Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13) (18 page)

I explained to my master what had happened. I left nothing out, because he was a stickler for detail. Finally I gave him a quick summary of what Alice had said, as far as I could remember.

“Do you take this threat from the north seriously?” said the Spook, directing his question at Grimalkin.

“Alice is right. Part of it she heard from my own lips. There is indeed a warlike race of creatures that has built a great city in the frozen wastes,” Grimalkin began. “In ancient times they went forth and waged war on the humans to the south. They enslaved the women and killed all the males. They are barbaric. They murdered their own females long ago. That much is certainly true.”

“They killed all their women?” exclaimed the Spook. “Is that true as well? That's insane! How do they continue their race?”

“They enslave human women, breed with them, and also drink their blood. They have powerful magic, too.”

“They're called the Kobalos,” I interrupted. “There's something about them in your Bestiary.”

“Aye, lad, that there is. It's something I once scoffed at, but now I've been proved wrong. Go and get it from the library!”

I ran upstairs to fetch the Bestiary, then returned and handed it to my master. He quickly found the right page and began to read silently. After a few moments he looked up.

“I got this information from a few notebooks that once came into my hands, supposedly from an ancient spook called Nicholas Browne. It seemed incredible; I wasn't really convinced of their authenticity, but just in case there was some smidgeon of truth, I entered the information in the Bestiary with a comment that it couldn't be verified. I'd have liked a closer look at those notebooks in light of what you've told me, but unfortunately they were lost in the fire. Here, lad,” he said, handing me the book. “Read the final paragraph aloud.”

I did as he bade me.

“The Kobalos are a fierce, warlike race who, with the exception of their mages, inhabit Valkarky, a city deep within the arctic circle.

“The name Valkarky means ‘the City of the Petrified Tree'; it is filled with all types of abominations that have been created by dark magic. Its walls are constructed and renewed by creatures that never sleep, creatures that spit soft stone from their mouths. The Kobalos believe that their city will not stop growing until it covers the entire world.”

“Remember what else Alice said,” Grimalkin reminded us. “They worship a god called Talkus who has yet to come into existence. Because of that, they occasionally refer to him as the God Who Is Yet to Be Born. The Kobalos are convinced that he is all-powerful and will lead them in a war against humanity that will never cease until all our males are dead and our females enslaved.”

“Do they predict when this will happen?” asked the Spook.

“They believe it will be very soon,” she replied.

“Alice thinks she's doing the right thing in preserving the Fiend. She thinks that destroying him will make way for the Kobalos god. . . . Doesn't that worry
you
?” I asked Grimalkin. “She claimed it was only your hatred of the Fiend and desire for revenge that stopped you from joining her.”

Grimalkin shook her head. “I don't necessarily think that finishing the Fiend will lead to the birth of Talkus. Alice's thinking is shaped by the will of the mage Lukrasta, who certainly wants to preserve his master. I think we must deal with the Fiend first and then turn our attention to the Kobalos threat.”

The Spook nodded. “Of course, the first part's easier said than done. They have the head once more.”

But by this time I was hardly listening. I had grasped the witch assassin's words as fiercely as a drowning man would the hand that pulls him from the torrent.

“Do you think that Alice is really in thrall to Lukrasta?” I asked.

“In a way, yes,” she replied.

My hopes soared at this confirmation. But Grimalkin hadn't finished yet, and she made herself clear.

“I think that Alice has also changed. I was there. I saw their meeting. It was as if their eyes sent forth coils of mutual attraction that bound each to the other. Such things are rare, but it does happen between thinking beings. Alice is strongly influenced by Lukrasta, yes. But if she is in thrall to him, he is also in thrall to her. Alice is a malevolent witch and has found a place where she feels at home: beside a dark mage. You had a bond between you when you were children, but now you have both grown up. Must I repeat what I told you? I will say it again. Forget Alice, Tom, because she is not for you.”

I thought my master would seize upon Grimalkin's words as confirmation of what he had always believed. But he looked sad, and there was pity in his eyes when he turned to me. I was sure he was about to say something, but he just patted me on the shoulder like a father offering unspoken consolation.

He did speak later, soon after Grimalkin had left the house.

“Getting attached to somebody like Alice is hard, lad,” he told me. “I should know, because I was in love with Meg. The truth is, I still miss her. But it's for the best that you're apart—a witch has no business in a spook's life.”

He and Meg, a lamia witch, had spent winters together in his house up on Anglezarke Moor. But now she had gone back to Greece with her sister, Marcia; the parting had been hard for him.

I nodded. He was trying to help, but it didn't ease the hurt that I felt inside.

The following morning there was no breakfast waiting. The Spook was sitting there alone, staring at the bare tabletop.

“It doesn't look good. I think something has happened to the boggart,” he told me.

“Alice wouldn't harm it!” I retorted. “She made you and Grimalkin sleep. She'd have done the same to the boggart, I'm sure of it.”

After all my efforts summoning the boggart to my aid and forming a bond with it, I certainly hoped it was all right.

“Don't be so quick to defend her, lad,” said the Spook. “She's gone to the dark, so who can tell what she might be capable of? But I'm not accusing Alice. I think it's more likely that Lukrasta did it out of revenge—he didn't enter the garden, but he might well have been nearby. Don't forget that the boggart slayed a lot of witches. Lukrasta was in that tower, unable to stop you from getting away with the Fiend's head. I've heard it said that he's motivated by a terrible pride. It was something you couldn't have achieved without the boggart, so now he's taken his revenge.”

“Do you think he's destroyed it?”

“I fear the worst, lad. Aye, I fear the worst. And now the house and garden are undefended.”

We sat there in silence for a while, and then the Spook suddenly seemed to cheer up a bit; there was a twinkle in his eye. “Well, lad, I suppose you'd better go and burn the bacon, as usual!”

And, despite my best efforts, I
did
burn it. But we finished every singed bit of it—and soft bread smeared with butter helped to make it a little more palatable.

After breakfast I went out into the garden to talk to Grimalkin, and told her about the missing boggart.

“Lukrasta may have tried to destroy it, but boggarts are very resilient,” she observed. “It may eventually recover— though maybe not in time to help us again.”

Grimalkin was leaning against a tree, seemingly deep in thought. Then I noticed something different about her. Across her body she was wearing her usual diagonal leather straps, bristling with her snippy scissors and other weapons. But at her waist hung a new scabbard with an exceptionally long blade.

“That's new,” I said, pointing toward the sword. “Is it the one you were forging the other night?”

“It is indeed,” she replied. “As you know, I like to try new methods of combat. A witch assassin must always stretch herself.”

I thought she would draw the sword and show it to me, but she made no move to do so. I didn't like to ask—maybe she didn't like anybody else to touch it. Perhaps it was magical in some way, and easily contaminated. So instead I asked about her leg.

“I'm now confident that it will heal fully, but I need to rest it for a couple more days. One of us needs to go in search of our enemies. I would like to know when they bring the Fiend's body north.”

CHAPTER XXIII

T
HE
A
BHUMANS

T
HERE is a place in the County known locally as Beacon Fell because, generations earlier, during the civil war, it was used for signaling purposes. Fires were lit on the line of hilltops, warning of the approach of enemy troops from horizon to horizon.

It was heavily wooded, but one section, near the summit, was cleared of trees and made a good vantage point. From here I could look west and south—the two directions from which I expected the Fiend's servants to convey his body.

I settled myself down and kept watch. I expected to be there for at least a couple of days; as usual, I set traps for rabbits to augment the chicken legs and strips of salted ham I'd brought with me. And, of course, I had my usual supply of cheese. The waiting was tedious, and sometimes I studied my most recent notebook, adding to observations and making corrections where necessary.

Memories of my dad drifted into my mind. For a man who'd had little schooling and had gone to sea at an early age, he had been wise. Later he'd become a farmer— which involved hard physical labor from dawn to dusk. But Dad knew his letters and could read and write well. He'd once told me that the best way to think through a problem was to commit all the possible solutions to paper, jotting down anything that came into your head, no matter how crazy it seemed at the time. Then, later, you could read through them, scrapping the daftest ideas and concentrating on the ones that seemed most likely to be effective—although he'd added that sometimes, what at first glance appeared daft would turn out to have real possibilities.

And I really did have a big problem. So I moved to a new page and, on impulse, wrote a heading:

Other Ways to Deal with the Fiend

I hardly thought it likely that I really could just pluck the answer out of my head and find an alternative, but there was no harm in trying. And it would keep the boredom at bay. So I jotted things down quickly as they popped into my head.

1. Burn the Fiend's head.

2. Burn the Fiend's body.

3. Burn both.

All these options were very risky. My master thought destroying the Fiend's flesh on earth would free him to return to the dark to gather his power. So the third was definitely out of the question, but what about the first two? Still risky, no doubt, but burn either head or body, and he certainly couldn't be put back together again; his spirit might still be trapped in the remaining part. It reminded me of the old rhyme told to children.

All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again
.

That brought a third solution into my head.

4. Cut the Fiend into many small pieces—too many to be found.

Now, that was a possibility. At present he was in two pieces, but if, like Humpty Dumpty, he was cut up into many, which were then hidden, it would be almost impossible to retrieve and reassemble them all.

I carried on jotting down ideas—some dafter than others. By the end I had quite a list, and I resolved to show them to my master when I got back to Chipenden.

Just before noon on the second day of my vigil, the weather, which had been chilly but bright for almost a week, began to change for the worse. I'd had a good view of the distant Irish Sea sparkling in the October sunshine, but now the water slowly darkened and low clouds drifted inland.

There was hardly more than a breeze, although the first cloud was overhead within the hour, and then a light drizzle began to fall. It was a lot warmer than before, but the drizzle turned to rain, and I was soon wet and uncomfortable. The visibility deteriorated steadily, with a mist rolling in from the west. I was just about to return to Chipenden when I heard a chanting in the distance, getting louder as it approached the fell. I'd been expecting witches, but these voices were male and very deep.

At first I couldn't make out any words, but gradually the sound drew nearer and they became clear.

“Turn wheels! Push cart! Heave it up! Burst your heart!” boomed the voices.

Then, out of the mist, moving up the grassy incline, something astonishing emerged. It was the long eight-wheeled cart bearing the brass-handled coffin containing the body of the Fiend. But in the place of the six strong dray horses were four incredibly large abhumans.

“Turn wheels! Push cart! Heave it up! Burst your heart!”

My heart filled with dismay at the sight of those daunting creatures. How could we hope to fight them?

Two pulled the coffin by means of thick ropes harnessed to their shoulders. Two more were pushing it from the rear. All four were stripped to the waist, their thickset, muscular bodies glistening with rain. Their trousers were saturated and splattered with mud, their feet bare. However, their most distinctive features were the ramlike horns that sprouted from their heads. They were huge—far bigger than Tusk; each must have been at least nine feet tall.