Would my master have left it all to Grimalkin? I wondered.
Back at the house, I pulled the document written by Nicholas Browne out of the envelope. It was a glossary of Kobalos words that revealed much about their magic and culture.
I skimmed through it with interest. My master had once read a copy of this, but he had dismissed it, thinking it was unlikely to be accurate. He had made a brief reference to it in his Bestiary.
I decided to make another copy. It wasn’t a particularly lengthy document—it would only take a couple of hours. I could then keep one in the library and use the new one for study.
I left spaces in my new version to enable me to insert extra entries as we learned more about the Kobalos, and to add comments to Browne’s entries in case they needed augmenting or refuting.
Once that was done, I read it carefully from beginning to end. I then went straight back to the entry on mages.
Mages There are many types of human mage; the same is also true of the Kobalos. But for an outsider, they are difficult to describe and categorize. However, the highest rank is nominally that of a high mage. There is also one type, the haizda mage, that does not fit within that hierarchy, for these are outsiders who dwell in their own individual territories far from Valkarky. Their powers are hard to quantify.
It was obvious that Browne had known little about haizda mages. I could only hope that Grimalkin increased our knowledge in case I ever encountered another. It certainly wouldn’t do to face one without the Starblade. And it was scary to think that there were many other types with magical power. The Kobalos were beginning to sound more and more dangerous.
I read the entry on boska, too:
Boska This is the breath of a Kobalos haizda mage, which can be used to induce sudden unconsciousness, paralysis, or terror in a human victim. The mage varies the effects of boska by adjusting the chemical composition of his breath. It is also sometimes used to change the mood of animals.
I decided to begin my updates here, adding my own observations and possible countermeasures.
Note: This was used on me; it leached the strength from my body. But I was taken by surprise. It is wise to be on our guard against such a threat and not allow a haizda mage to get close. Perhaps a scarf worn across the mouth and nose would provide an effective defense. Or perhaps plugs of wax fitted into the nostrils.
Tom Ward
The following day I tried to settle back into my routine, but I soon became restless. Apart from the three hauntings that I’d investigated, each a direct result of the incursion by the haizda mage, things had been quiet for months.
The Battle of the Wardstone had resulted in the destruction of the Fiend, and the dark had now become unusually quiet in the County. But the god Talkus had been born, and the Kobalos would eventually wage a war to exterminate us.
That was what had obsessed Grimalkin. I doubted that she had been performing the routine work that was demanded of the Malkin witch assassin: dealing with the enemies of her clan. She was traveling and gathering information about our future Kobalos enemies. And now she could study this dead mage’s lair. It was good to have made a useful contribution—though I still wondered if I should have insisted on staying involved.
I was the Chipenden Spook, but I now had no clear task ahead of me. I was at a loose end, so I decided to visit Grimsargh and reclaim my tinderbox from the girl. It was a precious link between me and Dad, something that kept him in my mind. It had helped me out of difficult situations more than once.
I had been hoping for a bit more sun and warmth before the winter set in. The air was still cold for the time of year, but it was dry, so I set off southeast toward Grimsargh, striding out at a good pace.
As I approached the Calders’ cottage, Jenny opened the door, stepped outside, and closed it behind her. It was almost as if she knew I was coming. Had she been watching from behind the curtains? I wondered.
She met me about twenty paces from the door; she was carrying my tinderbox and held it out toward me.
“No doubt you’ve come for this,” she said sheepishly, avoiding my eyes.
“Of course I have,” I said brusquely. “It’s of great sentimental value. It belonged to my dad—it was the last thing he gave me before he died. . . . There’s one thing I want to ask you,” I went on, putting the tinderbox carefully into my bag. “Why did you run from the haunted house?”
“Does it matter?” she asked me, her voice bitter.
“Yes, it does. You were brave when dealing with the beast in the tree. I thought you’d have been brave when facing ghasts.”
“In the tree I was the creature’s prisoner. I had no choice in the matter.”
“No! I mean before that. You risked following it. You found out where its lair was.”
Jenny shrugged. “I didn’t know how dangerous it was at the time.”
“No? You knew that it had killed three girls. You could have been next, but you persisted despite the danger.”
“I was scared—absolutely terrified at times. . . . I knew that it was a killer, and I suspected that it was very powerful. But I forced myself to do it because I knew that I could use the knowledge to persuade you to let me become your apprentice.”
“And yet when you finally got that chance, you fled from the haunted house? Were you that scared that you’d give up your dream? I remember my own experience in that house when I was an apprentice. I was terrified too, but there was no way I would have run. That would have meant letting down my mam, who had faith in me and wanted me to learn from John Gregory. I faced my fear and stuck it out. You could have done the same. Did you run when the ghast came up the stairs from the cellar?”
Jenny nodded, and a single tear trickled down her cheek.
“Why didn’t you face your fear?” I demanded harshly.
She turned away, but she wasn’t fast enough. I’d already seen the tears streaming down her face.
“Why did you run? There must have been some other reason. Come on, Jenny, tell me.” Suddenly I felt sorry for the girl. She’d dreamed of becoming a spook, and I knew that it had hurt her to fall at the first hurdle.
“I was scared,” she said, without turning round, “but it wasn’t the fear that made me run. It was the anguish of the miner and his wife. I knew exactly how they felt. I knew what it was like to be them and experience what they went through. He was jealous beyond all reason and murdered his wife, but then instantly regretted it. He was in torment as he buried her because he’d loved her so much; now he’d lost her forever. And she was lying there paralyzed, waiting to be buried, but she was still alive, aware of everything that was happening to her. She was in terror of being buried alive. And the terrible thing was that she loved him with all her heart. She loved him every bit as much as he loved her. And she hadn’t been unfaithful. I lived through every moment of her terror, every moment of his fear and anguish. And yes, she went alive into that grave and had to watch as her own husband threw earth over her until it grew dark and she couldn’t breathe. . . .