A New Darkness (27 page)

She turned and fixed me with her fierce eyes. “I have brought others back from the edge of death before, child. At first I thought I would succeed here too. I used magic and herbs to staunch the bleeding; I breathed my energy into him. He began to breathe again, and as his lungs filled with air, I started to hope. . . .”

She shook her head, muttering words that I couldn’t hear.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice hardly more than a whisper.

“There was no choice but to remove the blade. It was something that I feared to do—a moment of crisis. When I did so, the internal damage proved too severe. All my magic, all my knowledge of herbs, could not stop the bleeding. I was so close, so very close to succeeding. And if I had, I could have healed him from within. Such things can be done. . . .”

She shook her head and fell silent again, closing her eyes. “He died. I failed. It is over. Tomorrow he will be buried. You can do one last thing for him. You must help me. The body must be washed and cleaned—will you do that?”

I nodded, the “Yes” choking in my throat.

“Then tomorrow at dawn, we will go to the tent and prepare him for burial. Now try to sleep.”

I couldn’t sleep, and morning took a long time to arrive. Grimalkin did not sleep either. All night she sat cross-legged, rocking to and fro. At times she seemed to be talking to herself; I think she even uttered a short sob—but it was too faint for me to be sure.

But of one thing I was certain: although the witch assassin was cruel and dangerous, she felt Tom Ward’s loss keenly. They had been allies against the Fiend for some time; Tom had told me so. There was much in their past that I did not know, but there had definitely been a strong bond between them.

In her own way, Grimalkin was grieving.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

31

Washing the Body

S
OON
after dawn, an escort of soldiers led by the high steward arrived to take us to the camp of Prince Stanislaw. As usual, two remained behind to guard our tent. They seemed much friendlier: Majcher even gave Grimalkin a stiff bow, and I could see the respect in his eyes. Tom’s achievement in defeating the assassin had changed their attitude toward us.

Tom’s body had been removed from the prince’s tent to a smaller one, slightly closer to the water. Guards surrounded it, and people sat about on the grass staring at it.

What did they want? Had they been there all night? I wondered.

I followed Grimalkin into the tent. Lanterns had been lit to dispel the gloom. Tom’s body, wrapped in a blanket, was lying on a low trestle table. His eyes were wide open, as if staring at the ceiling, but when I touched his face with the back of my hand, it felt ice cold.

I was not proud of the thoughts that drifted into my head. They came unbidden, but I couldn’t easily get rid of them. I wondered what would happen to me now. Here I was, alone in the far north, with no hope of returning soon. Would Grimalkin even take me back to the County? I had only been tolerated because I was Tom’s apprentice. She might well abandon me to my fate.

If I did manage to return home, I would have to live with my false mother and father in Grimsargh. I’d little hope of continuing my apprenticeship unless I could find some as yet unknown spook to train me. The others I’d met—Judd and Johnson—wouldn’t take me on; nor did I wish to be trained by them. So unless I could find some other way of making a living, I’d end up married off to some man who just wanted me to cook, clean, and look after our children until I was old and bitter like my foster parents.

I thrust those dark thoughts from my head and forced myself to concentrate on the task before me. Water was brought, and rags. But first we had to strip Tom’s clothes from him. It wasn’t easy, and Grimalkin used her knife to cut away his breeches. When the shirt was peeled off and the wound in his belly was revealed, Grimalkin gave a gasp of surprise.

“Bring the lantern nearer!” she commanded.

I hastened to obey, and when I returned to the table, she was tracing around the wound with her forefinger. There was something strange about it. It had almost closed up, but it appeared ridged, and what looked like scales had formed.

“If only I could have staunched the bleeding a little longer,” she said. “Perhaps I pulled the blade out too soon. . . . He would have healed himself, I’m sure of it. Do you see those scales? The process had started, but death ended it.”

“Yes, but why scales and not skin?”

“He has lamia blood in him, from his mother.”

“Lamia?” I said in puzzlement. “Isn’t a lamia a type of witch? Don’t they have wings?”

“The ones with wings are rare; mostly they crawl or walk. His mother raised him on a farm, and assumed human shape while he was young. Only later did she reveal the truth to him. She is dead now, and sadly he has not outlasted her by long.”

I looked at Grimalkin in astonishment. There was much that I’d been in ignorance of . . . things that, had he lived, Tom might have told me.

“Wash the body,” the witch commanded. “I will hold the lantern.”

I soaked the rag in water and used it to wash his body, slowly removing the bloodstains and grime. At one point Grimalkin helped to turn him over. When I’d finished, we dressed him in the trousers and satin shirt that had been brought from the County to make him look like a prince.

“Should I put his boots and socks back on?” I asked.

Grimalkin nodded, and with some difficulty I tugged on the socks and then pushed his feet into the boots and laced them up.

As we prepared to leave the tent, I took one last look at Tom. The witch assassin had closed his eyes, and he could almost have been asleep.

Outside the tent, Majcher was waiting. He and Grimalkin exchanged a few words in Losta.

“The burial will take place tomorrow at noon,” she told me as we walked back toward our tent. “Prince Stanislaw will attend to honor Tom. He was impressed by his courage and fighting prowess. The funeral procession will leave from here tomorrow morning. They are preparing a headstone for his grave, and asked me what I wanted to be carved upon it. I left it to the prince to decide. After all, whatever they write, it won’t be true. I wish he could be buried next to his master in the garden at Chipenden, but that is impossible.”

I awoke soon after dawn, after barely an hour’s sleep. Instantly, the memory of Tom’s death was like a needle piercing my heart. My eyes began to brim with tears.

Grimalkin was awake; she was sharpening her blades. I watched her in silence.

It had rained hard during the night. The noise as it drummed on the ground and the roof of our tent had repeatedly awakened me—that, and the memory of the terrible thing that had happened. Now I could smell the rich aroma of earth and grass.

“Later today, after he is buried, I will take you home, girl.”

“I have no home,” I responded bitterly, but I was secretly relieved to discover that she didn’t intend to abandon me here. Yes, I did very much want to return to the County.

“Your home now is Chipenden, and no doubt Judd Brinscall will move in and become the new Chipenden Spook. You will become his apprentice.”

“He won’t take me on. He has already refused at least five times. He doesn’t like me. He set his dogs on me and just laughed when one of them ripped my skirt.”

“He will do as I say!” Grimalkin exclaimed fiercely. “You have earned your right to be trained, and it
will
happen.”

I was stunned by the vehemence of her response. I suddenly realized that she truly could coerce Spook Brinscall into taking me on. But did I want it that much? Could I bear to be trained by him?

The witch picked up the Starblade and balanced it on her knees, looking thoughtful.

“What will you do now?” I asked.

“I will spend the winter back in the County. Tom is dead, and I am truly sorry that it happened. But although my first plan has been thwarted, it cannot be the end of my endeavors. I will travel north again next spring and continue to learn what I can about our enemies. If we are to have any chance of survival, it must be done. The threat grows by the day. The Kobalos may even attack the northern principalities this winter.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

32

A Terrible Mistake

T
OM
Ward was dead. On the day of his burial Grimalkin and I left our tent about an hour before noon. I looked up at the sky. It had stopped raining for now, but to the south, clouds threatened another deluge.

When we arrived at the tent of Prince Stanislaw, Tom’s coffin was resting on the grass in the open. The prince was standing next to it, a sword at his hip, flanked by two of his guards. He looked angry—more ready for battle than for a burial. But he nodded to us, then beckoned four of his men forward, and they hefted the coffin up onto their shoulders.

Without further ado, we set off north. The prince and his escort led the way. I was surprised to see how many warriors lined the route, with many others joining the procession behind us. I suppose they must have been impressed by the fact that, although he had been fatally wounded, Tom had first put an end to the assassin who had been killing their own champions for so long.

I remember thinking that the burial site must be on high ground, because we were trudging upward. It made sense. No doubt the river flooded the plain in spring as the snow and ice melted.

At last we reached an open grave with a large headstone. The bottom of it was full of water. There were other graves too—perhaps a couple of dozen in all—but they had been filled in. Some were recent, the earth freshly mounded; others had become shallow depressions, and others still were already covered with grass. Just two or three had headstones; most had a rough wooden cross, while a few lacked any marker at all. The challenge of the Shaiksa assassin had lasted for months. No doubt these were the graves of those who had died at his hands.

We took up positions close to the open grave, facing the headstone. Grimalkin stood on my left; the high steward, Majcher, on my right; and Prince Stanislaw beyond him. The guards waited behind us.

Standing behind the stone was one of the bearded and gloved magowie, no doubt the one who advised Prince Stanislaw. He held his arms wide and began to chant in a singsong voice. I was glad that I couldn’t understand a word that he was saying—it was just so much false nonsense. All that was required to show respect to the dead was a few quiet words.

So I said them now, silently, inside my head.

Thank you for taking me on as your apprentice, Tom Ward, and for giving me a second chance when I ran from the ghasts. I’ll miss you. You didn’t deserve to die like this. And you would have become a really good spook, one of the best ever—your master would have been proud of you. Thank you for having faith in me. . . .

Suddenly my doubts fled, and I made up my mind. Tom had believed in me and had wanted to train me to the best of his ability. So I would go on, despite my hatred of Judd Brinscall.

I’ll do my best to be a good spook too. Thank you for setting me on the right path. Thank you for everything.

I glanced at Tom’s coffin, which had now been set down next to the grave, beside the mound of earth from the excavation. It was hard to believe that his body was lying inside it, cold and still, and would soon be interred in the damp earth. I would go back to Chipenden with Grimalkin while he stayed here, and soon winter would be upon us; snow would cover his grave.

I tried to put the depressing thought from my mind, telling myself that the contents of the coffin were just Tom’s remains. By now his soul would have passed through limbo and gone to the light. But he was so young. He hadn’t had time to live his life fully. That was what made me sad; that, and the loss of the master who would have trained me, guided me, and eventually become a colleague—and maybe, if I was really lucky, a close friend.

I glanced at the headstone and read what had been carved upon it.

The final two lines were a warped assessment of what had happened. It seemed no triumph to me. This was all a terrible mistake, and now the lie was inscribed forever upon his gravestone. Tom was a young spook who had fought the dark . . . this should have been mentioned.

I heard a deep growl of thunder and looked up. Dark clouds were above us now; the storm was almost here. Moments later, it began to rain hard, and there was a flash of lightning almost directly overhead, along with a boom of thunder that seemed to shake the ground beneath our feet.

The magowie was still chanting, but his voice could not compete with the storm. The pounding rain drenched my hair and clothes. I wondered if the prayers would be cut short—the priest would have neither the nerve nor the sense to curtail the service, but a nod from the prince should be enough.