The Spook nodded and got to his feet. ‘Aye, that’s me,’ he said. ‘And that’s my apprentice. Are you here to ask for our help?’
The man shook his head. ‘On the contrary, I am here to offer you assistance. Your success in ridding the city of many of its troublesome apparitions have brought you to the attention of a powerful and dangerous group. I speak of the goat mages of Staigue. We have our own spies, and they tell me that the mages have already dispatched assassins to this city. Being servants of the dark, they cannot tolerate your presence in our land. That is why the few remaining Irish spooks avoid the main towns and never settle in one place for more than a couple of days.’
The Spook nodded thoughtfully. ‘We’d heard that they were a dying breed. What you say makes sense, but why should you wish to help us? By doing so, won’t you be putting yourself at risk?’
‘My life is permanently at risk,’ said the man. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Farrell Shey, the leader of the Land Alliance, a league of landowners who have been at war with the mages for many years.’
In addition to what I’d read in the Spook’s Bestiary, while working with Bill Arkwright I’d met a landowner who’d fled Ireland to escape the mages. It had done him no good. They’d sent one of the Celtic witches to slay him in his County refuge, and she had been successful, despite our best efforts to save him.
‘Well, in that case, we would certainly welcome your assistance,’ said the Spook.
‘And in return,’ Shey said, ‘you may be able to use your expertise to help us. A dangerous few months lie ahead – ones which some of us will be hard-pressed to survive: the goat mages are preparing for their next ritual in Killorglin – so we must delay no further. Gather your things together and I’ll get you out of the city immediately.’
We did as he instructed, and within a few minutes we’d taken our leave of the grateful landlord and were following Shey through a number of narrow alleyways, emerging onto a side street where a large carriage was waiting. Drawn by a team of six horses, it seemed to be made for speed, and its appearance was not deceptive. The coach driver was smartly dressed in green livery, and in attendance was a large black-bearded man with a sword at his belt, who bowed to Shey and opened the carriage doors for us before taking his place beside the driver.
Seated in comfort and hidden from the gaze of the curious by lace curtains, we had soon crossed the river and were heading west out of the city; the clip-clop now became a rhythmical thunder of pounding horses’ hooves.
Alice turned towards me, and as our eyes met, I guessed that she was thinking the same thing as me: this had all happened too fast. This Farrell Shey was used to being in command, and it had taken little persuasion to make us follow him. Just what were we getting ourselves into?
‘Where are we bound?’ asked the Spook.
‘We’re making for Kerry in the southwest,’ Shey replied.
‘But isn’t that where the goat mages are based?’ I said, starting to feel more than a little uneasy.
‘It is indeed,’ he answered. ‘But we live there too. It is a beautiful but dangerous part of this fair island. And sometimes, in order to counter a threat, you have to go out boldly and face it. Would you rather have died in the city, waiting for the assassins to come for you? Or would you come and place your strength alongside ours in an attempt to end the power of the mages for ever?’
‘We will add our strength to yours,’ answered the Spook. ‘Don’t doubt that.’
Alice and I exchanged another look. The Spook had clearly made his decision.
‘I’ve fought the dark all my life,’ he told Shey, ‘and I will do so until my dying day.’
All that day the carriage took us west, stopping only twice to change horses. The dogs travelled with us, occasionally running alongside to stretch their legs. Then the roads became narrower and the pace slowed considerably. By now, we could just make out snow-capped mountains in the far distance.
‘Those are the mountains of Kerry; my home lies on the peninsula of Uibh Rathach,’ said Shey. ‘But we won’t be able to reach it tonight. There’s an inn ahead that we can make secure.’
‘So we are in danger already?’ asked the Spook.
‘There is always danger. We’ll have been followed from the city, and our enemies will be lying both ahead and behind us. But don’t worry – we are well prepared.’
The place where we were to stay was situated on the edge of a wood and reached by a single narrow track. In fact it had no sign hanging outside, and although Shey had called it an ‘inn’, it looked more like a private house commandeered to provide a refuge in a dangerous location.
That night, after walking the dogs, we dined well on generous portions of a potato and onion stew, rich with pieces of succulent mutton. As we ate, my master started to question Shey about the goat mages. He already knew the general answers to some of his questions, but that was the Spook’s way: what Shey told him could also contain important new information that might make the difference between victory and defeat. Our survival could depend on what we were able to learn here.
‘You mentioned that the goat mages are preparing for their ritual in Killorglin …?’ he asked.
‘That’s correct,’ Shey replied, stroking his black moustache. ‘That always brings a crisis.’
‘But it’s still winter, and I’d heard that the ceremony took place in August …’
‘They now assemble twice a year,’ Shey answered. ‘It was once an annual late-summer event, held at what is known as the Puck Fair. They tether a mountain goat upon a high platform and leave it there; their dark rituals end in human sacrifices. The object is to persuade the god Pan to enter the body of the living goat. If he does so, their magic is made more powerful and they can hunt down and kill their enemies; but if the magic fails, it is our turn to pursue them.
‘In their efforts to defeat us, they now try to invoke the god twice a year – in both March and August. Last year they failed on both occasions, but in all their long history of dealing with the dark they have never done so three times in a row.
‘Additionally, they have a new leader – a dangerous fanatic called Magister Doolan who’ll stop at nothing to achieve his aims. He’s a bloodthirsty wretch who delights in the name of the “Bantry Butcher”. He was born on the shores of Bantry Bay to the south, and was actually an apprentice butcher before he discovered his talent for the dark arts. But he hasn’t lost his skill with knives. He kills people for the love of it, cutting off their fingers and toes one by one; killing them with a hundred cuts to prolong their deaths, before finally chopping off their heads.