The two figures were walking briskly in the direction of Bloor’s Academy. Tancred drew his scarf over the lower part of his face and hurried after them. At first, Norton and his companion seemed unaware of their stalker, but all at once the man in the black cloak swung round. Tancred leapt into a doorway. He stood with his back against the door, breathing heavily.
He must have seen me, thought Tancred, for I saw him.
It was a face Tancred had instantly recognised. Framed in shoulder-length black curls, the stranger’s pale features were dominated by large dark eyes and heavy arched eyebrows. He had a small pointed beard and the tips of his fine moustache curled up to each cheek.
If the man had seen Tancred he was apparently unconcerned, for the footsteps resumed their brisk walk.
It was several minutes before Tancred could bring himself to move again and, by the time he emerged on to the High Street, the two figures were nowhere to be seen. They had evidently taken the side street that led to the Academy.
Keeping close to the buildings, Tancred flew after them. He reached the square in front of the Academy just in time to see Norton climb the steps up to the school.
A cold shudder ran down Tancred’s spine. He had spent three years at the Academy and, in spite of the friends he had made, he had always been aware that at any moment old Ezekiel Bloor and the children he controlled might do something irrevocably evil. And then Dagbert-the-drowner had arrived, and the evil had finally shown its hand. Dagbert thought he had drowned Tancred Torsson; indeed, if it hadn’t been for the cats’ miraculous powers, Tancred would be dead.
He watched Norton climb to the top step, then turn and look back at the fountain in the centre of the square. A circle of swans, their beaks upraised, blew silvery streams into the lamplit air. Tancred pressed himself against a wall, where the light from the street lamps couldn’t reach him. Norton made an odd sign with his hand: a sort of thumbs up, with all his fingers. And then, before Tancred realised what was happening, Norton’s hand had twisted round so that his forefinger was now pointing straight at him. Tancred cursed himself for being such a fool. He had forgotten Norton’s companion.
The man now emerged from behind the fountain and advanced towards Tancred.
‘Who are ye? Give us thy name.’ The voice was deep and husky. ‘Speak!’
With his back to the wall Tancred shuffled sideways, attempting to slide back into the alley.
‘Stop!’ roared the man, and Tancred froze as, from beneath the folds of his cloak, the man drew out a gleaming sword. ‘Spy! Give thy name!’
Tancred found he couldn’t breathe; his legs felt so weak he feared they would give way at any moment. He tried to summon up a wind, to fill the air with hailstones, but in the stranger’s presence he could only muster up a damp breeze. The man was almost upon him, his sword slicing the air in shining arcs of light.
‘Must I die a second time?’ Tancred whispered dismally.
There would be no witnesses. The city seemed deserted, even the noise of traffic had died away; the only sound that Tancred could hear was a faint clattering, which he mistook for his own beating heart. But the clattering grew louder. And now the sound resembled hoofs cantering on stone, and then a voice cut through the night, ‘ASHKELAN!’
The swordsman whirled round and Tancred blinked in amazement as a knight on a white horse charged into the square. The knight was dressed from head to foot in glittering chain mail; he wore a helmet of polished metal with a plume of red feathers flowing from its crown, and a red cloak that billowed behind him like a sail. In his right hand he wielded a bright sword, the hilt encrusted with glittering jewels, and the shield that hung from his saddle was emblazoned with a burning sun.
‘You!’ grunted the man called Ashkelan; holding his sword aloft, he rushed at the knight.
With one blow of his own weapon the knight swept the sword from his assailant’s hand, and it rattled over the cobblestones. There was a scream of pain, followed by a roar of anger as the owner of the sword fell to the ground, clutching his arm.
A stream of mysterious and indecipherable words issued from the man as he reached for his sword. Tancred had been about to run from the scene but he stood rooted to the spot, scarcely able to believe his eyes. For all at once the fallen sword was in the air and flying towards the knight. Lifting his weapon, the knight parried the blow that would surely have severed his arm, but the enchanted sword came at him again, and again he fought off the blow. An extraordinary duel was taking place and, frightened as he was, Tancred could not bring himself to leave the square.
The knight and his mount seemed almost to be one, for the horse turned in a flash. It leapt high above the fountain and raced around the square, its hoofs moving in a cloud of sparks. The enchanted sword, now a flying streak of light, attacked the knight from every angle. How he managed to fight off such a battery of lightning blows, it was hard to comprehend. And then, at last, came the strike that might have finished him. It fell across his chest, slicing through the chain mail and drawing a deep grunt of pain from the knight. But with a mighty upward thrust he caught the enchanted sword and set it spinning into the sky.
Tancred didn’t wait for the sword to fall to earth. Astounded by what he had seen, he tore down the alley and on to the High Street. Fear and excitement caused great gusts of wind to whistle round his head; his hood blew back and the air above him fizzed with blue and white sparks. He reached Frog Street and ran towards the Pets’ Café, calling, ‘Mr Onimous, let me in!’
A tall man stepped out of the shadows and Tancred ran straight into him. With a moan of defeat the weather-boy closed his eyes and dropped to the ground.
Lord Grimwald arrives
Charlie Bone had been fast asleep. Now, suddenly, he was not. There were voices in the courtyard below. Charlie got out of bed, crossed the dormitory and looked out of the window. Two men were moving towards the main doors of the Academy. One Charlie recognised as Norton Cross, the doorman at the Pets’ Café. He was half-dragging, half-carrying a smaller person in a large hat with a drooping feather at the back.
‘Grief!’ muttered Charlie. He couldn’t see the face of the man beneath the hat, but he was groaning horribly. Charlie opened the window, just a crack, so that he could hear what was going on.
‘Ssssh!’ hissed Norton. ‘You’ll wake the whole school, sir.’
The two men climbed the steps to the main doors and Norton rang the bell. A moment later there was a loud rattle and one of the doors opened. Weedon the porter stood on the threshold. He was a bald, stocky man with a sour face.
‘I thought he wasn’t supposed to go out yet,’ said Weedon.
‘He wanted to see the city.’ Norton dragged his companion through the door.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Weedon, frowning at the sword that danced past him.
The door was closed before Charlie had a chance to hear Norton’s reply. But then his attention was drawn to a second arrival. Three women came through the arched entrance and crossed the courtyard. Grizelda Bone’s imposing beak of a nose led the way. Grizelda was Charlie’s grandmother. Her sisters, Eustacia and Venetia, came close on her heels. All three were tall and lean, their dark eyes small, their black brows thick and heavy. Grandma Bone’s hair was a startling white, Venetia’s black, Eustacia’s somewhere in between.
Charlie watched them climb the steps, his grandmother teetering very slightly in her high-heeled boots. As she rang the bell, Eustacia, for no good reason, suddenly looked up at the window where Charlie stood.
Charlie backed into the shadows.