A New Darkness (6 page)

I looked about me. Next to the bones I noticed half a dozen empty wine bottles. They could be improvised as weapons, but I would have to move quickly. My joints might be stiff and slow to respond after my time lying unconscious on the floor. Moreover, I reflected, even blows directed at the creature’s head might not be enough to incapacitate it.

Whatever the risks, I had to try. Surely Jenny could not endure what was being done to her for very much longer. Soon, as a result of the blood loss, her heart would weaken and cease beating altogether.

Just as I’d made up my mind to act, the decision was taken away from me. The creature slowly drew the transparent pipe out of Jenny’s neck and rose to its feet.

Was she dead . . . ? I studied her anxiously and was relieved to see that she was still breathing. Once more her eyes opened wide, and she mouthed the words:
Help me, please.

Without even a glance in my direction, the beast crossed the room, pushed open the door, and left. Presumably it thought I was still unconscious. I could hear the wind sighing through the trees. It must have left through an outer door in the trunk, one at ground level.

Now was my chance to free Jenny and make our escape before the monster returned. There was a possibility that it was playing some sort of game with me. Perhaps it had realized that I could move and was waiting to ambush me outside, ready to take pleasure in ending my hopes of escape.

But I had to take a chance. I started to get to my feet. I would release Jenny and escape! I could do it.

However, I barely had time to move before that hope was dashed. The door opened again and the beast came in—leaving it slightly ajar. I could see a jagged vertical line of pale yellow light. The moon must have risen.

The beast went over to Jenny and sat down beside her, ready to insert the pipe into her neck once more.

I racked my brain, desperately considering every possible course of action, then rejecting them one by one. I realized that there was only one thing I could do now; I had just one chance to save Jenny. I didn’t want to do it, but I had no choice. How could I let her die?

I scrambled to my feet and lurched toward the door. I pushed it open and ran out into the night air. I glanced back once and saw Jenny staring out at me with a pleading look on her face, thinking that I had abandoned her.

I steeled myself and ran on, glancing back once or twice. To my relief, the creature had not followed me.

This was fortunate: I staggered as I ran, and the breath rasped painfully in my throat. The beast’s magic had sapped my strength, and I would have been easy to catch.

Two minutes later, I crossed a stream and bent down to slake my thirst with cold, clear water. After that I felt a bit better, and as I ran my strength gradually returned; I picked up the pace. By now the moon had disappeared behind a cloud, but I knew the way well, and the darkness hardly impeded me at all.

At last I crossed into the Chipenden garden and ran toward the house. I didn’t bother to go inside. I needed only two things—a lantern and a spade. I snatched both from the lean-to where the tools were kept and headed for the western garden.

This was where my master was buried.

Despite my sorrow and revulsion at what I had to do, I had no choice.

I had to dig up his coffin.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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7

The Starblade

A
FTER
my master’s death at the Battle of the Wardstone, Grimalkin wanted me to keep the Starblade and accompany her to face an even greater threat that she had scryed—from a savage people to the north, the Kobalos. I’d had no stomach for any more fighting and had offered the sword to her, but she had refused. However, I had made sure that it would never fall into the wrong hands. While the protection against magic worked only for me, the ore was very valuable and rare and could be crafted into a different weapon for someone else. I had hidden the sword in a place where only someone strong enough to get past the boggart would have been able to reach it: under my master’s coffin. At the time, I couldn’t imagine ever desecrating the grave to retrieve it.

Now, however, I had urgent need of it. I lit the lantern and hung it from a low branch so that it cast its light over the area. Then, with tears running down my cheeks, I attacked the grave, throwing spadefuls of soil over my shoulder.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I called out as I worked, my words addressed to John Gregory, my dead master. “I’m so sorry!”

What a fool I had been. Could I not have foreseen such a situation when I would need protection against dark magic?

The Starblade should give me a chance against the beast, a chance to save Jenny. I was sure of it.

At last there was the thud of metal against wood. I’d dug down as far as the Spook’s coffin. Now, despite my need for haste, my digging became less frantic and more careful. I didn’t want to damage the casket in which his body lay.

I dug to one side and, once my pit was level with the bottom of the coffin, threw aside the spade and scooped soil away with my hands, trying to excavate underneath it. I was careful at first, because the blade of the sword was really sharp. But then, realizing that time was running out, I threw caution to the wind.

But I couldn’t find the sword!

I broke out in a cold sweat. Had someone stolen it? I wondered. How could that have happened when the boggart guarded the garden?

I wondered if Grimalkin had taken it with her after all. That night, after burying my master, she had worked her magic to lessen the disfiguring scar where the mage Lukrasta had sliced open my face. Afterward we had both slept, and then, after saying a brief farewell, she had taken her leave. She’d had time to dig it out and put back the soil; after all, I had offered it back to her. It was her right to take it, but how dearly that might cost me now . . . without it, I would be vulnerable to this creature’s powerful magic.

Hope fading, my fingers continued their desperate search beneath the coffin. At last, to my relief, they touched metal. But pulling the sword free wasn’t easy. My fingers found the edge of the blade, and that was enough to cut them and draw blood. I struggled to free the hilt, aware that the threat to Jenny was growing with every passing second. At last I got a firm grip, and moments later I had pulled the blade out of the soil and was sprinting back in the direction of the beast’s lair.

Would I be in time to save Jenny? I feared that she might already be dead.

Once again the moon was out, and by its light I saw the oak tree ahead, clearly visible from a distance, a colossus that towered over the rest of the wood. I stopped running a couple of hundred yards short of it and continued more cautiously.

Speed was important, but I didn’t want to give the creature any warning of my arrival. Surprise might make all the difference here.

The wood was totally silent. Nothing moved in the undergrowth. I could hear nothing from the huge tree, either.

Gripping the sword in my right hand, I approached the massive trunk, searching for the ground-level door. I expected to find it closed and perhaps impossible to open. In that case, I would hammer on the trunk. I would lose the element of surprise, but I would at least draw him out, away from Jenny.

But, to my surprise, it was still ajar—just enough for me to insert the fingers of my left hand. I took a deep breath and eased the door open very slowly. The beast had its back to me, and Jenny was still hanging by her feet. But the creature was no longer using the pipe to draw blood from her neck. Its jaws were clamped about her shoulder, and it was snarling as it shook her body. Blood had soaked through her dress. It had bitten her all over her torso.

Filled with rage, I stepped inside and raised the sword, ready to strike.

Suddenly the creature let go of Jenny and, without bothering to turn and face me, addressed me in its rasping voice. It had known all along that I was entering its lair.

“What a fool you are to return here, little human! Do you care so much for a mere purra that you are willing to sacrifice your own life in a futile attempt to save her? You are breathing hard—you have been running. Did you fear that she would die unless you hastened back? Her blood is sweet and I sip it sparingly, savoring every mouthful. She will live for many days before I finally drain her.”

The creature rose to its feet and turned to face me. It had shrunk and was now barely taller than me. When it spoke, I saw that its teeth and lips were stained red with Jenny’s blood.

“Once sated, I would have hunted you down and slain you anyway. In truth, by returning, all you have done is hasten your demise. Though I have to admit, I am puzzled. I used boska to render you unconscious—a magic that has never before failed me. When I breathed into your face, it seemed as effective as usual. But the spell should have lasted for many days, unless I administered an antidote. How can it be that after just one short hour you have returned to consciousness?”

Its words made me realize how close I had come to disaster. Somehow, against all the odds, I had survived; better still, my recovery had taken the beast by surprise. I wondered if it was something else that I had inherited from Mam. Had my lamia blood enabled me to resist the full effect of this magic . . . whatever it was?

Without replying to the question, I took a step forward and prepared to strike. The creature smiled, muttered a few words, and advanced on me. It seemed totally confident that its magic would render me powerless.

For a second I was certain of this too. Iron and salt had proved useless against the beast, as had my silver chain. What if Grimalkin’s magic was ineffective here too? After all, this was not any sort of human mage I was facing. . . . One way or another, I was about to find out!

I swung the sword straight at the beast’s head.

The creature quickly moved backward, but the tip of my blade caught it just above the left eye. There was an expression of surprise on its face as blood began to trickle down its cheek. It muttered again—no doubt some spell. So I gripped the Starblade more tightly, hoping that the sword and Grimalkin’s magic would prove effective against this unknown power.

There was nothing special about the appearance of the weapon. The hilt was not ornate, and the blade was a dull brown, as if covered with rust. But the balance was perfect for me, and Grimalkin had told me that it would never need to be sharpened.

“Your sword, little human—I have never encountered its like!” exclaimed the creature.

Then it did the last thing I expected: it turned and ran. There had to be some reason, I thought. Perhaps it had gone to get a weapon?

I hesitated for a moment before giving chase, wondering whether I should cut Jenny free and lower her to the ground. But I decided that it was better to finish off the beast first. I couldn’t bind it, so it would kill it and end its threat. Who knew what it might conjure against me if I delayed? I followed it up a spiral staircase cut into the inner trunk of the tree.

I emerged into the large room I’d first seen, the one furnished with the chairs, table, and shelves of books and jars. I looked again at the red lambskin rugs. I wondered if they’d been dyed with blood. But surely blood wouldn’t stay so red. . . .

The creature appeared through a doorway to my right. It now clutched weapons in both hands: in its left was a curved sword, which is sometimes called a saber; in its right, a long-bladed dagger.

I attacked immediately, driving the beast backward. But it was very skilful: the saber met each blow of my sword, filling the room with the clash of metal upon metal.

I was wary of the dagger, which the creature held close to its side, waiting for an opportunity to strike. I resolved not to step too close. My opponent might drag me in and use that short blade.

There are two effective modes of combat. One is to remain cold and calculating, observing every detail of an opponent’s technique, assessing strengths and weaknesses, before delivering the death blow. The other is to surrender to what the mind and body already know and fight using instinct, the weapons and moves mere extensions of one’s own body, which then acts faster than thought.

But there is also a third, more dangerous way of doing battle—to fight driven by rage. Those opponents who attack you filled with a berserker fury are the easiest to counter and kill.

This was how I fought now. My anger was fueled by the creature’s behavior—by the way it had treated Jenny, biting her back and shoulders, tying her up and hanging her by her feet from the ceiling like an animal ready for the slaughter before drinking her blood. Moreover, it had murdered the other three girls. Its arrogance and presumption . . . to think that it could enter the County, which I guarded against the dark, and treat women like slaves, taking their lives as if they were of no value.

In a fury, I drove the beast backward until I had forced it right up against the heavy table. Then I did something I hadn’t planned; I simply used what was at hand. I seized one of the bottles of red wine from the tabletop and smashed it into the beast’s head.

The bottle broke, showering the creature with red wine. It staggered back, shaking that huge head as if momentarily stunned. Taking advantage of its predicament, I thrust my blade past its guard and deep into its chest.