Shadow Spell (25 page)

It was the best thing she could have done.

Two floors below, crouching in the shadows of a barrel just outside the town hall door, the skinkin hissed as Nin's consciousness winked out. It had been about to give up waiting and go after her, but it needed her consciousness to track her down. Asleep, it was as if she had vanished.

It settled where it was for now. Sooner or later its prey would wake up. Then it would find her easily enough.

Even in the cellar, Jonas heard an echo of the battle cry that shook both air and ground. He sat up. The pain had subsided a little and the bleeding had slowed, thanks to the bandages that Doctor Mel had dropped. Once she had gone, Jonas had managed to reach the fallen dressings and had packed some of them over the wound, binding them tight with the others.

‘It's begun,' he murmured.

Although Jonas hadn't been in Hilfian to hear the reports from Skerridge's spying trips, the Storm had carried him over Strood's army and he had looked down and seen them. So he knew that the townsfolk were outnumbered. It would be little short of a miracle if they made it to nightfall, let alone tomorrow.

His eye fell on the thing in the corner. The device wrapped in roll after roll of material, but still glowing. He watched it for a moment. Even Vispilio had left it alone. It radiated power so fiercely that Jonas was ready to bet no one wanted to touch it. But power on that
scale was exactly what they needed. He swallowed hard, then moved towards it, grabbed one end of the wrapping and pulled. Light beamed fiercely and the material disintegrated into ash under his touch, revealing at last what lay beneath.

It was a sword, its blade burning silver-white, with rubies at the hilt. The symbol etched on its shining surface was the outline of a bear on its hind legs, its great arms outspread as if to embrace or attack.

‘The sign of King Galig of Old Celidon!' murmured Jonas, his face full of wonder. ‘This is Galig's sword?' He leaned forward to grasp the hilt.

As soon as his hand touched it he felt the world shake and twist and heard a sound like tearing metal. Light burned his eyes and he doubled up, trying to hide his face from the glare. A crack ran across the dry earth of the floor and up the walls, but he held on to the sword as tight as he could. If there was any chance that whatever was coming might tip the balance in their favour, then he had to risk being burned up in the process.

Forcing himself to look up, Jonas saw a man striding towards him. He was silver-haired and clad in a blue surcoat over bright chain-mail. At once, the shaking stopped and there was only the man, standing, surrounded by brilliance, studying him. His arms were crossed and Jonas got the feeling that he was waiting.

Still clasping the sword, Jonas got painfully to his feet. As he rose, he staggered slightly and winced.

‘Are you … King Galig?'

‘I am the shade of Galig, King of Celidon,' said the man. He looked sternly at Jonas. ‘I am the last ever part of his magic, which dwells in the sword that you are holding now. Something in your heart has called to me, Quick boy. Tell me what it is. But be warned, if it is not enough to have summoned me in good cause, I will kill you.'

‘There's a battle.' Spots of colour showed in Jonas's pale cheeks. ‘The end of it may mean the difference between life and death for the Land.'

Golden eyes watched him, measuring his words. Galig didn't look that impressed. Jonas had no doubt that, shade or not, this magic could wreak death in a moment if it chose.

‘All right,' said Jonas, reassessing the situation, ‘the truth? If we fail it will mean the difference between life and death for … for one I care about. Nin might save the Land, true, but that's not what counts to me. What counts to me is simple. The world is a better place with her in it.'

Galig leaned towards him. He smiled a slow smile that bared white teeth shaped to points. His look was so fierce it made Jonas's skin prickle.

‘Now I hear you! And my answer is this. I see that you are injured and weak, but if you want to fight, let me in and I will give you and your army all the strength I have until the sun goes down. Trust me, the magic I give will endure for one glorious battle only. Just one. Then even this last rag of a great king will be done.'

Jonas opened his mouth to answer, but Galig raised a hand.

‘First, be warned. While I am in control, you will be a helpless passenger, unable to act until I leave you again.' He saw the look on Jonas's face and smiled. ‘Don't worry, in spirit you will still be there with your friends. You will see the sights and suffer the hurts of battle with me as I fight. It will be hard on you, though; I can take a lot of pain and you must bear it all.'

Jonas smiled back, ‘I survived the Storm Hounds, I'll survive you. I'll let you in. I'm strong.'

Galig laughed and the sound rang around the room. ‘So I see! Are you sure you're just a Quick? Now, be ready.'

The shade moved forward, stepping into Jonas so that the form of the dead Sorcerer-King merged with that of the fourteen-year-old boy with a stab wound in his side. Jonas cried out as his shape twisted and stretched, growing taller and broader. He felt the power coursing through him, mending, improving, making him strong.

Galig bent Jonas's arms and flexed his fingers. And then he went to join the fight.

In the main hall, Hen and Hilary stared in openmouthed astonishment as Jonas strode past. He didn't acknowledge them, or even glance their way. He looked like some kind of avenging angel, walking in a halo of light and clasping a sword rimmed with fire nearly as
bright as the fire in his eyes.

‘Well,' said Hilary, ‘somebody's done a deal with old Celidon!'

She ran over to the cellar and looked in. Sure enough it was dark. The wrapped-up thing in the corner that nobody wanted to look at was gone.

Hen peered over her shoulder and smiled. ‘He had the guts to do what no one else dared to, eh. He always was a brave boy.'

‘What's that?' Hilary pointed.

The darkness wasn't complete. Now the main source of light was gone, a glow, the colour of dying embers, shone faintly. It reminded Hilary of Jik's eyes.

‘Jik?'

She climbed down carefully, picking her way by the light that came in from above. Groping under a table for the glow, she pulled out a square of cloth. It lay on her palm, its reds and golds melting together, flickering like the flames they came from.

‘Faeries used to make cloth of fancy from the essence of a Quick,'
whispered Senta's spell thoughtfully in her head.
‘They spun out the Quick's soul and left a shell that lived on for a short while till it died of emptiness. That is not Quick, but it's more than just fire too. Brighter, more alive …'

Hilary glanced at Hen, who had followed her down. The old woman's face was creased with concern. She understood magic as well as any Fabulous.

With Hilary holding up the cloth like a flag of light, they could just make out a lumpy, man-shaped patch of
darkness. It looked like what it was. Dried old mud. They could see the empty holes of Jik's eyes and the thin crack running at an angle across his chest, deeper and wider in the middle.

‘How do I make this right?' Hilary whispered, kneeling beside him.

‘You have to get the fire back inside,' said Hen firmly. ‘Magic will do the rest, it has its own way.'

Hilary thought for a moment. Then she folded the shimmering square over and over until it was a tight wedge and poked it into the crack in Jik's chest where it was widest. The cloth went in like a dream, slipping from her fingers and soaking into the earthy body. There was a fiery glow that faded, disappearing inside.

It seemed like forever while they waited.

At last, a spark glimmered in Jik's eyes. It brightened steadily. And then it wasn't a spark any more, but a flame.

It wasn't long before he was strong enough to follow Jonas into battle.

As they crested the rise, Strood's army saw the enemy for the first time. Stanley shouted the order to stop. He wanted to make sure they were all together and ready for the charge. The horde came on, rank after rank gathering on the hill at his back, roaring and hissing with pent up bloodlust.

Thoughtfully, Stanley studied the opposition.

The townsfolk of Hilfian were assembled in the fields in front of and below Strood's army. More than half of them were Quick, Stanley noted, but not much more. A lot of Grimm had made their way to Hilfian too. Goblin-Grimm, mainly, and goblin-Grimm were known for their toughness. They were doing a good job of looking menacing, shaking their weapons, some of them even roaring back, their deep growls rumbling over the tiger-men's shrieking. And the two great, shaggy Grimm at the back of the townsfolk army, both of them the colour of old chestnuts, were probably half werebear. They'd be slow but horribly strong. And relentless too. Werebear-Grimm would fight to their last breath.

All the town's Grimm clutched spiked balls on chains, short swords and axes, but the Quick were armed with the most unlikely bunch of weapons Stanley had ever seen. Pickaxes and kitchen knives bristled from every angle, scythes and long-tined forks stuck out at random.

From the top of Stanley's helmet, Jibbit leaned down and pointed a stubby claw.

‘Ooo look, they got m-m-magic,' he said, hooting nervously.

‘Get a grip,' muttered Stanley, then sighed at the scraping of claws on his helmet as the gargoyle took him seriously. The creature was right though. Some of the Quick were clutching magical devices, mainly wands or staffs.

‘Not many though,' he said. ‘Too few to make a real difference.'

His eye was caught by Taggit standing alongside a couple of other true goblins, all glaring hideously up at Stanley and his hordes, their yellow eyes narrowing as they picked out a target worthy of their attention. Next, Stanley spotted a slim fellow with skin like black velvet and yellow-green eyes who just had to be a werecat. The mudman was nowhere to be seen and neither was Bogeyman Skerridge. Stanley gazed along the stretch of the hill to the east, where the slopes were steeper and higher. There in the distance, beyond the furthest reaches of his milling army, he could make out a flaming tree and a long burnt scar in the green of the hilltop. Looked like Lord Greyghast was already at work keeping the bogeyman busy. A werewolf was easily a
match for a bogeyman in strength and speed. Skerridge's main advantage would be his firebreath, if he could stand still long enough to use it. Greyghast's would be his endurance, his talons and his sheer savagery. It would be a fair fight and Stanley just had to hope the werewolf came out on top.

Turning back to the horde, Stanley inspected the banked-up flood of fangs and needle claws, of eerie purple eyes that glowed scarlet with hunger for the kill. They covered this stretch of hill, surging restlessly against the mini-mountain that was Hathor, the giant-Grimm. Everywhere their lithe, steel-strong bodies flexed and flowed around the fixed rocks of the armourclad Grimm guards and the two huge, granite-faced Fabulous goblins.

Next, Stanley looked up at the sky. It was late afternoon and even if by some miracle the townsfolk army lived to see sundown they wouldn't see it rise again the next day. Come nightfall, Strood's bogeymen would be along to burn whatever was left to the ground.

The CO allowed his insides to unknot a little. The battle wasn't going to be quite the pushover he had hoped for, but in the end victory was sure to be theirs on numbers alone.

‘Now!' Dunvice hissed in his ear, making him jump.

Clearing his throat, Stanley raised an arm. Seeing the move, the tiger-men stopped surging and tensed, ready to run. Eyes gleamed. Muscles coiled like gathered springs.

Watching them from the bottom of the hill, Taggit muttered, ‘All right everyone, ‘ere it comes. You know the plan.'

With a shout, Stanley gave the signal to charge and a cry went up from both sides, rumbling into the air like thunder. The ground shook as the horde took off, pouring down the hillside in a torrent of shadow-and-gold, with hungry eyes and unsheathed claws.

And then, too late, alarm bells went off in Stanley's head. Something wasn't right. Why were the bigger, heavier townsfolk at the back and not in the front line? His brain clicked into action. The smaller ones were at the front because they were faster, which meant they were all going to …

The townsfolk turned and ran like the blazes.

Stanley screamed, ‘PULL BACK NOW!' at the top of his lungs, but the tiger-men's charge was speeding up and their roars drowned his voice.

Dunvice heard him though and dropped to all fours, leaping just as she reached a suspiciously neat spread of heather and grass. Seeing her spring, many of the tiger-men copied. Not so the Grimm guards.

Three of them, either too stupid to realise or going too fast to pull back, plunged into the pit that opened up under their thundering feet. The first wave of tiger-men went with them.