I looked down at my weary face, mouth open to suck in rapid shallow breaths. I had never thought it would end this way. It didn’t seem right. Grimalkin was never meant to die in a warm bed – she should have met her end in battle, as a warrior. But on reflection I realized that I had. The kretch had killed me. That scratch from its poisoned talon had been the moment of my defeat – the beginning of my death.
I floated away and passed through the closed door. I was nothing more than a small glowing orb of light, invisible to most people. The strongest of witches and spooks might be able to glimpse me, but only in a very dark place. Even candlelight made me almost totally invisible.
However, I could see clearly, even in the dark – though only one colour was visible. Everything was a shade of green, and living things glowed, lit by the life-force within them. The front room of Agnes’s cottage was exactly as I remembered it: cosy, clean but cluttered. The walls were lined with shelves full of books or rows of jars containing ointments, dried herbs and withered roots. First and foremost Agnes was a healer.
She was sitting on a stool by the fire in the small front room, reading a book. I drifted closer and read the title on the spine: Antidotes to Deadly Poisons.
So she had listened to Thorne and hadn’t given up on me yet. Even though my enemies had created a kretch specially designed to kill me, it did not necessarily mean that they had concocted a totally new poison. The creature itself would have used up much of their strength and resources, at great cost to themselves. It had been endowed with many means with which to kill me, and poison was just one; they might simply have selected one of the most deadly. If Agnes could determine which one it was, I might still have a chance.
I floated on, passing through the wall of the cottage with ease. Ahead lay the huge long mass of Pendle Hill. I sped on swiftly. I might die at any moment but I had to keep my hopes up. There was something that I could do now that, were I to recover, might help me to keep the Fiend’s head safe.
I had decided to visit Malkin Tower and see what the situation was there – where exactly the two lamias resided. I flew towards Crow Wood and was soon swooping low over the treetops, invisible to the fierce carrion crows that roosted below on their leafy branches.
A bright green half-moon cast its sickly light upon the tower. It was a grim fortification, surrounded by a moat, topped by battlements and protected by a huge iron-studded door. It had once been the home of the Malkin coven, but now the two feral lamias dwelt there. Before the war and the enemy occupation, I had been instructed by the coven to kill them and retake the tower. I had refused, telling them that the lamias were too strong and that the attempt would lead to my certain death.
One of the coven had twisted her face into a sneer. ‘I never thought the day would come when Grimalkin would consider an enemy too strong!’ she’d jibed.
In retaliation, I broke her arm and glared at each of the other witches in turn. They were afraid of me, and they quickly cast down their eyes.
But I had lied. Fully armed and fit, I felt confident that I could defeat the lamias – especially if I could engineer a fight with them one at a time and in a place of my choosing. However, for now it suited my purposes to have them inhabiting the tower. For within lay the chests owned by my ally, Thomas Ward, one of which contained knowledge and artefacts belonging to his mother: these might one day aid us in our struggle against the Fiend and his servants. With the lamias as guardians, the chest and its contents were safe.
Had I been approaching clothed in flesh, I would have used the tunnel that led to the dungeons far below the tower, and climbed up into it that way. Meeting a hostile lamia in a confined space would have been to my advantage. The two guardian lamias could fly, and it would not be wise to meet them in the open.
Shortly after the coven had completed the ritual to raise the Fiend, I had taken part in the battle fought atop Pendle Hill. We were attacked by a rabble from Downham village and would have made short work of them – but the intervention of the lamias was decisive. Despite the accuracy of my blades, they persisted in their attack. My knives found their targets half a dozen times, but the lamias’ scales were a better defence than the toughest armour. Many witches had died that night.
As I approached the moat, I felt a tug as if I were being pulled back towards my body. Never had I travelled so far from it. The thin invisible cord that bound me to it could snap and bring about my death immediately. That had always been my fear. Maybe this was why some shamans failed to find their way back and died: they had gone too far and snapped the cord … But did it matter now? I was close to death anyway. Unless Agnes found a cure, little time remained to me.
I crossed the moat and passed through the thick stone of the tower to find the living quarters in a state of disarray, just as they had been when the soldiers had used their eighteen-pounder gun to breach the walls.
My clan had escaped through the tunnels, leaving their meals half eaten. Since then, during a brief occupation by the Mouldheels, the breach had been fixed – before the lamias had driven them out in turn. The floor was strewn with rubbish, and in the adjacent storeroom lay sacks of rotting potatoes and mouldy carrots, so it was fortunate that my spirit was unable to smell. Spiders’ webs covered in clusters of desiccated flies were strung from every corner. Cockroaches and beetles scuttled across the flags.
And there amongst the rubbish was the large locked chest that had belonged to Tom’s mother. It was safe.
All at once I noticed something that made me wonder. The chest was free of cobwebs. It wasn’t even dusty. And beside it stood a small pile of books. Had they been taken from the chest? If so, who had been reading them?
Because it had been guarded by the lamias, Tom Ward had left the chest unlocked. But someone had been here very recently, and no doubt they had delved inside. I felt a surge of anger. Where were the two lamias? How had this been allowed to happen?
I floated up the stairs and out onto the battlements, where I saw two more trunks; they had once contained the dormant bodies of the lamias. Abandoned, both were open to the elements and were covered in moss, like the stone flags beneath them. With everything appearing in shades of green, it was hard to tell whether the wood of the boxes was rotten or not.
I gazed out over the surrounding countryside. On every side the tower was surrounded by the trees of Crow Wood. All was still and silent. But suddenly I heard a distant cry that sounded like the shriek of a corpse-fowl, but somewhat deeper – as if it came from the throat of a much larger creature. Then a dark shape flew across the face of the green half-moon. It was a lamia heading back towards the tower.
She swooped towards me – four feathered wings, black-scaled lower body, talons gripping something. She circled the tower twice, then dropped her prey onto the battlements close to where I was hovering. It hit the flags with a dull thump, and blood splattered across the flags. It was a dead sheep. The lamia had been out hunting. But where was her sister? I wondered.
The creature swooped towards the tower again, and instinctively I reached for my blades. Then I remembered my present state. Even clothed in flesh this would not have been a good place to face the lamia.
She landed on a trunk, curved talons gripping the wood – which was clearly not rotten. The creature was formidable, and would be difficult to defeat even if she could not fly. She was bigger than I was – maybe nine or ten feet tall if she ever stood upright. Those rear limbs were strong and taloned, able to carry a heavy weight such as a sheep or cow, but the forelimbs were more human, with delicate hands that could grip a weapon; the claws were slightly longer than a woman’s fingernails but exceedingly sharp – able to tear open a face or slice into a neck.
The lamia gazed directly at me and I suddenly realized that she could see me. It was night, but the moon was surely casting enough light to make me invisible. Either she had exceptionally keen sight or she was using powerful dark magic.
The creature opened her mouth to reveal sharp fangs, and s
poke to me in a hoarse, rasping voice:
‘Who are you, witch? What do you want here?’
I was unable to reply. Perhaps there was a way for a disembodied sprit to communicate, but it was a shamanistic skill that I had never learned. And I was puzzled by the fact that this feral lamia could actually speak. It suggested that she was beginning to shape-shift slowly back to her ‘domestic’, almost human form; in this shape, only a line of green and yellow scales running down the length of her spine would betray her true nature.
‘Sister, I think we have a spy here. Send her on her way!’
The feral lamia was no longer looking at me; she inclined her head, with its heavy-lidded eyes, towards the doorway.
I turned to follow her gaze. A woman was standing there, staring straight at me. I looked more carefully and realized that, in fact, she was more beast than woman. The other lamia had already shape-shifted to a point where she had arms and legs and stood upright. However, she was still a monstrous thing and had some way to go to complete the transformation. She breathed heavily, like a predatory beast about to spring, and her arms were too long – the hands hung well below her knees. The face was savage, but there was intelligence in the eyes, and the high cheekbones showed the beginnings of beauty.
She cried one word, ‘Avaunt!’ – hurling it against me with palpable force.
It was a word from the Old Tongue; a spell. The alternative words for that dark spell are ‘Be gone’. She was driving me away and, in my spirit form, I had no power to resist.
I felt a tightening of the invisible cord that bound me to my dying body, and I was snatched backwards from the battlements. But not before I had seen something else.
The other lamia was holding a leather-bound book in her left hand. Was it something that she had taken from Tom’s mother’s trunk?
Suddenly I was being dragged back over the trees of Crow Wood. Everything became a blur, and with a thud I was in my body and felt pain again. I tried to open my eyes but I was too weary. Then I heard another thud and realized it was the beating of my heart. It was a slow, ponderous beat; it seemed to me that it was about to fail, weary of keeping the blood coursing through my dying body.
My life as a witch assassin was over. But I had trained Thorne well. There was someone to take my place.
I closed my eyes and fell into a deep darkness, accepting death. It was over and there was nothing more that I could do.
Malkin Tower is the dark spiritual home of our clan. Many grieve its loss but I care nought, for each place I fight is home. My blades have a home too – in the hearts of my enemies.
BUT THAT WAS not the moment appointed for my death. I awoke to find Agnes bathing my forehead.
She smiled and helped me up into a sitting position, placing pillows behind my back.
‘I’ve been in a really deep sleep,’ I said.
‘Yes – a coma that lasted almost three days.’
‘I’m cured?’ I asked. I felt weak and a little light-headed, but the fever had gone and I was breathing normally. My brain was sharp and clear – I felt alert.
The smile died on her face. ‘I’m not sure that “cured” is the right word,’ she said. ‘After much trial and error I finally found an antidote and it saved you from death. But whether you will make a full recovery is uncertain.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ I demanded. Then I became aware of the anger and hostility in my voice. ‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘Thank you for saving my life.’
Agnes nodded. ‘I did my very best,’ she continued, ‘but sometimes, even though a poison is cleared from the system, damage remains. There may be permanent weakness. The lungs, heart or other internal organs may be affected. Sometimes the damage is permanent; there may be periods of illness, while at other times the victim’s health is nearly normal.’
I took a deep breath, trying to take in what Agnes was telling me. The implications were obvious. My role as a witch assassin depended on my strength and physical fitness. Without that as a certainty I would be vulnerable to attacks that would not previously have bothered me.
‘So you think that I am permanently damaged?’
Agnes sighed. I could see that she was choosing her words very carefully. ‘I think that is likely. I have never seen anyone suffer such extreme poisoning as yours and make a full recovery.’
I nodded. ‘Thank you for being candid. I can only hope that I will be the first to do so. I will certainly try to become again what I was formerly. Now tell me – where is Thorne? I trust that the head is still safely in her possession?’
‘It is safe. She’s in her room now, sleeping with her left hand gripping the sack, as always. But there are threats beyond these four walls. It won’t be safe to stay here much longer. The witches who control the kretch demanded entry into Pendle but were refused. However, some here offered their support, and there have already been skirmishes between the rival groups. A big battle is imminent; if those opposed to the Fiend lose, the kretch will come here to hunt you down.’
I nodded. ‘Then it’s better if I leave as soon as possible.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘I will go to Malkin Tower, where even the kretch will not be able to reach me. Once inside that fortification, the Fiend’s head will be beyond the reach of our enemies.’
‘What about those who guard it?’
‘We’ll deal with them if necessary.’
‘You’ll take Thorne with you?’
‘Yes. She’s just a girl and I don’t like to lead her into such danger, but what choice do I have? The contents of that sack are more important than anything else. Besides, the lamias may allow me entry. After all, I am their ally.’
‘They may take some convincing of that. Feral lamias are a law unto themselves and don’t always think logically.’
‘The situation has changed. One of them is now closer to the human than the feral state. The other one, although still able to fly, can speak. They are both now shape-shifting towards the domestic form.’
‘How do you know that?’ Agnes asked. ‘I have seen a lamia circling the tower but couldn’t probe its defences. They have erected strong magical barriers.’
I didn’t answer. A witch keeps such things to herself and never tells others more than is necessary. No doubt Agnes too had secrets of her own.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and Agnes helped me to my feet. I felt shaky but was able to walk unaided into the front room. I sat down on a stool close to the fire while Agnes prepared some broth. After a few minutes Thorne came out of her bedroom carrying the leather sack. Her mouth opened in surprise, and then she smiled and sat on the floor at my feet.
‘It’s really good to see you up and about,’ she said.
‘Hardly that, child. At the moment all I have strength for is to sit on this stool. But yes, death will have to take me another day.’
‘You’ll feel stronger once you get this inside you,’ Agnes said, handing me a bowl of the broth. ‘But I think you’ll need to spend at least another day here before you’re fit to travel anywhere.’
I nodded. She was right. Desperate as I was to reach the sanctuary of Malkin Tower, it would be foolish to attempt it in my present condition.
The following night, after thanking Agnes again, we took our leave and I led the way towards Malkin Tower. We walked slowly because I still felt weak, but my breath came easily enough now and I was free from pain.
Soon the village of Roughlee was far behind us and we could see Crow Wood in the distance. But that wasn’t where we were heading – at least not directly.
Our first destination was the entrance to the tunnel that led into the tower’s dungeons. Once known only to the clan leader, its location was now common knowledge in Pendle, but the presence of the lamias kept even the most powerful witches at a distance. We entered the thicket of trees that enclosed what had once been a graveyard. Tombstones leaned at crazy angles and there were treacherous holes in the ground, hidden by undergrow
th – empty graves from which the bodies had been removed before the ground had been deconsecrated.
There, ahead of us, bathed in pale moonlight, stood the ruin of a sepulchre, its roof split asunder by a young sycamore tree which shadowed its roof and single door. I pulled a small black wax candle from my thigh pocket and muttered a spell that flared it into life. Thorne did likewise, and I led the way into the burial chamber, pushing my way through the curtain of spiders’ webs. Scattered on the floor lay human bones that had been dislodged from their resting place by those who had gained access to the tunnel; above them, six stone shelves housed the remains of the dead – all members of a once wealthy local family. Now they shared the luxury and riches of death.
I crawled across the lowest shelf into the space between this and the slab above, and made my way into the tunnel. There was a musty smell of damp earth and the roof was very low, forcing me to crawl on all fours. I glanced back, and Thorne gave me a grin. She had long wanted to explore these tunnels and enter the tower. Now she would get her wish. I only hoped that the cost would not be too high. For long minutes we moved slowly forward. It was difficult because I had to push the heavy leather sack ahead of me as well as keeping the candle alight, but at last we emerged into an earthen chamber. Directly opposite was the opening of another tunnel, but this was much larger, with roof supports.
‘Shall I take the lead for a while and carry the sack?’ Thorne asked.
‘By all means take the lead, child, but the sack is my burden.’
She came forward, sniffed the entrance for danger and, with a quick nod, went in.
I followed without hesitation. I trusted her judgement and at present she was probably fitter, stronger and more alert to danger than I was.
After a while we came to a pool of stagnant water, its surface the colour of mud. Here, there had once dwelt a dark creature called a wight, created by the Malkin coven to guard the tunnel. A wight is the large bloated body of a drowned sailor; it is animated by its soul, which is bound to the will of its creators. Such a creature is usually blind, its eyes having been eaten by fishes before the body was salvaged. It hides under the water and, upon sensing the approach of an interloper, reaches up to grasp the ankle of its victim, which it drags beneath the surface and drowns.
Spook's: I Am Grimalkin Page 5