Spook's: The Dark Army (The Starblade Chronicles) (27 page)

‘Ask Grimalkin how are they’re doing it?’ he told Alice.

Again there was a flurry of written exchanges between Alice and Grimalkin, and I opened my mouth to ask what was being communicated. Tom held up his hand, signalling that I shouldn’t interrupt. The conversation went on for a long time and Tom didn’t look at me again until the writing had stopped and Grimalkin had faded from view. Then, a grim expression on his face, he explained to me what had been communicated.

‘Witches usually lip-read when using mirrors. They’re skilled at it, so it’s usually a lot faster than this. But there is some distance between Alice and Grimalkin, and the image is poor, so they’ve had to use writing. Still, we’ve learned a lot. The Kobalos mages reach the interior of the barrow by using the space between worlds. Here they create a window and summon Golgoth from his domain in the dark. This happens at the time of the new moon and the full moon, when things are at their most propitious. At present he can only stay on Earth for a short period of time. But at the winter solstice they intend to employ the most powerful magic they have to bring Golgoth into the County permanently.

‘The Round Loaf is the name of the barrow on the moor where Golgoth was once worshipped,’ he told me. ‘It’s where in ancient times, at the winter solstice, they sacrificed people. The Lord of Winter took their blood, became drowsy and fell into a deep sleep. They hoped to keep him sleeping through the winter months lest he decide to plunge the County into a new Age of Ice.

‘So it’s a dangerous place, the heart of his power. If they succeed in bringing him into the County permanently, this land will belong to the Kobalos even before their army crosses the sea to reach us. The land will freeze, crops will fail and there’ll be famine. We already saw how they were able to bring an advance guard of warriors into the County. Once the land is devastated by cold, there’ll be little opposition.’

Tom turned back to face Alice. ‘If we got down into the barrow, could you close the portal to the dark and stop Golgoth reaching the County?’ he asked.

Alice nodded but looked far from happy. ‘It’s possible, but it’s very dangerous. We’d have to be there when the mages open the portal. It has to be open before I can close it permanently. We’d have to kill the mages, and then I’d use my magic to do that. It sounds straightforward, Tom, but it’s dangerous and the timing is vital. If we don’t kill the mages quickly and close the portal, then Golgoth might attack; I wouldn’t give much for our chances.’

‘Couldn’t Pan help?’ Tom asked.

‘I can’t ask him to do that. The Old Gods may be taking sides, but they avoid direct confrontation with each other. They prefer mortals to fight things out on their behalf. Even the Old Gods can be destroyed.’

He sighed, and then looked at her keenly. ‘Are you prepared to try?’

She reached across and gripped his hand. ‘We have no choice,’ she said. ‘We need to do this before the solstice. The closer we get to it, the stronger Golgoth will become. We need to try it at the next possible opportunity.’

‘Then we’ll go next Thursday,’ Tom said. ‘It’ll be just two days until the new moon – we’ll reach Anglezarke in plenty of time. Judging by the pattern of the killings, that’s when they’ll most likely summon Golgoth next. It’ll give Grimalkin time to get here too.’

‘She’s on her way back?’ I asked.

‘Sorry,’ Tom said. ‘There was so much to tell you that I forgot to mention that. The Kobalos army has struck deep into the territory of the southern kingdoms. Two big battles have been fought and the human armies have lost both. The second was a rout, and now, in the Germanic forest, a third battle is imminent. As soon as it’s over, win or lose, Grimalkin will return here to help defend the County. She considers it to be a priority.’

We set off very early on the Thursday morning, our breath steaming in the cold air. As usual, Tom and Alice walked side by side, while I followed behind carrying his bag. And although they held hands briefly, they seemed much more subdued on this journey; there was no giggling in the dark to keep me awake.

At first I thought they might have quarrelled, but gradually I realized that it was something far worse.

‘I couldn’t bear to lose you,’ I heard Alice whisper to Tom one night as they lay close together near the dying embers of the fire. Then she began to sob.

In that moment a chill of horror went straight through me and I trembled from head to foot. I suddenly realized that she and Tom didn’t expect to return alive from our expedition to Anglezarke Moor. I knew something else too: if I died, I would hope to go to the light. That was where Tom would go as well, but not Alice. Now she was a fully-fledged witch, she was destined to go to the dark.

They would be separated for all eternity.

All at once I felt really sorry for them both. The prospect of losing each other must be terrible. I didn’t like Alice, but I wouldn’t have wished that on anyone.

WE COULD SEE
the ridge of hills and the outline of the moor ahead, but our progress was slow: we were walking through moss land, where the ground was soggy. However, as we began to climb, it became colder and the ground underfoot less treacherous.

The wind had been blowing steadily from the north, and soon the first flakes of snow were drifting into our faces. At one point we passed an abandoned farm close to a big lake surrounded by stunted willows. Tom and Alice halted and stared at it, their faces grim. I sensed that something bad had happened in this area – I could feel Alice’s unhappiness.

I saw that the farm’s fences were broken, the windows smashed, the front door hanging off its hinges. The barn was a ruin, with just one wall standing.

‘This is what’s left of Moor View Farm,’ Tom told me. ‘Last time I came here, Alice was in the care of the farmer and his wife. They’ve clearly moved on.’

‘Good riddance to ’em!’ Alice said bitterly, brushing the snow from her hair. ‘The Hursts were my guardians for a while. They were miserable and mean. The days I spent with them were some of the unhappiest in my life.’

Then, without further explanation, she walked on, with Tom close at her heels. They’d shared a lot together. Maybe he’d tell me more one day, maybe he wouldn’t. It suddenly struck me that although Alice was a witch, after spending so much time with Tom and his master she probably knew more about being a spook than I did.

We followed the right bank of a stream until we reached a cleft in the moor, a narrow ravine. Soon sheer slopes of scree towered above us on either side; as we proceeded, the loose stones gave way to walls of rock, with the odd tussock of grass or weeds sprouting from cracks and ledges.

Soon I spotted the house directly ahead, and I didn’t like the look of it one bit. It was constructed from dark stone and seemed to be built right into the cliff on our right. The windows were small and mean, so it would be dark inside; little light would ever penetrate this narrow valley. Even the snow was struggling. The ground here just had the lightest of coverings.

The whole place made me feel uneasy – I had a strong sense of claustrophobia. I much preferred the Chipenden house, with its big garden – even if two sections contained boggarts and witches. That house was set above the village, with a view of the fells behind and a wide swathe of open sky; here we would live like insects in a dark crack in the ground.

As we got closer, I could see that the house didn’t actually touch the cliff; there was a small space behind, just enough to give access to the back door. Tom pulled a key from his pocket and dragged open the door; I followed him inside.

I was right about the gloom. Tom asked me for his bag and produced a candle. I now saw that there was mould on the walls and spiders’ webs across the windows and ceiling; there was a smell of decay and rotting food.

‘We could make fires and warm up the whole house, but I really don’t see the point,’ Tom told me. ‘We won’t be staying long. The beds will be damp, so we’ll just make one fire in the kitchen and sleep on the floor.’

So that’s what we did. I spent a really uncomfortable night – despite the fire, I never got warm.

Breakfast was bread toasted over the fire but without butter. I was so hungry that I even accepted a few pieces of crumbly cheese.

After we’d finished, Tom looked at me and I knew he was going to say something bad.

‘Back in Chipenden, Jenny, the boggarts and witches are kept in pits in the garden. Here there’s no space for that: John Gregory had to keep them in the cellar. They are still there. It’s my duty to go down and check that everything is all right. You need to come with me. It’s part of your training.’

I nodded, but wasn’t looking forward to it.

Ten minutes later, while Alice went hunting for rabbits, we were standing at the top of the stairs that led down to the cellar, holding our staffs – though I hoped we wouldn’t need them. It was pitch-black below. Tom lit his candle and handed it to me.

‘We’ll be needing a lot of candles when we go down into the barrow tonight,’ he told me, ‘so now we’ll try and manage with one. Hold it up high and keep close to my back.’

We began to descend the stone steps until we turned a corner and came to an iron trellis that went right across from ceiling to floor and wall to wall. In the middle of it was an iron gate. As Tom unlocked it, a frightening thought came to me.

‘Is this to stop things getting out of the cellar?’ I asked.

We stepped through the gate, and Tom nodded as he locked it behind us. ‘Yes, it’s the last line of defence. Even a pit can’t confine a witch for ever.’

Beyond the gate the steps were surprisingly wide. It seemed odd, but I soon worked out the reason. You needed a stonemason and a blacksmith to construct pits to hold witches and boggarts. They needed to get equipment and boggart stones down: they were big and heavy, hence the wide stairs.

I felt pleased to have worked that out for myself. Then there was another puzzle. As we descended, we passed several landings, and on each there were what looked like cells. Were they for keeping prisoners in?

Once again, I guessed their purpose. John Gregory would have kept witches there while their pits were being prepared. They were temporary holding cells.

We were still descending; I couldn’t believe how deep this cellar was. Soon I began to hear disturbing noises: faint whisperings and scratchings coming from below. Suddenly Tom stopped in front of the cellar door; the noises were coming from beyond it.

‘Those sounds are nothing to be scared of, Jenny. I heard the same when my master brought me down here. It’s just some of the witches stirring. They get restless – they’ll have heard the sound of our footsteps. They know they have visitors.’

We stepped into the cellar, and immediately I realized that we should have brought a second candle. There were large areas of darkness – anything could be hiding there, getting ready to attack.

‘This is big!’ I exclaimed, looking up at the spiders’ webs on the ceiling. It was cold and I began to shiver.

‘Yes, it’s much larger than the house above,’ Tom replied. ‘Come and look at this,’ he said, stepping closer to one of the witch pits. ‘There are two live witches and seven dead ones in pits down here. This is one of the live ones – her name is Bessy.’

I looked at the dark square pit with its thirteen iron bars. The corner stone bore the witch’s name:
BESSY HILL
.

I could hear something scratching and snuffling deep in the darkness of the pit, but Tom seemed unconcerned. He knelt down and tugged at each bar in turn. He seemed satisfied and came to his feet. ‘We’ll check the other live one next,’ he said, ‘so bring the candle.’

He headed towards the far corner of the cellar and I followed close behind him, holding the candle high.

Suddenly he came to a halt and gripped his staff with both hands, holding it across in the defensive position. I stared past him and saw two large eyes glaring at us from the darkness.

Something like a huge insect with the head of a woman scuttled towards us on all fours, claws rasping across a boggart stone. The body was covered with scales, and the four thin limbs ended in talons rather than finger- and toenails; long greasy black hair trailed on the floor. The creature’s cheeks were bloated and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, as if she’d just been feeding.

I knew what the creature was. I’d read about them in John Gregory’s Bestiary. Lamia witches took two forms. The ‘domestic’ version was identical to a human woman, except for a line of green and yellow scales that ran the length of her spine. But lamias were slow shape-shifters and could transform themselves into the ferocious ‘feral’ form that now faced us, the one that John Gregory had sketched in his book.

Could Tom’s mam have resembled this creature? I wondered. I shuddered, then dismissed the thought. She had married Tom’s dad and brought up seven sons, so she must have been a ‘domestic’. It was her blood coursing through his veins that had helped Tom recover from his terrible wound . . .

My heart was thumping fit to burst out of my chest, but to my surprise Tom lowered his staff and spoke to the foul disgusting creature.