The Whitby Witches 2: A Warlock In Whitby Page 11

  From the depths of one of the many dark shadows, there came an answering throb of golden radiance.

  Nathaniel threw back his head in triumph then began to haul the surrounding rubble aside. It was arduous work; the stones were heavy and he tore his fingernails in his eagerness to clear them. The ground trembled as each slab was thrown down but eventually the way was made and Nathaniel reached in to retrieve what he sought.

  It was a life-size head of stone, most of the features had been worn away but the eyes and mouth could still be discerned. For years it had lain forgotten and disregarded against the wall, covered and hidden by the rest of the ancient carvings in the Saxon crypt—but now Nathaniel had it. He took the head in his hands and the beautiful light which emanated from it shone in his face.

  "Now you are mine," he marvelled, "and now you shall answer me." The stone pulsated with magical force, its light reaching high into the church, spreading over the balcony of pews that ran along the walls, giving everything a beautiful, glistering glow. The unnatural gale that the warlock had created died down and a delicious warmth rippled out into the night. Nathaniel had awakened the power of the head and a desperate thought clutched at his heart—what if he were unable to control it? All his designs would go astray—all his hopes and desires would come to nothing.

  "Be still!" he shouted in the midst of his panic. "Cease this at once!"

  But the head continued to pour out its energy. The inside of the church blazed with glory and dazzling beams shot from the windows, piercing the night outside. The powerful forces blasted high over the cliff like one of the beacon fires of old.

  "Stop!" commanded Nathaniel, trying to shield his eyes from the blinding light. "STOP!" Even at this time of night someone was bound to see what was happening. He had been relying on secrecy and the cover of darkness to achieve his goal but this was like having a neon sign flashing to the world. His plans were in jeopardy—he would be discovered and his enemies alerted. He had to put an end to it and, with clenched teeth, called on all his dark powers. "Aid me!" he demanded. "Come to me—help me in this desperate hour! Give me the strength to counter, conquer and rule."

  For a moment nothing happened and the golden light continued to flood out of the church, cascading over the graves, in an ever-swelling stream and gilding them in its wake. But then, very slowly, another glow began to appear. It was a sickly, greenish hue and it flickered about Nathaniel's hands as he called for aid. When the two opposing forces met, they crackled and spat, flashes of lightning roaring through the church.

  "Submit to me," the warlock cried as the green light flowed over him. "You will answer—you must answer."

  And then the contest was finished. The power of the head began to dwindle, the golden energy faded, engulfed in Nathaniel's all-devouring hatred. The brilliance died down and it became dark—except for the putrid luminescence that wrapped itself about the evil man.

  The last glowing rays danced around the stone eyes then disappeared. The carving was nothing more than a stone head and the power of the warlock surrounded it.

  "That is better," he said, "now, it's time for you to hear me, oh ancient one, answer to Nathaniel." He grinned horribly and commanded, "Speak unto me!"

  Deep within the stone there came a grinding and a creaking. Nathaniel's dark eyes gleamed and the evil forces wound more tightly about the head. The noise grew louder, until the carved mouth began to move—the weathered lips parted and a hollow voice rang out.

  "Hath the time now come?" it asked. "Is the end of all things arrived? Is Ragnarok upon us?"

  "The end is not yet here," replied Nathaniel, "but that hour may not be far away."

  "The staff is gone!" called the disembodied, echoing voice. "She has taken it back—the walls are breached!"

  "Peace," calmed the warlock, "all is not yet lost, there may still be hope."

  The stone eyes rasped open to reveal two almond-shaped slivers of flint. They studied Nathaniel closely and the voice asked, "Who art thou? Why didst thou invoke me?"

  "My name is Crozier. The world is in peril and I must do what I can to help. Many years have passed since you were laid down, the knowledge of the ancient ones is long forgotten—only a few now have the skill to do what must be done."

  "Then hail to thee, master of stone," said the head. "What dost thou wish from me?"

  "I am a seeker after that knowledge," replied Nathaniel excitedly. "There are many questions which only you can answer if I am to prevent the darkness creeping over the land—tell to me all your wisdom, how did you come to be here? Who made you?"

  The eyes closed slowly, and when the voice began it was filled with melancholy. "I am the oracle of the stone," it intoned, "and long have I done my work. A torment of emptiness have those years been. Hadda the elder made me, although I have worn many shapes, and set me above the lintel of the church that was before this. When the land was green and the circling seas uncharted."

  "What was your purpose?" pressed Nathaniel in fascination.

  The head replied mournfully. "The third guardian am I," it said, "defender of the weak against the power that sleeps and must not stir."

  "Power?" repeated the warlock. "Explain—what power do you speak of?"

  "Thou canst not understand," lamented the head. "None now can know of the pain and horror which rests. The world has moved on, even legends fade and are forgotten."

  Nathaniel lifted the carving close to his own face. "Please," he asked in a silky, persuasive voice, "I want to know. Tell me of that distant time."

  The flints regarded him keenly before the head answered. "Hear me, oh human," it proclaimed. "You wish to learn of those dark days? Then listen and I shall speak of deeds great and noble and woes beyond number. Of the time before the dragon ships set sail, before the stones of the abbey were laid, before Saxon kings were buried in this haven and before Hild blessed it with her footsteps."

  The head then recounted the history of Whitby, events that occurred many ages ago and recorded by no one. While it spoke Nathaniel listened, concealing the greed and malice that boiled within him.

  "It was a wild land then," the carving continued, "the five tribes of the aufwaders lived along all the coast and man was as yet a stranger in this sea-lashed place. Since the time of waking, evil has stalked the world in all its guises, yet here in Whitebi the dark one had indeed made its home. For aeons there was nothing but horror here, and terror was the lot of those who dwelt nearby. The hills were a desolate wasteland, and Death a constant wanderer of the shore. The aufwaders suffered much and prayed unceasingly to the Lords of the Deep who did hear their woe and take pity. In those early days they still had dealings with the upper world and had not withdrawn to their vast realm beneath the waves."

  "So what did their Marine Majesties do to deliver them from this peril?" asked Nathaniel sarcastically.

  "There came a fearful day when the sun shone red with war and they arose from the foaming deep surrounded by a host of tritons ready for battle. In a deadly encounter that threw down cliffs and forged new mountains they did attack, but the enemy was mighty and blew poisonous rain upon them. Their vast army was almost vanquished in the cruel onslaught and the sea became awash with blood, yet finally they won through and the Great Lord himself grappled with the evil, deposing it in bitter combat.

  "Then did the golden horns of the Deep Ones sound and their joyous trumpeting was heard unto the furthest corners of the world. All rejoiced, but even as their lord prepared to deal the deathblow his heart forewarned that the battle would not be won that day. Though the enemy be slain and fed to the scavengers of the ocean, it could never be destroyed and would in time return and conquer, bringing about the ruin of all. Thus he stepped aside and though the clamour rose about him he refused to dispatch the enemy. So, to the dismay of all, the evil was spared but the Deep Ones would not suffer it to despoil the land once more. Using all their craft and skill, they bound it in chains of enchantment and it passed out of knowledge, enteri
ng the distant legends of the time.

  "An interesting myth," interrupted Nathaniel with little enthusiasm. "Almost every culture can claim a similar tale. What has an archaic legend to do with your presence here?"

  Ignoring his scepticism, the head began again. "Even the strongest chain shall weaken," it told him, "and fall into ruin under the relentless march of years. So did the bonds of enchantment wither and they who first felt the rumour of the returning evil did realise the truth of the old tales and were afraid. Irl, mightiest of all aufwaders in skill and cunning, sought to strengthen the enchantment of the Deep Ones and wrought a talisman, instilling it with all his power to keep the evil one at bay. For this undertaking he did steal the moonkelp and so was punished, but not till he completed his task and carried off the thing he made. There, hidden from the five tribes, this sacred artefact kept strong the enchanted bonds and the world was safe again."

  Nathaniel's eyes gleamed as he began to understand and the lust which smouldered within him burst into flame.

  "But power fades," sighed the head, "and a day came when Irl's guardian was not enough. Evil grows wherever it lies and so it was with this—another shield in the armour of Whitebi was required. This was fashioned by the first of the human settlers who learned of the danger from the five tribes before they were estranged. A wise man was he, steeped in the lore of a fallen civilisation and he made a sign of the moon, calling on the goddess herself to guide his work—and so was his guardian added to the defences and all was well for a time."

  "And then?"

  "Who can measure the rate of a canker that spends itself not and, resting, grows mighty in repose? The time came when another guardian was needed and so was I brought into being. The first bishops hallowed me and called on the Lord to protect them. So have I guarded the town throughout the centuries, constantly challenging and striving with that which sleeps, binding the ancient enchantment about it and adding to the sum of the other guardians' power." The head fell silent and the eyes closed sadly.

  Nathaniel nodded, assuming a gentle, wise countenance. "And in the time of Hild another guardian was needed," he added, "and so she surrendered her staff?"

  "Verily," returned the head, "when Hild came, already my labours were too great and evil was beginning to escape. A Mallykin had evaded my vigilance and slithered into the waking world. It was she who drove it back into forgetfulness and sacrificed her power for the safety of the world. Yet the staff is no more. It has gone from this place and it was the strongest guardian of us all. Without it we are weakened and the walls are breached. Once more the evils which were bred in the youth of the world are stirring. The Mallykin walks abroad again and the old enchantment decays with each passing moon. Soon shall the evil waken and all will plunge into darkness and despair."

  "Is there nothing that can be done to prevent this disaster?" asked Nathaniel.

  The head groaned, "Who now can forge and craft a device to protect us all? What of the old skills remain in this modern world? Who now can stop the enemy awaking?"

  The warlock gave a small, unpleasant laugh. "Perhaps I can," he said.

  "You?" the head muttered. "Can you in truth do this? Are your talents a match for what is needed?"

  "I believe so," came the arrogant and self-assured reply. "I have absolute faith in my abilities."

  "Then waste no time," urged the carving, "begin at once. For pity's sake commence the work—it is rousing. Have I not felt the shackles of sleep fall away?"

  Nathaniel rubbed his chin as though mulling the idea over. "Yes," he mused, "I suppose I could do something. What I must really achieve is some way of uniting all the existing guardians and building upon their proven strength. But where am I to find them? They have been hidden for thousands of years."

  "I can help!" the head cried. "I know where they were bestowed."

  "Oh good," smiled Nathaniel. "You know, I was rather hoping you'd say that."

  Behind him, a shadowy figure crawled along the aisle, slipping silently behind the pew boxes. Ben had followed the man up to the cemetery, keeping well out of sight as Nathaniel strode round to the back of the church. When he saw the man break in, he nearly ran to fetch the police but was too intrigued to learn what he was doing in there. At first he had thought that Mr Crozier was a burglar and was after the church silver, but when the strange lights had begun to shine Ben drew closer. Now he crept towards the vile, spectral gleam which emanated from the crypt, straining to catch what the voices said, yet anxious not to be discovered.

  From what he had already managed to overhear, the boy was extremely afraid. He wasn't sure who Nathaniel was talking to—he thought perhaps it was one of the fisherfolk and that alone disturbed him, but what was all this talk of evil? Carefully, Ben stole nearer, the phantom light falling on his young face. He stealthily came as far as he dared then curled into a ball, intent on the voices which drifted up from the crypt.

  "The oldest of the guardians is with the aufwaders," the head was telling Nathaniel, "and from this shall the nature of the evil be known. Irl bore it to the deepmost regions of their realm before the Deep Ones punished him for his crime and hid it therein. Who now knows of its existence? No one perhaps, but in the caverns beneath the cliff it surely lies and this only would Irl reveal as he was dragged into the sea to answer for the theft of the moonkelp. The guardian is engulfed in sorrow—that is all he would say, even as the water poured into his mouth and filled his lungs."

  Slowly, and with little pleasure, Nathaniel considered this information—so that one at least was out of his reach. "And the second guardian?" he demanded.

  "Is a wooden tablet," the head told him, "inlaid with pearl. The irresistible force of the waxing moon is its strength and is mightiest when it is full in the sky. Many and dreadful were the incantations muttered over this, and terrible were the promises sworn to the goddess. The man who made it perished as soon as it was done, having poured his entire soul into his creation."

  "Yes, yes!" stormed Nathaniel impatiently. "But where can I find it?"

  "The second guardian was entrusted to a Whitebi family," the head replied, "and since pagan times they have kept it safe and secret from all others, passing it down through generation after generation."

  "Their name!" the warlock cried. "What is their name?"

  "In former times their house was called Hegenfrith, but the sands shift and names alter. What they may be called now I do not know. All I can sense is that the guardian is still safe. After all this time it continues to do its work, enriching and fortifying the might of the others, drawing on the power of the moon at its zenith."

  "Hegenfrith," Nathaniel muttered, committing it to memory. "So, there we are," he licked his lips and sniggered. "Tell me, oh oracle, what would happen if all the guardians were destroyed?"

  The flint eyes stared at him incredulously, the man's voice had altered and was no longer friendly. "Then darkness would reign!" the head cried. "Evil would waken and the land laid waste. Without our continued protection Ragnarok would come."

  "Such melodrama," Nathaniel scoffed. "Do you really expect me to believe that? It may have kept the primitive peasants in check but it won't deter me. No, I am a master of control and domination—there is nothing on this earth I cannot make yield and bow before me. Whatever this force is, evil or not, it shall be mine to command."

  "No!" shrieked the head. "You must not believe that! I tell you it is beyond your futile strength. If you awaken this thing then be assured you shall be the first to die—it cannot be controlled! No one has dominion over evil, it consumes all who try to master it."

  "I think I've heard enough now, thank you," Nathaniel retorted. "You have done your duty—for far too long in my considered opinion."

  "What are you doing?" the head shouted. "Are there such madmen loose in the world?" But it was too late, it realised how it had been tricked and there was nothing it could do.

  "Bleat all you can," the warlock laughed, "for your time is over. Nathaniel
has come to deliver you from your woe. This night I shall end your dreadful labour." With a deriding laugh he hurled the head to the ground and chips of stone sparked from the flagged floor.

  "Hearken to me!" begged the guardian in fear as it saw Nathaniel open the large bag at his feet and bring out a sledgehammer. "This is madness!"

  But the warlock paid no attention to its beseeching cries. "Into dust we all must depart," he chuckled. "Isn't it about time you did the same?"

  With one swift swing of his arms he raised the sledgehammer over his head and brought it crashing down.

  "NOOOOO!" came a heart-rending scream.

  In his hiding place Ben covered his ears. He was terrified at what he had heard and, as the vicious blows fell, he sprang to his feet.

  The scene in the crypt was screened by the pews and he was thankful that he could not see what was happening. Yet the eerie green light that still flickered about Nathaniel threw his shadow upon the wall and that was enough. Down came the hammer, dashing the head to smithereens. Its plaintive screeches rocked the church and Ben felt them thump inside his brain.

  "A curse on thee, human!" howled the voice in its agony. "May the forces thou hast unlocked hound thy black soul unto the end of time!"

  Nathaniel's laughter welled up and he roared, bringing the sledgehammer down in yet another crushing blow. There came one last piercing scream that tore through the very foundations of the church, shaking the rafters and rifling up into the tower where the bells vibrated and sang out a dreadful, discordant chime. And just when Ben thought he could stand no more, the voice was finally silenced forever.

  Like a thing possessed, Nathaniel continued. Relentlessly pounding the pieces to powder, leaving not a fragment on the floor and crowing with horrendous savagery.

  Ben hurtled from the church as fast as he could. Everything he had heard flew round inside his mind in a confused whirl and, leaping over gravestones, he charged back down the path for all he was worth.