Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax Page 23

  The Jack of Clubs gave no thought to any of that. He was free and when the thickets of overgrown gorse and spindly trees were left behind, the wind tore through his hair and rushed past his ears as he galloped over open country once more. The sound grew to a roar and the earth beneath the horse’s hooves grew soft and sandy. With a yell, he realised the danger they were in and pulled sharply on the reins, calling for the beast to halt.

  Urlwin obeyed and stumbled to a standstill – just in time.

  The Jack of Clubs bent forward and kissed the horse’s head between the ears. “My thanks,” he said, patting the sweating neck. “Look yonder, my friend.” The steed tossed its head and thudded a hoof in the sand.

  Dismounting, the noble gazed ahead. They had stopped just short of a cliff edge. Beyond that the ground dropped sharply and then there was only a sparkling vision of the Silvering Sea. He wondered what strange lands might exist beyond the uttermost wave.

  The noble took a step closer to the edge. His feet sank deep into the soft, sandy soil and he peered over the sheer brink. It was a fearsome drop to the rocky pools of the shore beneath.

  The sea air felt clean and cooling upon his face. Surely there were other sounds carried upon it? He turned and saw in the distance, on the grassy stretch between the cliff and the woods, a herd of the finest horses he had ever seen. They were cantering and playing, neighing happily to one another.

  “The untameable steeds,” he breathed. “They’re beautiful.”

  It was said that the mares could only be impregnated by the southern wind and he did not doubt it. They were unlike any creature in the stables of the White Castle. They made his own elegant stallion look like a shambling puller of dray carts by comparison. No saddle or bridle would ever break one of those. Amongst the herd he saw four foals, running alongside their mothers. They were relishing every moment under the summer sun, their long legs prancing high and gladly.

  Suddenly the ground under his feet crumbled like stale cake and he pulled back fearfully as a chunk of it fell away and went tumbling down – splashing in the saltwater pools below.

  The Jack of Clubs leaped clear. The cliff edge was treacherous. With a shudder, he saw the very spot where he had just been standing drop from sight and, some moments later, heard it crashing into the water.

  It was time to return to the White Castle and he made his way back to his own horse.

  “A glorious noon, is it not, my Lord?” asked a voice abruptly.

  The noble started and spun around, wondering who had spoken.

  “But what lures a son of the Under Kings from the confines of the thirteen hills to this perilous point?”

  The Jack of Clubs gazed at a wind-sculpted tree a little distance away. There, stretched across the lowest branch, was a large dog fox. The animal was watching him keenly and the grin on its face was not in the noble’s imagination.

  “The fox with the speech of man!” he exclaimed.

  “Oh, well done, Sire,” the animal said sarcastically. “However did you guess?”

  The noble laughed in spite of himself. “My Lord Ismus has named you an enemy of the Realm!” he said.

  “Then it is fortunate we are outside your borders,” came the suave reply.

  “He says you are in league with Haxxentrot the witch.”

  “That poisonous old biddy, with her bats and snakes? I think not! Now don’t become tiresome and reach for that short sword at your side. I can dart away and be lost in the long grasses yonder before you could unsheathe it.”

  “I wish no harm to you,” the noble replied, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace.

  The fox studied him with interest. “So the tales I hear are not false,” it said. “You are indeed the friend of beast and bird.”

  “I try to be.”

  “Then heed my words of guidance, son of the Royal House of Clubs. The Bad Shepherd is abroad. He was close to this very spot, two nights since, and won’t be far. Do not let him approach you. Shun him. Cast stones at him. Hearken not to his speech. For he will infect you with his madness and begin a screaming in your spirit that will never be quelled.”

  The youth looked alarmed. “I have heard grim stories of the Bad Shepherd,” he said. “’Tis he whom the Ismus should hunt down.”

  “He will,” the fox told him with a crafty smile. “In time, he will. The Bad Shepherd will be driven out completely. But the Jockey deems that I am competition and wishes me removed before all others. I am the only one who can… outfox him. No doubt he has trickled slanders into the Holy Enchanter’s ear about my poor self. I am harmless, am I not?”

  The noble nodded. “The Jockey weaves words with subtle skill and artifice,” he agreed.

  “And thus am I stitched up by him,” the fox said.

  “The Jockey rides us all at Court, that is true. Yet I thank you for the warning, good master fox. I will not linger here. If you ever need my aid, you know where to find me.”

  The fox’s brush swished behind him. “I do indeed,” he replied. “I have crept ’neath your windows many times on my way to pay my respects to the buxom beauties within the chicken shed… but wait!”

  The ears flicked on its head and the fox jerked around.

  “The herd is coming this way,” it declared. “Take an extra crumb of advice, my princeling, and depart before they reach here. You may think yon wild horses are lovely to look at, but they harbour no love for man, nor any other beast save themselves. They bite and kick and trample. I shall not stay to…”

  The fox left the sentence unfinished. There was a gleam of copper in the sunlight and it had jumped from the branch. The cream-tipped brush vanished into the long grasses and the animal was gone.

  The Jack of Clubs smiled. He had always wanted to encounter the fox with human speech. He hoped their paths would cross again some day.

  He clapped a hand against his horse’s flank, slipped a foot in the stirrup and was in the saddle once more.

  “Let us return home, Urlwin,” he said.

  The horse nodded and began retracing its path through the grass and the shrubs, away from the cliff edge. The Jack of Clubs could not resist glancing back at the herd. They were such splendid creatures. He was sorely tempted to remain and see if his skill with animals would charm them also. But he could feel that his own horse was not happy. It did not wish to be bitten and kicked by wild, heathen stallions and was anxious to pick up the pace and gallop away.

  The noble was about to give in and let Urlwin have its wish when everything changed.

  Further along the cliff, where the gorse and twisted trees grew thickly, a cloud of black smoke was rising. The woods and thickets were on fire. The contented, carefree neighing of the herd was replaced by frightened whinnies and the horses charged away from the crackling flames. Then, from the shrubs, still wielding the burning torch he had started the fire with, came a demented, shrieking figure.

  The Jack of Clubs gasped fearfully. It was the Bad Shepherd.

  He was tall, with shaggy hair, and dressed in dirty grey robes. Bawling vile curses, he whirled the flaming brand over his head and ran, raging, into the midst of the herd – smiting hindquarters with it and setting tails and manes alight.

  “Foul villain!” the Jack of Clubs shouted in fierce outrage.

  The day was filled with the terror of the horses. They screamed and stampeded. To escape the evil flames, some leaped blindly over the cliff and their high voices continued to scream till they hit the rocks below.

  The Jack of Clubs drew his short sword and spurred his own steed about. With a defiant yell, he went galloping towards the herd, to do battle with the Bad Shepherd and cleanse the land of his disgusting presence once and for all.

  The panicked herd had left the insane man behind and he was staring with cruel delight at the chaos and damage he had caused. Throwing back his bearded head, he let loose a deranged laugh. Then he saw the Jack of Clubs racing towards him, making his way through the jostling herd, and he laughed all th
e more insanely.

  The fire spread with awful speed through the dry shrubs and grasses. With that on one side and the cliff on the other, the track way was narrow. Urlwin and the Jack of Clubs were surrounded by frightened horses and could not steer a course through them. The untameable beasts were so desperate to flee, their rolling eyes barely noticed the noble on his stallion and they barged and pushed against them. Alarm and horror drove each one and their hooves pounded frantically over the sandy ground.

  It was impossible to ride against that whinnying tide and the Jack of Clubs could only watch as the Bad Shepherd raised a mocking finger and shook his head. Then he tossed the torch aside and strode off, out of sight.

  “One day I shall hunt you down!” the noble vowed. But his main concern at that moment was trying to remain in the saddle. Then, to his horror, he felt Urlwin drop beneath him. And a new threat replaced that of the fire.

  The stampede had weakened the already soft ground. The entire cliff path was giving way.

  The noble heaved on the reins and Urlwin staggered from the pit that juddered and buckled beneath its hooves. The ground began to slip and slide. Holes and trenches gaped open. Horses tripped and stumbled. The screaming increased.

  With renewed urgency, Urlwin battled on – to bear its beloved master to safety. It snorted and pushed through the untamed beasts all around. But it was no use.

  There was a deep rumble and a long slice of the cliff vanished. The horses that were running there were suddenly gone. Then another stretch of ground fell away and more beasts went toppling down to the rocks far below. The sand under Urlwin’s hooves was quaking. With one final, determined effort, the stallion drove its forelegs deep into the shaking ground and bucked. The Jack of Clubs was flung from the saddle. He flew through the air, high over the ears of the herd, and landed in the long grass beyond.

  “Urlwin!” he shouted, scrambling to his feet immediately. “Urlwin!”

  Braving the wild kicks of the terrified herd, he darted forward, to lead his faithful horse from danger.

  The cliff trembled and a huge section broke away. Urlwin’s proud head reared for a moment and then it, with the horses nearby, went slithering out of sight.

  “No!” the Jack of Clubs cried. “Urlwin! Urlwin!”

  There was another ominous rumble and more horses disappeared. Only a small group of them were left and the fire was getting closer, cutting off any escape.

  Fear and smoke poured over the diminishing cliff path. The horses that remained pounded around in circles, their thumping hooves accelerating the cliff’s collapse.

  The Jack of Clubs felt the ground lurch beneath him and he was hurled off balance. The largest chunk of cliff so far went crashing down. The young noble’s legs were thrashing in the empty air. There was nothing below him except a precipitous drop to the ruin and carnage that spilled over the shore. Catching hold of the gnarled branch of one of the twisted trees, he hauled himself out of danger, but the sandy earth kept breaking away under him. He flung himself forward, into the choking smoke of the burning thickets, and hoped the roots there would bind the ground more securely. But the heat of the encroaching flames was intense and he knew he could not remain in that place long.

  Anxious, he searched for a way out. Then he saw it. A natural tunnel formed between the gorse and tortured trees. It was filled with black smoke, but so far the flames had not reached it. If he could make his way through there, he would come to safety on the other side.

  The hope soared in his heart and he lunged towards it. Then, with his escape in sight, he heard a sound that made him halt and whirl around.

  A narrow promontory was jutting out over the broken cliff and there, standing upon it, shivering and tossing its terrified head, was the last survivor of the untameable horses. It was a foal. It could not have been more than two weeks old. Its long, stilt-like legs were splayed and its large ears were flicking wildly. It had just seen its mother break on the merciless rocks below and the ground upon which it stood was already beginning to tip.

  The Jack of Clubs could not bear it. If he ran through the smoky tunnel now, he could save himself, but the foal would certainly perish. He could not let that happen.

  Tiptoeing along the crumbling edge, he held out his hands and the foal stared at him with round, horror-filled eyes.

  “Hush now,” the noble called to it. “This way. Steady, don’t be scared.”

  The foal shied and the earth gave way. The foal slipped and only its forelegs remained on the ground.

  It whinnied mournfully and fell.

  Jack’s hands shot out. He seized the foal by the neck, the shoulders, then below the ribs and hauled it back on to the disintegrating spur of ground. They struggled and he pulled it further on to the cliff. The sand dribbled away under them.

  For a moment they lay there, both panting and spent. Then the Jack of Clubs sprang to his feet.

  “We can’t stay here!” he told the petrified foal. “The fire will soon fill our only escape. Come, this way.”

  The foal’s large, brown eyes looked up at him. Tears were streaming down its face. The Jack of Clubs thought it was merely because of the acrid smoke, but then he heard a noise that wrung his heart.

  Not all the horses had died in the fall. Some were still alive down there. But they had fallen into deep pools ringed by sharp rocks and could not get out, whilst others had landed in quicksand. Their terrors were still enduring.

  “Don’t listen,” he said to the foal, cupping his hands around its quivering head. In a gentle, broken voice, he began to sing.

  “Shush now, don’t hear the noises. Shush now, I won’t let go. Stay with me – don’t look back. Come with me – come with me. Fear no more. Shush now, shush now.”

  The foal lumbered up and let itself be led away from the treacherous edge. The Jack of Clubs sang to it the whole time, keeping his eyes locked with those of the frightened animal. The fire had now reached the tunnel and was licking into it. The swirling smoke within was even thicker than before.

  Still singing, the Jack of Clubs guided the foal into the churning fumes that engulfed them both completely…

  Conor Westlake crashed back against the pillows of his bed, coughing and spluttering from the smoke on the pages. He wiped his stinging eyes. Then fell asleep, exhausted – with his copy of Dancing Jacks clutched tightly in his hand.

  “I am the Jack of Clubs,” he murmured fitfully. “I am the Jack of Clubs.”

  Chapter 20

  Paul

  I DO NOT want to answer any questions about that person. Do not contact me again!

  Trudy Bishop

  CHECKING HIS EMAIL was the first thing Paul Thornbury did the next morning. Trudy’s reply was so curt it was rude. The boy wondered why insulting messages from total strangers bothered him. They shouldn’t, but they did. It just wasn’t nice. Some people forgot another human being was going to read their words. A little politeness and civility went a long way in the cold world of cyberspace.

  He knew there wasn’t any point sending another email to her or trying to explain. Perhaps there was something else he could try. First of all he had to face his mother and Martin.

  Last night had been a trial. They were convinced he had put fireworks on the barbecue and sat him down to lecture and scold him. Then they tried to understand what was going through his mind. Did he need to see the counsellor? Was this a symptom of his shock over witnessing the Disaster? They were sure Paul’s newfound pyromania was connected to the horrific explosions down at the Landguard.

  He had sat there quietly while they went on and on at him. He preferred it when they were shouting than when they attempted to empathise and got it so very wrong. There was absolutely nothing he could say. Any mention of Dancing Jacks was immediately drowned out by their armchair psychoanalysis. Eventually Paul promised never to do anything like that again and then was hugged compassionately before he trudged to bed.

  At breakfast it was just as bad. His mother wanted
to show him he could tell her anything. Yet the one thing he was desperate to tell her, the only thing that was important, she was not prepared to listen to.

  Eating his cereal was an ordeal. Every mouthful seemed to be scrutinised by them. He knew the worst was still to come. Martin would have another go at interrogating him on the way to school.

  The journey seemed to drag that morning. He sat there, not listening to the maths teacher’s earnest speeches. Paul was only eleven years old. He had no idea how to make anyone listen and take him seriously. If real life had been like one of Martin’s sci-fi DVDs, he would have some outstanding proof to stun them with so they couldn’t fail to believe those books were evil. But this wasn’t anything like that. Nobody believed him. What could he do? How could he stop what was happening all around him? He couldn’t go to the police with this if his own mother refused to listen…

  The boy knew it was hopeless. It was only going to get worse. More people would read the book. More people would change. How far would it spread?

  It was way too much for him to deal with alone.

  They arrived at the school and Paul made the right noises to satisfy Martin that he had taken in what had been said. He was glad to go to registration.

  Anthony and Graeme were naturally absent so he found himself sitting alone as the register was taken and announcements made.

  Paul was distracted by three of the girls in the class. Little Molly Barnes sat in the middle, showing the other two a book she had started reading last night. All three were rocking slightly on their chairs.

  How could he fight this?

  In the staffroom Martin learned that Mrs Early would not be in that day and maybe not for the rest of the week. The attack had shaken her more severely than she had been willing to admit.