Spook's: I Am Grimalkin

by Joseph Delaney

  The knight’s men came to a sudden halt. For a moment I thought they were about to turn and flee: the approaching hordes were a fearsome sight and outnumbered us many times over. But ours was truly a well-disciplined force and I heard a voice call out an order:

  ‘Fire!’

  The eight archers bent their bows and released their arrows, which sped unerringly towards their targets. Each arrow struck a witch. I saw at least three fall and another two stagger and spin. And already the archers had nocked fresh arrows from the quivers on their shoulders and were bending their bows again.

  The order to fire came again, and with a whoosh another fusillade of arrows hit our enemies to even more deadly effect. They were almost upon us now, less than thirty yards away, but a third volley of arrows broke up their attack and the witches scattered.

  However, they did not flee but began to encircle us, thinning out so as to present a more difficult target. The opening volleys had been fired simultaneously, but now the order was changed to: ‘Fire at will!’

  At this, each archer began to choose his own target – a less effective tactic because the witches were already using dark magic against us. They were chanting spells in the Old Tongue, and foremost amongst these was Dread. Its power was wasted on Thorne and me, for we had defences against such things, but to the archers and men-at-arms their enemies would now appear in hideous shapes, their faces twisting into daemonic caricatures, their mud-caked hair resembling writhing nests of poisonous snakes.

  The spell was already working only too well: I saw the eyes of the nearest bowman widen with fear and his bow tremble violently so that he released his arrow harmlessly into the ground. I had to act quickly or all would be lost. Now I must use all my strength and carry the fight to the enemy. The kretch and the mage must die!

  With a sharp blade in her hand, a witch assassin dies fighting her enemies. Why should it be any different for me?

  FINGERING MY BONE necklace, I used the spell which in the Latin tongue is called Imperium, but is known as Sway by the Mouldheel clan, who always like to do things differently. It is partly an exertion of the will, and it is important to pitch the command with a certain inflection of the voice. But if it is done properly, others will obey instantly.

  There was fear and chaos all around me, and that helped. My voice cut through the uncertainty and I directed it at those nearest to me: three archers, two soldiers, and Thorne.

  ‘Follow me!’ I commanded, pitching my voice perfectly.

  They turned as one and locked eyes with me. Only Thorne showed resistance, but she would obey without the magic. The others were alert, responsive and utterly compliant.

  Then I began to run towards the river, where the knight still struggled with the kretch on the far bank. The others followed close on my heels, but as I reached the first of the witches who encircled us, Thorne moved up to my right side. We fought together as one entity with a single purpose; four legs and four arms directed by a single mind. A blade was in my left hand and I swung it in a short lethal arc – and the nearest of my enemies perished. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Thorne despatch another of the witches.

  We were a lethal force, and broke through the thin circle with ease. But when we crossed the ford, there were at least nine witches clustered about the place of combat, stabbing downwards at the knight. Lisa Dugdale was leaning on her pole, attempting to push the blade into the join between helmet and neck, always a weakness in such armour. But there was mail beneath and Sir Gilbert was doubly protected. However, the greatest threat to his life came from the kretch, which still had his head in its jaws; the metal of his helmet had crumpled inwards. Sir Gilbert was groaning with pain and struggling to be free. His sword had fallen from his grasp but he was punching the head of the kretch repeatedly with his mailed fist.

  I knew we had to act quickly because the witches behind us would regroup and we’d be cut off from the castle.

  ‘Use your bows!’ I commanded, and the three archers obeyed instantly, firing three arrows into the throng. One embedded itself in the nearest witch, hurling her backwards into the mud. After a second volley the kretch shook the body of the knight like a dog with a rat, before releasing its prey and bounding directly towards us. I met its eyes and saw that I was still the primary target.

  I selected a throwing knife and hurled it straight at the beast; it embedded itself up to the hilt in the creature’s right eye. Two arrows also found their target. One skidded harmlessly off its shoulder but the second went straight into its open mouth and pierced its throat. It was Thorne who put things beyond doubt. She threw her blade with great accuracy to take the creature in the left eye. Now it was blind.

  It swerved away from us and bounded towards the trees, yelping like a whipped dog. Seconds later we reached Sir Gilbert, and the two soldiers lifted him out of the mud and began to carry him. There was no time to check on his condition but it didn’t look good. Blood was leaking from the crumpled helmet. We headed back across the river and joined up with those of our party who’d survived the battle. The sergeant gave an order and the men-at-arms formed a small tight defensive square about the archers and the soldiers carrying the wounded knight. But Thorne and I fought outside that square as we made a slow retreat back towards the castle gate.

  Of the mage, there was no sign, and this, added to the flight of the kretch, seemed to have disheartened our foes. Although they still outnumbered us many times over, few engaged us directly, and those who did died either at my hands or at Thorne’s, while those who followed sullenly at a distance were picked off by the four archers who had survived the battle.

  At last we made it into the castle; the portcullis was closed behind us and the drawbridge lowered. We had lost perhaps a third of our force, and of the survivors many had suffered wounds. Nevertheless our first priority was the welfare of Sir Gilbert, who was carried into the great hall and carefully laid upon a table, where his attendants began to remove his spiked armour. Will watched in anguish as his father moaned in pain; blood continued to leak copiously from the battered helmet. His arm was badly mangled too, and removing the chain-mail sleeve proved too difficult.

  Leaving him dressed in his mail undergarment, they next tried to remove his helmet, but he cried out in agony. I held up my hand to warn them to stop and pushed my way through to inspect him more closely. Then I shook my head.

  ‘The helmet cannot be removed,’ I told them. ‘He is dying. All you can do is give him something for the pain.’

  The jaws of the kretch had embedded the metal deep into the knight’s skull. There would be pressure on the brain and it would swell and kill him. I estimated that he would be dead within a few hours at most.

  ‘No! No! It cannot be so!’ cried the son, starting to weep.

  Thorne walked across and put her arm on his shoulder to comfort him, but he brushed her off angrily, glaring at her with hate-filled eyes. She stepped back, surprise and pain twisting her face.

  I came forward, put my own arm on his shoulder and spoke to him in a kind voice. ‘Your father was a brave man, Will, and his deeds will always be remembered. You must be strong. Eventually you will rule here.’

  The boy pulled away from me and I could see anger surge into his face again. ‘I wish I had never brought you here!’ he cried. ‘You have caused my father’s death!’

  ‘I wish that had not happened,’ I told him gently. ‘But we cannot change the past.’

  I turned and beckoned Thorne, and we left the hall to return to our rooms. In the corridor outside we met the priest, escorted by two soldiers. No doubt he had been summoned to pray for Sir Gilbert. He gave me a look of utter hatred as he passed, but I hardly glanced at him.

  Back in our room, I explained the new situation to Thorne.

  ‘We are in danger,’ I warned her, ‘and may soon have to fight for our lives against those who just moments ago were our allies.’

  ‘Will seemed very angry. I thought we were friends,’ she said bitterly. ‘Do
you think he’ll turn against us?’

  ‘It matters little what he would like to do, Thorne. He is a minor and thus too young to assume his father’s role yet. Don’t you remember what Sir Gilbert said? On his death the priest will become the boy’s guardian until he comes of age. That guardian will rule this castle. So it is time to make our escape lest this refuge becomes a prison that we leave only by dying.

  ‘And there is another reason to leave now,’ I continued. ‘The kretch has been blinded. I believe that it will heal itself, but that will take time. So we should go now and put some distance between us.’

  ‘But where can we go?’ asked Thorne; she seemed close to despair. ‘Must we run for ever? Will was the first boy I’ve ever liked. It seems hard to part in anger. Perhaps I should try to speak to him when he’s calmed down a little.’

  ‘You would be wasting your time, Thorne. It is not safe for either of us to remain here a moment longer. And once safely beyond this castle, we should split,’ I suggested. ‘Our enemies are too numerous and they will never give up. Eventually they will catch me and kill me. But why should you die too? The clan will need a good assassin to replace me. You are the one, child.’

  Thorne shook her head. ‘No, I won’t leave you. If you die I’ll become the custodian of the head. Isn’t that what you hoped?’

  I nodded, realizing that she had made up her mind. I prepared to retrieve the leather sack but immediately I sensed danger. The warning came a moment too late. The door opened and four archers, bows at the ready, stepped inside. Behind them were another four men-at-arms and the priest, Father Hewitt.

  ‘Lay down your weapons or die here!’ he commanded.

  He was a big man with broad shoulders and a florid complexion. Physically, he looked more like a burly farmer than a priest, but the black soutane he wore was new, with gleaming silver buttons down the front, and his shoes were cut from the finest leather.

  Suddenly there were flickers of light in the corners of my eyes, the warning that the weakness was about to overcome me again. I had to get us out of the castle quickly.

  ‘Is this the way to speak to allies who fought on your side so recently?’ I demanded.

  ‘Sir Gilbert has just died and I rule here now. No alliance can be made with witches. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’ he cried.

  ‘So if we lay down our arms we die later? What sort of choice is that? I would rather die here, and I tell you this – not all of you will survive. I am Grimalkin, and I have already chosen those whom I will kill!’

  ‘Surrender to us now,’ said the priest, his voice suddenly softer and more reasonable, ‘and you will receive a fair trial from the Holy Church.’

  The flashing lights within my eyes were increasing in intensity. I had to act now if we were to escape.

  ‘I have heard of such “fair trials”,’ I scoffed. ‘What will you do? Crush our bodies with stones or drown us in the nearest deep pond? This is my answer!’

  With that, I drew two blades and pointed them towards the priest. But he smiled grimly and looked confident.

  He said just one word:

  ‘Fire!’

  The four bowmen aimed at us and released their arrows.

  My speed in combat is not dark magic; it is the magic of my being, the magic of who I am. I am Grimalkin!

  A WITCH ASSASSIN needs to be fast. I have that speed. But will it be enough against master archers at such close quarters? And what of Thorne, who is some years short of reaching her full strength?

  All these futile thoughts race through my head while my limbs act instinctively.

  I have trained my body so that it is a weapon: every sinew, muscle and bone is coordinated; in such a situation it does not need the brain to command it.

  Thought is too slow.

  I am diving forward, going into a roll. I stop my heart. I lift the blade in my left hand and deflect an arrow with it. Time seems to be passing very slowly. I think of Tom Ward, who has the power to slow time, and I laugh! A witch assassin can do it too – but in a different way. An assassin moves so quickly that it is the movements of others that appear to have slowed down.

  It is not dark magic. It is the magic of my being; the magic of who I am; the magic of how hard I have trained. I am Grimalkin!

  I exist in the ‘now’ and I deal out death.

  I deflect another arrow and glance to my right. Thorne’s actions mirror my own. We divide, converge and divide again, like water flowing over sharp rocks. I have trained her well and could not wish for a better student. When I die, she will replace me. No other Malkin will be able to stand against her in combat.

  Now I am amongst my enemies and I begin to cut into them. An archer screams and dies. I must forget that I fought alongside these men so recently. We are in close now and they cannot use their bows. The situation has changed. It is their lives or ours. They know it too. Such is combat. We must kill or be killed. So I kill. I kill again and again, and the screams of the dying seem very far away.

  I allow my heart to beat once; blood surges through my arteries.

  I whirl and cut and spin and cut again. Enemy blood sprays everywhere; within seconds I will reach the priest. Once beyond his corpse, we will head for the gate. It can be done. We can win. We can escape.

  But then, too soon, the breath catches in my throat and there is a sudden pain in my chest. Weakness quickly brings me to my knees. It is the poison of the kretch. I fight against it but all goes dark.

  Is this death?

  My last thought is of Thorne. She is so young, and now she will die too. I feel a moment of regret at bringing her into danger. Then there is darkness and I forget everything.

  But I did not die then. I awoke with a taste of blood in my mouth, bound securely in a dark place.

  Iron manacles clamped my hands and feet together; the metal was painful and I could feel it burning my skin. I was lying on my back against a damp wall. I rolled to my left, but half a turn brought me to a halt. There was another chain stretching from my feet to an iron ring in the stone floor.

  I managed to sit up and rest my back against the wall. It was very dark, but with my witchy eyes I could see even into the gloomiest corners of that dungeon. It stank of death. Over the years a dozen or more had died here. Sir Gilbert had seemed benign, but clearly he had imprisoned people, some of whom had ended their days in this underground prison. What were their crimes? I wondered.

  It mattered little. My crime was to be a witch. In the hands of the priest I could expect nothing but pain and death. The scryer had once predicted my death, but it had been in combat with a knife in my hand, not chained up helplessly. Scryers are not always completely accurate – there is always room for error.

  I consoled myself with the thought that at least they would not find the Fiend’s head. I had hidden it too well. Only very powerful practitioners of dark magic could discover its whereabouts, and they would have to get into this castle first. As the knight had told me, these walls could withstand weeks of siege. Every day that the head was kept out of their hands meant more time for Tom Ward to find a way to finish the Fiend for ever.

  The weakness seemed to have passed but it mattered little now. Bound in iron chains, I had little chance of escaping. I still wore my leather straps but their sheaths were empty; my weapons were gone. However, I still had one weapon left – and the last of my magic. These were being saved as a final resort. The time to use them must be chosen with extreme care. After that it would be hopeless.

  It was then that I heard the first scream. It was thin and high and lingered on the air: a female cry – the cry of someone suffering unendurable pain.

  It came again, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck rise up in dread. Someone was being tortured.

  Was it Thorne?

  A second later my heart sank as I heard confirmation that it was.

  ‘Please! Please!’ she begged. ‘Don’t do that – anything but that!’

  Thorne was brave and fearl
ess. What kind of torture could make her beg like this, her voice so shrill and tremulous?

  I could not stand by and hear her suffer so. But first I had to see exactly what the situation was, and I had the means to accomplish that without using too much of my remaining store of power. I would use shamanistic magic, and project my soul from my body once more.

  I chanted the necessary words, getting the cadence exactly right, and concentrated on exerting my will. For a second all became dark, and then I was floating above my chained body again, in a world within which everything was a shade of green. I looked down on myself, at the closed eyes and deep, steady breathing, then drifted towards the dungeon door; my spirit passed right through it.

  I emerged in the passage beyond, and it was easy to find the room where Thorne was being tortured. It was the next cell to the left. The door was wide-open, and a guard, his body glowing green with life-force, was standing outside with his back against the wall. Once inside, I took in the situation with one glance.

  Thorne lay on her back, tied to a metal table with thick ropes. There was blood on her bare shoulders and arms. A burly man was standing over her, stripped to the waist, his chest hairy and his skin gleaming with sweat. In his right hand he held a bodkin – he had been stabbing the long thin sharp point repeatedly into Thorne’s body. They were trying to find the place where she had supposedly been touched by the Fiend; the place where she could feel no pain; the place that proved she was a witch.

  All this was completely unnecessary: we were clearly witches; we did not deny it. But the priest hovered close, wearing a smile on his thin lips. He was enjoying this.

  And then I understood what it was that had caused Thorne to cry out and beg like that. It had little to do with the work of the bodkin on her body; little to do with the extreme pain that she must be suffering. No – what had caused her so much terror was the tool the priest was holding.