Joseph Delaney - The Spook’s nightmare

As one, the dogs surged forward and leaped at the shaman, their jaws open. He raised an arm to defend himself, his mouth wide in shock, but it was hopeless. All his power over the animals was now useless. The three wolfhounds dragged him to the floor and began to savage him, their teeth biting and tearing at his flesh. He screamed – and the long drawn-out sound could be clearly heard over the snarls of his attackers. I began to retch at the sight and sound of his agony.

As the ghost of Bill Arkwright slowly faded away, the torches guttered out, plunging us into total darkness. The dogs had finished their grim work and, but for their panting, there was silence. I knelt, utterly spent and shaking all over. After a while there was a noise from the tunnel. Someone was approaching. Was it the buggane?

Shakily I got to my feet, but the figure that emerged was Bony Lizzie, clutching her lit candle stub. Behind her was Alice.

‘That went well, boy,’ said the witch, staring down at the shaman, her face exultant. ‘Wasn’t as strong as he thought, was he? Doesn’t pay to mess with me! Well, waste not, want not – that’s what Old Mother Malkin used to tell me…’

And with those words Lizzie placed the candle on the floor, then pointed at the two nearest wall-torches, which obediently flared into life. Next she pulled a knife from the hip pocket of her dress and lifted the shaman’s left hand. I heard Alice groan, and we both turned our backs on the grisly sight as Lizzie took the thumb-bones of her dead enemy.

She must have planned this all along, I realized. She’d never intended to make her escape. Never for a moment had the shaman suspected that she’d attack rather than retreat. And she’d used the ghost of Bill Arkwright to achieve her aim. That meant his spirit must be in her power. After all, she was a powerful bone witch, and necromancy – control of the dead – was amongst her dark weapons.

While she crouched down to take the shaman’s bones, Lizzie was a perfect target for my silver chain. But when I reached for it, I could get my fingertips nowhere near my pocket. I tried with all my strength, and although my hand strained and trembled, I could not reach the chain. Lizzie was still exerting some special power over me.

She looked up at me and Alice, clutching the bloody bones, an ecstatic expression on her face. ‘Feel good, these do!’ she cried, stuffing them into her pocket along with the knife and rising to her feet. ‘There’s power here all right! Now, let’s take a little walk upstairs and see what’s what! But first we’ll get the dogs back into their cages…’

She clapped her hands three times, just as the shaman had done, and Claw, Blood and Bone emerged from the shadows and trotted back to their cages obediently. ‘Right, boy, fasten them in!’

It was clear that the witch could control the dogs now, but did she have all the shaman’s powers? With his death, had they passed to her? As if in a dream, unable to resist, I went over and closed the cage doors, snapping the clasps across. As I attended to Claw’s cage, she gave a little whine and tried to lick me through the bars. I felt a surge of hope. Had that been Arkwright’s doing? Although forced by Lizzie to make the dogs kill the shaman, his ghost had first pointed to me and said: That boy is your friend, not your enemy!

With those words, had he given the dogs back to me? Had he done his best to help? Alice and I followed Bony Lizzie along the damp corridors. As we reached the stone steps and started to climb, I felt the pulse of fear radiate from the witch once more. She was using it as a weapon to clear the areas ahead of any opposition to our progress. Three flights up, we emerged in the guardroom that I’d crossed on my way down to the cells. Spears, pikes and clubs stood in racks along the wall and a fire blazed in the grate; half-eaten meals had been abandoned on a long table. The plates were still steaming. The occupants of the room must have fled very recently.

I’d expected Lizzie to lead us out of Greeba Keep, and wondered if the inner portcullis would be raised. Even if it was, there was still the one barring the main entrance to contend with. But, to my surprise, Lizzie continued up into the tower. She seemed supremely confident: with the shaman dead, perhaps she was no longer in any danger. As we climbed, she tried every door and peered into the rooms: bedrooms, drawing rooms and the extensive kitchens – all deserted. Then, at the top, we came to the largest room of all. It was clad in white marble and the walls were hung with tapestries. A long narrow crimson carpet ran the length of the room, right up to a dais seven steps high; atop it was an ornate throne made of jade.

This must be the throne room where the shaman, Lord Barrule, had held court and meted out his rough justice. It was impressive – fit for a king, never mind a lord. From the doorway, Lizzie gazed at that throne for a long time, then went over to the only window. It had a recessed seat, and she sat and looked out for a while without speaking. Alice and I came up behind her and followed her gaze downwards.

Far below, people were still fleeing the keep. The outer portcullis was raised, and beyond the bridge over the moat, groups of yeomen were staring up at the tower. With them was Stanton, their commander, sword at his hip: there was no hope of escaping that way.

Lizzie turned away from the window with a faint smile on her face, then slowly walked the length of the carpet, heading for that green throne. With each step the heels of her pointy shoes made deep indentations in the crimson carpet and their soles soiled it with mud from the tunnels.

Then, very deliberately, she sat herself down on the throne and beckoned us forward. Alice and I moved closer, until we were standing at the foot of the steps.

‘I could rule this island,’ Lizzie said. ‘I could be its queen!’

‘A queen? You? You’re no queen,’ Alice sneered.

‘Look like you been dragged through a hedge backwards and rolled in a midden!’

It was true. The witch’s clothes were splattered with mud; her hair was caked with it. She scowled and stood up, anger flickering in her eyes. Alice took a step backwards, but then Lizzie smiled. ‘We’ll see, girl. We’ll soon see about that.’ She pointed to a door behind the throne. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got here…’

We followed her through the door and discovered that we weren’t at the highest point in the tower after all. There was yet another flight of steep steps, which led up to a circular antechamber with eight doors. We entered the rooms in turn, moving anticlockwise. Like the throne room, each had a large curtained window with a seat recessed into the outer wall. The first had a tiled floor and a large wooden bath. Lizzie gazed at the bath and smiled. The next five were luxurious bedrooms, hung with ornate mirrors and rich tapestries.

The seventh was the shaman’s study: three rows of shelves held his books – mostly grimoires – and on a large wooden table a big notebook lay open next to a human skull. Other shelves contained bottles and jars of potions. In the corner was a large chest, but when Lizzie tried it, she found it was locked.

‘I could get it open myself, but that’ll take time and be a waste of power. Why bark yourself when you’ve got a dog to do it for you? Come on, boy, get out that key of yours and open this up.’

How did Lizzie know about my key? I wondered. What else did she know? Could she read all my thoughts?

But the chest had belonged to the shaman – it might well contain things that would increase the witch’s power – so I shook my head.

‘Refusing, are you? I’ll show you what happens to those who disobey me…’

Lizzie’s face darkened and she started to mutter a spell; in an instant the room grew cold, and fear constricted my throat. And there seemed to be things moving in the darkest corners – threatening, shadowy forms. I gripped my staff tightly, my eyes darting this way and that. When I looked directly at the creatures, they disappeared; when I looked away, they grew and moved closer.