A New Darkness Page 5

  Its words made me realize how close I had come to disaster. Somehow, against all the odds, I had survived; better still, my recovery had taken the beast by surprise. I wondered if it was something else that I had inherited from Mam. Had my lamia blood enabled me to resist the full effect of this magic . . . whatever it was?

  Without replying to the question, I took a step forward and prepared to strike. The creature smiled, muttered a few words, and advanced on me. It seemed totally confident that its magic would render me powerless.

  For a second I was certain of this too. Iron and salt had proved useless against the beast, as had my silver chain. What if Grimalkin’s magic was ineffective here too? After all, this was not any sort of human mage I was facing. . . . One way or another, I was about to find out!

  I swung the sword straight at the beast’s head.

  The creature quickly moved backward, but the tip of my blade caught it just above the left eye. There was an expression of surprise on its face as blood began to trickle down its cheek. It muttered again—no doubt some spell. So I gripped the Starblade more tightly, hoping that the sword and Grimalkin’s magic would prove effective against this unknown power.

  There was nothing special about the appearance of the weapon. The hilt was not ornate, and the blade was a dull brown, as if covered with rust. But the balance was perfect for me, and Grimalkin had told me that it would never need to be sharpened.

  “Your sword, little human—I have never encountered its like!” exclaimed the creature.

  Then it did the last thing I expected: it turned and ran. There had to be some reason, I thought. Perhaps it had gone to get a weapon?

  I hesitated for a moment before giving chase, wondering whether I should cut Jenny free and lower her to the ground. But I decided that it was better to finish off the beast first. I couldn’t bind it, so I would kill it and end its threat. Who knew what it might conjure against me if I delayed? I followed it up a spiral staircase cut into the inner trunk of the tree.

  I emerged into the large room I’d first seen, the one furnished with the chairs, table, and shelves of books and jars. I looked again at the red lambskin rugs. I wondered if they’d been dyed with blood. But surely blood wouldn’t stay so red. . . .

  The creature appeared through a doorway to my right. It now clutched weapons in both hands: in its left was a curved sword, which is sometimes called a saber; in its right, a long-bladed dagger.

  I attacked immediately, driving the beast backward. But it was very skilful: the saber met each blow of my sword, filling the room with the clash of metal upon metal.

  I was wary of the dagger, which the creature held close to its side, waiting for an opportunity to strike. I resolved not to step too close. My opponent might drag me in and use that short blade.

  There are two effective modes of combat. One is to remain cold and calculating, observing every detail of an opponent’s technique, assessing strengths and weaknesses, before delivering the death blow. The other is to surrender to what the mind and body already know and fight using instinct, the weapons and moves mere extensions of one’s own body, which then acts faster than thought.

  But there is also a third, more dangerous way of doing battle—to fight driven by rage. Those opponents who attack you filled with a berserker fury are the easiest to counter and kill.

  This was how I fought now. My anger was fueled by the creature’s behavior—by the way it had treated Jenny, biting her back and shoulders, tying her up and hanging her by her feet from the ceiling like an animal ready for the slaughter before drinking her blood. Moreover, it had murdered the other three girls. Its arrogance and presumption . . . to think that it could enter the County, which I guarded against the dark, and treat women like slaves, taking their lives as if they were of no value.

  In a fury, I drove the beast backward until I had forced it right up against the heavy table. Then I did something I hadn’t planned; I simply used what was at hand. I seized one of the bottles of red wine from the tabletop and smashed it into the beast’s head.

  The bottle broke, showering the creature with red wine. It staggered back, shaking that huge head as if momentarily stunned. Taking advantage of its predicament, I thrust my blade past its guard and deep into its chest.

  “This cannot be!” the beast rasped, falling to its knees as I withdrew the blade. It looked up at me, eyes filled with pain and surprise. It tried to speak again, but when it opened its mouth, blood gushed out, soaking the front of its black coat. Then it slowly pitched forward onto its face, gave a shudder, and was still.

  I shuddered too, at what I had to do next, but I had no choice. Who knew what regenerative powers such a being might have? I swung the sword down with all my strength and cut the beast’s head from its body.

  I rushed over to Jenny, lowering her gently to the floor. I feared that she was dead. She did not appear to be breathing, and I could find no sign of a heartbeat.

  In desperation I carried her through the trees to the nearest stream and laid her down on the grass beside it. Then I removed my cloak, tugged off my shirt over my head, and wet it in the cold water. I used it to clean her face and wipe the blood from the bite marks on her shoulders, whispering her name as I did so.

  “Jenny, Jenny, Jenny . . . it’s all right. You’re safe now. Open your eyes. Please open your eyes.”

  8

  John Gregory’s Apprentices

  I repeated Jenny’s name for some minutes, willing her to wake up—until I remembered something Dad had once told me: an old laborer who’d once worked on the farm had what Dad called “funny turns.” The man would become breathless and say that his heart was “all a-flutter.” But Dad had a remedy for it. He would plunge the old man’s head into a barrel of ice-cold water, and that would sort him out immediately. The funny turn would be over, and he’d be as spry and fit as before.

  Dad reckoned it was the shock of the water that did it.

  No doubt if you weren’t already dead, such a shock could as easily kill as cure. But I was desperate, and I couldn’t think of anything else.

  So I rolled Jenny into the freezing water of the fast-flowing stream so that she ended up on her back. Then I knelt beside her. Her head I supported with both hands, but her whole body was immersed.

  Suddenly she gave a gasp, opened her eyes wide, and stared up at me.

  “Take deep breaths,” I told her. “Concentrate on your breathing.”

  She tried to say something, but this started a choking fit. When it subsided, I continued to support her head with my right hand while using my cupped left hand to dribble water into her mouth. After I’d done this six or seven times, Jenny spoke again, this time managing to utter two words.

  “The beast . . . ?” Her eyes widened again, and she started shivering.

  “The beast is dead,” I reassured her. “Concentrate on getting well.”

  “I’m cold,” she said. “So cold . . .”

  So I lifted her out of the water and laid her down on the grassy bank again.

  “Take off your clothes,” I ordered. “You can wear my cloak until they dry.”

  I turned my back, intending to give her some privacy, but after a few moments she cried out, “My fingers are numb!”

  I turned, watching as she fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. She couldn’t get them undone. I had to do it for her—and there was no time to feel any embarrassment. Finally I wrapped her in my cloak.

  “I’m wearing a spook’s cloak!” she said hoarsely, a hint of a smile on her face.

  I lit a fire by the stream and set some traps for rabbits. As the sun came up, I fed her—mostly the gravy, with just a few small pieces of meat. I was glad to see that she already seemed much stronger.

  “I thought you’d left me to die,” she said after swallowing the last mouthful. “It was the most terrifying moment of my life. Until that point I thought you’d work out some way to save me. When you ran, I couldn’t believe it. I was desperate. But you came ba
ck . . . I owe you my life.”

  “I’m sorry I had to leave you. I ran back to Chipenden to get this.” I held up the sword before her. “It was crafted by Grimalkin, the witch assassin of the Malkin clan. Have you heard of her?”

  Jenny shook her head.

  “She forges her own weapons and made this specially for me. While I wield it, magic can’t be used against me. Normal spook methods had no effect on the beast. This was the only way I could defeat it.”

  “It’s not much to look at.” She stared at the blade. “It’s covered in rust.”

  I nodded, studying it closely. It didn’t look like much, but it was perfectly balanced for me to wield; I also knew that it would never break or lose its edge.

  While Jenny rested, I went back to the beast’s lair. I entered the tree cautiously. I was sure that I had killed it, but it had shown such power that I was taking no chances.

  Some Pendle witches could die and yet still move and hunt, taking small animals for their prey, but a few were very fast and hunted humans. One even stalked her prey carrying her head underneath her arm. I would take no unnecessary risks with this creature.

  Would it be better to take the body back to the garden and bury it in a pit with bars over the top, as I would a witch? I wondered.

  I needn’t have worried. I was instantly greeted by the drone of flies and the faint stink of death. The creature lay in exactly the same position; it was quite dead.

  I took my time searching both the room where we had fought and the dungeon below. I was intrigued by the jars. I picked up one and looked at it closely. It contained what looked like yellow jelly, and suspended within it were small objects. What could they be? They looked like seeds—or perhaps very small eggs.

  There seemed to be other rooms higher in the tree, but the entrances were too small for me. Unlike the beast, I could not change my size.

  What was I dealing with here? What could the creature possibly be? And then, suddenly, a name exploded inside my head:

  Kobalos!

  When I’d first confronted it, the creature had said, “Your land will soon belong to my people! Then your women will abide by our laws. As for the men and boys, they will all be dead.”

  I hadn’t been concentrating on its words at the time because I’d been scared, but now, all at once, it made sense. Grimalkin had encountered this race on her journeys north last year. Her description matched the beast I’d faced. She’d told me that the Kobalos planned to make war on the human race and asked that I accompany her to face the threat. Perhaps the creature I had killed was a spy sent here to discover our strengths and weaknesses before the bigger attack came. But if so, why had he killed those three girls, drawing attention to himself?

  There was only one way to find out for sure. I had to summon the witch assassin. During my research I’d come across a brief mention of these creatures in my master’s Bestiary, but I hadn’t made the link, and I knew I would only be able to find out so much from books. Grimalkin had been to their land. She would know much about them that could be useful.

  I returned to Jenny, my mind full of what my next move should be.

  By the evening she felt strong enough to walk, so we set off back toward Chipenden, taking our time. We arrived just before dusk, and I halted on the edge of the garden, calling out in a loud voice, “Hear me! This girl is protected. Harm not a hair of her head!”

  After I had explained about the boggart to Jenny, we entered the garden and made our way toward the house. I gave the bench a wide berth—I didn’t want her to see my master’s disturbed grave. I was in no mood for explanations, and I was embarrassed. How foolish I had been to think of burying the Starblade there at all! Tomorrow I would have to fill in the Spook’s grave for the second time.

  Once in the house, I grabbed a clean sheet and a blanket. Then I lit a candle and gave it to the girl to carry. Upstairs, I pushed open the door of my room and beckoned her inside.

  “You’ll sleep here. This is to change the bed,” I said, thrusting the bedclothes toward her. “In the morning, you’ll hear a bell ring. That’s the signal to go down to breakfast. But whatever you do, don’t come down before. The boggart cooks breakfast, and it doesn’t like being disturbed in the kitchen. Understand?”

  Jenny merely nodded.

  “Look, you must be exhausted. I’ll make up the bed for you,” I said, reaching for the sheet.

  But she smiled and shook her head. “You’re tired too,” she said. “I can manage, but thanks all the same.”

  Then she spotted the words carved into the wall at the foot of the bed—the list of names.

  “Who are they?” she asked.

  “They were John Gregory’s apprentices. My name’s on that wall somewhere.”

  I turned to go but had one more thing to say to her.

  “You can write your own name there at the end of the month. . . . That’s if you pass the test and seem capable of doing the job.”

  9

  A Nettle Patch

  I’D been reluctant to move into my late master’s bedroom; it seemed somehow disrespectful. However, now that Jenny was in my old room, I judged that it was time to start using it. To my surprise, I slept well, but I was up before dawn. I went to the library, placing a small mirror on the table where I usually worked.

  I tapped three times upon the mirror and uttered a single word:

  “Grimalkin!”

  At first the witch assassin didn’t respond, and I suddenly wondered if she’d ignore my attempts to contact her.

  Almost ten months earlier, soon after the death of my master, we’d parted on reasonably good terms. But I knew that I’d disappointed her. I’d refused to travel north with her to find out about the Kobalos, settling for the life of a spook and choosing my master’s weapons—staff, chain, and salt and iron—rather than the blade she’d given me. I’d not seen her since, and a lot could have happened by now. She might even be overseas and out of reach.

  I was about to give up when at last the mirror started to glow and Grimalkin’s face appeared before me. She smiled, showing her teeth, which she kept filed to points and sometimes used as a weapon.

  “There is something here that I would like you to see.” I spoke slowly, mouthing the words carefully at the mirror. She could not hear me but would read my lips. Over time I too had become skilled at this.

  Grimalkin shook her head. “I cannot come to Chipenden. I am busy with other things,” she replied.

  “I think you might want to change your mind,” I persisted. “A strange creature has been murdering local women. I’ve killed it, but I think it’s one of the Kobalos—probably one of their mages. It walked upright and had a hairy body but a shaved face. It wore a long coat too, just as it was described in the Spook’s Bestiary. You really do need to see it.”

  For a moment or two the witch’s face stared at me out of the mirror without blinking. Then she nodded.

  “The fact that it has come so far south into the County is very worrying. I will be there within three days,” she mouthed.

  Then the mirror grew dark.

  I wondered where she was. If she was traveling on horseback, three days was quite some distance away. But it could have been worse. The Kobalos lands lay across the Northern Sea, and many weeks’ ride beyond its shores.

  Next I went out to the western garden and filled in my master’s grave, making it as tidy as possible. Then I went down on my knees and told him that I was sorry. I said it over and over again.

  I knew he couldn’t hear me, of course. By now he would have passed through limbo and gone to the light, but it made me feel better.

  I was already seated at the table when Jenny came into the kitchen. There were two place settings, and a large plate in the center held generous portions of bacon and eggs. A further side plate was heaped with thick slices of buttered bread.

  “You’re late,” I told her. “The bell rang five minutes ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said with a cheek
y smile. “I’ll try to do better tomorrow.”

  “I suppose it’s better than coming down to breakfast too early. I did that my very first morning in this house and got my ears boxed by the boggart!”

  She nodded, sat down, and helped herself to bacon and eggs. Then, before she took her first mouthful, she looked me in the eye, a serious expression on her face.

  “I will still be here tomorrow, won’t I? You really did mean it about taking me on as your apprentice?”

  “Yes, I meant it, but I’m giving you a month’s trial. You have to pass a test first to convince me that you’re up to the job.”

  I had decided to treat her as my master had treated me—and the apprentices before me. We’d had a month to prove ourselves. The test was to see if we were brave enough to face the dark.

  “So we’re going to the haunted house?”

  “You know about that?” I asked, gazing at her in astonishment. “How did you find that out?”

  “Easy!” she said mischievously. “Lots of boys failed the test. I talked to one of them—of course he’s a man now, with sons of his own. He couldn’t remember the name of the town where the house was, though. Somewhere south of here, isn’t it?”

  “It’s in a place called Horshaw—but first we should go and see your parents.”

  “Do we have to visit my mam and dad?” Jenny asked, her face downcast.

  “We do. We must do things properly. I have to explain to them what it means to become my apprentice.”

  Jenny gave a big sigh of exasperation, but said no more. I wondered why visiting her parents bothered her, but I let it go for now.

  “What’s your second name?” I asked.

  “Calder,” she replied.

  “And where is your home?”