by Matt Ralphs
‘It’s a man,’ Hazel said. ‘But I can’t see his face. The hood . . .’
The mist drained away, laying bare the circle with its pulsing magic sigils and the prone figure at its centre. Rawhead stood poised by the salt barrier, tongue flickering from between its teeth. A few witches lowered their hoods, exposing faces pinched with fatigue.
One of them stepped towards the circle. ‘Quick, we must—’
‘No,’ Lilith cried. ‘Stay outside. It’s not safe yet.’
‘But is it him?’
Lilith craned her head forward and smiled. ‘It is.’
Bramley tugged on Hazel’s ear. ‘Who is it? I can’t see.’
Hoping to get a better view, Hazel crawled to the other end of the altar. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But I can take a guess.’
‘Murrell? But where’s he just come from?’
Slowly, as if wary of hurting himself, the figure stood up.
‘He looks different somehow,’ Hazel said. When she had last seen him, Murrell had been middle-aged, tall and strong – but the man in the circle was bone-thin, stooped, and swayed on the spot as if the merest breath of wind would knock him over.
Lilith glided around the circle. ‘Did you speak to our . . . patron?’ she asked. ‘Has he granted us what we desire?’
The figure drew back his sleeve. Scorched marks ran in lines all the way down his forearm. It looked like writing.
‘Is that the spell?’ Lilith asked, and when the figure nodded she held out her arms to him. ‘Then your work is done. Come back to me, Nicolas. I will look after you now.’
31
DEMON BLIGHT
Speak not dark thoughts into the night,
For they lure dark beasts that scratch and bite.
The Sad Fate of the Pendle Witches by William Ward
‘It can’t be him,’ Bramley squeaked. ‘He looks completely different. He looks old.’
Lilith waited for Murrell to cross the salt before embracing him. The other witches approached cautiously, gathering around him in a loose circle; although stooped, Murrell still stood a head taller than most of them.
‘My love,’ Lilith said. ‘Let me see your face.’
When Murrell spoke, his voice cracked like burning parchment. ‘My friends, behold a man uniquely blessed –’ and with shaking fingers he pushed back his hood to reveal his face.
Hazel knew with absolute certainty that she didn’t want to look, but she couldn’t help herself. Some of the witches gasped and stepped away. Lilith’s hand fluttered to her mouth.
Murrell looked like death incarnate. Razor-thin lips. Sunken cheeks. Bald scalp. Skin laced blue with veins clung tight to his skull. He regarded his flock with maggot-hole eyes.
‘It really is him,’ Hazel whispered. ‘Oh no . . .’
‘What is it?’ Bramley squeaked, cowering behind her ear.
‘He’s smiling.’ Hazel closed her eyes but the image of Murrell’s lips straining away from blackened teeth haunted her.
‘It’s as we feared – you’ve caught demon blight,’ Lilith said, gently taking his arm. ‘Let me take you to the healer.’
‘The healer?’ Hazel gasped.
‘She must mean your mother,’ Bramley said.
‘My sweet consort, this affliction is a small price to pay for what I gained from our great patron,’ Murrell said, stroking her cheek with long yellowed nails. ‘I shall go to the healer . . . but there is something we must do first.’
Lilith lowered her head. ‘As you wish, Nicolas.’
‘Is there any sign of the girl?’ Murrell asked. ‘Or that Witch Finder she’s taken up with?’
‘No. Our familiars are out looking for them as we speak. Never fear, we’ll find them.’
Hazel ducked back behind the altar, her heart pounding. ‘We’re too exposed here. We need to move.’
Bramley gnawed at his tail in frustration. ‘But where can we go?’
Hazel pointed to the nearby pulpit – a raised platform enclosed with mahogany panels tall enough to hide behind. ‘How about there?’
He frowned. ‘I’ll take a look first and make sure it’s suitable. Watch for my signal before you join me. Stay low, move quickly . . .’
‘Thank you, Bram,’ Hazel said, placing him on the ground.
The tiny mouse pressed himself to the floor and started a sort of sliding crawl towards the pulpit; he looked so ridiculous that if the situation hadn’t been so dangerous, Hazel would have laughed.
Murrell continued his address. ‘To seal the bargain, our patron, Baal the Destroyer, demands an immediate sacrifice,’ he said. ‘Did you find someone suitable while I was gone?’
Bramley reached the pulpit and hopped up the wooden steps. Hazel’s heart missed a beat as he disappeared.
‘We did, Nicolas,’ one of the other witches replied. ‘But perhaps if we brought the healer here . . . ?’
‘No,’ Murrell commanded. ‘We must do as Baal wishes . . . now. Back to your places. The ritual must be completed.’
Baal must be a demon, Hazel thought as the Chosen scattered around the circle. But what bargain has Murrell made with it?
Bramley appeared on the rim of the pulpit, holding out his paw in her direction. Hazel identified a spot where the pulpit blocked the witches’ line of sight. I’ll go there first, she thought. Then make a dash for it.
‘Bring the sacrifice to me,’ Murrell commanded.
Bramley beckoned. Settling her bag more securely over her shoulder, Hazel dashed to the blind spot, keeping her head low and then skidding to a halt. She looked up, relieved to find that the pulpit did indeed hide her from the gathered witches.
Murrell’s voice drifted through the church. ‘Ah, there she is. Good, good.’
Hazel was about to creep the final yards to safety when all of Bramley’s fur stood on end. He pointed towards the ceiling. Hazel followed his finger and her blood turned to ice water.
32
A POOR MAN’S LUCK
Lupus est homo homini [Man is wolf to man]
Anon.
Spindle slid as silently as a shadow between the roof beams, feeling its way on long, multi-jointed legs. The spider-demon stopped over the circle – its bulging eyes and fangs lit up by a shaft of moonlight.
Exposed in the middle of the chancel, Hazel felt like a fly trapped in a web. An image of David being smothered under the spider’s bloated body paralysed her as effectively as any venom. Bramley beckoned to her with both paws, his eyes bright with fear.
Hazel willed her legs to work, and after a few shaky paces her courage ebbed back. She sped up, keeping her eyes on Bramley, expecting Spindle to drop to the ground and scuttle towards her at any moment. But luck was on her side, and before she knew it she was inside the pulpit, hunkered down in the cobwebby gloom.
Bramley plopped down on to the floor and Hazel gathered him up and held him to her chest.
‘About time,’ Bramley said. ‘I thought you were going to sit there all day.’
Being careful not to make a sound, Hazel stood up and peered over the rim of the pulpit. She knew it was risky, but at least an angled bookrest built on to the front panel hid her from the spider-demon.
Murrell, Lilith and Rawhead stood on the other side of the circle. The rest of the witches were back in their places around the edge. They were all looking up at Spindle, and the thread-swaddled cocoon dangling from its spinnerets. Hazel’s scalp crawled when she saw that it was about the size of a man, and it was wriggling.
Spindle’s abdomen pulsed as it let out more thread to lower the cocoon into the middle of the circle.
‘Is it safe to enter?’ Lilith asked.
Murrell nodded, scratching absently at his scarred arm.
Lilith drew out a knife, crossed the salt and knelt by the captive. ‘It would be to your advantage to stop moving,’ she said, then set to work slicing through the layers of thread.
‘Where did you find him?’ Murrell asked.
‘In
a cabin near Watley,’ one of the witches replied.
Murrell grunted. ‘The Witch Hunters purged Watley not long ago.’ He gazed down at the now-still captive. ‘I wonder if he lost anyone?’
Lilith pocketed the knife and pushed her fingers through the layers of thread. There was a dry rip as she peeled the silk away, revealing a man’s head. His face was without expression, but his eyes darted all around.
‘Bram!’ Hazel gave a gasp. ‘I think it’s the woodsman.’
‘He must be the unluckiest man who ever lived.’ Bramley fidgeted. ‘We can’t help him. I know it’s a horrible thing to say, but we just can’t. We have to pick our fights – pick the ones we can win. Us getting killed won’t help your mother.’
‘Lift him up,’ Murrell said, a light burning somewhere in the depths of his eyes. ‘He deserves to hear this standing on his feet.’
Lilith and one of the other witches hoisted the woodsman upright. He lolled between them, head drooping as if his muscles had been severed.
‘I can see that you are a man of humble means,’ Murrell said, circling the woodsman. ‘Your life is of no consequence to anyone except you, and those close to you. But I am giving you a chance to make a difference to the world, a chance to do some good.’ The woodsman swallowed and let out a strangled croak. Murrell stopped in front of him. ‘Speak, if you can. I’m listening.’
‘What are you going to do to me?’ The woodsman’s words were slow and slurred, as if too big for his mouth.
‘I am going to let a demon consume your soul.’
The awful incomprehension in the woodsman’s eyes was almost too much for Hazel to bear.
‘But why . . . ?’ he asked.
‘I do it because I must.’ Murrell gestured to the witches in the circle. ‘Put him down and go back to your places.’ They left the woodsman lying helplessly on his back, too feeble even to turn over.
‘Prepare to perform the containment spell, and whatever happens, don’t stop,’ Murrell commanded, raising his arms. ‘Sisters and brothers – begin!’
33
WRAITHS
The King was kept in Carisbrooke Castle for some years
until his execution. Cromwell often visited him to gloat.
The Secret Diaries by Lady Catherine Coe
The words of the chant created a thick, impenetrable noise. The candles flared, deepening the shadows. Murrell swayed in time to the chant’s heartbeat-pulse, his outline becoming blurry – as if he was standing behind a rain-streaked window. Colours of every shade slid up from the salt barrier, swirling like ink on water.
‘They’ve sealed the circle with magic,’ Bramley said. ‘That poor man is trapped.’
The woodsman rolled on to his stomach and somehow found the strength to crawl towards the edge of the magic circle. Unable to help, Hazel bit her lip and forced herself to watch.
Murrell lifted up his sleeve and recited the words branded on his arm. It was not English; indeed, it didn’t sound as if it could be any human language. Although their meanings were unknown to Hazel, she knew from the nausea roiling in her stomach that they spoke of pain and suffering.
In the roof far above, Spindle quivered. Rawhead paced in an endless circle.
The floor inside the salt barrier rippled like liquid. Hazel saw something glide underneath, then five sinuous tentacles broke through the surface, uncoiling, undulating, feeling the air with their delicate tips.
‘What are they?’ Bramley squeaked. ‘Is that one creature or five?’
Hazel was too horrified to reply. The tentacles were already ten feet high, with thick, muscular roots. The woodsman glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened. He gasped. Then he screamed.
The tentacles whipped round, and in the time it took for a heart to beat twice they were on him. Two around his ankles, two around his wrists, and with a yank he was on his feet. The fifth tentacle – thicker than the others – reared up like a cobra and swayed hypnotically from side to side. There was a wet tearing sound as its tip peeled open like a flower, revealing a round, toothless throat. The woodman went rigid as it descended towards his head.
Hazel’s courage dissolved and she slid to the floor, pressing her hands over her ears in a vain attempt to block out the woodsman’s muffled shrieks.
‘See?’ Murrell cried. ‘See how his soul is being drawn out? Now watch, when Baal has feasted . . . Yes, he’s changing. Demonic gifts are being bestowed. Keep chanting, my friends – our new brother may need taming before we set him free.’
Using every ounce of courage she possessed, Hazel peered back out from the pulpit.
The tentacles now stood straight up, swaying like reeds in a pond. They had turned from grey to washed-out pink – Was that the colour of the woodsman’s soul? Hazel wondered – and as she watched, they gradually sank through the floor and disappeared.
The magic barrier made everything blurry but Hazel could see that the woodsman was still there. He stood with his back to her, head bowed and shoulders moving slowly in time with each deep breath. He looked broader, stronger, and Hazel sensed a menace in his stillness that frightened her.
The magic barrier crackled as Murrell pressed his hand against it. ‘Can you speak?’ he asked the silent woodsman. ‘Do you remember your name? Do you remember anything at all?’
The woodsman said nothing.
‘It seems not,’ Murrell murmured. ‘Baal has granted me power to command you.’ He raised his arms. ‘Cease the containment chant. Our new brother will not harm us.’
Lilith sidled up behind him. ‘Are you sure, Nicolas? Can you really control it?’
‘Do you doubt Baal’s word? Do you doubt me?’
‘No, it’s just—’
‘Then do as I say.’ Murrell looked at Lilith through narrowed eyes. ‘I find your lack of faith disturbing.’
Lilith slunk away and sat at the end of a pew.
‘They don’t seem to be getting on so well,’ Bramley muttered.
The chant faded and the candlelight went from red to yellow. The barrier wavered and disappeared. Most of the witches backed away, watching the woodsman warily.
Hazel remembered the man she’d met on the fringes of the forest, the man with so much weariness and grief etched into his face. All that had gone and been replaced with a terrible dead-eyed stare.
‘Hazel,’ Bramley whispered. ‘Whatever you do, don’t sneeze.’
Hazel ducked down into the pulpit. ‘What?’
‘Don’t sneeze. I don’t want you to give us away. So don’t sneeze.’
‘Stop saying that – it makes me think I want to,’ Hazel hissed, suddenly aware of all the dust. It was everywhere – carpeting the floor, floating in the air, covering her clothes . . . A tickle struck deep inside her nose. She closed her eyes, fighting the irresistible urge to let go and explode.
Bramley slid head first down her forehead, landed on her nose and clamped his paws against her nostrils. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he hissed.
Hazel closed her eyes and let out a long, shaky breath. ‘Better now,’ she muttered, lifting Bramley back into her hair. With a final precautionary rub of her nose, she peeked back out.
‘He feels no fear, no pain, and is not troubled by conscience,’ Murrell said as he hobbled around the woodsman. ‘He is a soldier under my command, a soldier who will fight to the death; and with an army of them I will bring Cromwell and all Witch Hunters to their knees. Do you trust me to lead you to freedom?’
‘We do,’ Lilith cried, and the others nodded enthusiastically.
‘Thank you,’ Murrell said. ‘Because without you by my . . .’ He put a hand to his forehead and swayed.
Lilith grabbed an arm to steady him. ‘It’s time to take you to Hecate. No arguments.’
Murrell smiled and allowed her to lead him down the aisle. The witches, the demons and the poor woodsman, now Murrell’s newest servant, followed.
‘They’re leaving,’ Hazel said. ‘Come on. Let’s go and find Ma.’
&nb
sp; 34
THE CASTLE
‘Every Witch Finder must employ an apprentice.’
Charles Stuart, King of England, Scotland and Ireland, 1636
Hazel breathed in the crisp night air. After being trapped in the church for so long, it was good to be outside and on the move. No more just watching and hiding, she thought as she crept between the graves. It’s time to actually do something. It felt like a lifetime had passed since she’d arrived in Rivenpike, but she supposed it had only been a couple of hours.
She peered down the alley. The witches were already out of sight, leaving only their shadows behind on the walls. Hazel followed, blood pumping, until she turned the final corner. Ahead, bathed in moonlight, lay the market square and the castle.
The witches gathered around Murrell by the lowered drawbridge leading into the keep. Hazel dashed over to a horse trough and ducked behind it.
‘Careful,’ Bramley snapped. ‘You’re too close.’
‘They can’t see through stone.’ After a few frustrating moments Hazel snorted in disgust. ‘It’s no good, I can’t hear what they’re saying.’
‘Let me have a go,’ Bramley said, hopping from her shoulder on to the edge of the trough. ‘I’ve got better hearing than you.’
‘Do you? You’ve never mentioned it.’
‘There are a lot of things I’m better at than you,’ Bramley said with a sniff. ‘But I don’t like to show off.’
‘Hmmm. So, what are they saying?’
‘Murrell’s ordering them all to gather their familiars and go out and bring back more people for Baal. And they’re to take the woodsman with them.’
‘What else? Anything about Ma?’
‘Oh dear,’ Bramley squeaked.