Fire Witch

by Matt Ralphs

  Murrell reached up and pushed the hair away from his face. His eyes flashed in the torchlight and to her relief Hazel saw his lips moving, quickly and silently – he was reciting the spell.

  She was about to step away and let Murrell finish when he reached through the bars and grabbed her wrist. There was a collective gasp of shock and a few people stood up.

  ‘When the gate opens, run inside and do not look back. I’ll follow,’ Murrell whispered. Then he snatched the torch from her and bore it aloft into the middle of the cage.

  He’ll follow? Hazel thought. Does that mean he’s coming too?

  Cries echoed around the arena. The Grandees fidgeted in their seats. Without taking his eyes from Murrell, Stearne spat out a wad of tobacco and wiped his lips on his sleeve.

  Hopkins slapped his hand down on the lectern. ‘Use another torch, William. Hurry up and get this circus over . . .’

  Murrell’s cry rent the air, shattering the silence into a million pieces. His mouth stretched wide, and his spine bent so far back Hazel thought it would snap.

  A vibration from deep under the earth shook the platform, making the planks shiver and the bars of the cave quiver like bow strings. Another, which Hazel felt through the soles of her feet, made the tiered seats sway and nails spring from the timber like crossbow bolts.

  ‘It’s happening, Hazel,’ Bramley squeaked. ‘Murrell is opening the gate!’

  48

  VENGEANCE

  Take my bones to the Underworld,

  and my soul will follow.

  The Baroness by John Dyler Baizley

  A column of magic rose up around Murrell, shimmering like water reflecting on glass. Hazel stared in wonder as the demonologist, arms outstretched, was lifted high into the air and over the cage bars. Hopkins, gripping the lectern as if for protection, stared at him in terror. People were screaming, jumping from their seats and heading for the closed gates.

  ‘Now, at the last, I would speak to thee, Witch Butcher!’ Magically amplified, Murrell’s voice boomed to every corner of the arena. ‘And I say this: your blood-stained Order has sewn seeds of hate all across this land. Now it is time to reap the harvest.’ He held out the torch and let it fall. ‘Behold my vengeance!’

  The torch hit the platform, bounced once, then landed on its side. A heartbeat’s pause, an air-sucking whump, and then the fire was born, raging, crackling, bursting through the cage bars with such ferocity that Hazel was forced to turn her face away.

  Panic gripped the arena. Lords, ladies, Guild Masters and soldiers fell over each other to reach the gate, scrambling across seats, stumbling and falling in a mad dash. Seeing the advancing exodus, the guards opened the gates and fled. Like the narrow pupil in an eye of fire, Murrell floated higher, his black hair waving around his face. Only Stearne kept his head, gathering a group of his bravest soldiers to shoot up at him, but whether it was through bad aim or the effects of the magic, the bullets went wide.

  Hazel didn’t want anyone hurt, but a part of her was glad that these allies of the Order were getting a taste of fear. Now they know what it’s like for us witches.

  The ground lurched again, violent enough this time to throw people off their feet. A rumbling noise like an avalanche of stone drowned out all other sound and then the blazing pyre – wood, straw and cage – was swallowed up.

  Through the smoke and swirling magic Hazel saw a gaping hole where the pyre had stood just a moment ago, and a stone passage choked with stalactites leading steeply down into darkness.

  The demon gate was open.

  ‘I’m going in, Bram,’ Hazel said, her voice shaking.

  ‘Come on then, my little witch.’ Bramley’s heart beat fast against her neck. ‘Quickly now.’

  A calm feeling of resolve fell over Hazel as she examined the yawning gate between worlds. Black smoke curled out, and the floor was littered with smouldering pieces of the platform. But before she could take a single step someone grabbed her arm and pulled her backwards. It was Hopkins, his soft face white with terror.

  ‘William,’ he breathed. ‘Don’t go any closer – who knows where that portal leads? Stay close to me and I’ll make sure . . .’ His gaze strayed over her shoulder towards the passage. The corners of his mouth turned down. He began to tremble. ‘Oh God, what has he done? What has that maniac done?’

  The column of magic set Murrell by the lectern. A grin slashed across his face. ‘I told you, Witch Butcher, I bring vengeance. Vengeance upon you and your Order.’

  Hazel followed Hopkins’ stare and saw something emerging from the smoke-filled passage. Wolf-like, it loped on clawed feet. Its eyeless head was low to the ground, as if following a scent, and as it got closer Hazel caught a coppery scent, like warm blood.

  Bramley quailed behind her ear. ‘I think that’s . . . Rawhead.’

  Cold horror flooded Hazel’s veins. So this was the shape of Murrell’s vengeance: his pet demon summoned once again from the Underworld and set loose on Hopkins and the Order. The magic around the circle began to lash and flicker like whips of lightning. Thorn took to the air and disappeared into the night sky.

  Murrell watched him go, a flicker of sadness on his face, then he turned back to Hazel. ‘You have a minute before the gate closes,’ he cried. ‘No innocents will die – Rawhead is only interested in Hopkins and his men. You have my word on that.’

  Hopkins backed away and started to run towards his horse, which reared and shied near the wall. Most of the Witch Hunters and Grandees had already fled, joining the crush to get out. The Spymaster remained in his seat, gasping for air with one hand clutching his heart.

  Eschewing escape, Stearne had positioned himself halfway up the auditorium, cajoling his soldiers into a line overlooking the passage. ‘Steady, boys,’ Hazel heard him yell. ‘Wait for my order to shoot . . .’

  Having faced Rawhead before, Hazel knew he was a lethal predator. Men would die, of that she was sure. I could stay here and help them fight.

  Then she thought of the inmates of Cromwell Island, bound in chains and misery, their lives stolen; she thought of the countless executions, the women condemned inside the prison hulk, the shadow of the gallows that fell over the whole land; Hazel thought of those things and decided she didn’t care what horrible fate awaited Hopkins and his henchmen.

  Rawhead emerged from the cave, his greasy skin shining in the scattered fires. He sniffed the air and slinked after Hopkins, teeth-lined jaws agape.

  ‘Go, Hazel!’ Murrell cried. ‘Abandon these butchers to their fate.’

  ‘Hazel?’ Bramley whispered. ‘Are you really going to leave them here with that . . . thing?’

  Hazel’s heart turned flint-hard as she turned her face from the world.

  Ma, she thought, and strode into the cave.

  49

  A MAN ALONE

  As a child he took affright at an apparition of a demon

  under his bed: a grey thing like a dog but thrice as big.

  The Life and Death of Matthew Hopkins by Andrew Flint

  Titus fought his way up Tower Hill, past the fleeing, screaming crowd, chest heaving, heart labouring. Not for a moment did he slow down. He would accompany that foolish girl into the Underworld or he’d be damned.

  Damned? he thought. Huh! Damned is right.

  Ahead, between the abandoned pavilions and half-trampled market stalls, stood the execution arena. People poured from the gates – Witch Hunters, apprentices, finely dressed ladies and gentlemen – all casting terrified looks over their shoulders. Others scrambled over the battlements, using the Order banners hanging from the walls to half climb, half slide to the ground.

  Titus gritted his teeth and put on another burst of speed; the portal to the Underworld was clearly open, which meant that Hazel was probably already inside. He had to hurry.

  Gusts of smoke wafted through the arena gate, heavy with sulphur. Wiping his streaming eyes, Titus entered. So thick was the smoke, and so desperate was he to reach the portal be
fore it closed, that he didn’t see the horse and rider barrelling towards him until it was almost too late. He dived out of the way just in time and watched it pelt down the hill.

  Was that Hopkins? he wondered. And who was the boy in the apprentice’s uniform slumped over the saddle in a dead faint? Not Hazel – the hair was too short. Hopkins must be rescuing him from whatever danger awaited within. He pressed on into the arena.

  ‘Hazel!’ he bellowed. ‘Hazel!’

  Pressing his sleeve against his nose and mouth, he edged around the rows of empty seats. The smoke cleared a little and he saw that the platform under which he had painted the magic circle had been replaced with a glowing hole in the ground.

  The gate was open!

  Trying to ignore the pain jabbing into his heart, Titus skirted closer towards the edge and saw the mouth of a passage leading down. From it issued a deep rumbling sound, so low as to be almost beyond his hearing. A scene of death and devastation lay all around, shocking even to a hardened Witch Finder like Titus.

  A soldier lay spread-eagled on his back, breastplate dented, eyes staring blindly at the sky; a man whom Titus recognized from the castle as Grimstone was bent head first over some seats, blood clotting on his fur robes; an ancient Grandee sat in the front row, hand on heart, face frozen in death.

  What the hell had happened here? And where was Hazel? Titus’s legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees as he thought of her lying dead in all this carnage. No, she’s alive – I feel it in my bones, he told himself. Get up, old man, and go to her. Slowly, painfully, he clambered to his feet, and when he did he saw that at least one man was still alive.

  Witch Hunter Captain John Stearne sat propped up against the shattered remains of a lectern. His right arm, gashed from shoulder to elbow, lay useless in his lap. White from blood loss, he was using his good arm to pour gunpowder into a pistol held upright between his legs. He froze as someone screamed from the depths of the smoke. When it cut off, he grimaced and went back to loading his weapon.

  Murrell’s set a demon loose, Titus thought. What else could have cut such a swathe through all these men?

  He nearly cried out as Thorn flew out of the sky and landed on his shoulder; the normally calm little bird was fluttering with anxiety.

  ‘Where’s Hazel?’ Titus said. ‘Is she alive? Tell me quickly!’

  ‘Alive, yes,’ Thorn replied, twitching unhappily. ‘She’s already passed into the Underworld.’

  ‘Then I must hurry—’

  ‘Wait! There is danger – Nicolas summoned a demon to lay waste to his enemies.’

  ‘God dammit! So it’s just as I thought . . . I knew he’d have his own agenda.’

  ‘He didn’t tell me he was going to do such a thing,’ Thorn fretted. ‘All this death . . .’

  ‘I don’t care about the Witch Hunters,’ Titus snarled. ‘I say they’ve got what they deserved, but I must get through that gate.’ He peered through the smoke, but all he saw were empty seats. ‘What manner of demon is it, and where’s it hiding? Can I make it without being seen?’

  There was movement above him, and when Titus looked up he saw Rawhead balanced on the back of a row of seats, hindquarters quivering like those of a cat preparing to pounce.

  ‘You again!’ Titus threw himself to one side as the demon leaped. Claws slashed empty air, jaws snapped shut on nothing.

  Titus rolled towards the edge of the circle, hoping to cross the threshold and perhaps escape that way, but Rawhead landed perfectly on all four feet and loped in a circle, cutting him off from the passage entrance. Thorn flew high, wings thrumming, and disappeared into the smoke.

  Titus drew deep from his well of strength and turned to face his enemy. He glared at the hideous, eyeless head, the curved teeth, then spat on the ground.

  ‘That’s what I think of you,’ Titus growled, and quicker than a man half his age, he drew his pistol, sighted along the barrel and fired.

  The bullet struck Rawhead’s shoulder with a meaty thwack and a puff of blood. As the demon staggered, Titus reached for a discarded halberd lying on the ground. He managed to get one hand around the haft and was beginning to swing it to defend himself when, with his clawed feet slashing great welts in the packed-dirt floor, Rawhead struck.

  A cry escaped Titus as the demon rammed into his midriff and tossed him up with a jerk of his head. There was a brief moment of weightlessness and then a bone-shaking impact as Titus landed hard in the space between the first two rows of seats. He groaned, bruised and bleeding, scrabbling uselessly, trying to get up. A spear thrust of pain in his side told him he’d broken some ribs.

  Yet even through his agony he railed and fumed: this blasted creature had stopped him from reaching the girl. In the end, after every battle and fight, he’d failed. Damn it all, he’d been so close!

  Two sets of claws hooked over the seats right over where Titus lay, followed by the demon’s great, pale head. Purple muscles around the neck contracted as he opened his lethal jaws.

  And so my life ends as it began, Titus thought, refusing to look away. Alone.

  Far above a bird circled. It was Thorn. Titus fixed his eyes on the little familiar and waited for the end.

  A wash of orange light swept over him. He gasped as the air turned dry and a second later the world roared and filled with fire. Unable to breathe in the sudden heat, Titus rolled under the seat, protecting the back of his head with clasped hands. His nose filled with the smell of brimstone and roasting meat.

  Trapped in the tumult, Titus could only hope for its abatement, and when the wave of fire and fury faded he saw that Rawhead had gone, Thorn had gone, and the star-clad sky was once again black.

  He knew what had just happened and who had caused it, and when Hazel’s tear-streaked face appeared over him, and he felt her lift his head and cradle it in her arms, he smiled.

  Ah, he thought as the world faded away. Not alone after all.

  50

  A NEW BEGINNING

  On retirement I shall find a quiet place to reflect

  on my life, and those who I loved and lost.

  Taken from Matthew Hopkins’ diary

  ‘I came back for you, so don’t you dare leave me now,’ Hazel cried. ‘Come on, old man, wake up!’ She took hold of Titus’s lapels and shook him, but his eyes remained shut and when his head lolled back she saw blood crusting on his hairline.

  ‘Is he breathing?’ Bramley squeaked, clinging on to her ear.

  ‘I think so,’ Thorn said from Hazel’s other shoulder. ‘We need to wake him and get out of here before this fire gets any worse.’

  He was right – fed by a growing breeze, the fire Hazel had cast to kill Rawhead was spreading across the arena, throwing more smoke and sparks into the sky. Soon the whole place would be ablaze.

  Hazel swept the tears from her eyes and rummaged in Titus’s pockets until she found his pipe pouch. Taking out a pinch of tobacco, she held it under his nose and rubbed the leaves between her fingers to release their sweet smell. Bramley and Thorn watched, quietly hoping for the best.

  Titus’s nose twitched, then he sniffed so hard he inhaled a few tobacco leaves. ‘Oh, my back, my head . . .’ he groaned, opening his eyes and slowly focusing on Hazel. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m rescuing you, that’s what’s going on,’ Hazel said, her face breaking into a smile of relief.

  ‘We must go, Titus White,’ Thorn said. ‘The Order will venture back here any moment.’

  ‘Is the gate to the Underworld still open?’ Titus asked, struggling to sit up. ‘Is there still time?’

  Hazel shook her head, biting her lip as she hoisted his arm over her shoulder and helped him to his feet. ‘No.’

  Titus stared at her. ‘It . . . closed?’

  ‘Murrell said it would only stay open for a short while.’ She nodded to the ground in the centre of the arena – all that remained of the gate was the scorched outline of Titus’s magic circle.

  ‘But you were already t
hrough,’ Titus said, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. ‘You were on your way . . .’

  ‘Thorn found me and said you were facing Rawhead alone. So I came back.’

  ‘But Hazel – your mother.’

  She looked away, but Titus could see the gleam of fierce tears in her eyes. ‘I know.’

  With Hazel taking Titus’s weight, they stumbled outside. A few people were cautiously approaching, their faces bathed in firelight. Most of the arena was now ablaze. A banner caught light, burned free from its moorings and corkscrewed into the air.

  ‘We’d better make ourselves scarce,’ Bramley said.

  Thorn flew into the air and circled over their heads. ‘The mouse is right. There are soldiers and Witch Hunters heading this way from the Tower.’

  They picked their way through the market stalls as fast as they could, feeling the heat slowly fade from their backs. Titus winced with every shuffled step.

  ‘We need to find you a doctor,’ Hazel said.

  ‘I’m all right. A few broken ribs – I’ve had worse.’

  ‘A few minutes ago we thought you were dead,’ Bramley squeaked.

  ‘I’m all right.’ Titus removed his arm from Hazel’s shoulder and took a few experimental steps. ‘See?’

  They entered a quiet street leading down to the river. Breathing hard, Titus held up his hand for them to stop.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come back,’ he said, leaning against a wall.

  ‘Titus . . .’ Hazel sighed.

  ‘After everything we’d been through to open that damned gate, you abandon your search -’ he jabbed his finger into his chest – ‘for me?’

  ‘Oh, you are so stupid sometimes!’ The street glowed as Hazel emitted a flash of magic. ‘Of course I came back. Don’t you know what you are to me, Titus?’

  ‘What I am?’

  ‘I love my mother with all my heart, and I’ll do anything to get her back.’ Hazel closed her eyes and let her magic fade away. ‘Anything except leave my friends to die.’