I placed the sack on the ground. I did not like to leave it unattended even for a moment, but I would fight more effectively if I was unencumbered. Now I must do everything right – everything to the best of my ability. My attack must be perfect. I would need magic as well as martial skills.
I reached for the necklace around my neck and began to touch each thumb-bone in turn, working from left to right. A monk fingers his beads one by one, using them as an aid to memory as he counts the circle of his prayers; my ritual is the muttering of each spell while drawing into my body the power that is stored within the bones. Each was a relic cut from the body of an enemy slain in combat. Each had been boiled with care until the flesh peeled off cleanly.
The initial spells – those of ‘making’ – have to be chanted accurately and with a precise cadence. If all is done correctly, the bones float to the surface of the cauldron and dance amongst the churning bubbles as if trying to leap out. Each is picked from it by hand, despite the pain, and must not be allowed to fall to the ground. Then it is drilled through and added to the necklace.
The stronger the enemy, the greater the power that is now stored within each bone. But it is finite. Once a bone is drained of power, it must be replaced.
First I touched those of Janet Fox; she was strong and we had fought for two hours beneath the afternoon sun. I drew out the power that was left; now her bones would need to be replaced. The bones of Lydia Yellowtooth I didn’t drain completely. She was subtle in combat – I needed some of that subtlety now, but chose to save a portion for later. So I continued to turn the necklace, fingering the bones. At last I had what I needed.
I was ready.
I run at full tilt towards the kretch. With every stride the rational part of me, my calculating mind, warns of just how difficult it will be to win here. The creature is far bigger than I estimated. Although in form it resembles a wolf, in size it is more like a small horse. In addition to those muscular arms with their long, sharp-taloned fingers, there are pouches around its hairy body. These are not leather straps and sheaths; they are formed of its flesh, and weapons protrude from them.
But I have the instincts of a warrior and great self-belief. Whatever the odds, I will win. I am Grimalkin!
Without breaking stride, I stop my heart from beating. It is a skill that I have practised over the course of many years. My blood quietens: there are no peaks and troughs of surging circulation to spoil my aim. I draw a throwing knife from its scabbard and hurl the blade straight at the creature’s head.
My throw is accurate and I find my target. However, to my annoyance and frustration, the blade does not penetrate the hide, but skids across the hairy head to fall harmlessly into the long grass. A metal helmet could not have provided a more effective defence.
Then I see a gleam of blood in the dark fur. I have cut the flesh but the skull beneath is strong and thick, a bone barrier against my blades.
Surely the rest of the body cannot have similar defences? The movement of the sleek, lithe creature that runs towards me with such fluidity and grace says otherwise. There must be points of weakness. I will find them and the creature will die.
So I test its body, hurling a second blade straight at its flank. Its reactions are quick and it twists away so that the blade misses. I allow my heart to resume its beating.
Now the kretch rushes at me from a different angle. I am still sprinting forward and the long blade is in my left hand; this is the one I use for fighting at close quarters.
Matching me move for move, the kretch also draws a long blade from a pouch on its shoulder. It uses its left hand. The talons of its right hand are ready to receive me too. But now I have decided exactly what to do. I know how I may swiftly win this battle and continue my flight with the Fiend’s head.
There is a mighty clash as we come together; the kretch growls, showing its sharp fangs, and stabs towards my head. The stench of its rancid breath fills my nostrils as I duck under the blade and skid feet first beneath it. Sliding down the wet grassy slope beneath its furry body, I swing right and left with my blade, cutting into both hind legs, severing the hamstrings.
The creature gives a cry and collapses back onto its haunches, its blood spurting onto the grass. But I have already rolled clear, and I run back up the hill towards the leather sack, which I swing firmly up onto my shoulder. I look down the slope again and smile in triumph. The creature is howling, desperately trying to pull itself up the incline towards me with its strong forelimbs.
Oh, Mr Wolf! Now you are limping!
Its hind legs drag uselessly behind it. Thus hamstrung, it can never catch me now. No doubt its creators will find the beast and put it out of its misery. I am pleased with what I have achieved, but I had expected the struggle to be more difficult. Yet it is good to triumph over my enemies.
My heart light now, I run on towards Pendle. I am filled with the exultation that comes from victory. Even the rain has stopped. There are gaps in the cloud and soon the sun will shine. As for my other pursuers, I have left them far behind.
I sat cross-legged on the grass and made myself comfortable. Next, I plucked the Fiend’s head out of the sack and, holding it by the horns, placed it on a grassy bank so that it was almost level with my own.
I removed the green apple and the thorns and waited patiently for our conversation to begin. It always began in exactly the same way.
‘Unstitch my eyes!’ the deep voice cried. The Fiend’s words seemed to vibrate up through the grassy bank.
‘Why repeat yourself? Will you never learn to accept your lot? Your eyes will remain stitched. Be grateful that I allow you a little time to speak. Don’t waste it. Have you anything to tell me? Anything worth listening to?’
The Fiend did not reply, but beneath the lids the eyeballs were moving frantically. Then the mouth opened as if he were speaking to someone, but I could hear nothing.
‘Are you in communication with someone?’ I demanded. ‘Have you been conversing with one of your servants? If so, I will put you back in the sack!’
‘My servants speak to me all the time, whether I am able to reply or not. They tell me things. I have just learned something very interesting.’
The mouth smirked, as if relishing what it had been told, and dribbles of blood and saliva ran down its chin. I did not give the Fiend the satisfaction of asking what he knew. He was going to tell me anyway. I just had to be patient.
‘It is done,’ he said at last. ‘You are finished – as good as dead. Soon I will be free.’
‘I maimed the kretch that your servants created. So do not build up your hopes.’
‘Soon enough you will see the truth, witch – very soon, in fact!’
‘What? Truth from the Father of Lies?’ said I, laughing contemptuously.
Always mindful of the Fiend’s comfort, I plucked a big bunch of stinging nettles and spread them within the sack to make him a restful bed. Next, I thrust the green apple and rose thorns back into his mouth.
‘Sleep well! Sweet dreams!’ I cried, tying the string to bind him into the sack.
An hour before sunset I halted and set traps for rabbits. It was a warm pleasant evening and the grass had dried. I was already on the edge of Pendle District, and the hill itself was clearly visible to the northeast.
I decided to use my mirror to make contact with Alice Deane and see if she, Tom Ward and the Spook had reached the County safely. It was a week since I had last been in touch with her. At that time they had been about to leave the southwest of Ireland and travel overland by coach to Dublin to take a boat home. I was well ahead of them: I had already landed south of Liverpool and made my way northwards, keeping close to the coast before I’d had my first contact with the Fiend’s servants west of Ormskirk.
Pulling the mirror from its sheath, I said the magical words of contact and waited patiently for Alice to appear.
The mirror brightened and she smiled out at me.
‘I trust all is well?’ I asked.
‘Yes, child,’ I told her. ‘There has been danger, but I have survived. The head is still safe in my hands – but I cannot run for ever. Tell Thomas Ward to put his thinking cap on! We need to destroy the Fiend – we must fix him permanently.’
I smiled at Alice and put the mirror away, staring towards the looming mass of Pendle.
I was almost home now. When I reached Malkin Tower, would the lamias let me take refuge there? If not, could I take it from them by force? Two together would be difficult to overcome, but if I entered by the tunnel I might be able to lure one down into the dungeons. In theory they were my allies, but if it proved necessary, I would kill them both.
I felt the mirror move again in its leather sheath. When I pulled it out, Agnes Sowerbutts was already staring at me. She looked concerned.
‘I hamstrung the kretch,’ I told her. ‘That danger is past.’
I only wish that were so, Agnes mouthed back at me. I spied the creature reflected in the surface of a small lake, where it paused to slake its thirst. Now it is following you once more with just the merest of limps. Soon it will be able to run freely again.
I have now managed to scry the name of its father. The kretch was begat of Tanaki, one of the hidden daemons who are invoked rarely and only with great difficulty. Little is known of him, other than he has great perseverance. Once set on a course, he never deviates until his will is accomplished. Not only that: any defeat makes him stronger. Each time he fights he grows more formidable. Such traits will have been passed on to the kretch. It has been given great powers of healing.
I frowned and nodded. The hamstringing should have been permanent. This creature was going to be very difficult to overcome. I could no longer allow myself the respite of a night’s sleep.
There is worse, Agnes said, looking directly at me, her lips moving silently. Your forehead is cut …
I reached a finger up to my brow and, to my dismay, traced the line of a gash. My finger came away faintly smeared with red. It was little more than a scratch, no doubt inflicted by one of the kretch’s talons. In the heat of the fight I hadn’t felt a thing. I remembered that Agnes had scryed that I would suffer ‘a mortal wound’.
‘Surely this small scratch is nothing?’ I said.
The wound is slight. But poison may have entered your bloodstream. Would you like me to scry again and see the outcome?
I felt quite well and hardly thought it was necessary, but to please Agnes I nodded, and the image in the mirror faded. I spent the next hour cooking and eating two plump rabbits while I thought about the kretch. Just how cleverly had my enemies crafted the creature? Maybe the glands at the base of its claws secreted a substance that stopped its victims feeling pain? This was a trick employed by some predators so that their prey failed to seek attention for the poisoned wound … until it was too late. But I was still not overly concerned. Filled with new energy, I ran on through the night towards Pendle. I felt strong. I had no symptoms of poisoning at all.
Not then.
They began just as the brooding shape of Pendle loomed up out of the murky pre-dawn light.
It started with a disturbance to my vision. Tiny flashes of light appeared at the corners of my eyes. I had never experienced anything like it before and at first I paid little heed. But gradually the flashes grew worse: I then became breathless and my heart-rate increased. I tried to ignore these symptoms – along with the sack, which seemed to be growing heavier with every stride. Then my legs started to feel unsteady.
Suddenly I was on my knees as a wave of nausea shook me. I vomited my supper onto the grass and crouched there, retching and gasping for air. After a few minutes my breathing returned to something approaching normal and I struggled to my feet. But when I tried to run, my legs felt like lead and I could only stagger forward a few steps at a time.
Within minutes my condition began to deteriorate further. Each ragged breath that I sucked desperately into my lungs brought a sharp pain. But I couldn’t afford to stop. I imagined the kretch picking up its pace and loping after me. Even if my progress was slow, every painful step would take me nearer to Pendle. Physically I was exceptionally strong and resilient. My self-belief remained strong too: I was sure that I could fight off the effects of the poison.
The mirror moved: I took it out and gazed upon the face of Agnes Sowerbutts once more. Her expression was grim and she shook her head slowly.
The poison is slow-acting but deadly, she mouthed. Without help, you will probably soon be dead. But I cannot tell what will befall you: as I scryed, the mirror went dark.
There was still room for hope, I thought – a darkening mirror merely meant that things were uncertain.
‘Could you help me?’ I asked.
I’m an old woman and can’t travel to meet you. But if you come here I’ll do my very best to help.
Agnes was a powerful healer. If I could only reach her cottage …
I thanked her, then returned the mirror to its sheath. My whole body was shaking now. I tried to deny it but could not escape the truth. I knew I didn’t have the strength to reach the outskirts of the Deane village alone.
I had always been self-sufficient; mostly I had walked alone. Pride now reared its head up before me, a barrier between me and the help that I needed. Who could I ask anyway? Who could I trust? Above all I needed someone to carry the Fiend’s head and keep it out of the hands of the kretch.
I had no true ‘friends’ amongst the clans, but there were those I had helped or formed temporary alliances with – witches such as Alice Deane. Unfortunately Alice was too far away to help. She was back at Chipenden with John Gregory and Tom Ward.
I went through the list of the ones I might be able to trust, but quickly dismissed them in turn. Pendle’s clans had been split into three groups when they had summoned the Fiend to walk the earth: there were those who served him, those who opposed him and, finally, those who watched and waited, perhaps planning to ally themselves with the winners of the conflict.
I had been away from Pendle for many months and there was no way I could be sure of anyone now. I stared towards the grey mass of Pendle Hill, my mind circling like a moth around a candle flame, going anywhere but into that inevitable fire.
There was one person I could ask for help, but she was young and I didn’t want to endanger her. However, she was also strong and was well able to assist.
Witch assassins are not like spooks; traditionally they do not take apprentices. But I am not like previous assassins. I trained a girl in secret. Her name?
Thorne.
That beast has arms strong enough to tear you limb from limb, a fanged mouth big enough to bite off your head. What chance have you against such a foe? None at all; you are as good as dead. I know the answer; it is simple: kill it from a distance!
THORNE SOUGHT ME out five years ago when she was just ten years old. I was sitting cross-legged under an oak tree close to Bareleigh village and meditating on my next task: to seek out and kill something that wasn’t human. In the forest northeast of Pendle a bear had turned rogue and had killed three humans in the last month. There were few bears left in the County but it had to die.
I was not aware of the approach of danger because I did not recognize it in one so young.
The child came very close to me and kicked me hard on the thigh with the toe of her pointy shoe. In a second I was on my feet. I lifted her by her hair and dangled her so that her face was close to mine.
‘If you ever do that again,’ I warned her, ‘I will slice off your foot!’
‘I’m brave,’ she said. ‘Don’t you agree? Who else would dare to kick the witch assassin?’
I looked at her more closely. She was just a slip of a thing with hardly any meat on her bones, but she had a determination in her ey
es that was very unusual in one so young. It was as if something much older and more powerful glared out of that young face. But I wasn’t going to take any nonsense from her.
‘You’re more stupid than brave!’ I retorted. ‘Be off with you. Go back to your mother – there’ll be chores for you to do.’
‘Don’t have a mother or a father. I live with my ugly uncle. He beats me every day.’
‘Do you kick him?’
‘Yes – and then he beats me even harder.’
I looked at the girl again, noting the bruises on her arms and the dark mark under her left eye. ‘What do you want of me, child?’
‘I would like you to kill my uncle for me.’
I laughed and set her down on the ground, then knelt so that we were eye to eye once more. ‘If I killed your uncle, who would then feed and clothe you?’
‘I will work. I will feed myself. I will become a witch assassin like you.’
‘To become the witch assassin of our clan you will need to kill me. Are you capable of that? You’re just a child.’
Traditionally, each year three witches were trained to challenge the incumbent clan assassin. But no one had confronted me for many years. After slaying the fifteenth pretender, I had put a stop to the practice, having grown sick and weary of slaying challengers. It was a foolish waste of lives that was gradually bleeding away the strength of the Malkin clan.
‘Soon I’ll be as big as you but I won’t kill you,’ the girl said. ‘You will die one day, and then I’ll be ready to replace you. The clan will need a strong assassin. Train me!’
‘Go home, child. Go back and kick your ugly uncle even harder. I will not train you.’
‘Then I will come back and kick you again tomorrow!’
With that, she left, and I thought no more about it, but she returned the next day and came to stand before me. I was in my forge, sharpening a new blade.
Spook's: I Am Grimalkin Page 3