The Book of Beasts (21 page)

The clanking, whirring gears of the ghastly contraption were shaking loose stalactites from the cavern's uneven ceiling. Its frame was huge, its shape resembling a winged demon of the undead. The whole contraption reminded Matt of a terrible torture device.

Instead of legs, the machine had a set of wooden wheels on the far edges connected to a series of cogs, ranging from several the size of a teacup to a couple as big as bicycle wheels. They turned a complex system of gears, belts and chains, all powered by one of Malcolm's skeletal half-faced minions on a treadle, sending sparks of light and energy to the place where Brother Renard was bound. From the front, the old monk looked as if he was being carried on the back of a hideous wraith.

Before Matt could stop him, Solon had leaped from the lip of the tunnel, landing hard on his feet in the cavern below. He scrambled to his trapped master, reaching round the machine's wooden wings to loosen the thick leather straps around Brother Renard's ankles. The moment he touched the straps, an electric current sliced across the palms of his hands, throwing him back against the dirt floor. Matt jumped down to join him, stumbling on impact, feeling the shock jar his body.

‘Let my master go,' Solon yelled, nursing his blistered hands as Malcolm climbed down a rope ladder hooked into the rock face and strolled across the cavern towards the machine. ‘Use me for your schemes, for your animations. Brother Renard is old, and weak-minded!'

‘And that is why I have such control over him,' Malcolm said. ‘His mind is utterly broken. With very little practice, I've been able to project images into his mind that he is then able to animate for me.'

Brother Renard's head was locked in a similar iron mask to the one Jeannie had been trapped in. His feet were bound in leg irons, and his hands were held in fingerless gloves of metal linked to a wooden tablet covered with a piece of parchment. Matt's stomach lurched in disgust. The old monk's fingers were covered in pinpricks, many had scabbed over but several were dripping on to the parchment. The old Animare had been using his own blood as ink.

Brother Renard was like Malcolm's marionette, but the strings were controlling his mind. Matt shivered. Is this what would become of all Animare if evil Guardians like Malcolm controlled them?

Matt's father ran his hand lovingly along the sleeping monk's arm. ‘Ingenious, don't you think?' he said.

‘It's despicable!' Solon said.

Malcolm was ready as Solon flew at him, striking the boy across the side of his head and knocking him against the rock. ‘All this drama for a weak old man,' he said. Matt and Solon's reaction seemed to disappoint him. He reared up taller. ‘My contraption is a work of genius!'

Matt dared himself to stare directly into his father's ruined face. ‘How did you know we would come to the miller's cottage?'

‘I found an accomplice following you after you left the tower on Era Mina… Unwilling, but helpful nonetheless.'

He moved to the far corner of the cavern and dragged Carik from the shadows.

She was gagged, her eyes glazed and her lids puffy from sleep. Her fury lay like an orange sheen against her alabaster skin.

Solon ran to her, trying to gather her in his arms. She pushed him away, tearing the rag from her mouth, spitting and coughing phlegm into the dirt.

‘What have you done to her?' Solon shouted.

‘Relax, young man.' The helix on Malcolm's breastplate spun and sparked with light whenever he moved closer to the cave paintings. ‘I encouraged her cooperation with a little mind control. Nothing more. She will recover quickly, I am sure. She's been resting nicely since I found her.'

He ruffled Carik's spiky blond hair. She slapped his hand away furiously. Malcolm laughed.

‘Her mind has been quite entertaining, though.' He winked at Solon. ‘This young Viking is quite smitten with you, my lad, even if she's angry with you for abandoning her in the cave. She blames you for that, Mattie. It seems she heard you leave, and followed you as far as the Abbey where, thankfully, I intercepted her.'

Carik's fury was rising. She shifted closer to Solon, glaring at Matt.

Matt needed to think. Ideally without worrying about a furious girl getting in the way. Em was crazy enough when she was angry, but at least she didn't carry weapons. He shrugged at Carik apologetically. He didn't have any extra energy to worry about hurting her feelings.

Brother Renard stirred. Lifting the iron mask, Malcolm stared into the old monk's tired eyes.

‘It won't be long now,' he soothed. ‘Death will come soon enough.'

Solon threw himself towards Malcolm. ‘The devil will take you to hell!' he yelled.

Caught unawares, Malcolm stumbled against the machine. The tablet fell from the old monk's feeble fingers and bounced on to the ground.

Matt dived at the tablet before his father could reach it, and crushed it under his feet, grinding it to splinters.

‘Draw that,' he said.

Malcolm howled with rage, sending a burst of red dust into the air. He swung at Matt, who threw himself backwards against the cave wall.

With an animal yell, Carik leaped up on to Malcolm's back, yanking viciously at his hair. He was too strong for her, knocking her from his shoulders like a bug. She landed with a grunt, the wind knocked from her lungs.

‘No,' Malcolm screamed, whirling round to where Solon was trying to release the old monk from the machine.

Without the old Animare in his thrall, Matt knew that his dad would need to depend only on his Guardian powers. If he could draw something to help Solon, then perhaps they would stand a chance of defeating him.

He dug in his pocket for his nub of charcoal, taking his eyes and his concentration from his father.

Auchinmurn Isle
Present Day

A custard-coloured moon was shedding its pale light on the ancient standing stones at the Devil's Dyke, high on the island of Auchinmurn. Em worked quickly by the light of her torch, scraping the yellow lichen from the stones into a small plastic bag. If everything went to plan, this extra lichen and the stone scrapings would be the final element for her painting. She hoped the stone would be ancient enough and would make the triptych more authentic.

Through the gloaming Em could see the dark shape of a crofter's crumbling black-house. She froze in shock at the feeling of an ice-cold hand on the back of her neck.

‘Tell yer story walking, lass,' growled the old man. His hand slid to her hoodie and hauled her away from the stones.

‘Hey,' Em exclaimed, struggling in his strong grip. ‘You're hurting me! What do you want? What have I done?'

Her mind slid wildly through the possibilities as the old man pushed her wordlessly through the forest of tall pines and down the craggy hillside. She wasn't trespassing. As far as she knew, there was no preservation order on the stones. Why was he so angry?

Despite his age – Em judged him to be as old as her grandfather – the man was surprisingly fast. Every few steps Em had to skip a little to keep up.

It was the middle of the night and a chilling fog was seeping in from the sea, covering the ground. Em kept stubbing her toes on roots. The man's stride was long and unrelenting.

‘You're one of them Abbey weans, aren't ye?' he barked.

Em wriggled her shoulders, trying to slip out of her hoodie, but the straps of her backpack made freeing herself impossible. ‘What if I am?'

He didn't answer.

They slowed a little as they crested the hill and began to climb down towards the footpath. Em decided to try another tack, going limp and relaxing every part of her body. Instead of slowing, the man only lowered his arm, letting Em slide across the rough ground behind him. Her shins smashed against a rock.

‘Ow! Now you're really hurting me!'

‘Ach, stop yer whining. Yer no' a wean any more.'

Em scrambled back to her feet, her eyes watering with pain. She could feel one shin bleeding inside her jeans. ‘Where are you taking me?' she demanded, trying to sound braver than she felt.

Could she get her hand into her pocket and reach her sketchpad? And if she did, what might she draw to free herself?

‘Keep yer hands where I can see them,' he said sharply. ‘I know about you lot and all yer sorcery. Ah'll no' stand for it on this island any more.' And he smacked her behind the knees with the long wooden stick that he was carrying.

Em was feeling seriously scared now. Who was this man? How did he know about her abilities? About the Abbey? More importantly, how had he managed to sneak up on her? She should have sensed his presence.

Em didn't recognize her captor as he yanked her over the fence that bordered the public footpath. A long time ago, a whole village of crofters had eked out a meagre living from potato farming and raising sheep on the island. According to her grandfather, only one or two families still lived in the stone-and-peat cottages near the shore, mostly surviving on the occasional odd job and taking tourists on fishing trips. She'd spotted this one tending to a sheep tangled in a briar on the far side of the hill when she'd last sneaked up here. She'd thought he hadn't noticed her.

‘I wasn't doing anything wrong,' she said defiantly.

‘That's not for you to say.'

Em could smell the pipe tobacco in the top pocket of the crofter's tatty canvas field jacket. His cap was old, its mud-caked brim resting on bushy grey eyebrows. A front tooth was missing, and the others were yellow with black roots exposed. It gave him an ugly leer.

The only emotion Em could feel emanating from the crofter was a staunch resolve and a deep satisfaction. This worried Em more than if she had sensed terrible danger. The more she glanced at him in the moonlight, the more she could feel a drumming in the back of her head.

The last part of the climb down to the footpath was mostly on flat rock. The crofter slid down on his haunches, forcing Em to do the same.

‘What were you doing scratching away at them stones when you should be in bed?'

So he'd been watching her. Now Em was truly worried.

‘It's for a project,' she mumbled, trying to keep herself from tumbling down the slope. She concentrated her imagination. Inspiriting the old man wouldn't hurt him. It would just calm him enough for her to wriggle free and get back to the Abbey before anyone knew she was missing.

As she sent the first wave of calm towards him, a sharp pain stabbed behind her eyes. For a moment, everything went black.

The next thing she knew, she was lying on the footpath, her hands and feet bound in plastic ties, feeling sick. This old man had somehow blocked her inspiriting powers.

The old crofter leaned on the fence marking the footpath and pulled a walkie-talkie from inside his jacket.

‘I've got the lass,' he said into the handset. ‘Aye, she's trussed up like a wild pig.'

Em struggled to get back on her feet. The old man leaned over and cuffed her sharply behind the ear.

‘Settle down.'

Em was so shocked at being smacked, she didn't feel any pain for the first few seconds. Then her ear throbbed to life, hot and burning. The crofter tucked his crook under his arm, scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder, carrying her along the footpath away from the Abbey.

Auchinmurn Isle
The Middle Ages

‘Tut tut,' Malcolm said smoothly. ‘None of that now, Mattie.'

Matt's fingers felt sluggish. He couldn't draw. Somehow, his father was stopping him.

Malcolm slipped his hand into his tunic and unrolled a parchment, revealing another of the old monk's bloody drawings. He waved it in the air, pacing back and forth, keeping a watchful eye on Solon, Matt and Carik. ‘I have plenty of the old monk's drawings in reserve. He has been busy sketching all kinds of useful things for me,' he said. He looked at Matt, taking a step closer. ‘I did so love building models when I was young like you, Mattie. One of my first was a re-enactment of the great battle for Era Mina. There is a marvellous tapestry of the scene, hanging on the wall at the Royal Academy. I was quite inspired.'