Spook's Destiny (12 page)

He lost the battle, and let out a loud explosive sound. The sentry shouted something and, drawing his sword, began to run towards us. There were other shouts, and more enemy soldiers joined him. We got to our feet and began to sprint away. Our only hope was to lose our pursuers in the darkness.

Our escort had fled for their lives, so we ran too. For a few moments Alice was running just ahead of me, but then I passed the Spook, who was struggling with Cormac, the captive mage. I grabbed the man’s other shoulder, and together my master and I dragged him forward. But it was hopeless. When I glanced back, I could see flickering torches and hear the pounding of feet. They were catching us fast. The going underfoot was getting worse. The ground was uneven and I kept splashing through water. We were entering the bog.

No doubt there were safe paths through it, but we were scattered now, our guides somewhere ahead, and I feared we could blunder into dangerous ground that might suck us in. The greatest threat was now close on our heels and, acting simultaneously and instinctively, the Spook and I released the prisoner, pushing him to his knees, and spun, staffs at the ready, to face our attackers.

I remember wondering where Alice was: she was unarmed and couldn’t stand and fight, but neither could she afford to wander too far from the protection of the blood jar. Then I had to focus on the immediate threat. A bearded mage brandishing a sword in his right hand and a torch in his left ran straight at me, aiming a blow at my head, his mouth stretched wide to show his teeth; he looked like a wild animal.

Ignoring the sword, I jabbed the base of my staff towards his forehead. The blow struck home, its force aided by his forward momentum. He went down, the sword spinning out of his hand. But there were more armed men, and then they were all around us. For a few moments I stood back to back with my master. Again almost simultaneously we pressed the buttons on our staffs and used our retractable blades. Now it was kill or be killed. We fought desperately, whirling and jabbing, but then, under pressure from the attack, we became separated.

Threatened from every side and with nobody to guard my back, I was already starting to tire; the attack was relentless. I thought it was all over for me, but then I saw my chance. Three soldiers were pressing me hard, but only one carried a torch. I knocked it out of his hand and it fell, extinguishing itself on impact with the waterlogged ground, plunging us into darkness.

In the confusion, I made for what I thought was southeast towards the river Inny. The Spook had told us to meet up there if things went wrong. Well, they’d gone wrong all right, and I was increasingly worried about Alice. If she was too far from the blood jar, the Fiend would come for her.

Our attempt to escape with our hostage had been a disaster. We were scattered and on the run, and the mages had surely rescued him. Now they would go ahead with the ceremony. Dark times lay ahead for the Alliance.

At one point I paused and glanced back, listening intently. There were no signs of pursuit, but my eyes had adjusted to the dark now and I could see the distant campfires, no more than tiny pinpoints of light in the darkness. So I continued more cautiously, using my staff to test the depth of the water ahead. On more than one occasion it saved me from drowning or being sucked down into the bog. Even so, I was constantly tripping over big tussocks of marsh grass or plunging up to my knees in ice-cold stinking water.

My memory of Shey’s map gave me few clues as to how long the journey should take, and the going was difficult. I remembered that I needed to keep well north of the mountains in order to reach the river. Apart from that my knowledge of the terrain was vague, but I knew that somewhere on the southern edge of the hills was the Staigue ring fort. Some of the mages and their servants would still be there – it was a place to be avoided at all costs.

It was hard to judge the passage of time, but eventually the sky ahead started to grow lighter and I knew it wouldn’t be long before dawn. I’d hoped that would enable me to take my bearings from the mountains and find the river, but it wasn’t to be. Soon tendrils of mist were snaking towards me, and I quickly became enveloped in a dense fog. The air was still, and apart from the sound of my own breathing and my boots squelching through the bog, all was silent.

Later, in the early dawn light, I saw a cottage looming up before me through the mist. A tall thin man carrying a spade over his shoulder came out of the door. He was wearing a jacket with a hood, not unlike my own, but no hair was visible on his forehead. From a distance, he looked like a turf-cutter setting off for a hard day’s work, eager to make the best of the winter’s short daylight hours. He came across to intercept me and gave me a broad smile. It was then that I noticed how pale his narrow face was. It was not the face of someone who worked outdoors.

‘You look lost, boy. Where are you heading?’ he demanded, his voice as harsh as the croak of an old bullfrog. The skin was stretched tight across his cheekbones; from close up, it looked a little yellow, as though he’d recently been ill. His eyes were deep-set, as if they were sinking into his skull, droopy eyelids and folds of skin closing over them.

‘I’m making for the river,’ I told him. ‘I’m supposed to meet some friends there.’

‘You’re slightly off track – you should be heading that way,’ he said, pointing in what seemed to be a more easterly direction. ‘Have you been walking all night?’

I nodded.

‘Well, in that case you’ll be cold and hungry. Mistress Scarabek will make you something to eat and let you warm yourself by the fire for a while,’ he said, indicating the front door of the cottage. ‘Knock quietly so as not to wake the young ’un, and ask her for some breakfast. Tell her that Thin Shaun sent you.’

The man’s appearance was odd, but I was in urgent need of food and shelter. I nodded my thanks, approached the cottage and rapped lightly on the door, trying to make as little noise as possible.

I heard the slip-slap of bare feet and the door opened a crack. It was dark inside, but I thought I could make out a single unblinking eye.

‘Thin Shaun sent me,’ I said, keeping my voice low so as not to wake the child. ‘He said you’d give me a little breakfast, please. If that’s not too much trouble …’

For what seemed like an age there was no response, but then the door opened silently and I saw a woman wearing a green woollen shawl. This must be Mistress Scarabek, I thought. She looked sad and, like Shaun, had very pale skin, with red-rimmed eyes that suggested she’d either been crying recently or had been up all night. The baby had probably kept her awake.

‘Come in,’ she said, her voice gentle. I remember thinking what a contrast it was to Thin Shaun’s croaky rasp. ‘But leave your staff outside. We’ll have no need for spook’s work in here.’

Thinking nothing of it, I obeyed without question, leaning my staff against the wall next to the window and stepping into the cottage. It was small and cosy, with a turf fire glowing in the grate. Two stools faced the hearth, and against the wall stood a small cradle on rockers; before going through to the kitchen, Scarabek set the thing in motion to keep the baby happy.

A few moments later she returned carrying a small bowl, which she handed to me. ‘Here – that’s all I have, a little gruel. We’re poor people. Times are hard and I must think of my family’s needs.’

I thanked her and started to eat the thin porridge with my fingers. It was cold and a little slimy, but after what she’d just said I tried not to betray my dislike of it. It didn’t really taste unpleasant – just a little odd, with a spicy tang. But strangely it made my mouth very dry.

‘Thank you,’ I said when I’d finished the gruel, taking care to eat up every last bit. ‘I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a cup of water?’

‘You don’t need water,’ Scarabek said mysteriously. ‘Why don’t you lie down in front of the fire and rest your young bones until it gets dark?’

The stone flags were hard and cold, despite the proximity of the fire, but I suddenly felt very tired and what she suggested seemed a good idea. So I stretched before the hearth.

‘Close your eyes,’ Scarabek commanded. ‘That would be wise. It’ll be better for us all once it’s gone dark.’

I remember thinking her words were really odd and I felt confused. What did she mean? How could the dark be ‘better for us all’? Moreover, the sun couldn’t have been up for more than half an hour or so. It would be another nine hours before it got dark. Did she expect me to lie here all that time? And wasn’t there something I had to do? I had to meet somebody. But I couldn’t remember who or where.

I OPENED MY
eyes; it was dark in the cottage and I felt stiff and cold. The fire was out but there was a candle burning on the mantelpiece.

I felt utterly weary and wanted to close my eyes and drift back into a deep sleep. I was about to do just that when I saw something that made me gasp with concern. The baby’s cradle had fallen over and was lying on its side!

There was the infant, half in, half out of it, still wrapped in a woollen blanket. I tried to call out for its mother, but when I opened my mouth, all that came out was a faint croak. I realized then that I was breathing rapidly; my heart was fluttering in my chest with a scary irregular beat that made me fear it was about to stop at any minute. I was unable to move my limbs.

Was I seriously ill? I wondered. Had I caught some type of fever in the bog-lands?

Then I thought I saw the baby’s blanket move. It gave a sort of twitch, then began to rise and fall rhythmically, suggesting that the child was still breathing and had survived the fall. I tried to call for the mother again, but could still only manage a weak cry; the effort sent my heart into such a speedy fluttering rhythm that I began to tremble all over, fearing that I was dying.

I suddenly realized that the woollen blanket was now moving in a different way. It seemed to be coming slowly towards me. How old was the baby? Was it old enough to crawl like that? Even though it was completely covered by the blanket and couldn’t possibly see where it was going, it was heading directly for me. Could it hear my breathing? Was it seeking comfort? Why didn’t Scarabek come to check on it?

Then I heard a strange sound. It was coming from the baby. Despite the utter silence of the room I could hear no breathing – only a sort of rhythmical clicking. It sounded like gnashing teeth. Suddenly I was scared. Babies that small didn’t have teeth!

No, it had to be something else. The moment that thought entered my head, a cold tremor ran the length of my spine, a warning that something from the dark was very close. I desperately tried to move my limbs, but they were still paralysed. I lay there, watching it helplessly.

As the baby approached me, the woollen blanket seemed to convulse, and I heard a big gasp, as if whatever it was beneath the blanket had been holding its breath for a very long time and now desperately needed energy for some immense effort.

It reached my foot, and came to a halt for a few moments. Once again I heard what sounded like another huge in-breath, but this time I identified the sound; my first guess had been wrong. It was sniffing – sniffing like a witch, gathering information about me. It left my boot and began to move up along my body, pausing beside my chest. Once again it sniffed very loudly.

I shuddered as it then climbed slowly up onto my chest. I was aware of four small limbs moving across me. Even through my clothes they felt very cold, like four blocks of ice. Whatever it was had finally reached my face now and I began to panic: my heart pounded even more wildly. What was it? What horrible thing was hidden beneath that moving blanket?

I tried to roll away onto my side, but couldn’t find the strength. All I could do was to raise my head a little. Nor could I manage to fend it off with my hands – they trembled uselessly at my sides while rivulets of sweat ran down my forehead into my eyes. I was unable to defend myself.

It had reached my throat now, and raised itself up a little on its tiny hands as if to peer into my face, causing the blanket to fall back so that, simultaneously, I saw its face too.

I expected to see a monster and my fears were fully realized – but not in the way I expected.

The head was no larger than that of a baby of two or three months, but it had the face of a little old man; it was malevolent, filled with some desperate need. And it looked very like Thin Shaun, the turf-cutter who had sent me here for food. And I suddenly understood that although I’d been fed, given a little gruel,
I
was also food – nourishment for this grotesque being. What I’d eaten must have contained some sleeping draught to render me weak and helpless. Now the creature’s mouth opened wide, revealing long needle-like teeth, and they were aiming for my throat.