“My, aren’t you the eternal pessimist!” I tried to joke. “Trust me to take on a gloomy apprentice who spends most of her time anticipating the worst.”
“I’m sorry to sound so despondent, but I just want to go home.”
“So do I.” I patted her shoulder in reassurance. “Trust me, please—everything will turn out for the best. We need the information that Grimalkin hopes to gather; she seeks knowledge of the tactics of the Kobalos in battle, and of the dark magic they may use. Once she knows more about it, she may be able to create effective countermeasures. If she doesn’t succeed, the Kobalos will simply fight their way to the sea. That won’t stop them; they’ll sail across, and in a few years the County will be overrun and enslaved. We have to do this now.”
I was determined to go through with it, and I tried to think positively and achieve that “self-belief” that Grimalkin said was necessary . . . but as the days passed, I experienced something new: a type of fear I’d never felt before.
I had often been afraid when dealing with the dark. There had been moments of extreme terror—when I’d confronted the Old God Golgoth under the Round Loaf up on Anglezarke Moor, for example. He’d had the power to snuff out not only my life, but my soul. Then there was the fight with Siscoi, the Romanian vampire god: I’d faced a terrible death at his hands. And there had been many other moments of dread; as the Battle of the Wardstone approached, I’d feared that I might die there.
But what I felt now was different . . . less intense in a way, but it crept into my very being. I had a strong sense that I would not survive the fight with Kauspetnd. I had always been someone who looked to the future. As a boy, I’d dreamed of completing my apprenticeship and becoming a spook, with my own territory to protect. Now there seemed to be no future. I could not see beyond the approaching fight.
It is the night before I face the Shaiksa. I can’t sleep. So I am writing in my notebook, trying to describe my thoughts and feelings. Ice-cold fingers of fear clutch at my throat and squeeze my heart. I have tried to put on a brave face in front of Jenny, but I know that she can see the truth.
In my imagination I keep reviewing, over and over again, each death that I have witnessed at the river. I watch the heads fall; I see the blood swirl away in the current.
Will that be my fate tomorrow?
Jenny Calder
29
The Worst Day of My Life
I am writing this in Tom Ward’s notebook. It seems the most appropriate place to record what has happened.
I don’t think he would mind. All spooks keep careful notes—they believe in recording the past so that they can better prepare for the future. So I will carry on doing so just as long as I am able.
Yesterday was the worst day of my life.
I had seen the Shaiksa assassin fight on only one occasion, but it scared me. He had displayed such effortless skill and ferocity that I feared for Tom. How could he possibly win against such an adversary?
Because we were supposedly Tom’s servants, and the only people from his own land, Grimalkin and I were given a good view of the contest. We were seated in straight-backed wooden chairs to the left of Prince Stanislaw, looking directly down upon the river.
Above, the sky was blue, with just a few clouds on the horizon, tinged with red by the setting sun. The air was chilly but full of scents, some of which I could not identify. Some were spices, others aromas of food, and then there was the bitter leaf that was chewed by the men of the region, which made their breath smell foul.
An hour before sunset, a figure came into view on the far bank and strode to the edge of the ford. It was Kauspetnd, with his fearsome lupine face, hair braided into three pigtails. He carried two gleaming sabers and glared across the river toward us.
A great silence fell. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.
Then a lone figure left our side of the river and began to cross the ford, his boots splashing through the shallow channel, heading for the bank of stones in the center. He had only one weapon clutched in his right hand—the Starblade given to him by Grimalkin. Unlike the blades of the Shaiksa, his blade did not gleam in the sunlight; it was a dull, rusty brown.
Now his boots crunched on the stones as he approached the center of the ford.
It was Tom Ward, and even from this distance my gift of empathy told me how he was feeling. He was scared, desperately trying to control his fear and still the shaking of his limbs. He felt a terrible sense of doom—the inevitability of his own death. And he was angry that he had been manipulated into this situation. He wished that he had stayed in Chipenden and continued his life as a spook.
My heart went out to him. I did not like the way Grimalkin had used him. She could only see the threat from the Kobalos and seemed determined to employ everyone and everything to counter it. It was so unfair. No human had stood a chance against this dangerous, bestial warrior. For all the training he had received from Grimalkin, what could Tom hope to do?
By now Kauspetnd was also making his way across the dry stones of the ford.
I could get very little sense of this creature’s mind. I was aware of determination, aggression, and total confidence, but his thoughts were beyond me. In the past I had experimented with my gift of empathy. Some people were easier to read than others. I had tried animals too, sensing the feral willfulness of cats and the simple joy of dogs, but little more. Their minds were mostly closed to me; the thoughts of another species seemed unknowable. And now, with this Kobalos warrior, it was the same. I could not reach him; neither could I influence his behavior.
The combatants came to a halt. They were now facing each other, just a few feet apart. It seemed a long time before either of them moved, and when they did, they were tentative.
Tom thrust his sword toward the mage, who blocked it with one of his sabers—the one in his left hand, I think, though it all happened very fast. They circled widdershins, their boots crunching on the stones; the only other noise was the rush of the narrow river channel chuckling over its rocky bed.
Then the Shaiksa aimed a couple of blows at Tom’s head. He blocked them easily, and they continued to circle each other. I could sense that Tom’s fear was gone now. He was concentrating, focusing on the fight, his confidence slowly growing.
Then it began in earnest. Kauspetnd launched a furious attack, both blades flashing in the light of the setting sun. My heart was in my mouth as Tom was forced backward, desperately parrying each blow, the Starblade held in both hands.
But he survived, and began to hold his ground; then the assassin yielded a few steps before renewing his onslaught.
How could Tom hope to survive such a ferocious attack for long? No wonder most of the fights had been over in a matter of minutes.
But survive he did, matching the Shaiksa blow for blow. Soon time became meaningless. I felt as if we were trapped in eternity, where all clocks ceased to tick. All that existed, all that had ever existed, and all that would ever exist, was this furious struggle. It would go on and on forever.
Grimalkin told me afterward that it lasted just over an hour. That must be correct because finally, when the end came, the sun had set and the light was beginning to fail.
After a while, Tom was clearly gaining the ascendancy. He attacked with speed and precision. He kept passing the Starblade from hand to hand, each time throwing Kauspetnd onto the back foot.
The human audience was no longer silent. Now they were shouting out in excitement and anticipating a long-awaited victory.
Tom drew first blood. He found a gap in his enemy’s defenses and caught him on the shoulder. The Kobalos warrior staggered back, red streaming down his front, while those around me gave a great roar of triumph.
Then Tom pressed the Shaiksa hard. He spun, whirling in Grimalkin’s dance of death. Almost too fast for the eye to see, he dealt a succession of rapid horizontal blows until one found its mark.
He struck the head from the Shaiksa assassin.
He had won!
&nb
sp; The head rolled across the stones and into the shallow water, the current swirling away a ribbon of red blood. As the body collapsed, more blood gushed from the neck.
But the great roar of victory gradually died away to a subdued murmur. All eyes were on Tom, who staggered and then dropped the Starblade. He was looking down at his stomach.
My focus had been on Tom’s offensive and the blow that had slain his opponent. I had not noticed what Kauspetnd had done. But now a lump came into my throat and my heart lurched as I saw what had happened.
One of the assassin’s sabers had pierced him. Only the hilt was visible. He staggered again and turned, attempting to keep his balance. I could see his back. The curved, bloodstained blade protruded by at least a foot. Tom reached behind, feeling the steel of the blade, then turned toward us again, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Finally he pitched forward onto his face.
Yesterday was the worst day of my life.
It was the day Tom Ward died.
30
The Grief of Grimalkin
AS long as I live, I will never forget the look of horror on Tom’s face when he understood what had happened. I knew exactly what he was feeling. I empathized with him. My gift was a curse, because it meant that I shared his experience.
He was in extreme pain, but even more terrible was the realization that he was dying.
I could not bear it.
I remember Tom falling facedown onto the stones, the saber blade protruding from his back. Only one person moved; everyone else was stunned into silence.
It was Grimalkin who splashed through the water and ran to where Tom lay. She lifted him carefully and carried him up the bank toward us. She passed quite close to where I was standing. I saw that his face was ashen. He didn’t seem to be breathing, and blood dripped from his wound, leaving a red trail on the grass.
He was dead—I was sure of it. I could sense nothing from him. But Grimalkin was a powerful witch. Could she use her magic to save him?
As I stared at Tom, Grimalkin met my eyes.
“The sword! The sword! Get the Starblade, child!” she shouted at me. “Keep it safe!”
I hurried away in the opposite direction from everybody else. I splashed through the water, averting my eyes from the severed head of the Shaiksa assassin, and across the stones to retrieve the Starblade.
It had been made for Tom, but he wouldn’t be able to use it now. Why did Grimalkin want it? I wondered.
I followed the crowd, carrying the rusty sword in my hand. A throng of people had gathered outside the prince’s huge tent.
That must be where Grimalkin had taken Tom.
Desperate to help, I tried to squeeze through to the front, but it was impossible. A double row of blue-jacketed Polyznian guards were holding everybody back; they started to advance, their spears at the ready.
It was hopeless, and the situation was starting to turn ugly. Most of the crowd retreated, but some of the soldiers of the other princes stood firm. The guards had provoked a hostile reaction, and swords were being drawn.
I could do nothing, so I made my way back to our camp and crawled inside the tent. I laid the sword on the ground beside my blanket, then curled up into a ball and tried to forget what had happened.
I couldn’t sleep. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw the fight over and over again. I felt Tom’s terror and anguish—I couldn’t stop it. I began to sob.
How long I lay there, I don’t know. But after a while I heard someone come into the tent. A candle was lit, and I opened my eyes and saw Grimalkin sitting cross-legged on her blanket. Her eyes were closed, and she was rocking backward and forward, her arms clasped across her chest. There was blood all down her front, and on her bare hands and arms.
I shivered with cold and misery. I knew that it was Tom’s blood.
I sat up and faced her. “Is he dead?” I asked.
The witch assassin opened her eyes and glared at me. She looked angry, and I didn’t think she was going to reply.
Her answer was merely a nod, and I began to cry.
Grimalkin immediately rebuked me. “Foolish girl, your tears won’t bring him back. Be quiet while I think!”
I fell silent. I had always found the witch intimidating, but now her fury was such that I almost fled the tent. I began to tremble.
I had never been able to get inside Grimalkin’s head; there were barriers there. I could sense a little of her emotions—mostly anger—but that was all.
Then she began to speak. At first her words were not addressed to me. She seemed to be thinking aloud. “This should never have happened. This I did not foresee . . . I did not think to send him to his death. I tried to save him. . . .”
She turned and fixed me with her fierce eyes. “I have brought others back from the edge of death before, child. At first I thought I would succeed here too. I used magic and herbs to staunch the bleeding; I breathed my energy into him. He began to breathe again, and as his lungs filled with air, I started to hope. . . .”
She shook her head, muttering words that I couldn’t hear.
“What happened?” I asked, my voice hardly more than a whisper.
“There was no choice but to remove the blade. It was something that I feared to do—a moment of crisis. When I did so, the internal damage proved too severe. All my magic, all my knowledge of herbs, could not stop the bleeding. I was so close, so very close to succeeding. And if I had, I could have healed him from within. Such things can be done. . . .”
She shook her head and fell silent again, closing her eyes. “He died. I failed. It is over. Tomorrow he will be buried. You can do one last thing for him. You must help me. The body must be washed and cleaned—will you do that?”
I nodded, the “Yes” choking in my throat.
“Then tomorrow at dawn, we will go to the tent and prepare him for burial. Now try to sleep.”
I couldn’t sleep, and morning took a long time to arrive. Grimalkin did not sleep either. All night she sat cross-legged, rocking to and fro. At times she seemed to be talking to herself; I think she even uttered a short sob—but it was too faint for me to be sure.
But of one thing I was certain: although the witch assassin was cruel and dangerous, she felt Tom Ward’s loss keenly. They had been allies against the Fiend for some time; Tom had told me so. There was much in their past that I did not know, but there had definitely been a strong bond between them.
In her own way, Grimalkin was grieving.
31
Washing the Body
SOON after dawn, an escort of soldiers led by the high steward arrived to take us to the camp of Prince Stanislaw. As usual, two remained behind to guard our tent. They seemed much friendlier: Majcher even gave Grimalkin a stiff bow, and I could see the respect in his eyes. Tom’s achievement in defeating the assassin had changed their attitude toward us.
Tom’s body had been removed from the prince’s tent to a smaller one, slightly closer to the water. Guards surrounded it, and people sat about on the grass staring at it.
What did they want? Had they been there all night? I wondered.
I followed Grimalkin into the tent. Lanterns had been lit to dispel the gloom. Tom’s body, wrapped in a blanket, was lying on a low trestle table. His eyes were wide open, as if staring at the ceiling, but when I touched his face with the back of my hand, it felt ice cold.
I was not proud of the thoughts that drifted into my head. They came unbidden, but I couldn’t easily get rid of them. I wondered what would happen to me now. Here I was, alone in the far north, with no hope of returning soon. Would Grimalkin even take me back to the County? I had only been tolerated because I was Tom’s apprentice. She might well abandon me to my fate.
If I did manage to return home, I would have to live with my false mother and father in Grimsargh. I’d little hope of continuing my apprenticeship unless I could find some as yet unknown spook to train me. The others I’d met—Judd and Johnson—wouldn’t take me on; nor did I wish to be
trained by them. So unless I could find some other way of making a living, I’d end up married off to some man who just wanted me to cook, clean, and look after our children until I was old and bitter like my foster parents.
I thrust those dark thoughts from my head and forced myself to concentrate on the task before me. Water was brought, and rags. But first we had to strip Tom’s clothes from him. It wasn’t easy, and Grimalkin used her knife to cut away his breeches. When the shirt was peeled off and the wound in his belly was revealed, Grimalkin gave a gasp of surprise.
“Bring the lantern nearer!” she commanded.
I hastened to obey, and when I returned to the table, she was tracing around the wound with her forefinger. There was something strange about it. It had almost closed up, but it appeared ridged, and what looked like scales had formed.
“If only I could have staunched the bleeding a little longer,” she said. “Perhaps I pulled the blade out too soon. . . . He would have healed himself, I’m sure of it. Do you see those scales? The process had started, but death ended it.”
“Yes, but why scales and not skin?”
“He has lamia blood in him, from his mother.”
“Lamia?” I said in puzzlement. “Isn’t a lamia a type of witch? Don’t they have wings?”
“The ones with wings are rare; mostly they crawl or walk. His mother raised him on a farm, and assumed human shape while he was young. Only later did she reveal the truth to him. She is dead now, and sadly he has not outlasted her by long.”
I looked at Grimalkin in astonishment. There was much that I’d been in ignorance of . . . things that, had he lived, Tom might have told me.
“Wash the body,” the witch commanded. “I will hold the lantern.”
I soaked the rag in water and used it to wash his body, slowly removing the bloodstains and grime. At one point Grimalkin helped to turn him over. When I’d finished, we dressed him in the trousers and satin shirt that had been brought from the County to make him look like a prince.