I had often been afraid when dealing with the dark. There had been moments of extreme terror—when I’d confronted the Old God Golgoth under the Round Loaf up on Anglezarke Moor, for example. He’d had the power to snuff out not only my life, but my soul. Then there was the fight with Siscoi, the Romanian vampire god: I’d faced a terrible death at his hands. And there had been many other moments of dread; as the Battle of the Wardstone approached, I’d feared that I might die there.

But what I felt now was different . . . less intense in a way, but it crept into my very being. I had a strong sense that I would not survive the fight with Kauspetnd. I had always been someone who looked to the future. As a boy, I’d dreamed of completing my apprenticeship and becoming a spook, with my own territory to protect. Now there seemed to be no future. I could not see beyond the approaching fight.

It is the night before I face the Shaiksa. I can’t sleep. So I am writing in my notebook, trying to describe my thoughts and feelings. Ice-cold fingers of fear clutch at my throat and squeeze my heart. I have tried to put on a brave face in front of Jenny, but I know that she can see the truth.

In my imagination I keep reviewing, over and over again, each death that I have witnessed at the river. I watch the heads fall; I see the blood swirl away in the current.

Will that be my fate tomorrow?

Jenny Calder

29

The Worst Day of My Life

I am writing this in Tom Ward’s notebook. It seems the most appropriate place to record what has happened.

I don’t think he would mind. All spooks keep careful notes—they believe in recording the past so that they can better prepare for the future. So I will carry on doing so just as long as I am able.

Yesterday was the worst day of my life.

I had seen the Shaiksa assassin fight on only one occasion, but it scared me. He had displayed such effortless skill and ferocity that I feared for Tom. How could he possibly win against such an adversary?

Because we were supposedly Tom’s servants, and the only people from his own land, Grimalkin and I were given a good view of the contest. We were seated in straight-backed wooden chairs to the left of Prince Stanislaw, looking directly down upon the river.

Above, the sky was blue, with just a few clouds on the horizon, tinged with red by the setting sun. The air was chilly but full of scents, some of which I could not identify. Some were spices, others aromas of food, and then there was the bitter leaf that was chewed by the men of the region, which made their breath smell foul.

An hour before sunset, a figure came into view on the far bank and strode to the edge of the ford. It was Kauspetnd, with his fearsome lupine face, hair braided into three pigtails. He carried two gleaming sabers and glared across the river toward us.