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Chapter One

Ordeal at Knifepoint

 

The Apostles decided it needed to save those souls suffering under the pernicious influence of paganism. The Christian Medical Cabal was formed, and many men, learned in the ways of medicine and scripture, were gathered. Those who put our God-fearing society in peril, those who heard voices in their head, those who attacked others without warning or reason; all these wretched souls were gathered and treated in a special church, adapted to the requirements set down by the Cabal. The Apostles battled long and hard with these people; their bodies suffered the most brutal yet sacred punishments, but the pagan disease lingered on … May God help us find a way to purify this corrupted world.

 

– Extract from Apostle Lore and History

– By the Right Rev. Harold Smith, Bishop of Ravensmere, July 1957.

Sadon de Balbec paced up and down the cold and draughty hall, tugging at his pointed beard, kicking various objects across the floor, muttering imprecations, and generally feeling like he’d been well and truly betrayed. Victor Tainn – that conniving and deceitful weasel, that lying, duplicitous toad – had promised him riches, power, influence, and the ear of Good Queen ‘Liz. But what did he have? None of those things.

    Caern Castle was his ancestral home, his family’s seat of power, and his stronghold in Gimley Dale. But it had been sorely neglected in the seven hundred years since he’d slept. Now the Great Hall had lost its plaster and fine tapestries, the moat had dried and weeded up, the battlements had crumbled, and the bailey had vanished completely. Where were his servants? Who was here to darn his socks, cook his food, plant the gardens, wash his jerkin and codpiece, and light the fires? Where were the comely wenches to warm his bed at night? The friends to attend his revels? The visiting dignitaries to test his wiles, bring him ideas, and help him scheme and plot?

    All these things and more marked the bounds of his old life. But that was seven hundred years ago. At Good King Henry’s feast, he’d been poisoned by Peter the Bald, for acts he will admit were not designed to best please the King. And after the passing of dark millennia, he’d been woken in a dirty coffin, in a muddy hole, by an unscrupulous flea-bound weasel that went by the name of Victor Tainn.

   Sadon de Balbec saw a wooden beaker lying on the floor and kicked it so hard it flew across the hall and smashed against the far wall. He tugged so firmly on his tangled beard that it hurt his chin. How utterly powerless he was! Powerless because his prized possession – that which was usually held safe inside his jerkin and warmed his belly – undoubtedly the most powerful and mysterious of all spell books, the Dragonus Grimoire, had been lost or stolen or destroyed, he knew not what. He tried to visualise the content, the even scrawl of its arcane language, but his tired and ageing mind was empty. Since waking up in this realm, he’d managed to cast one spell from the book –  a spell to open the Gates of Idris and bring Arddhu Og into this world. It was a spell he’d remembered only after that nefarious dung beetle that went by the name of Victor Tainn had cast on him, without warning or thought of consequence, a spell of recollection. But now that spell had worn off – leaving him feeling like the morning after a night on a flagon of wine. Without his precious book, he’d been reduced from the greatest warlock who’d ever lived to a simple conjurer who knew only the simpler incantations of transmogrification. But he could still recall those spells he’d learnt by rote as a boy.

    Sadon stirred when he heard a noise – the gallop of hooves in the courtyard outside. He knew what this meant: that the fly-infested dung ball of a man, who went by the name of Victor Tainn, had arrived. Sadon stopped pacing, sat upright in his wooden high-backed chair, rubbed his hands together because of the chilly air, and waited for his visitor to enter. A minute later, the rickety old door to the Great Hall swung open and in walked Victor Tainn. He was gaunt and wore a black, worsted suit with a threadbare cravat. He was carrying a brown leather bag. His hair was long and grey, and he had pronounced crow’s feet. The ends of his trousers were ripped, and his feet were not in any way human– they were two brown hooves topped with grey fur.

    “Greeting, Sir Billy,” Sadon said with a toothy yet impatient grin. “Have you come with the things I asked for?”

    “Yes, of course. But before I hand them over, I demand you change these accursed legs back to what is tolerable.”

    Victor had resurrected Sadon from the Barrow of the Dead a week earlier. They’d walked together up the steep paths to the summit of Tor Idris, but Victor had complained about the partial paralysis in his left leg and how difficult it was to walk with his stick on rough ground. So Sadon had cast a spell of transmogrification. In an agonising instant, Victor had found his legs transformed into those of a goat! He was furious about this imposition. The sheer indignation he felt at being treated so disrespectfully still rankled greatly. He had found his new legs of great use when scaling the heights of Tor Idris, but on following days, when at home, bathing or using the toilet, he’d looked down at his newly transformed body and shuddered with revulsion. Victor Tainn knew nothing of transmogrification, so he realised he had to be as fawningly obsequious to Sadon de Balbec as possible. But as soon as he’d got his new legs back, things were going to change. He imagined a broad and mighty axe swinging down with great force and cleaving Sadon’s skull in two. This happy thought of wily plans brought a warm smile to his face.

    “Yes, of course, Sir Billy. I wouldn’t wish any man to look like you,” Sadon said.

    He closed his eyes, held up his hands, wiggled his fingers, and began a slow and incomprehensible chant. Victor felt a rippling pain running up and down his legs. He heard the crack of bones. As his hooves changed shape, he stumbled and fell to the floor.

    “This, sir, is agony,” he shouted angrily.

    “It will pass in yonder moments when the bones have set. Be brave, oh mighty warlock.”

    Victor grimaced as the waves of pain shot through his legs. He looked at Sadon with undisguised hatred. To cheer himself up and put thoughts of the searing pain out of his mind, he imagined a small hand-held dagger landing in the centre of Sadon’s smug-looking face. Then the pain vanished, and Victor realised his legs felt different. He looked down at his feet, which were bare and pink, human and grubby. He pulled up his trouser leg and saw that the matted grey fur had vanished – replaced by a pale, thin human leg with wispy hair and knobbly knee.

    Victor scrambled around on the floor and got to his feet, realising his left side had become weak again. He cursed bitterly and regretted not bringing his walking stick. “Thank you. Don’t change me ever again.”

    Sadon laughed. “Only if necessary, my pugnacious little friend. I guess I cannot call you Sir Billy now yon legs have changed.”

    Victor scowled, pulled himself upright and gave Sadon a defiantly haughty look. “I will keep my legs how I like them, Sir, don’t mess with them unbidden!”

    Sadon was about to laugh, then remembered what he’d been talking about earlier. “Anyway, enough of this idle banter. On to the business of the day. Those things I asked for, that which will make my life easier. Have you brought them?”

    “As I say, of course. I have them here.”

    The brown bag Victor had been carrying earlier was lying on the floor. He picked it up, unfastened two brass buckles and opened a flap. He pulled out a small earthenware pot and several thin, straight tree branches, so regular in shape they looked like a collection of short poles. 

    “Is that hazel?”

    “Yes, of course, I brought what you asked. I am a man known for the fastidious execution of every task. I know hazel better than any man alive.”

    Sadon raised an eyebrow. “And who’s in the pot?”

    “I rode out to Underwood and found a young woman, hysterical, in the grip of Arddhu Og. I shot her with a crossbow and collected up the dragon-ceare beast.”

    Sadon was impressed with Victor’s willingness to follow orders. Maybe he wasn’t as much of a snivelling dung-ball as first suspected. “Excellent work, Sir B- … no, not Sir Billy any more. I say excellent work, as young girls are usually more compliant.”

    Sadon took the hazel sticks over to a stone fireplace. Ash filled the hearth, which he swept away with a broom. Then he piled the sticks into the fireplace and paused.

    “There is a spell to light the fire – quite simple, but I cannot recall it now. T’was not taught in my childhood learning.”

    Victor grinned. He knew it was a simple thing, but it was never taught to children, as it can be dangerous. He took a deep breath and prepared to cast it, feeling inordinately pleased with himself. Now was the time to impress. He raised his hand and tried to look as grand and warlock-like as possible as he said the following:

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Spark up, ye yellow furnace ball.

The flame of Arrowmeth, I call.

Whip from palm a mighty blaze.

Oh comet, fly! Let yoke be razed!

 

An intensely hot ball of flame, about the size of a cricket ball, formed in the palm of Victor’s outstretched hand. With a whooshing sound, it shot across the room and into the fireplace. There was a burst of crackling fire, which lit up the Great Hall. The flame was so hot that Sadon jumped back in case he got singed. All the wood was instantly lit and burning merrily.

    Victor lowered his hand and tried to look impressive, but he realised he’d said the spell a little too slowly, which meant the flame had scorched his hand as it departed. But Victor pretended there was no pain, remained dignified and haughty, and resisted the urge to wring his hand and cry out.

    “Good, very good,” Sadon said. “And now for the second part.”

    “And what’s that?” Victor said.

    “If you wait and observe, you shall see, oh impatient one.”

    Three dead badgers’ corpses were laid on the floor not far away. They looked freshly killed, but now Victor had seen them, he realised they were letting off a bit of a rancid smell.

    Victor shook his head, thinking Sadon had lost any semblance of sense. “What’s all that about?”

    “Badgers are stolid and reliable. Not the brightest of creatures, but useful for slow and steady work. Squirrels are good if you need a lot done, as they are quick and work until the cows come home from pasture – but they are not too strong or reliable. But don’t ye be trying it with stoats, weasels or foxes. They’ll let you down every time. Did an owl once, as a boy, but it flew away and terrorised the villages for weeks.”

    “Right. Where did you get them?”

    “Why, roundabouts, of course. I trapped them.”

    Sadon pulled a long dagger from a sheath tied to his waist and carefully gutted each animal. “Now pass me yon pot.”

Victor handed him the pot, and Sadon chopped the wrinkled, black, web-winged dragon-ceare creature that lay inside into three pieces. He put one part of the dragon-ceare beast inside each of the animals. Then he took a small iron shovel, scooped up some still-burning wood, and put that inside the animals. When he’d finished, he stood back and looked at them with satisfaction.

    They stood and waited for nearly a minute, watching the animals. Then Victor saw that there were limbs twitching, jerking, and growing. Victor watched as the badgers changed – eyes became more human-like, hind legs moved back to allow them to stand up, and front paws became elongated and shaped into dark, pudgy fingers with black fingernails. He was amazed, having never seen anything like this before.

    Soon it was all done, and the badgers stood up and looked around the Great Hall, confused. Each seemed similar, around three feet tall with paw-like hands, stubby feet and a potbelly covered in fine hair.

    “Can you speak?” Sadon said.

    “Where am I?” the first badger said in the strangest voice Victor had ever heard.

    “In my service. I need all the fires to be made up, the kitchen to be cleaned, food prepared, and the floor swept. Now get to work!”

    The badger-like creatures looked at each other in horror. “Are you Bethany?” one said to another.

    “Where’s mum?” the third badger said. “I want mum. I don’t like this.” The third badger started the cry, or at least the closest approximation a badger can get to crying.

    “What is this?” Sadon said, tugging his beard and growing frustrated. “There is yon broom, now get a’sweeping, insolent creature.”

    “My name is Bethany Briggs, from Underwood. What’s happened to me? Why do I look strange?” the second badger said, looking down at her outstretched hands.

    “No, I am Bethany,” the first badger said.

    “I am,” the third said.

    Sadon growled and clenched his bony fists with frustration. “What is this? I have done this change so many times, come harvest time. ‘Tis a simple thing.”

    Victor found it difficult to suppress a smug grin. To think he’d been almost impressed with Sadon’s badger reanimation, almost intrigued as to what he was up to. But the old and senile warlock had made some huge mistake in the execution of his work. Victor rolled around pithy phrases in his mind, things he was about to say in a casual and offhand way, a phrase designed to make Sadon look as foolish as possible and himself look as marvellous as possible. Then he had it, witty and straightforward, pithy and devastating. He raised a finger, put on the haughtiest look he could muster and was about to launch into calling Sadon the greatest dim-wit on Arddhu Og’s good green Earth when he was interrupted.

    “This is all your fault,” Sadon said to Victor angrily. “You dunder-headed, bird-brained cowpat of a man!”

    “What!” Victor said incredulously.

    “When you bring them back with oak, they are angry and feral, will attack and kill all they see. When you bring them back with hazel, they are docile and compliant, have no thought of who they are, why they exist and have no desire except to be your servant, good and true. But when you bring them back with willow, they know who they are and fall into despair. You have not brought me hazel, maggot-minded nincompoop. You’ve brought me willow!”

    Victor slowly lowered his finger and looked thoughtful. “Well, they do look very similar.”

    “But look at them. How can these blubbering monstrosities be decent servants, you worm-ridden, festering-”

    “They’re fine.”

    They looked at the three badger creatures sitting in the corner of the room, hugging each other and crying.

Sadon pulled out his dagger and rushed forward. He pinned Victor against the wall and held the blade to his throat.          “Now, you listen to me,” he said.

    Sadon’s face was so close to Victor’s that his pointed beard was tickling Victor’s chin. “Get off me.”

    This plea only made Sadon tighten his surprisingly strong grip. “You promised me much treasure. I did as you asked. Arddhu Og is now free. The Gates of Idris are open. Yet where is my treasure? You promised me, and yet I sit here in poverty.”

    Victor was about to launch into some long and rambling excuse designed to get him off the hook, but before he could speak, Sadon got the point of the blade and scratched a long line across Victor’s throat. It stung badly, and he felt a small dribble of blood trickle down his neck.

    “Argh! What do you think you’re doing, you old fool?”

    “I’m serious. I was once a powerful baron; these lands are mine by right. Once, this castle was filled with revelry, and the kitchen cooked many a feast fit for Good King Henry himself. I was feted and feared. I had the Dragonus Grimoire.      “It made me the most powerful warlock in Christendom.”

    “Well,” Victor said with a shrug, “times change.”

    “What! How dare you speak with insolence to one so grand!”

    “I was only reflecting on the realities of your current situation.”

    With an almighty heave, Sadon threw Victor to the ground. As he landed,  he twisted his weak left leg and a spasm of pain shot up his side. Victor screamed in agony as he clutched his knee.

    “I lied. I have no money. But I thought we’d both be rich,” Victor wailed. “Arddhu Og has come into this world, and we are the ones who brought her back! We are the commanders-in-chief of her mighty army! We are those privileged few, the high and mighty warlocks, who will share in her power as she dominates the world.”

Sadon laughed when he heard this. “You are a popinjay, a muddle-head, a dalcopped bobolyne. You have no idea who Arddhu Og really is, have you?”

    “I try to talk sense to her, but she ignores me. I ask her to sit and plan her future, but she is off doing other things. I ask her for favours, and she does nothing to help. I nag her to share her thoughts, but she turns that dragon-mouth into a petulant scowl.”

    “I would expect no less from one I know of old. Where is she now?”

    “She has come down from Tor Idris, thankfully, and now sleeps in the stone circle at North Down, near Underwood.”

    “Well, she’s your problem now, not mine. All I want is my treasure. You must get it before the sun sets twice more, or I will shove this dagger deep inside your belly, you worthless worm!” Sadon moved menacingly towards Victor. The dagger was held up and was ready to strike.

    Victor scrambled to his feet, which was difficult with his weak leg and agonising knee. He limped backwards towards the door. “You’re not a real warlock! You, sir, are a fraud! Nothing but a scheming politician! A money-grubber!”

    “Get out! Now, before I slice off what all men want to keep more than anything.”

   “You wouldn’t dare.”

    Sadon lashed out with the knife, and it caught Victor on the cheek. He was shocked. His face stung, and as he felt it with his hand, he saw blood on his fingers. “I’ll get you for this.”

Sadon was surprised as he’d only planned to wave the knife menacingly, not to cut him. “Get out, scruffy knave, before I do worse.”

    Victor opened the door and stumbled down the high stone passageway. He went around a corner, limping badly, down a few steps and out into the courtyard. A cold wind whipped at his face and made it sting. His knee throbbed with a dull ache. Beauty stood in the cobbled yard, and Victor tried his best to climb into the saddle, but it was hard pulling himself up with his weak leg and painful knee. Eventually, he managed to mount the horse in an undignified manner and trotted off out of the castle and down the hill, feeling angrier than he’d felt in a long time.

    Things were not working out as he’d expected. Sadon de Balbec did not revere the dark arts as he did; he was not someone dedicated to all things warlock-related and was not doing all the splendid things that warlocks were supposed to do. He thought of his four friends, the other members of the Barleybrook Etheric Club. Percy Valentine killed his fellow dabblers in the dark arts a century ago – George Fotheringay, Cyril Smythe-Wotton, Anton Drasnovic and Barrington Fitzwilliam. He wished more than anything that they were here now to help him destroy Sadon de Balbec and take control of Arddhu Og.

    He remembered the club meetings, the glorious times they’d had a century ago. They’d meet nightly at his house, drink the finest wine and port, smoke opium and Cuban cigars, and plot the downfall of their enemies in the most dastardly way they could think up.

    Victor’s ruined mouth twisted into its closest approximation of a self-satisfied grin. A cunning plan was forming in his mind! He’d wanted to do it for a long time, but only now had he thought of how to do it. It was cunning, diabolical, and would work!

    “I’ll show him the real meaning of evil!” he said, wiping the blood that ran down his cold face.

    The Barleybrook Etheric Club was going to rise from the grave! He was going to use the awesome power of the club to channel Arddhu Og, to consume, to destroy, to dominate and to subjugate. Victor Tainn laughed a maniacal laugh as he imagined how he would rule the world, as High Lord of Evil, with an iron fist of terror! People would cringe, bow down and proclaim him the greatest of all warlocks.