The Spook’s Revenge: Book 13 (Spooks) (18 page)

THE SILVER CHAIN
fell in a coil on the grass. Alice had disappeared, taking the Fiend’s head with her.

I stared at the place where she had been kneeling, apparently vanquished. How had she done that? Once bound with a silver chain, a witch was helpless. That was what my master had taught me, and all my experience told me the same.

For Alice to escape in this way – to vanish – was an in credible display of dark magic. I wondered for a moment if it was simply some spell of illusion. But when I reached down and retrieved my chain, I was forced to accept what had happened.

When casting a chain, I had to position it perfectly, so that it lay across a witch’s mouth, thus preventing her from hurling some spell against her captor. I had done that, but it had been useless against such a powerful witch. I remembered now what Alice had said about not even needing to utter spells.

But maybe it still wasn’t over. I could use the most recent gift I’d received from Mam: the ability to locate people and objects. Could I find Alice? If so, I could surely follow the Fiend’s head.

On my journey into Cymru I’d known exactly where it was at any one time. But when I tried now, concentrating on the image of the gory head in the hessian sack, nothing happened. I had no sense of it at all. Either the gift didn’t work all the time, or Alice was using some powerful cloaking spell. I suspected the latter.

She had won; I had lost. Once again the Fiend’s head was in the possession of his servants.

Thrusting the chain into my breeches pocket, I set off for the southern garden. The green mist had gone, the magic dispersed with it. Perhaps Grimalkin would now be awake.

As I approached the boggart stone where I’d left her, I saw that she was on her feet. She limped towards me.

I was amazed to see that she was able to put weight on that leg so soon. And it was an expression of alarm on her face rather than pain.

‘It was Alice,’ I told her. ‘She has the Fiend’s head. She used magic to put you into a deep sleep.’

‘But not you?’ asked Grimalkin. ‘Her magic didn’t work on you?’

‘It made me groggy, but I recovered and went after her. I caught up with her at the edge of the garden. Not that it did me any good. I bound her with a silver chain, and she simply vanished. She has the head and I haven’t a clue where she’s gone.’

‘She’s powerful. In Lukrasta and Alice we couldn’t have two more dangerous and powerful enemies ranged against us,’ Grimalkin observed.

‘We talked for a little before I cast the chain. She claims she’s doing this for a good reason – she’s chosen to help the Fiend because if he’s destroyed, something worse will come about. She said you’d gone north and discovered a terrible threat. Why didn’t you tell me about it?’

Grimalkin nodded. ‘I always intended to, but there were other, more immediate threats that claimed priority. What she said is true, though. We should go and talk to Old Gregory and then decide what to do now.’

I followed her through the trees towards the house. She was limping badly now.

‘How’s the pain?’ I asked. ‘Is it more manageable?’

‘The pin hurts. It’s like a needle of fire boring into me. But I can keep it at bay, and the leg is healing fast. Soon I should be as before. Then it will be time to make our enemies pay.’

I said nothing. We now had to number Alice amongst those enemies. I didn’t want to think of Grimalkin and Alice fighting to the death, but this is what it had come to.

The Spook was already downstairs when we entered the kitchen. We sat at the table and talked there, two candles illuminating the room and casting our flickering shadows into the corners.

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 who have 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 the 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 slew a lot of witches. Lukrasta was in that tower, unable to stop you 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 both 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 towards 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.’

THERE IS A
place in the County known locally as Beacon Fell because, generations earlier, during the civil war, it had been used for signalling purposes; from horizon to horizon fires were lit on the line of hilltops, warning of the approach of enemy troops.

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 labour 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.