The Doomspell Read online

  ‘Do you hope for rescue even now?’ Scorpa scoffed. ‘Come. I grow weary. Choose!’

  Morpeth spat at her muzzle.

  ‘I choose to fight!’

  He moved into the combat circle. The wolf with the knife tossed the blade back and he gripped it in his right hand, close against his hip, warrior fashion. With his left hand he beckoned Scorpa towards him.

  ‘Come on, then!’ he roared. ‘Or are you afraid, she-wolf?’

  Scorpa bared her fangs and they slowly circled each other, probing for weaknesses. The wolf padded deftly and, when she pounced, there was no warning – her movement so swift that Rachel hardly saw it. Scorpa sunk her jaw into his thigh, then jumped aside. Morpeth stifled a scream but stayed on his feet – to fall would mean instant death. Scorpa pounced again. Feigning to attack the same leg, she changed direction at the last moment and caught Morpeth turning. Even as he realized his mistake her fangs ripped through his stomach, and when she raised her muzzle it dripped with blood and torn flesh. Scorpa leapt away at once, and Morpeth’s weak slash at her underbelly missed.

  ‘You have become feeble, old man,’ gloated Scorpa, ‘while I have grown strong. I am not the cub you bested long ago. I hoped for a better fight than this.’

  Morpeth tottered in the circle, facing her again.

  ‘An enemy is always at its most dangerous when it is desperate,’ he growled. ‘I taught you that, remember. Your strength never matched my cunning.’

  But his words sounded hollow and Scorpa knew it.

  ‘Time to finish you off,’ she said, aiming for his throat.

  She never reached him. As Scorpa leapt a huge white eagle, as large as the wolf itself, swooped out of the darkness, sinking its talons into her neck. At the same instant two other eagles dropped down, grasped Rachel and Morpeth and shot into the air. The wolves snapped at their tails, but the fangs fell short and the birds made their escape, carrying Morpeth and Rachel upwards into the cloud. Within seconds they left the wolves baying far behind and were heading south.

  ‘Latnap Deep!’ Morpeth urged, wincing with the pain of his injuries. ‘Take us to the Deep, Ronnocoden!’

  The great white eagle bent his head towards Morpeth to obtain the exact directions. With the onset of night he had circled with his companions within the safety of the low snow clouds, waiting for any signal. Now the great birds cut purposefully through the storm. Within swift, almost silent, wingbeats Morpeth and Rachel were carried through the sky, the eagles dropping out of the cloud at the last possible moment to avoid detection.

  Morpeth fell from the back of Ronnocoden and pounded his fists into the featureless snow. Six times. Four times. Three times. A few feet away the snow collapsed over a secret door, and avid arms pulled them inside. The eagles instantly took flight southwards.

  Rachel blinked in the bright light of the tunnel before them. Three Sarren stood there and, a little to one side, Trimak gasped at the blood pouring through Morpeth’s jacket.

  Trimak worked furiously to stem Morpeth’s bleeding. Scorpa had performed her task well: the stomach was torn open and Morpeth’s life-blood pumped from the wound, spreading thickly.

  Trimak knew how to repair broken bones, minor burns or light bleeding, but this – this was an injury beyond his abilities. Morpeth’s grey face was already creased with the effort to remain conscious.

  In a few minutes, Trimak knew, Morpeth would be dead.

  Morpeth also knew. He looked at his ripped stomach and weakly lifted his head.

  ‘Well,’ he said, with a faint smile. ‘I think this wound is beyond even your skilful hands, my old friend. I should have allowed Ronnocoden to carry us all the way here from the Palace, but feared the Witch would expect help from that direction. I made the wrong choice, travelling on foot. I have made so many mistakes . . . so many.’

  ‘Heal yourself!’ Trimak ordered. ‘You have come too far to leave us now.’

  Morpeth’s face writhed in pain. ‘Heal myself? I think even if my powers were at their full I could not repair this injury. And I have nothing left. Nothing.’

  Trimak cast his face down to conceal his emotions. ‘You brought back the child-hope!’ he said. ‘Against impossible odds you rescued her twice. There is still hope for us, thanks to you.’

  ‘Guard her well,’ Morpeth said. ‘Rachel is so weary. Let her rest.’

  ‘Always thinking of others,’ said Trimak. He looked away, tears splashing down his cheeks.

  ‘At least Dragwena will never touch me now,’ murmured Morpeth. ‘I have denied her that, at any rate.’

  His body slumped against the tunnel wall and his bright blue eyes closed.

  Trimak buried his face in Morpeth’s shoulder, weeping with abandon, tears bursting from him.

  Rachel staggered across to Morpeth. ‘Don’t give up!’ she shouted at Trimak. ‘What’s wrong with you? Make him live! Do something!’

  Trimak stared uselessly at the floor. Rachel put her hands on the blood pouring from Morpeth, trying to hold it in.

  Morpeth was not dead, not quite. He managed to open his eyes. ‘Rachel, nothing is wrong which you cannot right.’ He looked sternly at her. ‘It is up to you now.’

  ‘Don’t die!’ Rachel pleaded. ‘Don’t die, Morpeth. I can’t bear it!’

  ‘You must,’ he said.

  His head sunk heavily into the hands of Trimak.

  All the Sarren bent on one knee and raised their swords.

  ‘No! No! No!’ Rachel screamed. ‘I won’t let you die. I won’t!’

  She pushed Trimak off and gripped Morpeth’s cheeks. He was still breathing slightly, shallowly. Rachel forced his eyes open and stared into them. What could she do? There must be something! She felt her mind tug – and looked down: where before there had only been a mess of bone and blood, Rachel suddenly saw the way to heal Morpeth laid out like a diagram. She did not wait to ponder how this could be. Precisely, like a scalpel, her mind sought the wound, the blood, each torn muscle, the veins, the epidermal layers. She acted immediately.

  Beneath her Morpeth convulsed and lifted his head. His stomach moved beneath the muscles. Layers of new flesh grew from the tatters, sealing the wound. A new bellybutton appeared with a pop where the old one had been torn off.

  All the Sarren gazed in disbelief at Rachel.

  ‘How did you do this?’ Morpeth gasped.

  ‘I – I don’t know,’ Rachel said honestly. She searched her mind for the source of her new powers, sensing a different layer of magic growing inside, more powerful, itching to be used. But as she explored for answers a wave of exhaustion swept her. Now Morpeth was safe she could barely keep her eyes open. ‘I’m so tired . . .’ she mumbled. ‘Too . . . tired to think.’

  ‘Then sleep,’ Morpeth said. ‘No one deserves it more than you.’ He laughed, and his voice rang with life. ‘Sleep, and when you wake up we’ll have breakfast together again!’

  ‘I want to see Eric,’ Rachel said weakly.

  ‘He is being well cared for.’

  ‘I’m scared about the dreams I might have, Morpeth. Please. I don’t want to go to sleep.’

  ‘Have happy dreams,’ he said. ‘Dragwena is far away now. She cannot harm you. I won’t allow her to get close. I promise.’

  Rachel sat on Morpeth’s lap, leant against his shoulder and fell asleep at once, too weary even to explore her new gifts and what they meant.

  16

  Latnap Deep

  Rachel slept through the night and late into the afternoon of the next day. Ithrea’s sun had begun its bleak sunset, spreading watery whites across the sky, when she finally awoke. She was in a soft bed which Morpeth had himself prepared. He lay slumped in a chair a few feet away, snoring gently.

  Rachel crept quietly out of bed, careful not to wake Morpeth, and washed herself using a bowl left for her in the room. Fresh garments had been placed beside the bed: rough woollen pants and a thick brown linen shirt. They were not the magnificent clothes she could have chosen from her
wardrobe in the Palace, but they fitted well enough and Rachel now preferred them.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and coughed loudly.

  Morpeth grunted and looked up with his bright blue eyes.

  ‘Hello, handsome,’ Rachel smiled. ‘Am I too late for breakfast?’

  Morpeth stretched and eyed her. ‘Of course not! But we do not have as much choice here as the Breakfast Room at the Palace.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Anything will do.’

  He patted his stomach. ‘Lovely belly-button,’ he said. ‘An improvement on my old one. Much neater.’

  ‘I don’t know how I did it,’ said Rachel, seriously. ‘What does it mean? I know my magic’s been developing quickly, but not that fast.’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m grateful. Look at me – handsome, supremely fit, a match for any Neutrana soldier!’ He jumped four feet in the air, turned a perfect somersault and landed on his toes. ‘I don’t know what you did, Rachel, but I feel fantastic!’

  ‘How is Eric?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘Ah! You may well ask. I think you’d better come and see the amazing Eric for yourself. You won’t believe what he’s up to. Come on.’

  Morpeth linked their arms and escorted her to a room where Eric sat on a small chair. Rachel burst into tears, holding him tightly for several seconds, not wanting to let go.

  ‘Hey, are you all right?’ she asked at last, smoothing out his hair.

  ‘I’m OK.’ He laughed. ‘Better look out! I can do things now. Special things. Tell her, Morpeth.’

  Morpeth grinned. ‘Remember our games in the Breakfast Room?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘Pick something to imagine. Anything.’

  Rachel shrugged. ‘A flower?’

  ‘Very well. Now watch.’

  A moment later a daffodil floated in the air above Morpeth’s head.

  Eric poked his finger at the flower. It disappeared.

  Morpeth created six different bunches of flowers and made them race around the ceiling.

  Eric zapped them with his wand-like finger, one by one.

  ‘He’s got magic!’ Rachel cried. ‘He can do the things we can do!’

  ‘No, you’re wrong,’ said Morpeth. He glanced at Eric. ‘Make a bunch of flowers.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Eric said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Try again,’ Morpeth urged him. ‘Go on.’

  Eric screwed up his face for several seconds, lips pressed hard together. Finally, with an irritated groan, he gave up. ‘I can’t do it. So what. Everyone’s got magic here. That’s nothing special.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Rachel. ‘What power has Eric got?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Morpeth. ‘A very unusual power, certainly. I’ve never seen it before in any child brought to Ithrea. I think I would describe it as anti-magic. Eric makes magic disappear.’

  Rachel frowned. ‘I can do that, too. In the Breakfast Room we both made things disappear.’

  ‘Not in the same way as Eric,’ Morpeth said. ‘See for yourself. Create something.’

  Rachel made a single object, a replica of the perfectly built oak table her granddad had crafted shortly before he died last winter. It was an object she knew well, as he had shown her lovingly how he had made every detail – the joints, the secret drawer, the many layers of varnish, all patiently applied. Rachel took her time, forming the table carefully and then placed the image in the centre of the room.

  Eric, without even looking at it, pointed. Instantly the table vanished. Rachel tried to rebuild it, but found that she could no longer remember clearly what it looked like. She concentrated furiously, but could only remake a table that looked slightly like the original.

  Eventually, she stared in amazement at Eric.

  ‘Try something else,’ said Morpeth.

  So Rachel made a lamp instead, focusing hard. That disappeared too, and again she could no longer recreate it.

  ‘Now do you see!’ Morpeth cried. ‘Eric takes away magic permanently! Whatever you can create he can destroy, and it seems to be impossible to use that same spell again. It has gone forever.’

  Rachel immediately thought of Dragwena. ‘Can you destroy the Witch’s magic, too?’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not sure,’ said Eric hesitantly. ‘Some of it. Not her best magic. She can hide things. And I think Dragwena’s got some magic that’s lots of spells together, changing all the time. They could mix me up.’

  ‘Why didn’t you do any of this before?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘I didn’t know I could,’ he said. ‘It did it by accident. Morpeth was practising his magic. He was annoying me. I wanted it to stop and – swish!’

  Rachel pinched his nose, wondering what to say. ‘You’re . . . I can’t do anything like this!’

  Eric beamed happily. It was the first time Rachel had seen him look his old cocky self since arriving on Ithrea. I wonder, she thought. For a moment she pictured herself fighting Dragwena while Eric waved his anti-magic finger, undoing the Witch’s spells one by one.

  She sat down at a large stone table and made a fuss over Eric until Morpeth brought her a bowl of soup and a chunk of rough bread.

  ‘No chocolate sandwiches, I’m afraid,’ he apologized.

  While she ate Eric edged closer to Rachel, looking closely at her hair.

  ‘Ugh!’ he said, pulling away. ‘It’s grey. Your hair’s all grey.’

  Rachel lifted her fringe. Her scalp felt dry and flaky. She dashed to a nearby mirror and parted her hair in several places. Everywhere, under the surface, it was white and thin. She yanked and a tuft filled her hand.

  ‘What’s the matter with me, Morpeth?’ she asked in shock. ‘Am I – am I growing old like you and Trimak because I’ve been using too much magic?’

  Morpeth touched the strands. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ he replied lightly. ‘The stress of recent events. Using magic doesn’t change you that quickly.’

  Rachel continued to gaze in the mirror, trying to see if she had the typical wrinkles of the Sarren around her eyes. There were no wrinkles but there were other changes – her jaw felt tender and her eyes ached.

  As she pondered this Trimak appeared in the doorway. He looked exhausted. ‘Do you want to look around Latnap Deep, Rachel?’ he asked. ‘It’s not . . . a pretty sight, I’m afraid.’

  Rachel held Eric’s hand, still rubbing her sore eyes, and entered the main caves.

  They were full of injured Sarren. Small makeshift beds, little more than rags of clothing, covered the floor and dozens of men and women lay still or softly moaning. A few of the least wounded moved between them, administering simple medicines and offering comfort as best they could.

  Rachel stared at the Sarren, appalled. ‘What happened?’

  ‘They fought the Neutrana under the Palace,’ Trimak said. ‘Most had only their hands as weapons. Only a hundred or so are left. The rest died in the tunnels, or on the journey to Latnap Deep.’

  ‘You walked?’ marvelled Rachel. ‘You mean, you came all that way in the snow without Dragwena finding you?’

  ‘It was a terrible journey,’ said Trimak. ‘Fear of the Witch drove us through the blizzards. I believe we only made it because Dragwena’s spies were searching for a bigger prize – they were looking for you.’

  Rachel gazed numbly at the injured Sarren, and suddenly everything she had endured, everything they had all suffered since she and Eric arrived on Ithrea, seemed too much to bear.

  ‘It’s all our fault!’ she said. ‘Dragwena let me escape just to trap the Sarren together under the Palace. Then she used Eric to keep track of me. Perhaps she’s still using both of us. Dragwena might be able to find you all in Latnap Deep because we’re here. Did you think of that?’

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ said Trimak. ‘It’s a risk we must take.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Rachel. ‘I know you believe I’m the child-hope. You want me to fight Dragwena. I know I must do that. But—’ s
he held back her tears, clutching Eric. ‘But—’

  ‘You’re frightened of the Witch,’ said Trimak. ‘I know. We all are.’ His eyes moistened, and he hung his head. ‘We are asking so much of you.’

  Rachel held her long hair, no longer completely dark, in both hands. ‘I don’t mind that,’ she said. ‘But have you seen this? Look, I’m no longer your dark-haired child any more, am I?’ She stared at Morpeth. ‘I will do anything to keep you and Eric safe, but what have I managed so far? I couldn’t even frighten a few wolves. Eric points his little finger and my spells are gone, just like that. How do you expect me to defeat the Witch? You have no idea how powerful she is. I think Dragwena might just be playing with us. She flies around and amuses herself by killing Sarren and stroking her disgusting snake. What can I really do to frighten her?’

  For a moment there was a tense silence in the cave. Then Rachel noticed a man kneeling down a short distance away – a man Rachel recognized: Grimwold. ‘I remember you,’ she said. ‘You gave me a chance to escape from the eye-tower.’

  Grimwold’s face was badly cut. One of his ears had been torn off.

  ‘The child-hope,’ he gasped. ‘Then all those deaths . . . were not in vain.’ He reached out, gripping Rachel’s arm. ‘Are you really the child-hope? Are you? How many more deaths must there be?’

  Rachel read Grimwold’s expression – his despair and hope. ‘Oh, that stupid verse,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t know what it means. What use is it? I can’t even remember it clearly.’

  Grimwold kept his grip on her arm, and said:

  ‘Dark girl she will be,

  Enemies to set free,

  Sing in harmony,

  From sleep and dawn-bright sea,

  I will arise,

  And behold your childish glee.’

  ‘It still doesn’t mean anything to me,’ said Rachel.

  ‘I know another verse,’ Eric whispered.

  Everyone froze.

  ‘A dark verse,’ he said.

  Rachel glanced at Trimak. ‘Do you know what he means?’

  All the Sarren shook their heads fearfully.

  Eric cleared his throat, and said: