of every country. But I shall spare a part of me – leave a splinter of my essence – here. To observe and do what must be done.”
As he spoke, dark blemishes broke out across his skin until his face was peppered with ink like spots of black mould. They bloomed and spread, foaming over his features until his head was a pulsating mass. Only his mouth was visible – a cave within a festering cloud. Mycelia branched through his hair, writhing and sprouting fresh growths. Then he arched his back and a flood of black strands and spores went shooting upward – into the leaves above. The putrid stench of decay and corruption rained down.
Jangler watched, enthralled, and he fell on his knees to worship the true form of Austerly Fellows.
The mould blossomed overhead, swelling and crackling softly, forming a thick, clotted web in the trees. And then, from within its dark heart, a malignant, bubbling voice spoke.
“Rise, Jangler. Rise, grandson of Edgar Hankinson. For three generations your family have proven their worth and loyalty to me.”
Jangler got to his feet and stared adoringly up at the frothing horror clogging the shadows.
“It has been an honour to serve,” the old man answered, raising his hands in adulation. “You are the Abbot of the Angles, founder of the candle faith, author of the sacred text. When I was a small boy, I dedicated my whole being to your great glory and grandeur. All my life I have venerated you.”
“This shall prove your greatest labour,” the voice told him. “I entrust to your safe keeping the smooth running of the camp. Fortify it. Make it a stronghold from which there can be no escape.”
“Alone? Will you not guide me?”
“You will not be alone. Help shall be sent, extraordinary help. It will support and assist you.”
“But the splinter of yourself? May I not come here, to this place, and consult with it?”
The mould cluster quivered as a gurgling laugh issued out. The sound filled the gathering gloom beneath the trees and the strands connecting the Ismus to the thing overhead vibrated wildly. Then they snapped apart. The hideous growths covering the Holy Enchanter’s face retreated back, disappearing into his pale skin. The disembodied laughter ceased, and was immediately taken up by him. He put his arm round the old man and pointed to the repulsive, throbbing mass above. It crawled higher up the tree and hid itself among the leaves.
“I don’t understand,” Jangler said.
“You won’t be able to consult with that fragment of myself,” the Ismus told him. “Because you won’t know where it is. One night this weekend, that little part of me up there is going hunting.”
“Hunting? What will it hunt?”
“One of those young aberrants. That fragment of me is going to wait, out of sight, and you, dear Lockpick, will drive them in here tomorrow evening. Make a game of it. Employ whatever ruse or method seems best to you. Just see that they are all roaming this woodland when darkness falls. I shall make my selection then.”
“Ho! What an amusing scheme. And what will you do with the filthy scum, once caught?”
The crooked smile appeared. “I shall hide within its body, possess it as I did the man Jezza – the previous owner of this host flesh.”
“But what if your choice is the Castle Creeper? The child will be dead and its skill with it.”
“One life out of thirty-one,” the Ismus said. “That is a gamble I am prepared to take. Have I ever baulked at risk?”
“No, my Lord. And after you have taken possession, how shall I know which of them you are? You must make yourself known to me in a manner that will not arouse the suspicions of the others. Young people are so distrustful.”
“Certainly not! I don’t want you treating that host any differently to the rest. The other aberrants will know for certain if you bow and scrape every time it walks by. Your devotion would give the game away in the first five minutes. Just forget I’m there. As soon as it becomes clear who the Creeper is, I’ll step forward and take command.”
“Whatever you say, my Lord.”
“But remember, it is only a splinter of myself which I shall view and operate remotely. I can channel no power through it. It will be no stronger than the body it animates. Do not think to call on it for help if you fail here. It is merely a direct link to me, nothing more.”
“I will not fail,” came the confident reply. “And I shall not even try to guess in which of them you are concealed.”
The Ismus clapped him on the back. “Then let us return to our unwary little rabbits and their hutches!” he announced. “My Black Face Dames will be getting anxious. For such burly bruisers, they really are the most terrible worrywarts.”
He led Jangler back towards the compound. At the edge of the wood he paused and glanced over his shoulder. High in the trees a patch of foliage rustled against the breeze. The breathing darkness within was trembling with anticipation. The hungry wait had begun.
THE FEAST WAS an excessive, ostentatious display of a Mooncaster banquet. The refectory in the main block had been converted to a scaled-down facsimile of the Great Hall inside the White Castle. No expense had been spared. The walls had been faced with faux stone panels, but genuine medieval tapestries, requisitioned from stately homes and museums, had been hung across them. Four long oak tables were arranged in a rectangle and laden with even more food than had been on the stalls outside. Whole suckling pigs and roast fowl of various sizes, decorated with their former plumage, added to the pies of before.
The children were shown their places by the serving maids and minstrels played as they sat down. None of the young guests looked at the food; every eye was staring at the thing that dominated the central space. Within the rectangle of tables, on a large dais of its own, was a great model of the White Castle.
Painstakingly recreated by a team of special-effects craftsmen, it was perfect, down to the smallest detail, with three concentric walls and the five-storeyed keep in the middle. There were tiny lights in turret windows, banners of the Royal Houses flew from the four corner towers, the courtyards were cobbled, and white lead miniature guards were stationed on the battlements. There was even a moat, made of clear resin – and trees, with brass-etched leaves, grew from the flocked, grassy banks.
Alasdair stared at it intently. He couldn’t help admiring the workmanship and untold hours that had gone into its making, but he loathed everything the model represented.
The Ismus welcomed them with a speech about the hearty meals that would be lavished on them in here this weekend. The presence of the model was to focus their minds on their objective and to make the transition from this world to that much easier.
“Now eat, most honoured guests,” he commanded, his eyes glinting in the light of the many candles burning on large iron stands around the room.
The wenches came forward bearing flagons of ale and filled the goblets on the table. The younger children were given a weak, watered-down version, but they still grimaced when they sampled it.
Marcus had changed into a Paul Smith shirt with thin vertical stripes and knew he was the sharpest dresser in the room, apart from the Ismus, but that black velvet ensemble was hardly the height of fashion. Not yet at any rate. Marcus was disgruntled not to have been seated anywhere near Charm. She was diagonally opposite him and his view of her was blocked by the castle. What was the point of looking so good if she couldn’t even see him? He had hoped he could win her over by playfully throwing a grape or a rolled-up bit of bread in her direction. He didn’t want to chance lobbing a missile over the castle, blind.
“I might get her in the face or in her eye,” he muttered to himself. “She’s not the sort to laugh at that. Probably cause a big stink about it. Does