Freax and Rejex

“Alone? Will you not guide me?”

“You will not be alone. Help shall be sent, extraordinary help. It will support and assist you.”

“But the splinter of yourself? May I not come here, to this place, and consult with it?”

The mould cluster quivered as a gurgling laugh issued out. The sound filled the gathering gloom beneath the trees and the strands connecting the Ismus to the thing overhead vibrated wildly. Then they snapped apart. The hideous growths covering the Holy Enchanter’s face retreated back, disappearing into his pale skin. The disembodied laughter ceased, and was immediately taken up by him. He put his arm round the old man and pointed to the repulsive, throbbing mass above. It crawled higher up the tree and hid itself among the leaves.

“I don’t understand,” Jangler said.

“You won’t be able to consult with that fragment of myself,” the Ismus told him. “Because you won’t know where it is. One night this weekend, that little part of me up there is going hunting.”

“Hunting? What will it hunt?”

“One of those young aberrants. That fragment of me is going to wait, out of sight, and you, dear Lockpick, will drive them in here tomorrow evening. Make a game of it. Employ whatever ruse or method seems best to you. Just see that they are all roaming this woodland when darkness falls. I shall make my selection then.”

“Ho! What an amusing scheme. And what will you do with the filthy scum, once caught?”

The crooked smile appeared. “I shall hide within its body, possess it as I did the man Jezza – the previous owner of this host flesh.”

“But what if your choice is the Castle Creeper? The child will be dead and its skill with it.”

“One life out of thirty-one,” the Ismus said. “That is a gamble I am prepared to take. Have I ever baulked at risk?”

“No, my Lord. And after you have taken possession, how shall I know which of them you are? You must make yourself known to me in a manner that will not arouse the suspicions of the others. Young people are so distrustful.”

“Certainly not! I don’t want you treating that host any differently to the rest. The other aberrants will know for certain if you bow and scrape every time it walks by. Your devotion would give the game away in the first five minutes. Just forget I’m there. As soon as it becomes clear who the Creeper is, I’ll step forward and take command.”

“Whatever you say, my Lord.”

“But remember, it is only a splinter of myself which I shall view and operate remotely. I can channel no power through it. It will be no stronger than the body it animates. Do not think to call on it for help if you fail here. It is merely a direct link to me, nothing more.”

“I will not fail,” came the confident reply. “And I shall not even try to guess in which of them you are concealed.”

The Ismus clapped him on the back. “Then let us return to our unwary little rabbits and their hutches!” he announced. “My Black Face Dames will be getting anxious. For such burly bruisers, they really are the most terrible worrywarts.”

He led Jangler back towards the compound. At the edge of the wood he paused and glanced over his shoulder. High in the trees a patch of foliage rustled against the breeze. The breathing darkness within was trembling with anticipation. The hungry wait had begun.

THE FEAST WAS an excessive, ostentatious display of a Mooncaster banquet. The refectory in the main block had been converted to a scaled-down facsimile of the Great Hall inside the White Castle. No expense had been spared. The walls had been faced with faux stone panels, but genuine medieval tapestries, requisitioned from stately homes and museums, had been hung across them. Four long oak tables were arranged in a rectangle and laden with even more food than had been on the stalls outside. Whole suckling pigs and roast fowl of various sizes, decorated with their former plumage, added to the pies of before.

The children were shown their places by the serving maids and minstrels played as they sat down. None of the young guests looked at the food; every eye was staring at the thing that dominated the central space. Within the rectangle of tables, on a large dais of its own, was a great model of the White Castle.

Painstakingly recreated by a team of special-effects craftsmen, it was perfect, down to the smallest detail, with three concentric walls and the five-storeyed keep in the middle. There were tiny lights in turret windows, banners of the Royal Houses flew from the four corner towers, the courtyards were cobbled, and white lead miniature guards were stationed on the battlements. There was even a moat, made of clear resin – and trees, with brass-etched leaves, grew from the flocked, grassy banks.

Alasdair stared at it intently. He couldn’t help admiring the workmanship and untold hours that had gone into its making, but he loathed everything the model represented.

The Ismus welcomed them with a speech about the hearty meals that would be lavished on them in here this weekend. The presence of the model was to focus their minds on their objective and to make the transition from this world to that much easier.

“Now eat, most honoured guests,” he commanded, his eyes glinting in the light of the many candles burning on large iron stands around the room.

The wenches came forward bearing flagons of ale and filled the goblets on the table. The younger children were given a weak, watered-down version, but they still grimaced when they sampled it.

Marcus had changed into a Paul Smith shirt with thin vertical stripes and knew he was the sharpest dresser in the room, apart from the Ismus, but that black velvet ensemble was hardly the height of fashion. Not yet at any rate. Marcus was disgruntled not to have been seated anywhere near Charm. She was diagonally opposite him and his view of her was blocked by the castle. What was the point of looking so good if she couldn’t even see him? He had hoped he could win her over by playfully throwing a grape or a rolled-up bit of bread in her direction. He didn’t want to chance lobbing a missile over the castle, blind.

“I might get her in the face or in her eye,” he muttered to himself. “She’s not the sort to laugh at that. Probably cause a big stink about it. Does she find anything funny?” A smile tweaked the corners of his mouth briefly as he imagined getting a bullseye right down her cleavage.

He let his gaze roam over the castle in front of him. “So that’s what it’s all about then?” he said. “That’s where everyone thinks they are when they read DJ. Couldn’t they have just gone to Disneyland or Alton Towers?”

He jabbed his elbow in the ribs of Spencer who had the misfortune to have been placed next to him.

“Zo, vot do you zink, Herr Spenzer?” Marcus asked. “Zat ist der Colditzcaster, ja?”

Spencer ignored him and sipped at the ale as he chewed a mouthful of pie crust.

“All that lard is just going to feed those zits, dude,” Marcus commented with disgust.

Jody didn’t like the look of the model. To her the castle appeared grim and forbidding, a feudal fortress from which privileged nobles ruled the downtrodden lower classes. She gave her attention to the food instead and was relieved to see bowls of fruit on the table. That minchet muck was there among the grapes, pears, pomegranates and apples, but she could easily wipe its acrid residue from them. There were small dishes of almonds and hazelnuts too. She tucked in hungrily.

Christina and the other small children were mesmerised by the castle. Part of them longed to play with it, but they also knew it was a bad thing. It had taken the love of their families away from them. It was fascinating and fearsome at the same time, in the same way that fire had been when they were much smaller.

Christina glanced over to where Jody was sitting and her face clouded with hurt and resentment. Then she picked up a skewer and banged her pewter plate with it. When she was sure she had Jody’s attention, the seven-year-old plunged the skewer deep into the snout of a suckling pig.

Jody started. Christina dug her nails into one of the pig’s glazed ears and tore it free. Jody looked away, wishing she hadn’t been so nasty earlier. She had tried to spare Christina from getting hurt, but perhaps she’d damaged her even more.

There was a remote expression on Jim Parker’s face. With that detailed model in front of him, he could imagine it was a real building and he was flying above it. Jim was a lover of comic books and, since the takeover of Dancing Jax, had immersed himself in them completely. DC, Marvel, he loved them all, but his favourite was the X-Men. If he was a mutant with the power of flight, or maybe even just Superman, he could look down on every building like this. He smiled secretively and pressed the tip of his knife into his thumb when he was sure no one was watching. A blob of blood popped out.

“Not yet then,” he murmured to himself with disappointment. “How much longer?”

Spencer felt another dig in the ribs.

“Wouldn’t it be awesome if a topless dancer jumped out of that castle right now, like it was a big cake?” Marcus laughed. “I would so love that!”

Spencer didn’t hear him. Something had been gnawing away at the back of his mind the whole afternoon. From the time they had been shown their cabins it had been there – a vague sense of wrongness. Of course there was the unease and dread that they all felt, knowing they were here to get brainwashed. But this was something else, something more tangible and immediate. Suddenly it struck him and he sat upright. He stared around at the other children and fizzed with the satisfaction of having worked it out.

He had to tell someone, but he didn’t want to speak to Marcus so he turned to the boy on his right.

“Thirty-one!” he blurted excitedly. “There’s supposed to be thirty-one of us! The Lockpick guy said so, didn’t he?”

Tommy Williams dropped his fork and cowered away from him. Cringing, he waited for the inevitable punch.

“I didn’t do nothing wrong!” he cried, covering his face.

Spencer was shocked at how scared he was. He couldn’t begin to imagine what cruelty the boy had endured since the publication of the book. Perhaps it went back even further than that? Only Tommy knew. Spencer simply understood that he had to make him feel better as soon and as best as he could. He was too hesitant, insecure and self-conscious to put his arm round the boy and cuddle him as Sam had done earlier, so he did the only thing he could think of. He tickled him. For the first time in months, Tommy Williams laughed and laughed.

“Stop! Stop!” he begged hysterically. “I’ll wee!”

It was Spencer’s turn to shrink away and he turned back to his food hastily. Tommy slid down in his chair, out of breath and giggling.

“What was you on about, Herr Spenzer?” Marcus demanded. “Thirty what?”