The Spook’s Revenge: Book 13 (Spooks) (28 page)

THERE WAS STILL
enough light to make out the shapes of buildings through the trees ahead. A light breeze was blowing towards me and it carried an unpleasant smell – something fetid and unclean – in the air.

I emerged from the wood to find myself on the edge of a ruined village. The roofs had collapsed; some of the houses were just heaps of rubble and blackened beams lay everywhere.

This sight reminded me of the aftermath of the war that had swept through the County. The same enemy patrol that had burned down the Spook’s house had attacked the village. They’d killed, burned and looted. But the devastation here looked much worse.

It was then that I came upon the first of the dead bodies. It was that of a man; he had clearly been dead for a number of days and decomposition was well underway. I soon saw others: some were children; all were male. Had the women escaped? I wondered.

The next person I found lying in the rubble was still alive, though badly injured. He was lying on his back, with a heavy stone lintel lying across his left leg. His trousers were soaked with blood – the leg was badly crushed. To give him any hope of life it should have been amputated, but it was now too late for that. The leg was already gangrenous. I could smell it from ten paces. The poison would have spread through his body.

He groaned, opened his eyes and stared at me.

I suddenly recognized him: it was the village blacksmith.

With a shock, I realized that the ruined village was indeed Chipenden.

But this couldn’t be real. It was just a magical illusion, surely?

This man had been the Spook’s main contact in the village; the skilled smith who had fashioned the retractable blades in the ends of our staffs; who’d kept him informed of village news and gossip – a necessary contact for a spook who, because of the nature of his job fighting the dark, was isolated from the life of the community.

The blacksmith was clearly dying, but I noticed something else. He looked older. It wasn’t just the gaunt face, perhaps a result of lying in pain without food, water or shelter. His hair had greyed at the temples.

‘Mr Ward?’ he said, his voice hardly more than a croak. ‘Is it you? Can that be possible?’

Illusion or not, he had spoken to me, and I replied automatically. ‘Yes, it’s me,’ I said, walking over to kneel beside him.

‘But you’re dead!’ he exclaimed. ‘How can this be?’

I shook my head. ‘You’re mistaken. I’m alive. Who did this?’

‘Why ask that? Surely you know. Who else but beast warriors and their mages . . .?’

He must mean the Kobalos . . . A terrible thought came into my mind. That while I was on the Wardstone, many years had passed back on earth. What if I’d stepped through the second door and had been carried by Lukrasta’s magic to a Chipenden far in the future, when the Kobalos had invaded the County?

The smith began to cough and choke. ‘Water, please,’ he begged. ‘My lips are parched. Give me water.’

I was torn. This was surely some magical deceit conjured by Lukrasta, another illusion. That’s what I wanted to believe. And yet the plight of the poor smith seemed all too real. How could I refuse him?

He raised a shaking hand and pointed towards the trees. ‘The stream,’ he said.

At the foot of the slope was a shallow stream that bubbled over rocks. The water was ice-cold and delicious. I’d drunk from it myself many times. But first I needed something to carry it in.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ I told the smith, and then began to search through the ruined houses. In the shell of a kitchen, I found what I was looking for. Pots, pans and other utensils were strewn amongst the rubble. I picked up a large pan and carried it down the slope into the trees.

I knelt beside the stream and angled the pan against the flow of water. It started to fill.

‘I wouldn’t bother with that,’ a deep voice said behind me. ‘You’re just wasting your time. He died a few moments after you left him.’

I dropped the pan in the water and leaped to my feet, whirling round.

It was my enemy, the mage Lukrasta.

It was the first time I had been close to him; he was even more formidable than he had looked from a distance. I gazed at the long moustache; the feral mouth with sharp white teeth and lips that were unusually pink, as if suffused with blood. But on closer inspection, the eyes were his most striking feature. They were close set, and blazed with a fierce intensity. They were arrogant eyes, mirrors of a soul filled with the knowledge and certainty of its own power. He was almost a head taller than me, and his body was muscular, like that of the dead blacksmith in his prime.

In a scabbard at his hip he carried a sword. That pleased me. I wanted him to defend himself.

‘What did you hope to achieve by all these illusions?’ I asked. ‘Are you trying to play with my mind to give you some sort of advantage?’

‘They were not illusions,’ said Lukrasta. ‘The tower is real, and everything within it has the potential to be real too. This is my home – the very same tower that that you entered in Cymru.’

‘That’s impossible,’ I replied, looking him in the eye. ‘Here, the tower stands on a flat plain. If this is Cymru, where are the mountains?’

‘Over aeons, mountains can be levelled, seas can evaporate and a landscape can change beyond recognition. This is still Cymru; the place is the same but the time is different. Did you not notice the sun?’

‘That is not our sun,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I think you’re lying. The Wardstone carried me into the dark. We are probably still there, in another of the domains.’

Lukrasta gave me a sardonic smile. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We are still in Cymru, as I told you. But we are close to the end of the world. The earth is almost devoid of life and cools as the dying sun cools. The Wardstone can travel through time and space as well as visit the dark. That enabled me to bring you to this place. But my home, the Tower of Time, can move through that dimension, but not space. It always remains rooted in this same spot.’

Lukrasta had a sincerity about him that was all too convincing. That was why the witches had taken the Fiend’s body to his tower. They had wanted him to use his powerful magic to protect it. But with the boggart’s help I’d put paid to that.

‘Then what about what I saw in that room?’ I asked. ‘You said that everything in the tower is potentially real. What do you mean by that?’

‘Yes, everything you saw is from a time and place on earth, conjured up by my magic. I have shown you what
could
come to pass if things do not change. It is similar to the scrying of a witch. What she foresees
might
come to pass. But things are not fixed, and decisions and acts by others can change the future. When the witch scrys the same thing at a later date, it will have changed – she will find something different. Thus it has always been. The future is never fixed.
You
can help to change it.’

What he was telling me was very close to what my own master had always believed – that each of our actions shapes the future; that it is not fixed. Well, I was about to change the future again.

‘Yes, I think I’ll do just that!’ I told him bitterly, images of Lukrasta and Alice together flickering into my mind. ‘I’ll start by putting an end to you. Draw your sword!’

‘Haven’t you listened to a single word I’ve said?’ Lukrasta asked impatiently, an edge of anger in his voice now. ‘You have made a great mistake in putting an end to the Fiend. Now the Kobalos god has been born. He will steadily grow in power until none of the Old Gods will be able to resist his will. Through that birth, the mage strength of the Kobalos has already been tripled and will continue to grow. They are breeding new creatures to fight a war of conquest and extermination against mankind.
You
will play a part in our defence. You must do so! That is the least you can do to make up for your foolishness.’

‘What I intend to do is go back to Chipenden and continue to fight the dark in the best way I know – as the Spook’s apprentice.’

‘In that case you will need a new master. John Gregory died in the battle.’

I felt a mixture of grief and anger, but I knew it was true because I’d glimpsed his dead face – though to hear it from Lukrasta’s lips was unbearable. So I vented my feelings in the only way I knew.

‘Draw your sword!’ I commanded him. ‘I won’t give you another chance.’

‘What a fool you are to challenge me! What do you hope to achieve? Who do you think you are?’ demanded Lukrasta.

‘I am a seventh son of a seventh son,’ I told him. As I drew the starblade with my right hand, flakes of rust fell onto the grass at my feet. ‘I’m the son of a good man, a farmer who taught me right from wrong; who taught me manners; who taught me what goodness is. But I’m also the son of the first Lamia who, although a loving mother, could be fierce and cruel beyond your imagination. I’m the child of them both. And I’ve been trained by John Gregory, perhaps the greatest spook the County has ever known. I’m Thomas Ward, your worst nightmare. You’ve lived too long, Lukrasta, and this is the time of your death. And now I’ll say it for the third time: draw your sword!’

Lukrasta muttered under his breath and made a sign in the air.

I tensed. This was the moment of truth. Would the starblade be strong enough to protect me against his magic?

Sparks flickered at his fingertips and a blue light flashed towards me. But I held the sword vertically before my face and the light played around its sharp tip before changing to orange and fading away.

I smiled then, showing my teeth.

Grimalkin had forged a powerful weapon for me. The mage couldn’t hurt me with his magic. I was about to have my revenge. I would pay him back for taking Alice from me.

‘Where did you get that weapon?’ he demanded, his voice cold and imperious.

‘It was fashioned by the witch assassin Grimalkin, and she gave it to me,’ I told him. ‘She calls it the “starblade” because of what it was made from. While I possess it, your magic is powerless against me. So let’s see how well you can fight. Let’s see how well you can die.’

Lukrasta straightened his back, held his head high and looked down at me. ‘The last thing I took you for was a fool!’ he growled. ‘It looks like I was wrong.’

Then, finally, he drew his sword.

LUKRASTA DREW HIS
sword but did not attack. He waited, his weapon held vertically like my own. His expression was inscrutable but his eyes were fixed upon my blade.

I would have to initiate the fight.

I took a tentative step towards him and thrust the tip of my sword towards his chest. He made no attempt to parry. He just took two rapid steps backwards, taking us further from the stream.

I jabbed again, and he retreated further. There was a tree behind him; soon his back would be against the trunk. So, thinking to force him to retreat, I ran at him, bringing my sword round in an arc towards his head. For the first time he used his own sword. Its blade met mine in mid-air, and the woodland was filled with the sound of clashing metal and the beating of wings as a flock of frightened birds took flight.

I pressed home my attack, getting into the swing of things, seeking an opening in his defence. But he too was moving now, on his toes, his weapon blocking each thrust and swing of my own. Lukrasta certainly knew how to use a sword, but I sensed that he was not fighting to his full ability, and that angered me. He was moving sideways in an arc rather than backwards, and now my own back was to the trees. Even though he was on the defensive, he still managed to manipulate me, choosing his position and manoeuvring me where he wanted me.

So I stepped up the pace and drove him towards the stream.

I was really getting into a rhythm now, using all the tricks that Grimalkin had taught me. The sword felt light, the balance just right. It was the perfect weapon for me. I was getting my second wind, my speed gradually building. It was as if I could predict each of Lukrasta’s moves in advance, but that was relatively easy because each was a reaction to what I did. He was still fighting defensively.

I had him at the edge of the water now, and I saw my chance. He seemed to hesitate and glance backwards down at the stream.

Was he like a witch, unable to cross running water?

Seeing his hesitation and temporary loss of concentration, I took my opportunity. The scything stroke of my sword should have sundered his head from his body. But he suddenly stepped back into the water with far more grace than he had so far displayed.

My blade missed.

But his didn’t.

Passing within a hair’s breadth of my left eye, the tip of his sword cut my cheek to the bone.

I staggered back, my cheek burning, feeling the blood run down my face and onto my neck. Lukrasta was smiling at me arrogantly, standing up to his knees in the fast-flowing stream. It had been a trick. He had been waiting for me to overextend myself.

‘Only one side of your face will be handsome now!’ he mocked. ‘But never fear. I’m sure there is a woman somewhere who will take pity on you!’

He could have said anything but that. He had taken Alice from me; he had ended my dream of being with her someday; he had shattered our friendship as casually as a drunken man hurls an empty glass against a wall.