Shadow Spell (18 page)

Hen, with Nin at her heels, had barely gone more than a few yards when there was a sound of thundering hooves and something galloped into the centre of the village. It was huge and horrible and riding on the back of a midnight-black beast, with hooves of scarlet fire.

There was a flurry of shouts as people leapt out of its way. Someone screamed and Nin grabbed hold of Hen. She remembered the horseman they had seen on the way
here. It had been riding towards the Terrible House, then.

A couple of huge Grimm charged out of a hut, both clutching weapons. Hen grabbed Nin and pushed her back, standing in front of her.

The horse reared up, snorting, its flame hooves scattering sparks on the air before they thundered down to the ground again. More screams. One of the Grimm roared a challenge.

And then Nin took a look at the rider. He must have been at least eight foot tall, with a face like somebody's nightmare made real. She saw blue-black skin that glistened in the light, shiny and hard as a beetle's, and yellow eyes that glowed like mini-suns. But most importantly she saw a T-shirt printed with a picture of a grinning skull and the words ‘Did Someone Say Party?'

‘Taggit!' she yelled, feeling a surge of excitement.

The two Grimm paused, looked at Nin, then lowered their weapons as the Fabulous goblin brought his mount to a halt next to her. He towered over her and Hen like a dark cliff.

‘Got meself a fiery steed,' he said. ‘Not many of ‘em left, so I reckon some o' your luck musta rubbed off on me!'

The beast snorted and rolled black eyes at Nin. Steaming sweat ran from its glossy coat and now it was standing still the flames had died down, leaving hooves that glowed red hot.

‘I've been to the ‘Ouse but no sign of Skerridge or the mudman so I guessed they came ‘ere. Saw Strood's army
though!' His Halloween face twisted into a grimace.

The townsfolk had begun to gather, faces gawping at the sight of a real live fiery steed. Taggit raised his voice.

‘Right, you lot,' he yelled. ‘Strood's comin' an' it's about time we got a plan. Cos if we're not ready ‘e's gonna eat us alive.'

More gathered.

‘So what we're gonna do is this, we're gonna start the fight now, see. Make sure that most of Strood's army never reaches Hilfian. And then, maybe, we'll be able to fight off those that are left.'

Already there was a different feel in the town. Hopeful. Purposeful.

‘By the way,' whispered Nin to Hen while Taggit barked orders and the town got to work. ‘Where is Skerridge?'

The old woman winked. ‘Gone spying,' she said. ‘Won't that be fun for someone!'

Jibbit had found a place in the first platoon, on top of Hathor's helmet. Hathor was Strood's giant-Grimm guard, an armour-coated mini-mountain, who stomped along at the head of the army, just in front of Dunvice and Stanley.

Turning around carefully on the helmet, Jibbit looked back the way they had come. It had turned into a beautiful day, clear as a bell and full of golden light. By now, the House was a distant smudge, its chimneys, towers and sloping roofs no more than a blur against the blue sky, and the sea was a line of deeper hue on the horizon. Between the House and Hathor flowed the tiger-men, a river of gold, the dark stripes on their backs like hurrying ripples.

Although the tiger-men had been fashioned from crowsmorte, they had been grown with Quick blood and so were a mixture of Quick and Fabulous. In Jibbit's view that made them technically Grimm, though it was often hard to tell where Strood's experiments were concerned. He thought their glowing eyes and strong,
wiry bodies were certainly Grimm rather than Quick. Though definitely not Fabulous.

Jibbit's eyes flicked to the two Fabulous goblins, at the left and right flank of the horde, looking like walking slabs of rock, bristling with axes, knives and spiked-balls-on-chains, and radiating physical power. And then to Lord Greyghast, the Fabulous werewolf, his yellow eyes like twin fires in his dark shape as he flowed along at the centre of the horde, leaving a stain of shadow on the air behind him. As far as Jibbit was concerned, the Fabulous were unmistakable.

There would have been Strood's Fabulous bogeymen too, but it was daylight and no proper bogeyman would go out in the daylight. But then, they had superspeed and could catch up any time they pleased.

Studded throughout the horde of tiger-men, keeping the platoons in order and sticking out like so many sore thumbs, were Strood's goblin-Grimm guards, like Stanley. Stanley had been promoted and was in charge of the whole army – he was now Commanding Officer Stanley – but Dunvice, the werewolf-Grimm, acted as back-up and was responsible for getting nasty if anyone didn't immediately do as they were told. Except (of course) for the Fabulous members of the army who could do what they liked with no argument from anyone simply because they were Fabulous.

Jibbit's eye settled on a figure he hadn't seen about the House before. Which was odd because he was sure he would have noticed an insane, white-faced, glittery-eyed
kid in a duffel coat, who might do nothing but watch you horribly till you were crazy with fear. But then again might do something else involving knives. And who almost certainly
knew where you lived …

Oh well. Jibbit shrugged, shaking off the feeling of stealthy oppression that had crept over him. He went back to viewing the scene.

At the rear of the army, stacks of great wooden rafts were rolling along on beds of wheels, dragged by a platoon of tiger-men. Each pile was stacked up three or four deep. The army didn't have time to go around the Heart of Celidon. It was going to go through it, travelling on the river so that the speeding water would carry them quickly through the deadly fog to bring them out the other side, hopefully alive.

Altogether it was an impressive sight, but all it did for Jibbit was to fill him with a kind of wobbling sensation in the area of his middle. The truth was that although he could kill people with his freezing rainwater spit, or split their heads open by falling on them, he didn't really want to. Especially not the last thing because that meant travelling in a downwardly direction which meant he might end up on the gr … gr … really low. He sighed deeply, then realised that Commanding Officer Stanley was staring at him.

‘If it's downphobic,' said the CO heavily, ‘why don' it sit on one o' them goblins? They're the ‘ighest it's likely to get.'

Dunvice shrugged. ‘Ask it.'

‘Is not polite tooo talk about people when they are there,' said Jibbit crossly.

‘Yew ain't people,' said Stanley in a reasonable tone. ‘Yore a carved lumpa stone wiv additions.'

The gargoyle hooted irritably. ‘In answer tooo your question what yoo didn't ask me, I doesn't want tooo go near Fabulous.'

Dunvice gave a short laugh. ‘It's got some sense then.'

Jibbit glared at her, clenching his toes in anger and frustration. ‘You're still doing it!'

‘Oy!' Hathor thumped the side of his helmet with a metal fisted hand. ‘Stop wiv the claws or yer gravel.'

Jibbit squawked with fright, but managed to hang on.

Stanley chuckled. ‘It's a bit of entertainment I s'pose. Least it don' give me the creeps.' He was silent for a moment, thinking about the tiger-men, who most certainly did give him the creeps. It was something about their eyes, bright and alert with a kind of concentrated desire to tear things apart. It was all they thought about. Blood. Meat. Tearing things. More blood.

‘And there are so many things here to give you the creeps,' said a voice from about his elbow.

Stanley glanced, then glanced again. The speaker was someone he hadn't seen about the House before. And he was sure he would have noticed someone who looked like that.

‘Yeah,' he said feelingly. ‘And yore one of ‘em!'

The evil-looking kid in a duffel coat gave him a creepy smile. ‘I aim to please,' he said.

Dunvice sent them an irritable glare. She was worrying about the silver cage and its occupant, currently strapped to the back of one of the tiger-men. Dunvice had made that particular tiger-man walk beside her because she wanted to keep an eye on the thing.

‘Not to mention
that
,' she said to Stanley, nodding at the skinkin. She leaned closer to the CO. Evil Kid shuffled up a bit. Jibbit listened hard.

‘Thing is,' she said softly, ‘he didn't make it right.'

‘Nah! Mr Strood don' do mistakes.'

Dunvice shrugged. ‘You are supposed to breathe a name into it, the name of the one you want dead. Only thing is …' Dunvice shuddered, ‘he told it to kill the
legendary
Ninevah Redstone.'

Unseen by either of them, Evil Kid sent the skinkin a look of alarm.

‘And?' asked Stanley.

‘How do you kill a legend?'

Jibbit was getting bored. The conversation seemed rather pointless as he had no idea what the half-werewolf was fussing about. Stanley fell silent, thinking. In its cage, the skinkin swivelled its head, the empty sockets fixing on Stanley and then Mrs Dunvice and then Jibbit. And then on the Evil Kid.

‘It does give me the creeps, tooo,' muttered Jibbit.

‘Understood,' put in Evil Kid. ‘The thing cannot go back to the death it came from until the task is fulfilled. And it wants to go back, so it will be relentless and merciless.'

‘Do I know yoo?' asked Jibbit a trifle nervously.

‘'S easy,' interrupted Stanley suddenly. ‘She's famous fer bein' lucky, right, so all it ‘as to do is kill ‘er in the normal physical way. If it kills ‘er then everyone'll know that ‘er luck didn' work, see? An' so bofe she's dead an' ‘er legend is dead. They might tell stories about ‘ow there was this girl what nearly got away from Strood, but it ain't the same. ‘E won in the end. So my point is, yer don' need t' worry. Killin' the girl an' killin' the legend are one an' the same fing.'

Dunvice eyed him with something approaching respect. ‘You know, Stanley, for a goblin-Grimm you're almost bright at times.'

Stanley cleared his throat loudly and looked embarrassed. In its cage, the skinkin switched its eyeless gaze in his direction.

‘Hmm,' said Evil Kid. ‘One almost hopes you are right. Otherwise the skinkin would have a task it could never complete and Strood will have done what Ni—the Redstone girl did with that mudman. He will have made a new Fabulous.'

Dunvice nodded, her eyes serious. ‘I was wondering that very thing.'

Stanley went pale at the thought. He stared at the skinkin. So did Dunvice. So did Jibbit. So did Evil Kid.

The skinkin stared back.

Stanley sighed, watching another tiger-man as it started to make that horrible hacking sound in its throat that
meant it was going to throw up.

When it came to water it seemed that the tiger-men were really just cats. They had barely loaded half on to the first of the rafts and the creatures were already in a miserable state. The raft shifted gently, rising and dipping with the current. It would get a lot worse as the river narrowed, growing deeper and rougher as it poured through the Heart.

Stanley gave an inner groan and got moving, picking his way carefully through the vomit-strewn pile of seasick tiger-men towards the head of the raft. There was a choking sound to his left and one of them threw up on his feet. Stanley kicked the creature. It bit him. Angrily he stomped off, smelling foul and with a sore leg.

At the front of the raft, he stopped and glanced up at the sky. It was still clear save for one white cloud hanging on the horizon like a lonely hawk. He looked ahead and his heart stopped. Just for an instant, but long enough to make its point.

Before him towered the Raw that was the Heart of Celidon. Cloudy snakes of mist coiled and twisted from its surface, groping towards anything nearby. Where it touched the trees, bushes, or the banks of the river, faint wraiths of mist rose into the air leaving dead bark and bare earth behind.

Stanley did not relish the thought of whatever lay behind that vast white curtain. It was beyond imagining.

‘Beyond imagining, isn't it?' said a voice at around the
level of his elbow. He jumped.

‘Whatchoo doin' ‘ere?'

‘Dunvice assigned me to your raft,' said Evil Kid smoothly.

‘I might ‘ave somefin' t' say about that later,' muttered Stanley. He gave Evil Kid a suspicious look, wondering if he could see a hint of fancy waistcoat in a gap between the toggles of the duffel coat.

Something heavy stood on his sick-free foot. He looked down.

‘Oh lor' yew an' all. Watcher doin' down there? Fought yer didn' like ter be low.'

‘I'm not,' said Jibbit calmly. He inched forward until he was right on the very edge of the raft, stone claws dug deep into the planks. ‘There is lots and lots of downwards between me and the gr … gr … bottom of the river. Is just filled with water instead of air and that's no bother.'