Thorne swung the sack up onto her shoulder—but it was already too late.
There was a howl close behind us, and the kretch padded into view.
The beast had changed again since the last time we’d faced it. There was something different about its eyes. They had regenerated since Thorne and I had pierced them with our blades, but not quite in the same way. There was a thin ridge of white bone above each one.
Moreover, it was even larger. Its forearms seemed more muscular, the talons sharper and longer. There were more flecks of gray in its black fur too. Was it aging already? Kretches usually had a short lifespan. Tibb, the last kretch the Malkins had created, had lived for only a few months.
In one fluid motion, Thorne drew a blade from a shoulder sheath and hurled it straight at the right eye of the beast. It was a good shot, exactly on target. But before the dagger struck, the ridge of bone moved. It flicked downward, covering and protecting the eye so that the blade was deflected harmlessly away.
With the power inherited from its demon father, the beast learned and improved itself all the time. Exploit a weakness, and the next time you encountered the creature, that weakness would be no more. Protected by armored lids, its eyes were no longer easy targets for our blades.
I took a deep breath, tried to steady my trembling body, and threw a blade at its throat, targeting a spot just below its left ear. The kretch seemed faster than ever. It brought up its left hand and swatted my blade aside. Again I staggered, and spots flashed within my eyes, bile rose in my throat. Then I saw what Thorne was attempting and cried out, “No!”
To no avail. She was brave, but sometimes reckless too, and that latter quality was a dangerous fault that now became her undoing. She was the ten-year-old running at the bear again, a blade in her left hand. And it was that same blade, her first one, the one I had given her as we sat eating bear meat by the fire.
She was faster and far more deadly than the child who had stabbed the bear in the hind leg. However, the kretch was stronger and more dangerous than any bear that had ever walked this earth. And I was unable to repeat the throw that slew the beast before it killed her. I was on my knees, the world spinning, my mind falling into darkness.
The last thing I saw was the kretch opening its jaws wide and biting savagely into Thorne’s left shoulder. She fought back, drawing another blade from a sheath with her right hand, stabbing it repeatedly into the beast’s shoulder and head.
Then I knew no more.
How long I have laid here I know not, but I surmise that it is no more than an hour. I come to my knees slowly and am immediately sick, vomiting again and again until only bile trickles from my mouth.
The kretch has gone. What has happened? Why didn’t it kill me while I lay there, helpless? I stand groggily and begin to search for tracks. There was no evidence that witches have been here—just a muddy circle where the beast and Thorne fought, and then the prints of the kretch setting off northward.
Has it carried Thorne off in its jaws?
I begin to follow the tracks. I am still unsteady on my feet, but my strength is gradually returning, and my breathing begins to slow to a more normal rhythm. I follow the trail of the kretch almost back to the edge of Witch Dell. The trees are still burning, but the magic is no more and the wind has changed direction. It is evident now that perhaps over half of Witch Dell will remain untouched by fire. But it has been cut in two by a broad black belt of burned trees.
Then I see something lying on the ground, close to a blazing tree stump. It is a human body.
Is it that of the dead witch who fled the dell? I begin to move toward it, slowing with every step. I do not really want to reach it because, deep down, I already know whose corpse it is. The ground is churned to mud. Many witches have gathered here.
Moments later, my worst fears are confirmed.
It is the body of Thorne.
There can be no doubt. No more room for hope.
She is lying on her back, stone dead. Her eyes are wide open and staring, an expression of horror and pain etched upon her face. The grass is wet with blood. Her hands have been mutilated. They have taken her thumb bones, cut them from her body while she was still alive.
I kneel beside her and weep.
Grimalkin does not cry.
But I am crying now.
Time passes. How much I do not know.
I crouch before a fire, cooking meat on a spit. I turn it slowly so that it is well done. Then I break it into two with my fingers and begin to eat it slowly.
There are two ways to make sure that a witch does not return from the dead. The first is to burn her; the second is to eat her heart.
So I have made doubly sure that Thorne’s wishes are carried out. I have already burned her body. Now I am eating her heart. And still I am weeping.
When I have finished, I begin to speak aloud, my voice caught by the wind, spinning it away through the trees to the four corners of the earth.
“You were brave in life; be brave in death. Heed not the cackle of foolish witches. Your thumb bones matter naught. They have taken them but cannot take away your courage, cannot negate what you were. For had you lived, you would have become the greatest witch assassin of the Malkin clan. You would have taken my place; surpassed my deeds; filled our enemies with dread.
“If reputation concerns you, then worry not. Who will be able to say, ‘We took her bones?’ There will be nobody left to say it because none will live. I will kill them all. I will kill every last one.
“So rest in peace, Thorne, for what I say I will do.
“It will all come to pass.
“I am Grimalkin.”
CHAPTER XXI
MY ONLY REMAINING ALLY
I am a hunter and also a blacksmith,
skilled in the art of forging weapons.
I could craft one especially for you;
the steel that would surely take your life.
AT dawn I took stock of the situation and put aside my grief and anger. I needed to be cold and rational. I needed to think and plan.
Why had the kretch not killed me?
Maybe even as she died, Thorne had fought so fiercely, damaged it so badly, that it could not deal with us both? I said that to myself but knew that it was not true. I had been unconscious. It could have killed her, then dispatched me at its leisure.
No—the answer was clear. Even more important than my death was the retrieval of the sack containing the Fiend’s head. That was its prime objective. It was created to kill me, but only as a means to an end: the reclaiming of the head and the resurrection of the Fiend. Thorne had been carrying it over her shoulder. Once the kretch had her in its jaws, it had the sack as well.
So it had taken the Fiend’s head straight back to its creators. They had quickly cut away Thorne’s thumb bones and left her to die. Now they would be heading for the coast. They needed to return to Ireland to reunite head and body.
So what could I do? I had to follow. I had to try and stop them. But as I sat in the cold gray morning light, with my wrath set aside, I knew that I had little chance of success. My magic was used up, the resource gone. It would not be easy to restore it. My health was uncertain. I could suffer another bout of weakness at any time. And I was alone. Alone against so many.
I needed help, but who could I turn to now? The answer came immediately.
Alice Deane.
She was the only remaining ally I could rely on. Recently all who had tried to help me had died. I had sought out Agnes and Thorne, and both had died as a result. So many had died, including Wynde, the lamia, and the knight whom I had manipulated to serve my cause. Could I do it again, thus placing Alice in danger? Was I right to ask another friend to risk her life?
Grimalkin should not ask such questions. To think like that was to show weakness. I must act and not think too much about the possible consequences.
But I would not seek the help of Thomas Ward or John Gregory. The apprentice was too valuable to risk. He m
ight be the means of finally destroying the Fiend. No, I could not take a chance with his life. Once the head was retrieved and the kretch dead, I would escort him to Malkin Tower. The sooner the better.
As for the Spook, he was past his best, and in any case had too many scruples. He would not have the stomach for what I must do. So I would simply ask Alice. Two witches together—that would be best. She might be willing to lend me some of her strength.
I pulled my mirror from its sheath and prepared to make contact with her. Three times I tried, but I could not reach her. Even that small magic was beyond me. I was drained and needed replenishing.
I would have to go to her. I would travel to Chipenden, where the Spook was starting to rebuild his house.
I followed the tracks of my enemies, passing north of Pendle and heading toward the Ribble Valley. The tracks went west then, but did not cross the ford; they kept south of the river. That meant they were not heading for Sunderland Point. They would go to Liverpool and seize a boat there.
Moving as fast as I was able, I reluctantly left their trail and crossed the Ribble, heading northwest. I had to go to Chipenden first. It would mean losing perhaps half a day, but I could still catch the witches before they sailed.
I avoided the village itself and began to climb the lane to the boundary of the Spook’s property. Once I would not have risked entering the garden. But Alice had told me that the boggart that had once guarded it was gone, its pact with John Gregory ended when the house burned and the roof collapsed.
Even so, I entered the trees of the western garden slowly and cautiously. In the distance I could see the Spook’s house. As I drew nearer, I also saw trestle tables and huge planks and other building materials. Out of sight, someone was sawing wood. The roof had already been replaced, and a thin spiral of smoke was rising from a chimney. Then suddenly I heard distant voices, voices that I recognized.
Although my magic had gone, some witch skills are innate—especially that of sniffing. It was Alice and Tom Ward, the apprentice. The Spook wasn’t with them. No doubt he was warming his old bones close to the fire.
So I crept closer and crouched behind the trunk of a large tree.
“It just ain’t right, Tom,” I heard Alice say. “Nothing’s changed. No matter what I do, Old Gregory will never trust me. Why can’t I come with you? Try talking to him again.”
“I’ll do my best,” Tom replied, “but you know how stubborn he can be. He wants to set off first thing tomorrow, but we’ll probably only be away for a few days, Alice. You’ll be comfortable here.”
“I’m probably better off staying here anyway!” Alice retorted. “You two had best go and sort through them moldy old books. Anyway, you get back to the house, Tom. I’m going for a walk to think things through. Feel better for a walk, I will.”
“Don’t be like that, Alice. It’s not my fault and you know it.”
But Alice wouldn’t listen and began to stroll in my direction, and after a moment Tom bowed his head and walked back toward the house. As she passed me, Alice glanced in my direction. It was a shock to see her white hair—the result of being snatched away into the dark and tormented by the Fiend and his servants. She smiled, then walked on, leaving the garden and crossing the field toward the lane. She had sniffed out my presence and had worked out the situation. She knew that I didn’t want to be seen by Tom.
I followed her down into the lane, where she moved under the shadow of some trees and waited for me. Before leaving Ireland, she had contacted me to tell me of her experiences when she’d been taken into the dark. I couldn’t get used to the sight of her white hair.
Her eyes widened as I approached. “Where’s the Fiend’s head?” she demanded.
“Our enemies have it, Alice. They seized it yesterday, and they’re now taking it to the coast—to Liverpool, I think. I need your help!”
Alice looked afraid—and with good reason. If the Fiend’s supporters succeeded in reuniting the head with the body, the Fiend would walk the earth once more. Tom and Alice no longer had the blood jar as a means of defense. His first act would be to seize them and drag them off into the dark, and then they’d face an eternity of torment.
“What sort of help? What can I do?”
“My magic’s gone, Alice, all used up.”
“Magic ain’t everything,” Alice said. “You’re Grimalkin. You can use your blades. Hunt ’em down one by one. What’s wrong with you? Never heard you talk like this. What am I supposed to do?”
“My blades won’t be enough, Alice. There are too many of them. I need my own magic to deflect theirs, and to be able to cloak myself and retain an element of surprise. Then there’s the kretch—it was specially made to kill me and take back the head. It’s formidable. It’s already killed one of the lamias left to guard Malkin Tower. Its claws are coated with a deadly poison. It hurt me badly, Alice; now I am plagued by bouts of weakness.”
“My aunt, Agnes Sowerbutts, could help. Some wouldn’t agree, though I reckon she’s the best healer in Pendle.”
“She tried, Alice. She pulled me back from the brink of death, but I’m permanently damaged. You can’t believe how bad things have been. Agnes is dead. They killed her. They killed Thorne too, and took her thumb bones while she was still alive and—”
I was going to say more about how brave Thorne had been and how she’d saved me after I’d been poisoned, but I had to stop, choked with emotion.
As Alice took in the full import of what I was saying, her eyes widened in horror.
“So I need some of your magic, Alice. You’ve plenty. Just transfer some to me.”
“No!” Alice cried, clenching her fists at her sides. “I won’t do it. Build up your own magic again—you can do it.”
What Alice meant was that I should kill, take the thumb bones of my victims, and carry out the necessary rituals. Yes, it could be done, but there wasn’t time.
“Within a day they will have sailed for Ireland with the Fiend’s head. There simply isn’t time to replenish my magic using the normal methods. Give me some of your power, Alice. Heal me as well. You’ve more power than you need. You can do it.”
Alice was a special kind of witch, a type rarely found. Although she didn’t practice the rituals of blood, bone, or familiar magic, she had a power within her. Tremendous innate power that was part of her being; part of being Alice.
“I can’t touch it. You know that!” Alice retorted. “Use the dark and you end up being part of the dark. Don’t want that, do I?”
“You’ve used it before,” I accused her.
“That’s true enough. I did so in Ireland to save Tom, so I can’t risk using it again now.”
“You have to take the risk. Otherwise the Fiend will come for you—and soon. How long will it take them to dig him up from the pit and join the head to the body? Even counting the sea voyage and the journey across Ireland to Kerry, he could well come for you within the week. Tom too! That’s how long you’ve got, Alice, if you don’t help me now.”
Alice was quiet for a long time. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper. “All right, I’ll come with you. We’ll follow ’em and see what’s what, but I ain’t promising anything. Wait here. I’ll just go and tell Tom.”
“No, that would be a mistake. We don’t want to lead him into danger; nor that master of his. Besides, they’re off somewhere tomorrow. I overheard your conversation in the garden. They’ll be away for a few days, and it’ll all be over before they get back.”
“They’re going east, to the County border,” Alice replied. “Old Gregory’s heard of a collection of books about the dark. He’s hoping to get his hands on some to restock his library. You’re right. Let’s leave Tom and Old Gregory out of it.”
So, without further words, we set off in a westerly direction. Within hours we had picked up the trail of our enemies and were heading toward the coast.
CHAPTER XXII
A MALEVOLENT WITCH
Alice Deane has th
e potential to become
the most powerful witch who has ever lived.
WE followed our enemies with great caution, gradually catching up to them. By the time we sniffed out that they’d made camp for the night, we were only two miles behind.
We settled down in a grove of trees and watched their campfires spark into life like fireflies. We were close and already in danger. We were able to sniff them out, but they could do likewise. They might well send some of their party back to deal with us.
“Alice, you need to use some of your magic now to cloak us. The kretch was able to find me despite my best efforts to hide myself, so the spell needs to be as strong as you can make it!”
Alice nodded, then settled down with her back against a tree trunk, closed her eyes, and began to mutter to herself. The moon was out, casting dappled shadows on the ground. By its light I studied Alice’s face. Even without taking into account her white hair, her face looked older. It was still that of a girl, but now it had a maturity that belied her years. She had seen too much.
When she opened her eyes, I was momentarily shocked. They were still youthful and pretty, but it was as if some ancient, powerful being stared out at me; something hardly human that had dwelt on earth since time began. It only lasted for a second, and disappeared as she began to smile, but I shivered all the same.
“It’s done,” she said. “They can’t find us now.”
“Next you must try to heal me,” I told her. “Do it now. Heal me first, then give me some of your magic.”
The smile slipped from her face. “Ain’t sure if I can do it,” she responded.
To give me some of her magic was feasible. Pendle witches sometimes did it—though grudgingly; they were like money lenders, expecting it to be returned threefold at a later date. But it might well be that Alice would be unable to heal me. Agnes had failed, and healing had been her specialty. Sometimes sheer power simply wasn’t enough. But, as it turned out, Alice wasn’t actually doubting her ability; she was afraid of the consequences.
The Last Apprentice: Grimalkin the Witch Assassin Page 17