Chapter One
Three Promises
Nobody else saw the grobbler.
At first Scruff thought he
imagined it. His family didn't seem to notice the creature. Father
and Mother dozed in armchairs by the fireplace. His brother Neev was
reading a dusty, leather-bound tome about chess. His sister Jamie,
the youngest in the family, was playing with toy knights under the
table. Had nobody felt the chill in the air, heard the grunting,
glimpsed the twisted figure outside the window?
When he looked out the window
again, Scruff saw nothing but an empty street, the wet cobblestones
glistening beneath lanterns. The windowpanes were opened wide, and
the night wafted into the house: its cool breezes, scents of
crackling hearths, the distant sound of chanting monks. No
grobblers. No lurking shadows. You
just imagined it, Scruff,
he told himself. You
listen to too many fairytales.
Scruff was thirteen and already
six feet tall—the tallest kid in town—but when he was
smaller, his mother would tell him stories of grobblers. "If
you don't behave," she'd say, "they'll get you. Grobblers
eat misbehaving children."
But of course, those were just
stories. Pagan gods cursing beautiful, vain women, twisting and
wilting their left halves? The women wandering the world as
grobblers, left halves rotting, right halves never aging, a reminder
of their corrupted beauty? It was ridiculous. Even their name,
grobblers,
sounded silly, a name some rambling storyteller would invent after
his tales of Arthur, Robin Hood, and William Tell were already told.
Scruff shook his head. Just
stories, just stupid stories told to—
A shadow moved outside, severing
his thoughts.
Scruff straightened, goosebumps
rising across him. There was something out there, something strange.
Scruff could not see the creature itself, but its shadow made his
heart race. At first he thought it the shadow of a young woman, but
when it turned, Scruff saw a hunchback and a knobby, twisted arm.
Half
beauty, half beast.
Hands sweaty, Scruff grabbed his brother's arm.
Twelve years old and wiry, Neev
looked up with a grunt, eyes flashing. "What do you want,
Scruff? I'm trying to read."
Scruff pointed outside. "Look!
What's that?"
Neev sighed. "Really,
Scruff, I don't like being bothered when reading, and...."
Neev's breath died, and he gaped
out the window. The grobbler had stepped into view. Scruff saw it
only in profile, and he gasped. He had never seen a woman so
beautiful, with hair so golden, skin so silky, lips so plump and red.
Then the grobbler turned to face him. Its left half was rotted and
warty, scraggly hair swarming with maggots, red eye blazing.
The grobbler turned that red eye
upon him, and Scruff grimaced. Its stare burned like a ray of
hellfire. The grobbler's mouth opened—a mouth half perfect,
half shriveled—and it hissed in a voice like flames.
"You will die, Scruff."
God.
It knows my name.
Scruff's little sister Jamie,
still holding her toy knights, looked up and screamed.
Everything started happening in a
whirl of terror and light.
Father leaped to his feet, burly
but quick as a falcon. He lunged toward the window, drawing his
dagger. The blade gleamed. The grobbler reached into the house,
swiping its claws at Father. Father ducked, dodging the claws, and
thrust up his dagger. Scruff stared, frozen, as the dagger slammed
into the grobbler's throat. Black blood spurted.
"Papa!" Jamie screamed.
"There's more!" Scruff
said, voice trembling. Father had killed one grobbler, but Scruff
saw many more outside, an army of these creatures. His legs shook.
How
did it know me? How could grobblers know my name?
"Away from the windows!"
Father said. "Back against the wall." He slammed the
wooden windowpanes shut, but Scruff could still hear townspeople
screaming and crying outside. Jamie sobbed. The grobblers were
moving from house to house, screeching and smashing windows, and
Scruff smelled smoke. The town of Burrfield was burning.
Face pale and lips tightened,
Mother handed Father his breastplate and helped him don it. Father
grabbed his weapons from the wall—a battleaxe in one hand, a
sword in the other, their blades filigreed.
"Papa," Jamie sobbed,
"what's happening?" She was clinging to her brother Neev,
tears streaming down her cheeks. Fire crackled outside, and Scruff
heard people running down the streets, grobblers tearing them apart.
He bit his lip so hard, he tasted blood, and his legs shook.
Father stepped toward the door, a
tall knight with a handlebar mustache. He paused and looked back at
his family. His face was like chiseled stone, but his eyes were
haunted windows, shattered. He whispered words Scruff could not
believe.
"I must go."
Mother stepped toward Father,
gasping, tears in her eyes. "Go? But...."
Father hugged her, still holding
his weapons, and a grimace found that stony face of his. Scruff had
never seen Father like this, never seen him so... scared. Scruff
could barely believe it. He had never known Father could feel fear,
not Sir Sam Thistle, the hero of the Crusades, the strongest man in
town.
"He is back," Father
whispered, voice low, tense, as if struggling not to tremble. "He
is back and leading these grobblers. The warlock. You know who I
mean. He'll keep conjuring them, Amabel, more and more of them; they
will never stop. I must find him... kill him. Only killing him can
stop this." The tremble finally found his voice. "I must
go—now! I cannot stay with you here."
A
warlock.
Scruff shuddered. Summoner
of demons. Weaver of black magic.
He had heard of warlocks, but never seen one. Few people had. Why
would one of these dark wizards be attacking Burrfield? Why did his
parents seem to know him? And, dear God, how did the grobbler know
his name?
Outside, the sound of shrieking
grobblers rose, high pitched, inhuman, a sound like winter winds
through canyons. The smell of fire filled Scruff's nostrils. Though
he trembled and his heart raced, he stepped toward Father.
"I'm coming with you,"
he said. He hated that his voice sounded high, childlike. He
swallowed and clenched his fists. I'm
stronger and taller than most adults. I will fight.
Father shook his head, face
haunted, eyes storming. "Stay here. Protect the family until I
return. You can do this. It's the only way, Sam."
Sam.
It was his real name—Sam Thistle the Fourth—but everyone
just called him Scruff, his nickname since being born with thick,
scruffy hair. Father called him Sam only on the most solemn
occasions, and the name sent chills across Scruff. Biting his lip,
he looked at his family. Little Jamie clutched Mother's skirt,
pushed against the wall far from the window. Neev stood at Mother's
other side, short and scrawny for his twelve years, his eyes dark.
Protect
them? Me?
"Take my sword," Father
said and placed the hilt in Scruff's hand. His eyes moistened.
"I... I cannot stand to leave you here. But it's the only way.
The only way, Sam. You are ready for this. I know I can count on
you."
Scruff nodded, clutching the
sword, lips tightened. He had never held a sword outside the
training yard, and the hilt felt cold. Father nodded, eyes glinting
with sudden pride, then rushed out the door and into battle.
"Papa, don't go!" Jamie
screamed, but the door shut behind Father, leaving them alone and
trembling in the dark.
The room suddenly seemed colder
and smaller, closing in around Scruff. Fear filled him, and...
anger. Father left them. He left them! How could he? The rage
burned, making Scruff tremble. But no... Father had not abandoned
them. He had gone to defend them. He had gone to kill him,
this warlock... the only way to stop the grobblers, the only way to
save the family. I
could have gone with him! I could have fought by his side.
Scruff tightened his lips. But
he needs me here. He needs me to defend the family.
The sword felt heavy, so heavy he could barely hold it.
"I'm scared," Jamie
said, burying her face in Mother's skirt.
Neev snorted, fists clenched at
his sides. "Scruff will protect us," he said, glaring at
Scruff with burning eyes. "With his sword, Scruff is a mighty
knight."
"Be quiet, Neev,"
Scruff said, his palm sweaty around the hilt. Neev was just scared,
he knew, and trying to hide it under his usual show of disdain for
everyone. But Scruff would have none of it—not now. "Go
back to your chess book and stop being jealous."
Neev's eyes blazed in a mix of
amusement and anger. "Why would I be jealous, O great Sir
Scruff the Strong?"
"Because Dad gave his sword
to me, not you."
Mother interrupted, face pale.
"Kids! This is no time to argue." She had taken a log
from the fireplace and held it like a weapon. Its one end smoldered,
red and crackling. It reminded Scruff of the grobbler's red eye, its
searing stare.
Scruff tightened his lips.
Mother was right. The grobbler screeching grew louder by the moment,
and Scruff could also hear clanking armor, thudding boots, the cries
of soldiers. A battle raged across Burrfield. Scruff wished he
could be outside, fighting with Father, slashing at grobblers,
cutting them down. Anything would be better than waiting... waiting
in the dark, sword in hand... endless, torturous waiting for
something to attack.
Suddenly, with a shower of
splinters, a grobbler smashed open the windowpanes. Scruff started
and Mother screamed. The grobbler climbed through the window,
drooling and hissing. Its fair half faced Scruff—an angelic
beauty with soft hair and pouty red lips. When it landed on the
floor, it revealed its left half, the withered, wormy half of a
hunchbacked crone.
"Scruff!" Jamie
screamed, but Scruff could not move. The fear froze him, and he
couldn't tear his eyes away from the creature, a creature so fair and
foul. How
could such beauty, such horror exist?
The dichotomy dazed him, numbed him. The grobbler reached toward
him, one hand delicate and pale, the other clawed and bloody.
"Hello, Scruff," it hissed, voice demonic. Everything else
seemed to disappear; the whole world became this creature before him,
this thing of ancient vanity and pagan curses.
"Kill it, Scruff!" Neev
shouted, but his voice seemed muffled, distant, as from another
world. "What are you waiting for?"
Scruff realized he wasn't
breathing. He shook his head wildly to clear it, forced a deep
breath, and pulled his feet forward. The floor felt like quicksand.
The grobbler cackled and came charging forward, brandishing claws,
but it seemed so slow to Scruff. The whole world turned sluggish,
like living in a bowl of jelly where every movement slowed to a
crawl.
"Scruff, kill it!"
Jamie shouted, her voice impossibly distant, a mere echo.
Scruff's heartbeat rang in his
ears. He swung his sword, Father's sword, the family's ancient
weapon. The blade arched through the darkness, glistening,
reflecting the leering grin and burning eyes of the grobbler.
Please,
God, let this blade land true.
But his fingers were sweaty,
trembling. He felt his grip slide. No!
Horror stabbed him, ice cold. He tried to clutch the hilt, but the
sword flew from his grip like a slippery fish.
God,
NO.
When the sword fell, it seemed as
slow as a feather. Scruff tried to catch the hilt... his fingers
grazed it... but just missed it.
Jamie and Neev screamed.
The sword hit the floor.
The ringing of steel against
stone tiles clanged in his head, a horrible sound, a cackle. Scruff
howled. How
could I have dropped it?
Tears burned in his eyes.
The grobbler crashed into him,
shrieking. Pain exploded, renting the sluggish mists engulfing his
mind. Everything started happening at lightning speed again.
The grobbler rammed him into the
wall, cracking the wood, clawing at him. Scruff could barely see
through the pain. He punched blindly. He felt his fists hit the
grobbler, crushing its face. It screeched and fell away, maw bloody,
and Mother clubbed its head with her burning log. The grobbler fell,
hair aflame.
"There's more!" Jamie
screamed.
Wincing, Scruff saw three more
grobblers smash into the house. One came through the window, and two
more broke down the door. Neev and Jamie were screaming and tossing
plates at them. Mother was swinging the log, snarling, her face red;
Scruff had never seen her like this. Where's
the sword? How could I have dropped it?
Scruff could not see the blade.
As he looked around wildly, he
saw the grobblers surround Mother. They clutched the log she swung,
wrenched it free, and knocked her down. They began to claw and bite
her. Scruff felt like somebody stabbed him with an icicle.
"Leave her alone!" he
shouted and leaped onto the grobblers, but they shoved him back,
smiles dripping blood and drool. One slashed his shoulder, and
Scruff screamed, blood soaking his shirt.
Smoke filled his mouth and
nostrils, making him cough. The grobblers were burning the house,
tossing logs from the fireplace onto the rug and tapestries.
Scruff's eyes watered and he could not breathe. The smoke filled the
room, black, heavy, choking him.
"Everybody out!" he
shouted, hoarse. He could just make out Jamie ahead; the smoke hid
everything else. Scruff lifted his sister and ran outside, shouting.
"Neev, Mom, follow me!"
He stood in the night, smoke
flowing around him, screams and shouts echoing down the street. Had
they heard him? Were they alive? Guilt ached in his belly. He had
dropped his sword, had failed to defend his family. I'm
a coward. His
tears fell and his body shook.
Neev burst out from the burning
house, ash covering his face, his hair singed.
"Mom's dead," he
whispered, eyes haunted. He suddenly seemed so young, a skinny
child, frightened, all his disdain and smugness gone.
The grobblers emerged from the
burning house, screeching. Blood covered their claws and fangs.
"Run!" Scruff shouted.
He ran through the burning town, holding Jamie in his arms. Mom.
Dead. It can't be.
Scruff trembled as he ran, tears on his cheeks. Neev ran beside
him, his face pale and ashy. Around them, soldiers were battling
dozens of grobblers, and the smell of blood, sweat, and fire filled
the air. One of the creatures grabbed Neev's foot, tripping him. He
fell, bloodying his nose, then managed to kick himself free and keep
running.
"Where will we go?"
Neev shouted over the roar of fire, grobbler screeching, and clanking
armor. His eyes were red and moist.
Scruff pointed to Friar Hill
which rose ahead between burning houses. Sometimes wandering priests
would preach atop the hill, giving it its name. Today Scruff saw a
hooded, robed figure standing there, wreathed in flame, arms moving
as if conducting the slaughter.
"Father said a warlock is
leading these grobblers," Scruff said, running toward the hill.
"That looks like our warlock. Father will be there."
They ran around the town stables
where horses screamed, over old Gorse Bridge, and past the
Porcupine's Quills Tavern which rose in flame. Bodies of townsfolk
littered the roads and floated down Gorse Stream. As he ran, anguish
filled Scruff, bringing tears to his eyes. Mother
is dead. I couldn't save her.
His breath ached in his lungs, and he felt like dying.
Jamie sobbed in his arms. "I
want Mamma," she whispered, trembling.
Her tears pained Scruff more than
his wounds. I
won't let them get you too, Jamie,
he swore, his boots thudding across bloody cobblestones. He suddenly
loved his siblings so much—even Neev—that his heart
seemed to clench.
Finally they reached Friar Hill,
raced up the grassy slope, and froze. The warlock stood ahead, clad
in black robes, face hidden in the shadows of his hood. The children
crouched behind a fallen log, cloaked in shadows. The warlock did
not see them; he was busy waving his arms as if conducting. As his
hands moved, the grobblers below swept from street to street. The
warlock controlled them like a puppeteer. Hatred filled Scruff,
burning, spinning his head. There
is the man who destroyed the town, who murdered Mother.
As the children watched from the
shadows, Father came running up the far side of the hill, axe in
hand, armor glinting in the firelight. Scruff bit his fist, eyes
blurry. Father!
He'll take care of this.
He crouched low, hidden, watching. His siblings trembled beside
him.
"It's you,"
Father said to the warlock, eyes hard. He stepped toward the cloaked
figure. "I knew it would be you."
The warlock turned toward Father,
his black robes swishing, darker than the night. "Well well, it
has been a while, has it not?"
"Not long enough,"
Father said. "Leave this town."
The warlock's voice was dry and
deathly like old bones. "Do not interfere with my plans again.
Stay back, or I'll kill you before you've taken a step."
Father charged, axe raised.
The warlock grunted, as if
surprised that Father should truly attack. Scruff guessed that few
people ever dared attack him. The warlock began to utter a spell,
raising gaunt hands gloved in leather.
Father reached him. The axe
swung.
Black sparks fluttered around the
warlock's fingers.
The axe slammed into the
warlock's side, and Scruff heard a horrible crunching sound, an
inhuman sound, like the sound of splintering wood. Scruff held his
breath. Was the warlock dead?
No—he still stood, the axe
embedded in him. How
can he still live?
Growling, the warlock grabbed Father, and black lightning flowed
from those gaunt, gloved hands, slamming into Father. The bolts
crackled, smoking, raising Scruff's hair. Father cried and fell.
"Dad!" Scruff screamed,
leaped out of the shadows, and ran forward. His heart felt like it
had frozen and shattered. Neev and Jamie ran with him, also
screaming. Scruff curled his fingers into fists, prepared to pummel
the warlock, but was too late. Cursing and clutching his wound, the
warlock uttered a spell and vanished like a ghost. The axe hit the
ground, clanging. In the town below, the grobblers howled in fear
and began to flee, their courage gone with their master.
Tears in his eyes, Scruff knelt
by Father. Was he dead? Scruff leaned close, the smell of seared
flesh spinning his head. Father still breathed, but his breath was
shallow. His hair was burnt, and smoke rose from him.
"You did it, Dad,"
Scruff said, tears falling. "You banished the warlock. I'll
take you to a doctor. You'll be fine."
Father was pale. He held
Scruff's hand. "Take care of your family when I'm gone,"
he whispered, words so soft Scruff could barely hear. "Become a
knight, Scruff. Follow in my footsteps."
"I promise," Scruff
said, then let out a sob. Father's breath died, and his hand fell
from Scruff's grip.
He was dead.
Father,
no..., Scruff
thought. He lowered his head and tasted tears on his lips.
"I promise too, Papa,"
Jamie sobbed, hugging Father's body. Ash rained around her, coating
her hair and face. "I'll become a knight someday too."
Tears on their cheeks, Scruff and
Jamie turned their heads and looked back at Neev. Their brother
stood two steps behind, cloaked in shadows, fists clenched at his
sides. Fire burned behind him.
"Aren't you going to promise
too, Neev?" Jamie asked, voice trembling. "Aren't you
going to be a knight?"
Eyes aflame, face ashy, Neev
shook his head. He spoke through a tightened jaw. "No. I
won't become a knight." His voice was soft but full of rage and
pain. "I'm going to be a warlock."
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