Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [76]
“You mock me at your peril,” hissed the Thing.
“Garrrr . . .” Simon was choking. The smell of decay filled his nostrils and the Thing’s long, filthy fingernails cut into his skin.
Shocked, Sir Hereward lowered his sword.
“When I tell you to be silent, you will be silent,” Sir Hereward heard the bullying Thing hiss to his victim. “If you will not be silent when I command it, I shall ensure that you will be silent forever. Understand?”
Simon just about managed to nod his head.
The Thing let go. Simon reeled back and fell, retching, onto the carpet.
“Oh dear,” muttered Sir Hereward.
The Thing stood over Simon. “Get up. Follow,” it ordered.
Sir Hereward watched Simon drag himself to his feet and, clasping his bruised neck, stagger after the Thing like a naughty puppy. The ghost began to think that perhaps things were not quite what he had taken them for—and, quite possibly, that Simon Heap was not what he had taken him for either. Determined to find out what was going on, Sir Hereward set off after Simon.
Taking advantage of the fact that the Thing could not hear him, the ghost said, “Look here, Heap, I want some answers.”
Simon looked at the ghost in despair. Why wouldn’t he go away? Didn’t he see he had enough trouble right then?
“Now, this is just between you and me, Heap.” He caught Simon’s anxious glance at the Thing. “Don’t worry, I do not Appear to Things. It can’t hear me.”
Simon looked at the ghost and saw a brief, conspiratorial smile. A small ray of hope flitted across his mind.
“Heap, I want to get some facts straight. I do not want any lies. Just nod or shake your head. Got that?”
Easier said than done, thought Simon. He felt as if his head might fall off. Cautiously, he nodded.
The motley procession of the stooping, ragged Thing, followed by the battered young man in his muddy, torn robes and the one-armed ghost moved slowly along the corridor. The ghost began his questions.
“Did you come to the Palace of your own free will?”
Simon shook his head—very carefully.
“Do you know why you are here?”
A slow shake.
“Do you know where the Princess is?”
Yet another slow shake.
“We must find her. And to find her we must rid the Palace of this . . . this infestation.” Sir Hereward sounded disgusted. “Do you agree, Heap?”
With some relief, Simon nodded. It was less painful than shaking his head.
“And are you willing to help me get rid of these . . . Things?”
Simon nodded too vehemently and a groan escaped him. The Thing swung around, the procession stopped and Simon’s heart raced. He put his hands up to his bruised throat as though trying to ease his neck. The Thing glared at Simon, then turned and continued its crab shuffle into the galleried landing.
“We need a plan of action,” said Sir Hereward, getting into campaign mode. “First we need to—”
Simon did not hear any of Sir Hereward’s plans. The Thing, tired of Simon lagging behind, was waiting for him. As Simon drew level, it grabbed hold of his torn robes, dragged him along the gallery and pushed him down the stairs. Simon half ran, half fell down to the entrance hall below, where a crowd of twenty-four Things waited for him.
Sir Hereward ventured cautiously down the stairs. From his vantage point, he saw Simon’s painful progress across the hall, pinched and punched as he was pushed and prodded toward the Palace doors. The ghost reached the foot of the stairs and, with some trepidation, he stepped into the crowd of Things. It was not a good experience. No ghost likes to be Passed Through, but to be Passed Through by something Darke is a truly awful experience. It had never happened to Sir Hereward before, but as he followed Simon across the hall, it happened to him at least ten times. Resolutely the ghost kept going. His job was to protect the Princess, and to do that he reckoned he needed to keep close to Simon. Sir Hereward knew that if anyone had the strength to get rid of the Things, to get the Palace back for the Princess, it would be a Living young man, not an ancient one-armed ghost.