Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13) (7 page)

She was still gripping a skelt dagger in her left hand. This was Bone Cutter, the blade I'd loaned her to help in her running battle with the Fiend's supporters. Additionally, her left leg had been broken just below the knee. I could see a piece of bone jutting through the flesh.

Of the leather sack containing the Fiend's head, there was no sign.

I just stared down at Grimalkin helplessly, feeling emotions surge through me. A torrent of terrible possibilities churned through my mind.

I had never imagined a situation where she would be bested in combat. How could this have happened? I wondered. The servants of the Fiend had been hunting her for a long time. They were numerous and relentless, and a number of them were very powerful—it was perhaps inevitable that they would finally prevail. She had put up a good fight, as the dead bodies scattered around the cottage showed.

My heart sank even further as I suddenly remembered that Grimalkin and Alice had been planning to use the
Doomdryte
. Was this where they had been hiding and preparing for the ritual?

If so, where was Alice now?

My thoughts were still racing and I couldn't move. I stared dumbly as the Spook knelt close to the witch assassin.

“I'll make a splint for her leg,” he said, coming to his feet, “but I can't do much for her wounds—she's lost a lot of blood. We're close to the western boundary of Clegg's farm. He has a cart. Run there and get him to bring it here. We need to get her back to Chipenden and a doctor. There may still be a chance to save her. Stop gawping, lad! Run!”

CHAPTER VIII

O
NLY
Y
OU
C
AN
D
O
I
T

S
O I ran—but nothing proved to be straightforward. Clegg was a very sound sleeper, and he apparently lived alone. I woke the dogs all right, but it was a good fifteen minutes before the farmer came to the door, bleary-eyed and cantankerous, wielding a stick.

“What time do you call this to come knocking on my door fit to wake the dead? Be off with you, before I give you a taste of this!”

“My master, John Gregory, sent me. Could he borrow your horse and cart? There's somebody badly injured over at the ruined cottage. We need to get them to a doctor.”

“What? Ye want my cart? Who's injured? Nobody lives in that cottage. It's a ruin.”

“Look, there's been a fight. People are dead. But there's one still alive and we can save her. We need your cart. Don't worry—my master will pay you well!”

At the offer of money, Clegg led me to an outbuilding; he found it locked and had to go back to the house for the key. At last we dragged out the cart and harnessed it to a horse.

By the time I got the cart back to the cottage, almost an hour had passed. I expected the Spook to complain about my delay, but he said nothing. He'd made a fire and boiled water in a small pan he'd found in the kitchen.

After cleaning up Grimalkin's wounds as best he could, he'd managed to push the bone back into place and had used two thin branches as rough splints on each side of the leg. He was binding them into position when I arrived. Grimalkin was still unconscious, her breath rasping through her open mouth. There were beads of sweat on her forehead, and her upper body twitched as if gripped by a fever.

The dagger lay on the ground beside her. I picked it up and tucked it into my belt.

Carefully we lifted her up into the cart and set off for the Spook's house. Once there, we carried her upstairs and put her in my bed. Then my master sent me off to fetch the local doctor. Fortunately he was at home, and within half an hour was treating his patient.

When he took his leave, we walked him across the garden to the boundary, protecting him from the boggart. There he halted and shook his head. “By rights she should be dead,” he said.

“As you saw, she's no ordinary woman,” the Spook replied.

“I've known you a long time, Mr. Gregory,” the doctor said. “The people around here owe you a lot. You've kept this village safe. The whole County is in your debt. So I won't ask why you're harboring a witch.”

“I have good reason. I wouldn't do it if it weren't absolutely necessary for the good of us all. Now I need your opinion. Will she live, do you think?”

“If she survives the night, she has a chance. But even then she won't be out of danger. There's the risk of infection. And if she does survive, life will never be quite the same for her again. It's an extremely bad break. She'll have a permanent limp. Anyway, I'll come back tomorrow and see how she's doing.”

Poor Grimalkin
, I thought. Much of her potency as a witch assassin relied on her speed—that whirling dance of death was what made her so formidable. She would no longer be such a powerful opponent.

“Come back at noon,” the Spook instructed. “I'll meet you at the edge of the western garden.”

With a nod, the doctor went off down the hill.

We decided that Grimalkin would have to be observed at all times in case she took a turn for the worse. The Spook sat with her for the rest of the day; I volunteered to take over at sunset.

I sat beside the bed, staring at her anxiously and wondering what had happened to Alice. Grimalkin muttered in her sleep, and sometimes gave a low groan, but she showed no sign of regaining consciousness. I felt helpless, but I did what I could, occasionally mopping the sweat from her brow or lifting her head and holding a cup of water to her lips—though each time this brought on a fit of choking.

Her breathing was hoarse and irregular. Sometimes it seemed to stop for almost a minute; each time this happened, I thought she was dead. Then, about half an hour after midnight, there was a change. Grimalkin's breathing became steadier, and then she finally opened her eyes and looked at me.

She tried to speak, opening and closing her mouth, but no words emerged. Then her face twisted with pain and she attempted to sit up, so I pulled the pillows into position behind her back and helped her upright. I held a cup to her lips, and this time she was able to sip without choking.

She stared at me for a long time in silence. At last I could hold back no longer.

“Alice?”

Grimalkin dropped her gaze, as though unable to meet my eyes. Then she replied with one word: “Lukrasta!”

I knew the name. Lukrasta appeared in the Spook's Bestiary in the section that dealt with mages. He was supposed to have been the dark mage who had written that grimoire in the first place, taking dictation from the Fiend! Despite this, he had died while attempting the full
Doomdryte
ritual. He'd supposedly made an error and been destroyed.

“Do you mean the mage who died?” I asked.

“No! No! Not dead,” Grimalkin protested, struggling to speak, her voice very faint; I had to lean over the bed and bring my ear close to her lips. “When Alice opened the grimoire to begin the ritual, he appeared before us, right out of thin air. He took us by surprise. Blasted us with power. Later the Fiend's servants attacked.”

“Where's Alice?”

Grimalkin shrugged. “I was stunned. Befuddled. Far less than what I am . . . too many to hold off . . . didn't see what happened to Alice . . . think Lukrasta has her.”

Alice was the prisoner of Lukrasta! What exactly had happened? I
had
to know.

Grimalkin began to cough, and I brought the cup to her lips again. This time she drank greedily, draining every drop.

“They have the Fiend's head,” she continued. “They'll try to return it to Ireland . . . reunite it with the body. . . . You have to go after them. Bring it back!”

“Which direction did they take? Did they go west?”

“I didn't see—but, yes, I expect they'll have gone west toward the coast. No doubt they'll follow the river. . . . It's up to you to find them.”

With the help of the kretch, a creature fathered by a demon, the Fiend's servants had seized the sack from Grimalkin once before. They had boarded a boat north of Liverpool but had been thwarted by Alice, and Grimalkin had recaptured the Fiend's head. Would they make for the same place again, or go north to the main County port, Sunderland Point?

“How many are left?” I asked.

“A dozen or more—certainly enough to have slayed me had they pressed home their attack. Others will surely join up with them later.”

I wondered what I could do alone. By now they could have reached the river estuary and headed south, or maybe crossed by the Priestown bridge and gone north. “They'll probably have too much of a start on me,” I said. “They'll have set sail before I can reach the coast.”

Grimalkin seized me fiercely by my collar and drew me close, so that our noses were almost touching. Wounded as she was, I could feel the strength in her grip. Her eyes blazed into my own.

“Only you can do it!” she hissed. “If they cross the sea to Ireland, then you must do the same. Follow them as far as is necessary! You're not a boy any longer. You're a man. You have the sword. Was Bone Cutter still in my hand?”

“Yes, it's safe.”

“I know Alice gave you the other dagger, Dolorous. You have all three blades now, and the gifts from your mam. What's more, you're a seventh son of a seventh son. So go and do what's necessary. Kill anyone who stands in your way, but bring back the Fiend's head!”

CHAPTER IX

T
HE
A
MBUSH

G
RIMALKIN collapsed back against her pillow, fighting for breath, her eyes closed. The effort had exhausted her.

I quickly left the room and went to find the Spook. As I expected, he was sleeping in his chair in the kitchen, close to the embers of the fire.

“My turn, is it, lad?” he asked, opening his eyes at the sound of my boots crossing the flags toward him. He thought I'd come to wake him for his turn to watch over Grimalkin.

I realized I had to make my mind up about how much to tell him. I decided to leave out any reference to Alice and Grimalkin's use of the
Doomdryte
. He would have considered that unforgivable, and the greatest of follies. I just concentrated on the need to recapture the sack and its contents.

I shook my head. “Grimalkin said I had to go after those witches and try to recover the Fiend's head.”

“The odds against you are very great, lad. You might well be going to your death.”

“It's death and worse for all of us if those witches reunite the head with the body.”

I thought my master would protest more, but all he did was apologize.

“I'd go with you if I could,” he said sadly, “but I haven't the speed for such a pursuit. You'd never catch them with me dragging at your heels.”

As quickly as I could, I prepared for my journey. I didn't take my bag because it would only hinder me. I wouldn't need my silver chain—I wouldn't be taking any prisoners to bind in pits. Salt and iron would also be an unnecessary encumbrance. So I wore the sword and the two daggers in their sheaths and, carrying my staff, prepared to set off into the night.

The Spook was waiting at the door. He had a small parcel of cheese for me, which I stuffed into the inside pocket of my cloak.

“I fear for you, lad,” he said, patting my shoulder. “If anyone else were setting out alone after them, I'd think it a hopeless task. But I've seen what you can do.”

Then he did a strange thing: He shook my hand—something that happened very rarely, because nobody wanted to shake hands with a spook. Even when my dad and John Gregory had agreed on the terms of my apprenticeship, they hadn't shaken hands. He'd certainly never taken mine before.

It made me feel strange. In one way it was as if he was treating me as an equal—a fellow spook rather than just the apprentice that he was training. Yet I felt a chill in my heart. It seemed like the end of something.

I headed west at a fast walking pace. When I came to the River Ribble, I had to make a decision: which bank should I follow toward the sea? Had they gone north or south? Soon the river would become too wide and deep to cross. If I got it wrong, I would have to go into Priestown, a place where spooks weren't welcome, and cross the bridge there. It would mean several hours' delay.