Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13) (24 page)

But then, suddenly, I saw a flash on the horizon directly ahead. Was it lightning? I wondered. There was no answering rumble of thunder. Soon afterward there was another flash of blue.

“Magic is being used,” said Grimalkin. “You can smell it!”

There was a faint stink of brimstone being carried toward us on the air, and I knew that she was right.

As we drew nearer to our goal, the dark mass of the Wardstone slowly reared up before us like some malevolent beast ready to pounce. In the setting sun it looked as if it had been painted with blood. Then we spotted our enemies encircling the rock; as we approached, they turned to face us, weapons at the ready. The sight was daunting. It was one thing to know the numerical odds we faced . . . much worse to see their massed ranks in the flesh. How could we win through to the Wardstone against such opposition?

I looked for Alice or Lukrasta but could see no sign of them. That was a relief. To find Alice among the opposing forces would have sickened me.

Behind them, I could make out the huge form of the Fiend bound to the Wardstone. Ropes encircled his body; these were fastened to pegs that had been driven into the rock. It seemed that he had to be in contact with the rock in order for the dark magic to work. Why else would they have bound him in such a way? Without the ropes, he would have slid off onto the flat boggy ground below.

Never had he looked more terrifying. I feared that at any moment he might open his eyes, see me, and tear himself free to come for me. I knew that the ritual had not yet been completed, but the terror did not leave me.

As we advanced, the ground became a little firmer, and we picked up our pace. We would not halt now. At any moment I expected to be setting off in a wild charge. The Spook had accepted Grimalkin's leadership, as I always knew he would. She would make the decisions regarding the coming battle, giving the all-important order to attack.

She walked ahead, in complete command of our small army. Who would challenge her right to lead us? In this type of battle, there was no question that she was the right person.

I looked up as lightning targeted the Wardstone. This time it wasn't a sheet of light; this was a blue zigzag that came out of a cloudless sky. It struck the massive body of the Fiend, who began to writhe, twisting his head from side to side. The ritual had started, and dread filled me once more.

My mind went back to the tower, and I remembered the tendrils that had grown from the base of the head to intertwine with those from the stump of the neck. Here the process seemed far more advanced. Was the head already fully attached to the body, as Slake had indicated?

Suddenly I felt a pressure against my face and body. It wasn't just the wind, which seemed to be blustering at us straight from the Wardstone. This was a strange cold force, immediately chilling me to the bone and causing my body to tremble uncontrollably. I glanced left and right and saw that others were feeling something too. One witch began to shriek and pull handfuls of hair from her scalp. Another fell to her knees and began to beat her forehead against the ground.

Others were still moving forward, but much more slowly now. Even Grimalkin and my master seemed to be struggling. I was finding it an effort just to lift my feet. Powerful dark magic was being used to halt our advance—no doubt through the collective will of the mass of witches who opposed us. Lukrasta and Alice might also be contributing.

Seventh sons of seventh sons are usually able to defy the spell called dread, which induces a terrible fear in its victims. But the Spook and I both came to a complete halt. I felt rooted to the spot, befuddled, all my willpower drained from me.

What about the starblade?
I thought. Wasn't that supposed to protect me from any attack of dark magic? Could it be that the force being used against us was even stronger than what Grimalkin had forged? Maybe Lukrasta was just too powerful?

The witches around the Wardstone began to taunt us, pointing and shrieking with wild laughter. Then the tall witch assassin, Katrina, stepped forward and began to mock Grimalkin, calling out to her in a loud voice. As she shouted, the shrunken skulls in which she stored her magic spun and danced.

“I see you shiver and shake with fear, Grimalkin! Your knees tremble, and terror dries the stinking spittle in your fetid mouth. Fools have whispered your name in the dark and trumpeted forth lies about your vaunted reputation. But all is falsehood! I am Katrina, the
greatest
of all the witch assassins—the most formidable who has ever walked the earth! In the face of my strength, you are weak; I am brave and you are cowardly. I can hear your knees knocking together. You dare not step forward to fight!”

I expected Grimalkin to answer, but she remained silent, and to my dismay, I saw that her whole body was trembling. But surely it was not fear that caused her to shake; it must be the enemy magic.

“This night you will die, Grimalkin!” Katrina continued. “You face a stronger assassin than you have ever met before. When dawn comes, our master will be lord of the earth and your shrunken skull will adorn my body to mark my victory!”

Still Grimalkin did not reply, but I could see that she was moving now, forcing herself forward defiantly, taking one slow, painful step after the other to where the grinning Katrina was waiting, sharp blades at the ready.

Had Grimalkin's magic failed her? I wondered. Where were her usual grace and strength? And what chance did she have against such an opponent, backed by the powerful magic of Lukrasta?

Then, suddenly, in one fluid movement, Grimalkin cast off the spell completely, drew two blades, and ran directly toward her enemy, accelerating with every stride. It was as if she had used her own magic to throw off the yoke that held her back. Or was it simply her iron will—the determination and self-belief that had served her so well in the past?

There was no trace now of the injury that had caused her to limp so badly. If she felt pain, as surely she must, it did not affect her in the slightest.

When she reached her opponent, there was no wary circling, no tentative exchange of blows; caution was thrown to the winds by both antagonists. Grimalkin was performing her usual dance of death, spinning and whirling, her blades reflecting the red from the setting sun. But Katrina seemed to be matching her, meeting each cut and thrust with her own blades.

I had a sudden moment of doubt, and feared for Grimalkin. She had always seemed so formidable, so totally in control whenever it came to combat. What if her leg wasn't back to full strength and she had finally met her match?

The loss of Grimalkin now would be a devastating blow to us all—but particularly to the witches. If, in addition to their numerical superiority, our enemies proved to have the deadlier assassin, we might lose the battle before it had even begun.

With the odds against us so great, it required an act of faith; we had to
believe
that we would win. The defeat of Grimalkin might shatter our self-belief.

The opposing sides had begun by shouting encouragement to their own champion or hurling insults at her opponent, but that didn't last. Gradually they fell silent, concentrating all their attention upon the spectacle of two well-matched witch assassins, each at the height of her power and skill.

At one point they came together, blade against blade, in close combat. Muscles straining, they both tried to win the ascendancy. Grimalkin gained ground, only to be thrust steadily back again. To and fro they struggled—I could hardly bear to watch. I kept thinking about the shattered bone held by that silver pin. Surely Grimalkin's leg would give way.

But suddenly, to my relief, they broke apart again, and now speed and timing became more important than brute strength.

For a while they seemed evenly matched, but then the tide of the battle changed. Grimalkin's power now ebbed, as Katrina pushed her back like some unstoppable wave. Blood sprayed upward, and a huge groan went up from our side as Katrina drew first blood.

Grimalkin had received a cut above her left eye, and she staggered back, for a moment apparently overwhelmed by her opponent's furious onslaught. Things were going badly for her. Blood was pouring down, partially obscuring her vision, and she now seemed less agile, barely managing to defend herself against each stab or thrust of a blade.

Then, to my dismay, Grimalkin turned her back on Katrina and ran toward our lines. My heart sank. I'd never thought to see such a day.

“See—she flees! She flees!” Katrina cried in exultation, while behind her the enemy witches whooped and cheered with glee.

It was then that Grimalkin halted her flight to turn and face her enemy once more. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead to divert the flow of blood and muttered under her breath. She was panting hard but made no response to Katrina.

I noticed then that the blood was no longer dripping from the wound. She had used her magic to stem its flow.

Now she began to run toward her opponent again, accelerating with every step.

Three things happened almost simultaneously.

A red spray of blood plumed up above the place where they came together—but this time it was not Grimalkin's.

Katrina slumped to the ground.

The victorious witch assassin ran on, still not checking her pace.

She headed straight for the waiting ranks of our enemies.

CHAPTER XXVIII

T
HE
B
ATTLE OF THE
W
ARDSTONE

G
RIMALKIN had slayed Katrina almost casually, like an upstart pawn swept from a chessboard by the advance of a black queen. She looked black indeed. Although in alliance with the light, for this struggle against the Fiend and his supporters she was Grimalkin, the darkest and most dangerous of all the witch assassins; Grimalkin, who loved to fight; Grimalkin, who would do anything to win—and would willingly die here if it proved necessary.

The truth was that we all faced death here. For my part I was somewhat fatalistic—if it happened, then so be it. But I wanted to survive. The future—even a future without Alice—called to me, and I didn't want that taken away.

Ahead, the massed ranks of the Fiend's supporters waited for us, weapons at the ready. No longer were they making catcalls and baying for blood; they had already been given blood, which lay red and slick on the grass around the dead body of their champion, Katrina. Now they watched in silent astonishment as Grimalkin ran on.

She feared nothing. It was as if she truly believed she could defeat that multitude single-handed. Her blades flashed and flashed again, reflecting the amber light of the setting sun. She was whirling, doing her deadly dance— but then that horde of enemy witches and abhumans began to surround her, pressing in on every side.

Not one of us moved. We were still paralyzed by the power of their dark magic. I was struggling to break free of the spell, but my breathing was labored, my limbs sluggish, and I could not force my left foot to take the first step.

But then someone else finally broke free of that magical binding and began to run forward. It was John Gregory, my master—who was defying that powerful enchantment like a true seventh son of a seventh son.

He ran toward Grimalkin. In addition to freeing himself from the spell that bound him, he seemed to have cast off the years, and I was reminded of the time, very early in my apprenticeship, when he'd sprinted to my rescue, slaying Tusk and binding Bony Lizzie. Then, as now, his hood had fallen back, and lit by the setting sun, his hair streamed out behind him like tongues of amber fire.

The silver-alloy blade at the end of his staff looked like a flame too, and he jabbed forward with it, surprising his opponents, for they were facing away from him, trying desperately to overcome the witch assassin through sheer weight of numbers.

But they soon became aware of the new threat and turned to face him. It made no difference. My master sliced through them like a heated blade through soft butter and was almost immediately at the side of the witch assassin.

According to the Malkin curse, he was supposed to die in a dark place far underground, with no friend at his side.

On the first count, this was wrong. He was fighting on the highest hill in the County, the sun had not yet set, and light still filled the heavens.

On the second, it was also wrong—at least, I like to think so. For without either of them realizing it, he and the witch assassin had indeed become friends . . . or, at the very least, comrades-in-arms.

The Spook had always believed that the future was not fixed, that we shape it with every action, every decision we make each and every day. And now it seemed to me that he'd been proved correct. What scryer, what prophecy, could ever have foretold that most unlikely of alliances?

As I watched him, I was still struggling to break free of the enchantment. A lump came into my throat at the sight of him fighting back-to-back with Grimalkin against their common enemy. That image of him is burned into my memory and will remain with me to my dying day.