Thorne did not speak. She simply nodded, but when she passed me to return to the tower, I saw that her eyes were full of tears.
Afterwards I spent a long day down there on watch. Time passed very slowly. At one point I ventured out as far as the small lake that had once been guarded by the wight. But of enemy incursions there was no sign. Perhaps they realized how easy it would be for us to defend the tower. We could kill a lot of them in a confined space such as this. And the kretch would be too big to fit into the tunnel.
However, we could not remain here under siege indefinitely. At some point soon we would have to break out of our confinement and carry the fight to our enemies.
Once again, on returning to the dungeons, I stood beneath the lamias’ gibbet and wondered about its purpose, resolving to ask one of them when a suitable moment presented itself.
Soon Slake came down to take my place and I climbed into the tower again. I had no appetite but ate a few slices of cold meat to help keep up my strength before going out onto the battlements once more.
A gibbous moon filled the clearing with silver light. Everything seemed quiet, but I sniffed a score more witches lurking in the trees, and the kretch was with them. Bowker, the mage, was there too, and soon he walked out into the clearing and looked up towards us. I noticed that he halted only six paces beyond the edge of the trees. He could easily regain their protection before Wynde reached him.
‘They said you were brave, Grimalkin! They said you were the greatest witch assassin who has ever lived!’ he called, his taunting voice echoing across the clearing. ‘But how can that be when you cower within those walls? You are a coward and dare not come forth to face one who is stronger than you. Behold! Here is your death!’
The kretch loped into the clearing like a giant wolf, jaws wide, its fur a dark shadow against the moonlit grass. It looked even bigger and more powerful than the last time I had faced it. It halted close to the moat and reared up so that it was balanced on its powerful hind legs. Then its left hand reached into a pouch on its shoulder and drew forth a long thin blade. It no longer had the appearance of a wolf: standing upright, with teeth gleaming and a blade in its hand, it looked daemonic, a creature from a nightmare. And then, to my astonishment, it spoke. I had not guessed that its malevolent creators had given it the power of speech.
‘Come and spar with me on the grass if you dare, Grimalkin!’ the beast shouted, its voice a deep rumbling growl. ‘Let us dance together blade against blade. Join me in the dance of death!’
‘One day I will kill you,’ I called down. ‘But this is not the time. I have other more important things to consider.’ I lifted up the leather sack. ‘Behold the head of your master! Each night we talk. Each night I teach him about pain. And because of your insolence his torment will increase threefold this night!’
At my words a collective groan went up from the throats of the witches hidden in the forest.
‘What about the winged witch at your side?’ the kretch snarled, drawing another blade. ‘Is she a coward too? She has killed many of us, snatching them from the air, taking advantage of her wings. But dare she face me in combat?’
At my side Wynde growled angrily and fluttered her wings.
‘Don’t listen,’ I counselled softly. ‘We should save our strength for the right moment.’
‘Those words should not go unanswered,’ the lamia hissed.
‘That’s what they are – just words,’ I said softly. ‘Don’t listen. That creature is just trying to provoke us into making a rash attack. “Cowardice” and “courage” are just labels – words invented by foolish men to bolster their egos and denigrate their enemies. In battle we should be cold, clinical and disciplined. That is the way of an assassin and it is what I counsel for you. When the time is right, we will kill the kretch. You will drink its blood and I will take its thumb-bones to wear around my neck.’
‘Please, Grimalkin, let me have one of its bones,’ Thorne begged.
‘We will see, child,’ I said, smiling grimly. ‘You will receive what you deserve.’
‘You whisper amongst yourselves like weaklings!’ the kretch called up, pointing its blades towards us. ‘You are just frail women who do not deserve the name “witch”.’
‘I will kill the creature for you, Grimalkin!’ Wynde hissed.
‘Do not risk it,’ I warned again. ‘It is very fast and strong, and its claws contain a deadly poison. Moreover, its bones are as tough as armour. The head is well-protected.’
But then, before I could speak again, Wynde launched herself from the battlements and began to circle the clearing with strong, steady beats of her wings. When she approached the spot where the mage was standing, she banked and swooped towards him, talons outstretched. I thought he would use his mysterious bone weapon against her, but instead he simply stepped back into the trees, and Wynde turned and started to gain height, ready to attack the kretch. I realized that she had simply wanted to drive Bowker out of the clearing so that she could deal with the creature without interference.
The kretch waited, staring up at the lamia, blades ready to meet her. By now Wynde was very high, appearing no larger than a fingernail. Suddenly she dropped like a stone, straight towards her enemy, and everything happened very fast: I saw the blades flash, the lamia strike with her talons, fur and feathers flying everywhere. Then Wynde’s wings were unfurled and she was gliding away, gaining height once again.
There were two livid scratches on the kretch’s forehead, above its eyes. The lamia had drawn blood, but I knew that the skull beneath the fur was tough. I remembered how it had deflected my throwing knife. I had hurled it accurately and with enough force to penetrate a human skull and bury itself up to the hilt in the brain. The kretch’s thick bone had repelled it as easily as would a newly forged helmet, fresh from the anvil of an expert smith. The creature also had rapid powers of recovery. Wynde would have to kill it, then cut it into pieces – and perhaps eat its heart immediately to stop it regenerating.
I glanced up at the lamia as she dived towards the kretch again. She had lost a few wing feathers in that first attack but I knew that her lower body was well protected by scales. In the battle on Pendle my own blades had been powerless, yet my skill as a forger of weapons could only be surpassed by one of the Old Gods, such as Hephaestus. The kretch’s weapons would be unable to cut Wynde’s belly. It would have to go for something more vulnerable, like the throat. But such a target would be hard to reach, and the creature would have to take risks and increase its own vulnerability.
This time Wynde’s attack was slower and she came at the kretch from an angle that was far less steep; maybe something near to forty-five degrees. I saw immediately that she was going for its belly. It saw that too, and dropped to all fours and twisted away. It didn’t escape completely because the lamia raked its flank with her talons, gouging five long, livid wounds. But still, they were not serious, and the creature stood up again and waited, blades at the ready. As yet no serious damage had been suffered by either combatant.
I was filled with anxiety for Wynde. What she was attempting was filled with great risk. I wished I could join the fight, but it would take me too long to descend the walls, and only death waited down there. My duty was to keep the Fiend’s head safe, not sacrifice myself needlessly.
The lamia’s next attack was almost identical to the previous one. That was a mistake because the kretch was ready. This time it dropped onto all fours once more, but as Wynde struck at it with her talons, it rose up and lunged at her throat with its left blade.
Wynde seemed to hesitate, as if uncertain what to do. Then she gave a shudder and took off again. But there was something ponderous about her ascent.
‘She’s hurt!’ Thorne exclaimed. ‘She’s badly cut.’
Thorne was right. I could see blood dripping from the lamia and spotting the grass. I thought she might retreat back to the battlements. But, like Thorne, Wynde was a taker of risks and she attacked again immediately.
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br /> This time she went for the kill. Rather than striking quickly, then flying away to safety, she collided with the kretch with great force, then slashed and tore at it with her talons, fighting at close quarters. She was grasping the creature’s shoulder with her right hand, holding it close while she struck at it again and again with the other. But it was striking back, and I could see its blades gleaming in the moonlight, both red with blood as it thrust them into her body. Blood-spattered feathers fell around them and I groaned inside, aware that the lamia was getting the worst of it.
Why didn’t she release her hold on her enemy and escape while she still had the strength? Better to retreat and survive to fight another day. Some defeats are temporary. The final victory is all that counts.
And then the bearded mage, Bowker, was running out of the trees towards the combatants, and from a distance of about six paces he pointed his rodent-skull weapon at the lamia: I saw the air shimmer, Wynde shuddered.
Now it was too late for her to fly to safety. The kretch dragged her down onto the grass beside it; one of her wings was bent at an unnatural angle and I knew that, even had she wished to take off, flight was now beyond her. She fought on for a while and it seemed that the kretch was temporarily baffled and feared the teeth and claws of the lamia.
But then a horde of witches ran out of the forest towards the battle, shrieking with delight, knives at the ready. Three carried long poles to which knives were lashed with rope, and they used these first, stabbing again and again into the vulnerable parts of the lamia while she struggled in the grip of the kretch.
These were witches from the Deane clan. I quickly sniffed out their names: Lisa Dugdale, Jenny Croston and Maggie Lunt. I would not forget this. Soon I would make them pay with their lives.
Wynde shuddered again and again, but she was brave and made no sound despite the agony she was suffering. Thorne and I watched silently from the battlements. I thought of her sister, Slake, guarding the tunnels, unaware of what had befallen Wynde. It was a mercy that she had not witnessed this – she would surely have gone to her sister’s aid and died as well.
The witches were in close now, the long-bladed poles not necessary because the lamia was immobile – probably already dead. But they took no chances and continued to slice into her body. Moments later we knew why.
The kretch stood up on its hind legs. Its hands no longer wielded blades but they were red with blood. In its left it held the still-beating heart of Wynde. As I watched, it tore it in two and began to eat it, blood staining its teeth and running from its open jaws.
Some worship dark gods; others serve the light, but I walk alone. I am Grimalkin.
I WATCHED IN silence, powerless, the anger beginning to build within me. The kretch had made certain that the lamia could not return. For Wynde there would be no after-life as a dead witch. She had been sent straight back to the dark.
When it had finished devouring the lamia’s heart, the kretch shouted up at us, ‘Soon this is what I will do to you! Your days are numbered. Your heart will be mine, Grimalkin. This is the fate that awaits the enemies of my master!’
‘For what you have done I will kill you all!’ I cried. ‘Each and every one of you will die at my hands. Scatter and flee – but I will hunt you to the ends of the earth. I swear it!’
The kretch and the mage simply laughed at my words, and immediately the witches joined in, the cacophony of cackling laughter and wild whoops of amusement echoing across the clearing.
It was time to give them a reply that they would understand, so I bent down, untied the leather sack and drew forth the head of the Fiend. I held it up by the horns so that it was facing out over the battlements.
‘Now I will hurt the one whom you most love; the one whom you all serve! This is what your actions have cost your master! He will hold you to account!’
I drew a dagger and plunged it into the right eye of the Fiend, twisting the blade savagely.
The head could not cry out because the mouth was filled with the green apple and rose thorns. But nevertheless there was a terrible scream. It seemed to rise from the ground beneath our feet. Then a voice boomed out of the bowels of the earth:
‘You have failed me! Woe to you all! An eternity of torment awaits those who fail me a second time! What I suffer, you will each suffer a thousandfold!’
The earth trembled, the tower shook, and a vivid streak of forked lightning rent the sky from north to south, the answering rumble of thunder so loud that it drowned out the horrified screams of the witches below. But I could see their mouths open, their eyes filled with horror at what I had done and what the Fiend had said. They ran around in circles like headless chickens while a great wind buffeted the trees, bowing and shaking their branches.
At last calm descended and I looked down at each and every one of the witches in turn so that they could see the death waiting in my eyes.
‘Be gone from this place. Go far!’ I cried. ‘Tomorrow night at this time I will return to the battlements. If I see or sniff your presence in these woods I will put out your master’s remaining eye! Do I make myself clear?’
No one answered from below. All were silent – even the bearded mage and the kretch. With bowed heads they turned their backs on me and returned slowly to the cover of the trees.
Thorne was staring at me, her eyes shining. ‘You showed them! That shut them up!’ she exclaimed.
I nodded grimly. ‘But for how long?’ I asked.
Black blood was dripping from the ruined eye-socket. I spat on the Fiend’s forehead, then returned his ugly head to the leather sack.
‘If they stay away tomorrow night, we’ll leave this place,’ I said.
‘Aren’t we safer here than anywhere else?’ Thorne asked.
‘That’s not the problem, child. Without the winged lamia to hunt for us we will eventually starve. Not only that – our enemies will gather here in greater and greater numbers. No siege can last for ever.’
She grimaced. ‘Where will we go?’
‘There are several possibilities, but none of them better fortified than here. Let me think a while. In the meantime we should go down to tell Slake what has befallen her sister.’
We went into the storeroom and passed through the trap door onto the spiral steps and into the damp chill of the lower part of the tower. When we reached the dungeons, I sensed the presence of the lamia. She had already left the tunnels.
We found her kneeling at the foot of the lamia gibbet. The dead animals were still suspended from the chains, but blood no longer dripped into the bucket, which was now full to the brim. Just one torch flickered from a wall-bracket nearby. I sensed no immediate danger. Only a few rats moved in the darkness.
Slake was muttering to herself and swaying rhythmically from side to side. At first I thought that she was weaving a spell, chanting some sort of incantation, but her voice was suddenly filled with fervour, as if she had some desperate need to be heard. She lifted her arms towards the gibbet and bowed three times. Was this some kind of worship? Was she praying to her god? If so, who could it be?
I gestured to Thorne, and we moved back into the shadows beyond the pillars. ‘Let her do what she must. We will speak to her when she is ready,’ I whispered.
After a few minutes Slake bowed low before rising to her feet. Then she turned to the bucket of animal blood, gave a guttural cry, lifted it to her lips and drank deeply. Three times she cried out, drinking immediately afterwards. By the third cry I realized that it was a word she was calling out – perhaps someone’s name.
When the bucket was empty, she replaced it at the foot of the gibbet, turned and approached us. I realized that despite her absorption in what she’d been doing, the lamia had been aware of our presence all along.
Slake bowed to us, though not as deeply as she had before the gibbet. The front of her dress was saturated with blood that had spilled from the bucket. Strangely, her face looked less human than when I had last seen her on the battlements. The eyes wer
e savage, the mouth like a red wound that her own sharp teeth might have devoured from within.
‘I’m sorry to bring you bad news,’ I said softly, ‘but your sister died bravely fighting the kretch. Then the merciless creature ate her heart.’
Not even a flicker of emotion passed across the lamia’s face. ‘I already know,’ she replied. ‘I sensed the moment of her death. That is why I was praying.’
‘To whom do you pray?’ I asked. ‘Which god is it?’
‘It is the god of all lamias, of course.’
I frowned. ‘I do not know of this god.’
‘We call her Zenobia. She was the first – the ancestor of us all. You were with her in Greece. She is the mother of Thomas Ward, the Spook’s apprentice.’
‘But she was destroyed fighting the Ordeen.’
Although I was not witness to the event, Tom Ward had told me how his mother, in her winged form, had held the Ordeen in a death grip. But as they fought, her citadel had been consumed by a pillar of fire and carried back into the dark.
‘Not destroyed – her spirit lives on. She has spoken to us. She gave me instructions just then as I prayed.’
I remembered how close Tom Ward had been to his mother. If she had spoken to this lamia, surely she must have communicated with him too?
‘Instructions … concerning what?’ I asked.
‘She commanded me to stay here without my sister and defend the tower against our enemies. Above all, I must protect the trunk, which contains information that might aid her son in his attempts to destroy the Fiend.’
‘You’ve already searched that trunk and read the books. What did you learn? Tell me and I will pass it on.’
‘It is not straightforward – far from it. Many ages ago Zenobia was in conflict with the Fiend. She tried in vain to destroy him – though she did manage to “hobble” him by means of dark magic, thus placing a limit on his power. These are the terms of that hobble: if he kills Thomas Ward himself, then he’ll reign on in our world for a hundred years before he’s forced to retreat back to where he came from. But if he enlists the services of one of his children to do the deed – the son or daughter of a witch – then the Fiend can rule on in the world indefinitely. Then there is a third way: if he can convert the boy to the dark, his dominion will also last until the end of the world.
Spook's: I Am Grimalkin Page 8