No sooner had that thought entered my head than I began to hear faint whispers all around me. It was hard to catch the meaning of what was being uttered, but the occasional word was given emphasis. I heard 'blood' twice and also the word 'bone' and then, quite clearly, my own surname, 'Ward'.
I began to tremble uncontrollably. I was afraid but I struggled hard against it. The Spook had told me many times how the dark could feed upon terror: the first step to defeating it was to face and defeat your own fear. So I tried; I really tried, but it was so difficult because I wasn't facing the dark armed with the skills that I'd learned. I wasn't on my feet, gripping a rowan staff or hurling salt and iron. I was a bound prisoner, totally helpless, while Morgan was performing perhaps the most dangerous ritual that a mage had ever attempted. And I was part of that ritual, a spark of life that was being offered to Golgoth, to compel him to this spot. And according to Morgan, the moment he appeared, he would take not only my life but also my soul. I'd always believed that I'd live on after death. Could that be taken away? Could something kill your very soul?
But then the whispers gradually faded away, the shadows dissolved and it even seemed to become a little warmer. My trembling eased and I breathed a sigh of relief, but Morgan carried on chanting and turning pages. I started to think that at some point he'd made a mistake and had failed; I was quickly proved wrong.
Soon the coldness came again and with it the smoke wraiths, contorting and writhing at the boundaries of the pentacle. And this time it was worse and I recognized one of the wraiths. It had the shape of Eveline, with large, grief-filled eyes.
The whispering intensified and was filled with hate so fierce that I could almost taste it; invisible things whirled about my head, passing so close that I felt draughts against my face, which lifted the hair upright from my scalp. Soon the threat became more substantial. Unseen fingers tugged at my hair or pinched the skin of my face and neck, and cold stinky breath wafted against my forehead, nose and mouth.
Again everything became quiet. But it didn't last long. Once more the coldness grew and the wraiths gathered. And so it went on, minute after minute, hour after hour through that longest night of the year. But the periods of peace and calm were getting shorter; the times of fear longer. There was a rhythm to what was happening. The ritual was building in power. It was like the waves of an incoming tide crashing onto a steep stony beach. Each wave was more wild and powerful than the preceding one. Each one drove itself further up the shingle. And at each peak of activity the tumult intensified. The voices screamed into my ears, and orbs of baleful purple light were now circling the pentacle close to the ceiling of the chamber. And then finally, after what seemed hours of Morgan chanting from the grimoire, he finally achieved what he'd set out to do.
Golgoth obeyed the summons.
Chapter 20
For long, terrifying minutes I could hear Golgoth approaching. The very ground began to shake and it sounded as if some angry giant were climbing up towards us from the bowels of the earth. A giant with immense claws that was tearing aside solid rock in his eagerness to force a way up into the chamber.
If I'd been Morgan, I'd have been terrified, simply petrified with dread, unable to utter another word. Or I'd have halted the ritual because it was madness to continue. But he didn't. Morgan just carried on reading from the grimoire. He'd surrendered to the dark, seeking the power that he craved, whatever the cost. Despite the threatening rumbles from below there was no longer even a breath of wind, but the five black candles began to flicker and almost went out. I wondered how important they were to the ritual. Were they a vital part of the pentacle defences? It seemed very likely: if they did gutter out, he'd be no safer than I was. The candles flickered again but there was no sign of fear from Morgan at all. He was totally absorbed by the ritual and just went on chanting from the grimoire, oblivious to the danger.
The ground began to shake more violently and there were more loud disturbing sounds from far below. By now there were so many wraiths gathered about the pentacle that they were merging into a whirling grey and white mist and their individual forms were no longer distinct. A vortex of energy was pressing against the invisible barrier that marked the perimeter of the pentacle and it threatened to break in at any moment.
A few moments longer and it would have done so -I'm sure of it. But something occurred to blast the wraiths out of the chamber and probably back whence they came. As small stones began to shower down from the roof, there was a roar, together with a grinding, crunching cacophony of sound, and I looked to my right, towards the tunnel that had brought us to the chamber. I saw an avalanche of earth as its roof fell, sealing us in, hurling a mayhem of debris and dust outwards. To my dismay, the tunnel was now totally blocked. Whatever happened now, I'd be trapped down here for ever.
At that moment I would almost have welcomed death: at least then my soul would survive. For I knew that, very soon, Golgoth would arrive and my body and soul would both be snuffed out. I would be obliterated. And the fear I felt at that moment made my whole body shake.
But very suddenly there was a change. Without warning, Morgan ceased chanting and lurched to his feet. His eyes were wide with terror and he dropped the book. He was making for the edge of the pentacle: he took one step towards me and opened his mouth wide. His eyes were filled with fear.
At first I thought he was trying to speak or scream. Now I know better. On reflection I realize that he was simply trying to breathe.
Crystals of ice had already formed inside his lungs and that step was the last he ever took. Opening his mouth was the final conscious movement he ever made. He froze in front of me. Literally froze, dusted from head to foot with a white frost. Then he toppled forward and the moment that his forehead, arms and shoulders struck the ground, he shattered like an ice stalactite. It was like brittle glass shivering into splinters. Morgan was broken, pulverized, but no blood flowed because he was frozen to the very core of his being. And now he was dead. Dead and gone.