’m scared. . . . But you could be right—it might just be a trap.” I began to pace up and down, my stomach churning with anxiety while the Spook stared at me, clearly concerned and alarmed.