The Spook's Stories: Grimalkin's Tale

by Joseph Delaney

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  About Grimalkin

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Grimalkin's Tale

  Extract Title Page

  I Am Grimalkin Extract

  Movie Advert

  Website Advert

  Grimalkin carves the symbol of her scissors on trees to mark her territory or warn others aways …

  The current assassin of the Malkin clan is Grimalkin. Very fast and strong, this assassin has a code of honour and never resorts to trickery. She prefers her opponent to be a challenge. Although honourable, Grimalkin also has a dark side and is reputed to use torture. All fear the snip-snip of her terrible scissors.

  She uses these to shear the flesh and bone of her enemies … Grimalkin’s favourite killing tool is the long blade, and she is a skilled blacksmith who forges her own weapons.

  Taken from John Gregory’s notebook,

  The Spook’s Bestiary

  Grimalkin made her first Wardstone Chronicles appearance in The Spook’s Battle when she was sent by the Pendle witches to kill Thomas Ward.

  Since then she has featured in her own short story (in the anthology The Spook’s Stories: Witches) where we learned about her background and extreme hatred for her sworn enemy – the Fiend.

  Now this deadly witch assassin has formed an alliance with Tom, the Spook and Alice. The narrative follows straight on from the end of The Spook’s Destiny. What Grimalkin carries must be kept out of the clutches of their enemies at all costs …

  About the Author

  Joseph Delaney lives in Lancashire. His home is in the middle of boggart territory and his village has a boggart called the Hall Knocker which was laid to rest under the step of a house near the church.

  THE SPOOK’S STORIES: WITCHES

  AN RHCB DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 407 05063 8

  Published in Great Britain by RHCB Digital,

  an imprint of Random House Children’s Books

  A Random House Group Company

  This ebook edition published 2011

  Copyright © Joseph Delaney, 2011

  Illustrations copyright © Joseph Delaney, 2011

  First published in Great Britain

  Red Fox 9781862309876 2011

  The right of Joseph Delaney to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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  Grimalkin’s Tale is taken from The Spook's Stories: Witches, and is available exclusively as a limited-edition ebook. You don't have to know the Spook's books to enjoy it – it’s a haunting stand-alone story, and a perfect introduction to the world of The Wardstone Chronicles. For all the existing fans of the series out there, this is a must-have.

  This story will chill your blood and frighten you to your very bones.

  Just remember not to read after dark…

  GRIMALKIN’S

  TALE

  MY NAME IS Grimalkin and I fear nobody. But my enemies fear me. With my scissors I snip the flesh of the dead; the clan enemies that I have slain in combat. I cut out their thumb-bones, which I wear around my neck as a warning to others. What else can I do? Without ruthlessness and savagery I would not survive even a week of the life I lead. I am the witch assassin of the Malkin clan.

  Are you my enemy? Are you strong? Do you possess speed and agility? Have you had the training of a warrior? It matters nought to me. Run now! Run fast into the forest! I’ll give you a few moments’ start. An hour if you wish. Because no matter how hard you run, you’ll never be fast enough, and before long I’ll catch and kill you. 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.

  All the prey I hunt I will slay. If it is clothed in flesh, I will cut it. If it breathes, I will stop its breath. And your magic daunts me not, because I have magic of my own. And boggarts, ghosts and ghasts are no greater threat to me than they are to a spook. For I have looked into the darkness – into the greatest darkness of all – and I am no longer afraid.

  My greatest enemy is the Fiend – the dark made flesh. Even as a child I disliked him; saw the way he controlled my clan; watched the way its coven fawned over him. That growing revulsion was something instinctive in me; a natural-born hatred. I knew that unless I did something, he would become a blight upon my life, a dark shadow over everything that I did.

  But there is one way in which a witch can ensure that he keeps his distance. A method that is very extreme but ensures that she is free of his fearsome power. She has to be close to him just once and bear his child. After he has inspected his offspring, he may not approach her again. Not unless she wishes it.

  Most of the Fiend’s children are abhumans – evil creatures that will do the bidding of the dark. Others grow to be powerful witches. But a few – and it is rare indeed – are born perfect human children untainted by evil. Mine was such a child.

  I had never felt such love for another creature. To feel its warmth against my body, so trusting, so dependent, was wonderful beyond my dreams; something I had never imagined or anticipated. This little child loved me and I loved it in return; it depended upon me for life, and I was truly happy for the first time in my life. But such happiness rarely lasts.

  I remember well the night that mine ended. The sun had just set and it was a warm summer’s night, so I walked out into the garden to the rear of my cottage, cradling my child, humming to him softly to lull him to sleep. Suddenly lightning flashed overhead and I felt the ground move beneath my feet. The Fiend was about to appear and my heart lurched with fear. At the same time I was glad, because once he saw his son he would leave and never be able to visit me again. I would be rid of him for the rest of my life.

  I was not prepared for the Fiend’s reaction though. No sooner had he materialized than, with a roar of anger, he snatched my innocent baby boy and lifted him high in the air, ready to dash him to the ground.

  ‘Please!’ I begged. ‘Don’t hurt him. I’ll do anything but please let him live …’

  The Fiend never even looked at me. He was filled with wrath and cruelty. He smashed my child’s fragile head against a rock. Then he vanished.

  For a long time I was insane with grief. And then thoughts of revenge began to swirl within my head. Was it possible? Could I destroy the Fiend? Impossible or not, that became my goal and my only reason to continue living. I was still young – just turned seventeen – although strong and tall for my age. I had chosen to bear the Fiend’s child as a means to be free of him for ever, and once I’d decided to pursue that course of action,
nothing could stop me. Nothing would stop me now.

  Wearing my thickest leather gloves, I forged three blades, each one tipped with silver alloy. It was painful for me even to be close to that metal which is harmful to all who have allegiance to the dark. But I gritted my teeth and did the work to the very best of my ability. Next I had to find my enemy – but that was the easy part.

  The Fiend does not visit on every sabbath; some years he does not come at all. But Halloween was the most likely, and for some reason he particularly favours the Deanes at that time. So, shunning the Malkin celebration on Pendle Hill, I set off for Roughlee, the Deane village.

  I arrived at dusk and settled myself down in a small wood overlooking the site of their sabbath fire. I was not too concerned about being detected. They would all be excited and distracted by their preparations, and besides, I had cloaked myself in my strongest magic, and such a thing as I planned would come as a surprise to them, to say the least. Most witches would consider it insane. The Deanes are not generally known for their imagination and are the least creative of the three clans.

  Soon the witches began to gather and, combining their magic, they ignited the fire with a loud whoosh. Most of the fuel used was wood, but at its heart was a large pile of old bones, those no longer useful for dark magic. Most people call such a blaze a bonfire, but that name is derived from the word that witches use – bone-fire. The coven of the thirteen strongest witches formed a tight circle around its perimeter; their lesser sisters encircled them.

  Just as the stink of the fire began to reach me, the Deanes began to curse their enemies. With wild shrieks and guttural cries, they called down death and destruction upon those they named. Someone old and enfeebled, or a witch grown careless might fall victim to such curses, but mostly they were wasting their time. All witches have defences against such dark magic. But I heard them name Caxton, the High Sheriff at Caster. He had arrested one of their number recently and now they wanted him dead. I knew that he would be lucky to survive the week.

  As they finished cursing, there was a change in the fire: the yellow flames became orange, then red. It was the first sign that the Fiend was about to appear, and I heard an expectant gasp go up from the gathering. I stared towards the fire as he began to materialize. Able to make himself large or small, the Fiend was taking shape in all his fearsome majesty in order to impress his followers. The flames reached up to his knees, revealing that he was tall and broad – perhaps three times the size of an average man – with a long sinuous tail and the curved horns of a ram. His body was covered in thick black hair, and I saw the coven witches reach forward across the flames, eager to touch their dark lord.

  I knew he would not stay for long. I had to strike now!

  I left my hiding place in the trees and began to run as fast as I could, straight towards the fire. The witches would not see me approaching out of the darkness. Neither would they hear the pounding of my feet, distracted and excited as they were by the monster at the heart of the flames.

  I had a blade in each hand; the third gripped tightly between my teeth. There was great danger here, but I hated the Fiend and was quite prepared to meet my death, either blasted by his power or torn to pieces by the Deanes. I cast my will before me; I had the power to keep him away but I did the reverse: I wished him to stay.

  I ran through the gaps between those witches on the fringe of the gathering. As the throng became denser, I pushed them aside with my elbows and shoulders, and saw surprised and angry faces twisting towards me. At last I reached the coven and threw the first dagger. It struck the Fiend in the chest, burying itself up to the hilt. He shrieked long and loud. I’d hurt him badly and his cry of pain was music to my ears. But he twisted away in the flames so that my next two blades did not quite find their intended targets; even so, they buried themselves deep within his flesh.

  For a moment he looked directly at me, his pupils red vertical slits. I had nothing with which to defend myself against the power that he could marshal: I waited to die. What was worse, however, he would, I well knew, find me after death and inflict never-ending torments on my soul.

  Now I was willing him away. Would he go? Or would he destroy me first?

  To my relief, he simply vanished, taking the flames of the fire with him so that we were all plunged into darkness. The rule had held. I had carried his child, so he could not be in my presence; not unless I wished it.

  There was confusion all around me, shrieks of anger and fear; witches running in all directions. I slipped away into the darkness and made my escape. Of course, I knew that they would send assassins after me. It meant I’d have to kill or be killed.

  I ran, heading north and passing beyond Pendle Hill, then curved away west towards the distant sea. I knew exactly where I was going, having planned my escape far in advance. On the flatlands, east of the river Wyre’s estuary, was the spot where I would make my stand. I had wrapped myself in a cloak of dark magic, but it would not be strong enough to hide me from all those who followed me. I needed to fight in a place where I might gain an advantage.

  There is a line of three villages there: Hambleton, Staumin and Preesall, aligned roughly north to south, joined by a narrow track that sometimes becomes impassable because of the tide. On all sides they are surrounded by soggy moss. The river is tidal, with extensive salt marshes, and north-west of Staumin, right on the sea margin, is Arm Hill, a small mound of firm ground that rises above the grassy tussocks and treacherous channels along which the tide races to trap the unwary. On one side is the river; on the other, the marsh, and nobody can cross it without being seen from that vantage point.

  I waited for my pursuers, knowing there would be more than one. My crime against the Deane clan was terrible indeed. If they caught me, I would die slowly and in great pain. The first of my enemies came into sight at dusk, picking her way slowly across the marsh grass.

  As a witch, I have many skills and talents. One of these proved very useful now. As an enemy approaches, I instantly know her worth: her strength and ability in combat. The one crossing the marsh towards me now was competent enough, but not of the first order. No doubt her talents as a tracker and her power to penetrate my dark magical cloak had brought this witch to me first.

  I waited until she was close, then showed myself to her. I was standing on that small hill, clearly outlined against the fading red of the western sky. She ran towards me, a blade in each hand. She did not weave; made no attempt to make herself a difficult target.

  It was me or her. One of us would die. So be it!

  I pulled my favourite throwing knife from my belt. This one was not tipped with silver alloy but that wasn’t necessary; it was sufficient to slay a witch. I hurled it at my attacker and it took her in the throat. She made a little gurgling noise, dropped to her knees and fell face down in the marsh grass.

  She was the first human being I had ever killed, and I felt a momentary pang. But it quickly passed as I concentrated on ensuring my own survival. I hid the witch’s body under a shelf of grass tussocks, pushing her down into the mud. I did not take her heart. We had faced each other in honourable combat and she had lost. One night that witch would return from the dead, crawling across the marsh in search of prey. As she was no further threat to me, I would not deny her that.

  I waited almost three days for the next to find me. There were two and they arrived together. We fought at noon, the late autumn sun painting the slow tidal ebb of the river blood-red. I was strong and fast, but they were veterans of such fights, with a repertoire of tricks that I had never encountered. They hurt me badly, and the scars of those wounds mark my body to this day. The struggle lasted over an hour, and it was close, but at last victory was mine, and the bodies of two more Deanes went into the marsh.

  It was almost three weeks before I was fit to travel, but in that time they sent no more avengers after me. The trail had gone cold and it was unlikely that anyone would have recognized me that night when I attacked the Fiend. I thought long a
nd hard about what had happened. I had hurt the Devil. Would he try to kill me in some way? Or might I find a way to destroy him first?

  I consulted a scryer. Her name was Martha Ribstalk, an incomer from the far north. She did not use a mirror to see the future; her method was to peer into a steaming blood-tainted cauldron, one boiling up thumb- and finger-bones to strip away the dead flesh. At that time, before the rise of Mab, the young scryer of the Mouldheels, she was the foremost practitioner of that dark art. I visited her one hour after midnight, as we had arranged. One hour after she had drunk the blood of an enemy and performed the necessary rituals.

  ‘Do you accept my money?’ I demanded.

  She nodded, so I tossed three coins into the cauldron.

  ‘Be seated!’ she commanded sternly, pointing to the cold stone flags before the large bubbling pot. The air was tainted with blood, and each breath I took increased the metallic taste at the back of my tongue.

  I obeyed, sitting cross-legged and gazing up at her through the steam. She had remained standing so that she was higher than me, a tactic often practised by those who wish to dominate others. But I was not cowed and met her gaze calmly.

  ‘What did you see?’ I demanded. ‘What is my future?’

  She did not speak for a long time. It pleased her to keep me waiting. I think Ribstalk was annoyed because I had asked a question rather than waiting to be told the outcome of her scrying.

  ‘You have chosen an enemy,’ she said at last. ‘The most powerful enemy any mortal could face. The outcome should be simple. Unless you wish it, the Fiend cannot approach you, but he will await your death, then seize your soul and subject it to everlasting torments. But there is something else; something that I cannot see clearly. An uncertainty … another force that may intervene. Just a glimmer of hope for you …’