Spook's Destiny (17 page)

I thought for a moment, before searching in my pocket again and finding a coin. I inserted the edge into the head of the screw and turned. It wouldn’t budge. I pressed down as hard as I could; finally it began to move. Soon I was removing the screw with just my fingers.

The second screw proved much more difficult. I almost despaired of moving it, and the groove in the head of the screw started to shear away, but at last it turned. Eventually the iron ring came away from the boards, and the goat was free.

The creature looked at me and bleated once. It seemed to tense its body; then, to my astonishment, it leaped off the platform.

I watched, horrified, as the goat plunged towards the ground and hit the cobbles with a dull thump. It didn’t cry out on impact, but its legs twitched a few times and a puddle of blood began to form beneath it. The crown fell off its head and rolled away across the marketplace. Now I realized that it was through the goat’s death that Pan had intended to free himself.

The god didn’t leave our world quietly: a howling gale sprang up from nowhere, which blew out all the windows facing the marketplace and hurled tiles from the roofs down to smash on the cobbles. Doors blew off their hinges, and shouts rent the night air.

Fearing that it might topple over at any moment, I began to climb down from the platform, my feet seeking out the struts of the wooden shaft. I needn’t have worried – the wind was directed at the mages, who’d taken rooms facing the market; the tower, right in the calm eye of the storm, barely moved.

Moonlight lit up the whole area, giving me no place to hide, and by the time I reached the ground I could see mages heading towards the wooden structure. One gave a cry of anguish as he reached the body of the goat. I started sprinting down the triangle towards the street at the bottom, but someone holding a long-bladed, curved knife blocked my path. I swerved around him and headed for the river, which lay like a silver ribbon in the distance. There were trees beyond it; dark, shadowy areas. Once across the bridge, I’d have a good chance of escaping.

I glanced back and saw that I was being followed. I tried to hurry, but my body didn’t respond, still weak after spending long days and nights on the platform, exposed to the elements and eating little. When I looked back again, my pursuers were catching up fast. But I was approaching the bridge now. There was still just a slim chance that I could cross it and escape into the trees.

That hope was short-lived. I heard the sound of galloping hooves and knew that I was just moments from recapture or death. The first rider came at me from the right. I saw the glint of a sword in the moonlight, and ducked to my left as it swept down towards my head. Whether the blow was intended to kill me or he’d just been using the flat of his sword, I couldn’t tell, but other horsemen quickly surrounded me, pointing their weapons at me, waiting until the runners caught up.

Moments later rough hands seized me, and I was dragged back up the slope towards the marketplace. Magister Doolan was waiting beside the tower, grim-faced.

‘You have a lot to answer for, boy!’ he said, cuffing me twice about the head, making my ears sing. ‘I’d love to slice you up slowly myself, but I’ll give you to the witch. She’ll know best how to make you suffer.’

With that, my hands and feet were tied and I was thrown over the back of a horse. All around me I heard a bustle as the mages and their followers prepared to leave Killorglin. Soon we were off, heading south in a long convoy. No doubt the mages feared that the Alliance would take this opportunity to attack, and we hurried along so quickly that those on foot had to jog to keep up with the horses.

I’d had a brief taste of freedom. Now it seemed that we were bound for the refuge of the mages, the Staigue ring fort. According to Shey, its defences were impregnable. Once inside, I’d be as good as dead. They’d hand me over to the witch.

Despite everything, I allowed myself the small satisfaction of reflecting that the mages had been forced to abandon their ceremony.

It had failed, and I had been the one to stop it.

BY DAWN WE
were deep in the southern hills. It was now raining hard and I was soaked to the skin. I hung face down against the horse’s flank, bouncing up and down uncomfortably, so my main view was of the boggy ground.

My first glimpse of the Staigue fort came when I was dragged off the horse and my feet were freed. I looked up at what appeared to be a gigantic dry-stone wall towering over us, the stones skilfully positioned one upon the other, without the use of mud or mortar to bind them together. The ‘ring fort’ was a good name for it, because that’s exactly what it was – a huge defensive circle of stones. Everyone was dismounting, and I soon found out why. The fort could only be entered by a very narrow gate, which was far too small for a horse.

Once through that gap in the wall, I got my first sight of the inside of the mages’ fortification. It had no roof, but the walls were very high, with nine separate flights of stone steps leading up to ramparts, from which attackers could be repelled. The ground within it was churned to soft mud, but dotted about were a number of timber buildings. The stone fort was clearly very old, but these wooden constructions looked relatively recent. Some appeared to be dwellings, but the central one, which was round in shape, probably had a different purpose; it was towards this building that I was dragged.

We didn’t enter right away. I was forced to sit down in the mud and surrounded by four guards armed with swords. While we waited, the narrow gap through which we’d entered the fort was sealed with stones. The job was done so expertly that there was no sign at all of where the entrance had been. I assumed that someone had remained outside to take the horses away to shelter.

At last I was hauled to my feet and the Butcher led the way into the large building. Inside stood a circular, elevated dais. It was stained and polished, and marked upon its surface was a large pentacle of the type mages used to summon a daemon or other supernatural entity. A number of chairs and a table were set out at the centre. Around the dais, the floor was mud, and there must have been at least nine armed guards standing up to their ankles in it. Upon the dais stood seven barefoot mages, and near its edge was Thin Shaun. He was cradling his son, Konal, who was still wrapped in a blanket. Shaun’s hood was pulled forward, his head bowed and in shadow.

Doolan approached the edge of the wooden structure to address him. ‘Where is Scarabek?’ he snapped.

‘I failed – despite my best efforts she is still a prisoner. But her enemy is prepared to exchange her for the boy. I advise you to let him go’ – Shaun nodded at me – ‘then you’ll have Scarabek to sacrifice next time we attempt the ritual.’

‘
Who
is this enemy?’ demanded the chief mage angrily.

Thin Shaun lifted his head, and with his left hand pulled back his hood so that his face was visible. Even before he spoke I knew the identity of the enemy who had bested him. Her sign was carved into his forehead and it was still weeping blood.

‘Her name is Grimalkin – she’s an assassin, and has come from a powerful witch clan over the water. Never have I encountered someone with such skill. All my strength and magic proved useless against her. I was completely at her mercy,’ Shaun admitted.

Suddenly I was filled with new hope. Grimalkin was here!

‘Is she alone,’ demanded Doolan, ‘or supported by other clan members?’

‘She is alone.’

‘Then she can be dealt with.’

Shaun looked away.

‘Although we failed to raise the god, the attempt did bear some fruit …’ The Butcher’s voice was full with confidence. ‘It has made our magic stronger. She is only one; if we fill a mage with our combined strength, just one of our number will be enough to kill her. I will be her executioner!’

Doolan bowed his head and started to mutter to himself; the words he spoke were in the Old Tongue – he was using dark magic. As he did so, the seven other mages knelt in a huddle at the edge of the dais and chanted for a minute or so before suddenly falling silent.

Then they moved close to Doolan and stretched out their arms, laying their hands on his head, shoulders, upper back and chest. They began to chant again, and in response, the man they called the Butcher closed his eyes and began to shudder.

I remembered how they had performed a similar ritual with the gunners at the siege of Ballycarbery Castle. Before the mages had invested them with power, they had been ineffectual; afterwards, they had become devastatingly accurate and had breached the castle wall. Doolan was formidable already. How much more dangerous would he become? Could he pose a real threat to Grimalkin?

At last the mages fell silent and withdrew their hands. ‘I go now!’ the Butcher told them, showing his teeth. ‘I’ll bring back the head of our enemy!’

He left the hall, and I was dragged out after him. I wondered how he was going to leave the fort. Surely they wouldn’t have to remove the stones that now blocked the entrance? The mage headed for the nearest set of steps that led up to the ramparts at the top of the wall. Beside them stood an iron pillar. Fastened to it and coiled beneath it was a long length of strong rope. He seized the end and dragged the rope after him as he ascended. I watched him throw it down outside the wall. Then he clambered across the top and disappeared from view. He was climbing down the rope to reach the ground.

After a few moments he gave a shout, and one of the guards ran to the pillar and began to haul on the rope. The end appeared over the wall and slithered down the steps like a snake. At that point I was forced to squat in the wet mud again. Then we waited.

We waited all day; nothing happened. They changed my guard twice. I was wet through again, shivering from the cold and damp and close to starvation.

Then, at dusk, I heard a distant cry. It sounded like something in great pain.

One of the guards spat in the mud. ‘Just an animal,’ he said. However, my experience as an apprentice spook told me that it was more likely to be human.

From time to time a mage climbed the ramparts and peered out into the night. By now, even allowing for the elevation of the land, the moon should have been visible to the east. But the thick clouds promised more rain, and the night grew darker. Lanterns were hung from hooks on the wall, but for some reason the light they cast was weak, as if the darkness itself was viscous and thick. I could hear the voices of the mages, but they were muffled and indistinct.

Then a voice called loudly and clearly from beyond the wall. ‘Lower the rope!’

I recognized that deep gruff voice. It was the Butcher. Had he been successful? I wondered.

A guard threw the end of the rope down, and moments later Doolan was standing on the ramparts; the soldier held a lantern close to his face. Doolan led the way down the steps again. When he reached the mud at the bottom and approached the first wall-lantern, I realized that he was carrying something in his left hand. By now Thin Shaun had emerged from the round hut, half a dozen mages following close behind.

They waited behind me as Doolan strode through the mud. With his right hand he drew a long blood-stained knife from his belt; in his left, casually held by the hair, was a severed head. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach. The Butcher raised it up so that the mages could get a good look at it.

I recognized that face – both beautiful and cruel, with high cheekbones and lips that were painted black.