The Spook’s Revenge: Book 13 (Spooks) (12 page)

I should probably have just spoken to the boggart, telling it what I intended; instead, without thinking, I did something very dangerous – something that would have shocked John Gregory.

He had always kept his distance from the creature.

But I acted from pure instinct.

I knelt down beside that cat-boggart and gently placed my hand upon its head. I could feel its fur, but the body was not warm like that of an animal. It was ice-cold.

Then, very slowly, I stroked it from its head to the tip of its long tail.

In response, the boggart stopped purring and became very still.

Unable to help myself, one part of me watching in astonishment at what I was risking, I repeated the action; once more I stroked it from head to tail.

This time the boggart gave a hiss; as I stroked it for the third time, I realized that its fur was standing up on end, its back arched.

What a fool I’d been. What had come over me? What madness had driven me to do such a thing? I remembered how irascible the boggart could be. On my first morning in the Spook’s house I’d come down to breakfast too early and had soon received a blow to the back of the head. My master had warned me that it could have been worse.

What would happen now? I needed the creature on my side.

Gradually the boggart began to glow in the darkness until I could see it clearly. A livid scar ran across its left eye: it had been blinded defending us against a daemonic entity called the Bane. Its remaining eye was a vortex of orange fire.

Now it seemed to be growing larger. My sense of danger grew too. Salt and iron could be effective against such creatures, but I had none in my pockets. I had left everything in my bag back in Chipenden. I had been pursuing witches, and my chosen weapons had been staff, sword and dagger.

Suddenly the boggart struck me a terrible blow and I fell backwards. I was stunned, barely conscious, in pain. It was if a shock wave had passed straight through me.

I was lying on my right side, my left hand stretched out in front of me. I sensed the boggart looming over me. Now it seemed much larger than I was.

Then it struck my left hand. I felt its claws rake my skin. Pain seared into the flesh, running up my arm and into my chest; I feared my heart would stop.

I was rigid with agony. My hand had surely been mangled, the flesh torn, the bones crushed. But I saw in the light of the moon that it was intact, but for a single scratch running across from my little finger to the base of my thumb. As I watched, dark blood welled up from the wound and began to trickle down towards my wrist.

Why had the boggart turned on me? How could I ever hope to understand the motives of such an alien entity? It seemed likely that this was a reaction to my audacity in stroking it – though its response could have been much worse. My hand was still connected to my arm. Perhaps our pact had survived my recklessness?

Suddenly I felt the boggart’s huge rough tongue begin to lick the blood from my hand. As it lapped, the pain receded from my body; I closed my eyes and fell into darkness.

I was dragged back to consciousness by a deep rumbling vibration that seemed to shake the ground beneath me. I was lying on my back and there was a cold, heavy weight across my lower legs.

I sat up very slowly and saw in the bright moonlight that the boggart had laid its huge head and paws across my body; the rumbling was its purr – a sound that in a normal cat indicated contentment. For a long time I didn’t dare move my legs, even though I had cramp: any movement that disturbed the boggart’s comfort might result in another violent reaction.

At last I could stand it no longer. I moved my legs very slightly. Immediately the weight vanished and the boggart disappeared.

I came to my feet and took a deep breath. Had it returned to Chipenden? I wondered. Had it abandoned me?

But then I heard a voice, harsh and sibilant, right inside my head.

I thirst!
it hissed insistently.
The rabbits welcomed me, thank you, but were just morsels. Now I need to quench my thirst with human blood. I kept my promise and answered your summons. Now you must provide me with what I need!

My previous communications with the boggart had been very different: I had spoken and it had understood, but it had scratched its replies on wood. Why had things changed now? Was this another gift inherited from Mam?

I reflected that it might well be connected with the fact that it had drunk my blood.

What are we waiting for?
demanded the voice of the boggart.
No human has ever dared touch me before. You are brave! You are worthy to walk with me. Let us kill together!

It seemed that it was happy with me after all. That was why it had been purring.

‘Yes, we’ll go together to the tower on the hill where my enemies are lodged!’ I replied. ‘Help me to defeat them and their blood is yours.’

So saying, I picked up my staff and set off. The boggart was still invisible, but I could hear it padding at my side as we climbed the final hill. I halted just short of the narrow stone steps and drove my staff into the ground.

‘I’ll climb up to the tower and fight those who emerge,’ I told it. ‘Then I will retreat slowly, drawing them forth. While I live, do not pass beyond this staff! If I die or fall, then you may attack at will. But when my retreat brings me back below this staff and as many as possible are in the open, that is when I wish you to attack. At that moment you may kill all those both within and without the tower – with the exception of one person. The girl, Alice, whom you know, is not to be harmed. Do you understand and accept?’

I knew that the boggart could enter through the arrow slits and slay the witches; but in the confines of the tower they might be able to combine their magic and fight it off. That was why I needed to surprise them out in the open.

Yes!
hissed the boggart.
It is a good plan. They will be easier to hunt and kill out in the open. My thirst will be slaked more rapidly!

I looked up at the dark tower and the narrow steps that led to the door. With my right hand I drew the sword; with my left the dagger called Bone Cutter.

I began to climb.

THE STEEP STONE
steps were barely wide enough for two to walk abreast, and that would serve me well. On either side was a sheer drop to the rocks below, so it would be difficult for my enemies to surround me and come at me from behind. Their superiority in numbers would count for little.

I climbed at a steady pace, wondering if I was being watched. Were there eyes hidden behind the arrow slits? I did not expect to be fired upon – witches did not use bows themselves, though they sometimes employed servants to carry out tasks such as cooking . . . and opening the iron gate that I now approached (direct contact with iron was painful for a witch). They might have people to fight for them too – I just had to hope that none of these were bowmen.

Halfway up the steps, I started to wonder if Alice was still in the balcony room. At the thought of her alone in there with the moustached stranger, my anger flared. I tried to banish it from my mind. If I were to succeed in what I was about to attempt I needed a clear head.

I reached the door and paused before it, taking a deep breath to steady myself.

Then I struck it hard, three times, with the hilt of my sword.

The sound of each blow was loud enough to awaken the dead, echoing around from valley to hill again and again. But there was no response. Nothing seemed to be moving within that dark tower.

So I struck the door three more times – harder than before.

All was still and silent. What were the witches doing? Were they gathering behind the door, ready to attack? If so, they could not take me by surprise, for the door was heavy, and opened only slowly.

For the third time I beat on the door with my sword. And this time I shouted out a challenge:

‘Come out and fight, cowards! Come out and die! What are you waiting for?’

Perhaps they were watching me through the arrow slits – surely thinking that I was touched with madness. Either that or I had reached such depths of despair that I desired death. For what could one person do against so many enemies? But they did not know about the boggart.

The boggart had defended the Spook’s garden for many years. Early in my apprenticeship I’d been pursued by the witch Bony Lizzie and the abhuman Tusk – but I’d reached the sanctuary of the Spook’s garden just in time, and the boggart had driven them away. Even a powerful witch like Lizzie had run from it in terror. It had also fought off that powerful daemon called the Bane and, more recently, Romanian witches. It was a force to be reckoned with.

I hoped it would take these witches completely by surprise. It was unlikely that they could discover the specific danger – though some of them had no doubt long-sniffed the future and sensed the threat of death. If this was the case, they might ignore my challenge and stay inside the tower. Then I would have to command the boggart to go in. It might be able to kill many of them before they could fight back with their magic. But that would not open the door for me. The Fiend’s head would still be out of reach.

Suddenly there was a harsh sound – the grating of metal upon stone – and slowly the door began to move, no doubt dragged open by the witches’ servants. I waited, my blades at the ready. When it was less than a third open, it stopped, and I stared into a darkness that the moonlight could not penetrate. There were eyes glowing in the gloom; the strange wide eyes of witches staring out at me.

All at once my confidence wavered. Fear seized me, filling me with doubts that I had previously thrust to the back of my mind. What if I couldn’t carry out my plan? There might be skilled fighters here – perhaps even a witch assassin; someone with the ability to pierce my guard with ease and slay me on the steps.

While I stood there, the door began to open further, pulled by unseen hands. It was almost half open when the first witch attacked. Her hair was long and hung down over her face; it parted to reveal one baleful eye, a hooked nose and the slit of a sneering mouth. She ran straight at me, a long thin blade in her left hand.

I took two rapid steps: the first backwards, moving down; the second to the right.

Her wild swing missed my head by inches. Then I retaliated. I did not use a blade; I simply smashed my left elbow into the side of her head. That and her own momentum carried her over the edge of the steps. She screamed as she fell. Then there was a horrible thud as her body struck the boulders below. I glanced down and saw blood splattered on the rocks, black and wet in the moonlight.

Now my fear was gone. My objective was to retrieve the Fiend’s head – and to do so, I first had to clear the steps of witches. Grimalkin had once told me that she fought within the present, living in each moment, without thought of the future. I had to do that now. So I concentrated and stepped into another place where all that mattered was the need to deal with each attack.

Almost immediately, two more witches came for me, shrieking and spitting curses as they emerged through the door. This time I quickly retreated further down the stone stairs. Although there were two of them, their attack was uncoordinated and they posed little threat. Their blades were easily parried and I thrust quickly with my own. One fell away to the right; the other collapsed sideways across the steps, forcing the next attacker to step over her body.

I continued my descent, fighting my enemies in ones and twos, driving them back, parrying their blows. But inevitably, they started to advance in larger numbers – perhaps eight or nine emerged at once from behind the iron door. Faced with this, I turned and ran – though halfway down the steps I halted, spun suddenly and readied my blades. They were many and I was but one. Yet barely two could attack me together; the others must wait behind while I despatched their vanguard.

But they were not helpless; while I fought those closest to me, the others gathered their collective strength and began to use their magic. Their faces distorted and became daemonic; their hair clustered into coils of writhing snakes; forked tongues spat poison towards me. I knew it was an illusion – part of the common witch spell known as
Dread
.

A seventh son of a seventh son has some immunity against the dark magic of witches; but this is not totally effective. The illusions soon faded, but the force of their magic filled me with a fear that was more difficult to banish. It also repelled me: I was pushed backwards as if by a great wind, struggling to stand my ground.

I gritted my teeth and fought on, and as I gathered my own strength and rallied, the ruby eyes in both sword and dagger began to drip blood that was far redder than that which now streaked the blades. I regained control; my retreat was once again slow and steady, as I had planned, even though more and more witches came hurrying out above me.

Soon there were fewer than twenty steps remaining before I reached the ground and passed beyond my staff, at which point the boggart would attack. But then I heard a noise from above – the click that I remembered from the previous night. And out onto that high balcony came Alice and the tall moustached stranger whom I took to be Lukrasta, the dark mage of the
Doomdryte
.