The Last Apprentice: Grimalkin the Witch Assassin

by Joseph Delaney

  “Tell me about it,” Thorne asked.

  “You know the story. You’ve heard it from my own lips more than once.”

  I listened to the wind sighing through the trees and checked our surroundings for danger. All was clear. Our enemies were still some distance away.

  “Then please tell it one more time. Stories change a little with each telling. A good teller of tales remembers new things and forgets what is least important.”

  I sighed, but then began my tale. Why not? It would distract us both for a while from the danger that lay ahead and behind.

  “The challenge always took place north of the three villages of the Malkins, Deanes, and Mouldheels; the spot was usually selected by the then-assassin.

  “Kernolde chose as her killing ground Witch Dell, where she routinely used these dead things as her allies—the only witch who has ever done so successfully. More than one challenger was drained of blood by the dead before Kernolde took her thumb bones as proof of victory.”

  “Wasn’t that cheating, to use dead witches to aid her?” Thorne asked.

  “Some might think so, but she had been the Malkin assassin for many years. She was feared. Who would dare to question what she did?”

  “I’ve heard that some of the dead witches are really strong and can roam for miles seeking their prey. How many are there at present like that?” Thorne asked.

  “There were five until autumn, but as you know, even dead witches do not survive forever. Gradually they weaken, and parts of their bodies begin to decay and fall off. I learned from Agnes that the winter took its toll; now there are only three really strong ones.”

  “Who will they side with—you or our enemies?”

  “That is uncertain, child. But if at least two fight alongside us, the balance of power will be in our favor.”

  Thorne nodded, deep in thought. “Tell me more about Kernolde,” she demanded.

  “Kernolde often proved victorious without her dead allies. She was skilled with blades, ropes, traps, and pits full of spikes, but her specialty was strangulation. Once they were defeated, she invariably strangled her opponents. She enjoyed inflicting that slow death upon those she had overcome.

  “I knew this long before my challenge began. I’d thought long and hard about it and had visited the dell many times during the previous months. I had usually gone there in daylight, when the dead witches were dormant and Kernolde was out hunting prey. I had sniffed out every inch of the wood; knew every tree, every blade of grass, the whereabouts of every pit and trap. And there were lots of those. Some who fought Kernolde died even before they reached her.

  “So I was ready. I stood outside the dell in the shadow of the trees just before midnight, the appointed time for combat to begin. High to my left was the large mass of Pendle Hill, its eastern slopes bathed in the light of the full moon, which had risen high to the south. Within moments a beacon flared at the summit, sparks shooting upward into the air to signal the beginning of my challenge.

  “Immediately I did what no other challenger had done before. Most crept into the dell, nervous and fearful, in dread of what they faced. Some were braver but still entered cautiously. I was different. I announced my presence in a loud clear voice.”

  “Let me say it for you, Grimalkin. Please!” Thorne interrupted.

  I nodded, and Thorne got to her feet, put on a very serious face, and called out the words that I had used all those long years ago:

  “‘I’m here, Kernolde! My name is Grimalkin, and I am your death!’” she shouted at the top of her voice. “‘I’m coming for you, Kernolde! I’m coming for you! And nothing living or dead can stop me!’”

  She sat down, and we both laughed for a while. “Did you mean it?” Thorne asked. “Did you really believe your own words?”

  “To a certain extent I believed. It was not just bravado, although that played no small part. My behavior was a product of much thought and calculation. I knew that my shouts would bring the dead witches toward me, and that’s what I wanted. Now I would know where they were. It is always important to spy out the location of any danger that we face.

  “Most dead witches are slow, and I knew that I could outpace them. It was the powerful ones I had to beware of. One of them was named Gertrude the Grim because of her intimidating and repulsive appearance, and she was both strong and quick for one who had been dead for more than a century. She roamed far and wide beyond the dell, hunting for blood. But tonight she would be waiting within it, for she was Kernolde’s closest accomplice, well rewarded in blood for aiding each victory.

  “I waited for fifteen minutes or so, long enough to let the slowest witch get near to me. I’d already sniffed out Gertrude, the old one. She’d been close to the edge of the dell for some time but had chosen not to venture out into the open; she had moved in among the trees so that her slower sisters could threaten me first. I could hear the rustling of leaves and the occasional faint crack of a twig as they shuffled forward. They were slow, but never underestimate a dead witch. They have great strength, and once they have hold of your flesh they cannot easily be pried free. Soon they begin to suck your blood, until you weaken and can fight no more. Some would be in the ground, hiding within the dead leaves and mud, ready to reach out and grasp at my ankles as I sped by.

  “I sprinted into the trees. I had already sniffed out Kernolde, and she was exactly where I expected, waiting beneath the branches of the oldest oak in the dell. This was her tree, the one in which she stored her magic; her place of power.”

  I enjoyed telling the tale to Thorne and thus reliving my fight to become the witch assassin. I have won many battles since, but that first victory brought me the greatest enjoyment because it was where Grimalkin truly began.

  “A hand reached up toward me from the leaves. Without breaking stride, I slipped a dagger from the scabbard on my left thigh and pinned the dead witch to the thick gnarled root of a tree. And here is some good advice for you, Thorne. Never pin a witch through the palm of her hand—she can simply tear herself free. Always thrust your blade into the wrist rather than the palm. And that is what I did.

  “Another witch shuffled toward me from the right, her hideous face lit by a shaft of moonlight. Rivulets of saliva dribbled down her chin and dripped onto her tattered gown, which was covered in dark stains. She jabbered curses at me, eager for my blood. Instead she got my blade, which I plucked from my right shoulder sheath, hurling it toward her. The point took her in the throat, throwing her backward. I ran on even faster.

  “Four more times my blades speared dead flesh, and by now the other witches were left behind, the slow and those I’d maimed. But Kernolde and the powerful old one waited somewhere ahead. I wore eight sheaths that day; each contained a blade. Now only two remained.

  I leaped a hidden pit, then a second. Although they were covered with leaves and mud, I knew they were there. At last Grim Gertrude barred my path. I came to a halt and awaited her attack. Let her come to me! Her tangled hair fell down to her knees. She was grim indeed, and well named! A worm wriggled and dropped from her left nostril. Maggots and beetles scuttled through the slimy curtain that obscured all of her face save one malevolent eye—that, and an elongated black tooth that jutted upward over her top lip almost as far as her left nostril.

  “She ran toward me, kicking up leaves, her hands extended to claw at my face or squeeze my throat. She was fast for a dead witch, very fast. But not fast enough. With my left hand, I drew the largest of my blades from its scabbard at my hip. As you know, this knife is not crafted for throwing; it is more akin to a short sword, with razorsharp edges. I leaped forward to meet Grim Gertrude, and with one blow I cut her head clean from her shoulders.

  “It bounced on a root and rolled away. I ran on, glancing back to see her searching among the pile of rotting leaves where it had come to rest.”

  “Is Gertrude still to be found in the dell?” Thorne asked.

  “There are few sightings of her now,” I answered. �
�She is failing, her mind decaying more quickly than her body. No doubt I hastened her demise. But back to my story … once Gertrude was dealt with, I was ready to face Kernolde. She was waiting beneath her tree. Ropes hung from the branches, ready to bind and hang my body. She was rubbing her back against the bark, drawing strength for the fight. But I was not afraid—to me she looked like an old she bear ridding herself of fleas rather than the dreaded witch assassin feared by all. Running at full pelt straight for her, I drew the last of my throwing knives and hurled it at her throat. End over end it spun, my aim fast and true, but she knocked it to one side with a disdainful flick of her wrist. Undaunted, I increased my pace and prepared to use the long blade. But then the ground opened up beneath my feet, my heart lurched, and I fell into a hidden pit.

  “I remember my feeling of shock at that moment. I had been so confident, but as I fell I realized that I had underestimated my opponent. A speedy victory had been snatched away—however, I was resilient and still determined to survive and fight on.

  “The moon was high, and as I fell I saw the sharp spikes waiting to impale me. I twisted desperately, trying to avoid them, but it was impossible. All I could do was contort myself so that my body suffered the least damage.

  “The least, did I say? The spike hurt me enough, damaged me badly. It pierced my outer thigh, and I bear the scar to this day. Down its length I slid, until I hit the ground hard and all the breath left my body, the long blade flying from my hand to lie out of reach. I lay there in agony, struggling to breathe and control the extreme pain in my leg. The spikes were sharp, thin and very long—more than six feet—so there was no way I could lift my leg and free it. I cursed my folly. I had thought myself safe, but Kernolde had dug another pit, probably the previous night. No doubt she’d been aware of my forays into the dell and had waited until the very last moment to add this extra trap.

  “A witch assassin must constantly adapt and learn from her mistakes. Even as I lay there, facing imminent death, I recognized my stupidity. I had been too confident. If I survived, I swore to temper my attitude with a smidgeon of caution.

  “Kernolde’s broad moon face appeared above me, and she looked down without uttering a word. I was fast and I excelled with blades. I was strong too, but not as strong as Kernolde. Not for nothing did some call her Kernolde the Strangler. As I’ve told you, once victorious, Kernolde usually hung her victims by their thumbs before slowly asphyxiating them. Not this time, though. She had seen what I had achieved already and would take no chances. I would die here.

  “She began to climb down into the pit, preparing to place her powerful hands about my throat and squeeze the breath and life from my body. I was calm and ready to die if need be—but I had already thought of something. I had a slim chance of survival.

  “As Kernolde reached the bottom of the pit and began to weave her way toward me through the spikes, flexing her big, muscular hands, I prepared myself to cope with pain—not the pain that she would inflict upon me; that which I chose myself. My hands and arms and shoulders were very strong. The spikes were thin but sturdy, flexible, not brittle. But I had to try. Seizing the one that pierced my leg, I began to bend it. Back and forth, back and forth, I flexed and twisted the spike, each movement sending pain shooting down my leg and up into my body. But I gritted my teeth and worked the spike ever harder, until finally it yielded and broke, coming away in my hands.

  “Quickly I lifted my leg clear of the stump and knelt to face Kernolde, my blood running down to soak the earthen floor of the killing pit. I held the spike like a spear and pointed it toward her. Before her hands could reach my throat, I would pierce her heart.

  “Seeing that I had freed myself and was prepared to fight on, Kernolde looked astonished, but she quickly recovered herself and attacked me in a new way. She had drawn much of her stored magic from the tree, and now she halted and concentrated, hurling shards of darkness toward me. She tried dread first, and terror tried to claim me. My teeth began to chitter-chatter like those of the dead on the Halloween sabbath. Her magic was strong, but not strong enough. I braced myself and shrugged aside her spell. Soon its effects receded, and it bothered me no more than the cold wind that blew down from the arctic ice when I slew the wolves and left their bodies bleeding into the snow.

  “Next she used the unquiet dead, hurling toward me the spirits she had trapped in limbo. They clung to my body, leaning hard on my arm to bring it down, and it took all my strength to keep hold of the spike.”

  “Have you ever trapped spirits in limbo?” Thorne asked.

  “I have in the past—but not any longer. That is why I have not taught you that skill. As assassins, we are better than your common bone witch. We use magic, yes, but our greatest strength lies in the combat skills that we acquire and in our strength of mind. It was the latter that enabled me to repulse Kernolde’s spirits. They were strong and fortified by dark magic: One was a strangler that gripped my throat so hard that Kernolde herself might have been squeezing it. The worst of them was an abhuman spirit, the ghost of one born of the Fiend and a witch. He darkened my eyes and thrust his long, cold fingers into my ears so that I thought my head would burst, but I fought back and cried out into the darkness and silence: ‘I’m still here, Kernolde! Still to be reckoned with. I am Grimalkin, your doom!’

  “My eyes cleared, and the abhuman’s fingers left my ears with a pop so that sound rushed back. The weight was gone from my arms, and I struggled to my feet, taking aim with the spike. Kernolde rushed at me then—that big ugly bear of a woman with her strangler’s hands. But my aim was true. I thrust the spear right into her heart, and she fell at my feet, her blood soaking into the earth to mix with mine. She was choking, trying to speak, so I bent and put my ear close to her lips.

  “‘You’re just a girl,’ she croaked. ‘To be defeated by a girl after all this time… How can this be?’

  “‘Your time is over and mine is just beginning,’ I told her. ‘This girl took your life, and now she will take your bones.’

  “I watched her die; then, after taking her thumb bones, which were very powerful and supplied me with magic for many months, I lifted her body out of the pit using her own ropes. Finally I hung her by her feet so that at dawn the birds could peck her clean. That done, I passed through the dell without incident, the dead witches keeping their distance. Grim Gertrude was on her hands and knees, still rooting through the sodden leaves, trying to find her head. Without eyes it would prove difficult and would keep her occupied for a long time.

  “When I emerged from the trees, the clan was waiting to greet me. I held up Kernolde’s thumb bones, and they bowed their heads in acknowledgment of what I’d done. Even Katrise, the head of the coven of thirteen, made obeisance. When they looked up, I saw the new respect in their eyes; the fear too.

  “With that victory, my quest to destroy my enemy, the Fiend, began. The spikes in the pit had given me an idea. What if I crafted a sharp spike of silver alloy and somehow impaled the Fiend on it?”

  “Is that what you actually did to the Fiend before you cut off his head?” Thorne asked.

  I nodded. “Yes, child—with the help of Tom Ward and his master, John Gregory, I impaled the Fiend with silver spears and nailed his hands and feet to the rock. Then the Spook’s apprentice cut the Fiend’s head from his shoulders, and I placed it in this leather sack. We filled the pit with earth, then sealed it with a large, flat stone, finally placing a boulder on top of that. Until this head is returned to its body, the Fiend is securely bound.”

  “It will never be returned to its body,” Thorne said. “Even if one of us dies, the other will continue to be its custodian. Then one day the Fiend will be destroyed forever!”

  There came a deep groan from the sack. The Fiend had been listening to our conversation and had not liked what he’d heard. In the long silence that followed, I could almost hear Thorne thinking. At last she spoke. It was a probing question.

  “Have you ever taken the thumb bones of
your enemies while they were still alive?” she asked.

  No doubt the threat to her own thumb bones was fresh in her mind, but before I could control myself I let out a hiss of anger.

  “It’s just that some say that is what you do to those you hate most,” Thorne continued quickly.

  “My enemies must fear me,” I replied. “With my scissors I snip the flesh of the dead, the clan enemies that I have slain in combat. Then I cut out their thumb bones, which I wear around my neck as a warning to others. What else would I do? Without ruthlessness and savagery I could not survive even a week of the life I lead.”

  “But the living? Have you ever done it to the living?” Thorne persisted. She was brave to pursue the matter when I was clearly angry—courage was one of her best qualities. But it also displayed another side of her, a fault. She could be reckless. She did not know when to back off.

  “I do not wish to speak of it,” I said quietly. “The matter is closed.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  WITCH DELL

  I have looked into the darkness,

  into the greatest darkness of all,

  and now I fear nothing.

  ONE hour after nightfall, we approached the dell but halted beneath the wide branches of a solitary oak a hundred yards short of its nearest trees.

  “Call her,” I whispered.

  The night of the full moon had been and gone. Somewhere within those trees Agnes Sowerbutts would now have awoken to a new existence as a dead witch. In time, as her body slowly decayed, a witch sometimes became bitter and twisted, hating all those whom she had befriended and cared for in life. But those taken to the dell did not change their loves, hatreds, and allegiances immediately. To a certain extent she would still be the same Agnes, and I hoped that we could rely on her to effect our safe entry to the dell—or at least to let us know the situation there.

  Thorne gave a long, mournful cry, something close to that made by a corpse fowl but subtly modified into the signal that she always used when approaching Agnes’s cottage. I had introduced Thorne to the old witch soon after I had begun her training, and Agnes had taken the child under her wing, teaching her about potions, and occasionally, when I was away from Pendle, offering her a place to stay.