Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13) (25 page)

It was my last glimpse of his part in the battle.

I never saw him alive again.

Stirred to action at last, the power of the enemy magic fading, our small band surged as one toward the enemy, toward the place where the Spook and Grimalkin still fought together against overwhelming odds.

This was a battle between the servants of the Fiend and those who opposed him. There were Pendle witches on both sides, but the majority of our enemies came from beyond the County—including those four monstrous abhumans who had moved the cart carrying the Fiend's body to this place.

There were witch clans from Essex and Suffolk, from Cymru too, and from Scotland. From far overseas they also came to fight here; to fight and die. I learned later that Romanian witches had fought alongside a small force of Celtic witches from Ireland.

The strength of those aligned against us was indeed fearsome. But perhaps our will to win was greater. We were spurred on by the thought of what would happen if we lost. And we didn't need to defeat them all. Our aim was simply to disrupt their attempts to restore the Fiend, force our way through to where his body was tied to the rocks, and sunder it once more. We would become the spear that Grimalkin had envisaged.

Historians have given learned accounts of great battles from the past that have determined the fate of nations and shaped our world. The Spook had some such detailed narratives in his library before it was destroyed by fire. They outlined maneuvers and deployments prior to engagement, the positioning of ranks, the order of attack. They described such battles from the point of view of gods looking down from a great height upon antlike combatants marching far below.

There were generals, too, in such accounts; skilled strategists and tacticians who sat high and proud on their horses behind the line where battle was joined. They noted the ebb and flow and instructed the sections of their army accordingly.

But if Grimalkin was indeed our general, she was too busy in the thick of battle to be concerned with the larger picture. We had only one clear objective—to reach the Wardstone and deal with the Fiend before it was too late.

Did our enemies also have a leader? Or had it been Katrina? If anybody was truly orchestrating the movements of our opponents, surely it would be Lukrasta?

I glanced up toward the Wardstone, thinking that was where he might position himself, wondering if Alice would be at his side. But I saw only the huge body of the Fiend.

I believe that battles are really nothing like those depicted by the histories that I have read—at least not for the individual combatant. There is fear, anger, and a certain sense that forces much larger than you hold you in their grip and decide whether you live or die. Then there is the stench of blood and excrement, and the screams of the wounded and dying.

It was like that for me from the moment we clashed with the enemy. I was not in the lead. Others ran faster than I, so at first I simply followed in their footsteps, and our opponents fell back before us. But gradually our advance toward the Wardstone slowed.

I saw my brother James using his huge blacksmith's hammer to clear our way—and I feared for him. Judd too I saw fighting somewhere to my left, and I wondered how many of my friends would perish this day.

At first I used my staff, reaching down over the shoulders of those in front of me to stab the enemy. Slowly the gap diminished as the allies ahead of me died and I stumbled over their bodies.

There was one moment of terrible grief—for one of the bodies I stepped over was known so well to me. The face of my dead master looked up at me, his unseeing eyes wide open.

But the tide of battle carried me forward, and I forced the stinging sorrow away. All that mattered right now was survival, and to make our way through to the Wardstone.

At some point the staff was torn from my grip. There was no space to use my sword, so I used my daggers as I was pressed forward against the witches.

The two short hero swords, Dolorous and Bone Cutter, felt light in my hands and found the flesh of my enemies. There was blood on their blades—and oozing from the skelt eyes in the hilts.

How long that close bloody fight went on I cannot estimate. My mind was befuddled by the tricks of time. I remember claws and blades striking at my face, arms, shoulders, and chest; at one point blood ran down into my eyes and I was temporarily blinded. But I fought on— until eventually something gave. Against the odds, we had broken through and were suddenly racing toward the Wardstone, harried on either side while a smaller group of witches waited ahead—their last defense, the rear guard of their army. Among them stood the four monstrous abhumans, wielding clubs, and as I watched, one dashed out the brains of a fearsome Deane witch, who was no match for her huge adversary.

Somehow I had to reach the Fiend, but how was I to get past the abhumans? Then, suddenly, Slake swooped down, screeching her hatred, claws extended, wings a blur, and the first of those monsters fell back, blinded, tatters of bloody skin hanging from the ruin of its face.

I saw Grimalkin again: a throwing knife dispatched the second of the abhumans. Her blades whirled, and she hamstrung the third, bringing him to his knees, ready to be finished by a long blade through the left eye.

Next I caught sight of a big man with a hammer running straight at the fourth. I realized it was James—and felt a moment of fear. I never saw who prevailed, because in seconds I was closing on the Wardstone, where the body of the Fiend was surrounded by a coven of thirteen chanting witches.

There was a scream just behind me, and I knew that one of my allies had fallen; others were running with me, but somehow I was drawing ahead.

I have always had a good sense of time, awaking from a night's sleep at exactly the hour I had appointed. I sensed that the moment of the Fiend's restoration had come. I ran faster.

The giant body stirred. The huge eyes opened and glared down at me, eyes full of victory and anticipation, eyes that promised unimaginable eternal torment.

On Pendle we had once failed. Now we had failed here too.

We were already too late.

The Fiend was back in the flesh.

His vengeance would be terrible.

CHAPTER XXIX

A Q
UESTION OF
T
IME

I
did not think. I leaped up onto the rock and began to climb toward the Fiend.

I glanced behind me. Nobody else was following me up. Perhaps the Fiend's supporters had prevented them?

I was alone. This was an outcome I hadn't anticipated, and my heart sank into my boots. I'd always thought that Grimalkin and the Spook would be with me, along with perhaps a dozen others, to share what had to be done.

This meant that it would no longer be possible to cut the Fiend into pieces and flee, but I could still play my part. Many had sacrificed their lives to bring me to this place. Their hopes rested on me now; whatever the cost, I couldn't let them down.

The witches around the Fiend had completed their ritual, and now thirteen pairs of malevolent, glittering eyes concentrated their attention on me. As they began to chant again, the air sparked and crackled around me as if about to burst into flame.

I was afraid.

The starblade hadn't protected me against the earlier spell that had halted me in my tracks. Would it help now?

To my relief, Grimalkin had been right about her gift: I found that their magic had no effect on me at all. I could hear the cries and the clash of weapons from the battle still being fought around the Wardstone, but the figures below seemed somehow distant, and were slowly being obscured by a green mist tinged with tendrils of blue. The mist that had filled the Spook's garden, bewitching both Grimalkin and the Spook, had been brought about by Alice's magic. Was she summoning this one too? Was it more dark magic? Magic not intended to harm me, but still effective because it prevented my allies from joining me on the Wardstone?

“Do not kill him!” the deep voice of the Fiend boomed out. “His soul will be mine for all time, but I wish to torment his flesh before he dies.”

The witches began to advance toward me, no doubt intending to seize me and give me to their master. I tried to remain calm and hold my fear at bay. Everything depended on me now. Even if I failed, I must do my very best. I would fight until the last spark of life remained within me.

The gigantic figure of the Fiend loomed above me, his face a grotesque gargoyle, a gloating, cruel smile showing the stumps of his broken yellow teeth. I noticed that his eye was still missing too. Although his head was firmly back upon his shoulders, he had not reverted to his original form as I had expected. Had something gone wrong with the ritual? I wondered.

Suddenly he turned his head and leaned toward me, snapping some of the ropes that bound his left shoulder and arm and pulling a shower of nails out of the rock.

In response, I concentrated my mind, bringing one of Mam's gifts to bear against him.

Concentrate! Squeeze time! Make it stop!

I had used this talent successfully many times, and had gradually become more and more skilled—it had enabled us to subdue the Fiend in Ireland.

But this time it seemed to have no effect. Was the Fiend resisting me with his own ability to control time?

I tried again:
Concentrate! Squeeze time! Make it stop!

Time continued as normal, ticking me forward toward my destruction. The one power that might have given me a chance against such a formidable opponent was ineffectual. Maybe it was because of the Wardstone . . . that rock had its own power over time.

Terrified, in a moment of panic I called out a name.

“Kratch!”

I did it without thought. I had promised to call on the boggart only if my need was great—if we faced total defeat. Wasn't that the situation now?

I glanced at the Fiend, expecting to see him lumbering to his feet, but the massive head twisted from side to side and he brought his free hand to his face, rubbing it across his forehead.

Was he in pain? He certainly seemed befuddled.

“Kratch!”
I shouted for the second time.

The witches were almost upon me, and I had a moment of doubt. I was summoning the creature to certain destruction—and to achieve what? It could only delay my fate. This powerful coven might be prepared, ready with a spell to fling at the boggart the moment it appeared. Even if it did prevail against the witches, it would have no chance at all against the Fiend.

My master had believed it was merely a creature of the dark; an entity that, but for the pact between us, would consider me its prey. But it had helped me once already, more than fulfilling its part of the deal. It had expressed a willingness to die if necessary. It had also called me brother and wanted to fight alongside me. Alone, I had no chance at all.

I looked down again. The green mist was thickening and spreading out below the Wardstone.

I turned back to the advancing witches and called the name of the boggart for the third time:

“KRATCH!”

Then I heard a purring deep inside my head, and the boggart spoke words that only I could hear.

I am here, brother! Now we fight to the death! I thank you for bringing me to a place where there is so much dark blood! I will drink the nectar of the witches first. The big one, the old maimed god, is also ready for the taking! I give him to you, but leave some of his rich powerful blood for me!

And then the boggart attacked the coven.

It began as it had last time. For a moment Kratch was visible as a giant catlike beast—a fearsome distortion of the ginger tomcat sometimes glimpsed in the kitchen at Chipenden. Then it morphed into a spiral of orange fire and whirled toward the nearest of the witches. She disintegrated in an explosion of flesh and blood. Tiny fragments of bone fell from the air like hail, but rather than melting on contact with the rock, they hissed like hot cinders falling into water.

Now their number was only twelve, not the thirteen required for a true coven. Their power must surely have been diminished.

I moved again, ready to attack the Fiend, who was now twisting his head from side to side as if in pain, seemingly oblivious to the struggle around him. The green mist completely encircled the Wardstone, and now I could neither see nor hear anything of the battle.

But then the other witches rallied, and joined together in a new chant. I heard Kratch scream; it was a cry torn from him by pain but filled with rage too. There was only one thing I could do: follow the boggart's advice.

I scrambled farther up the rock, drawing with my left hand one of the hero swords forged by the Old God Hephaestus, the dagger known as Bone Cutter. At the top, I emerged near the Fiend's left leg, continuing on toward his barrel of a chest. He still seemed preoccupied, so he failed to see the threat that I presented. And then—by luck or fate; call it what you will—I was gifted a chance.

His left hand ceased its rubbing and rested for a moment at his side, palm uppermost. I stabbed down with the blade, right through it. I expected it to come to a stop, but instead it bit deep into the rock and held firm.