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, and 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 need 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 shape-shifting toward the domestic form.”
“How do you know that?” Agnes asked. “I have seen a lamia circling the tower but couldn’t probe its defenses. 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 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 toward 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 undergrowth—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 that 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 judgment, 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 color of mud. Here there had once dwelled 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. The wight hides under the water and, upon sensing the approach of an interloper, reaches up to grasp the ankle of its victim, who it drags beneath the surface and drowns.
Wights are strong and dangerous, but this one had been slain by one of the lamias, who had ripped its body to pieces. Now all that remained was a faint stink of rot and death. We picked our way along the na
rrow, slippery path that bordered the water and moved on farther into the tunnel. As yet there was no hint of danger, although the lamias could well be lurking somewhere ahead, out of normal sniffing range. I could have used my necklace bones to probe further, but I needed to conserve my finite store of magic.
We reached a stout wooden door set in the stone, hanging wide open upon its hinges. This was the entrance to the dungeons. In the days when this was a Malkin fortification, it would have been securely locked.
After sniffing for danger, Thorne led the way inside and we stepped into a dark, dank passageway flanked on either side by cells. Water dripped from above, and our footsteps echoed on the damp flags. All the doors were open and no living prisoners remained, but by the flicker of our candles we saw that some contained human bones, with partial skeletons dressed in mildewed rags still manacled to walls. Many had limbs missing, bitten off and dragged away by the hordes of rats that used to frequent the dungeons. There was no sign of them now, and I soon found out why.
We reached a large, high-ceilinged circular chamber, with stone steps curving upward to a jagged hole. There had once been a trapdoor that gave access to the floor above, but the lamias had enlarged the opening to afford them easy access. My gaze quickly moved from that to the circle of five stone supporting pillars. Each was hung with manacles and chains. This was where prisoners had been tortured. The farthest pillar—the one next to a wooden table covered in instruments such as knives and pincers—was different.
At its foot was a large wooden bucket into which blood was dripping. Thirteen chains hung down from the darkness above. Each terminated at a different height; each bore a dead creature. There were rats, rabbits, hares, a fat badger, a kestrel, and a black-and-white cat. Most were dead, their life blood having long since drained into the bucket. But two, both large gray rats with long whiskers, still twitched as their blood slowly leaked out, drop by drop.
“Why would a lamia do this?” Thorne whispered, her eyes wide.
“This is a lamia gibbet. . . . Its true purpose is unknown. Some think they are a warning to others, but there may well be another significance. No doubt enough blood eventually accumulates in the bucket to make it worthwhile,” I answered. “But lamias can hunt and kill much larger prey—sheep, for example. Maybe they enjoy the taste of such small creatures. Some Pendle witches actually prefer a rat’s blood to a human’s. But if this is so, why the thirteen chains? That suggests a ritual. Perhaps it’s some type of lamia magic,” I speculated.
As we stared at the grisly spectacle, we both suddenly sensed danger and glanced up at the hole in the ceiling. I sniffed quickly. “The lamia—it’s the winged one!” I warned.
A second later, something large dropped down toward us. It fell fast, wings held close to its body, like a hawk swooping toward its prey.
CHAPTER VII
PROMISE ME
Why kill the weak when you can fight the strong?
Why tell a lie when you can speak the truth?
A witch assassin should be honorable
and always keep a promise.
AT the last moment the lamia spread her wings wide, soared away from the wall, and began to circle the chamber. Then she swooped toward us again.
Thorne drew a blade. I shook my head. “Don’t be a fool!” I cried, grabbing her arm and dragging her in the direction of the narrow passageway. We would be better off there than in this huge chamber, where the lamia could attack us from above. I remembered how my blades had bounced off her scales in the battle on Pendle Hill.
We reached the entrance of the passage and stepped inside. The lamia landed in the very center of the chamber and started to scuttle toward us on all four limbs. This type of winged lamia, known as a vaengir, was relatively rare but extremely dangerous. It would be better to negotiate than fight—but I would kill her if necessary.
She halted less than six feet away and stood up on her muscled hind limbs, stretching her forelimbs toward us threateningly. I knew that such creatures could move very quickly. She could be upon us in a second. So I put down the sack, stepped in front of Thorne, and drew my long blade.
But rather than attacking us, the lamia spoke. “Who are you, witch? You are foolhardy to enter our domain for a second time!”
Thorne looked at me in astonishment. I had not told her that I had visited the tower in spirit.
“I am Grimalkin, the assassin of my clan, the former owners of this tower. I come in peace. I am an ally of Thomas Ward and therefore yours too. We oppose the Fiend—he is our mutual enemy.”
“And who is the child who cowers to your rear?”
Thorne stepped forward and pointed her blade toward the lamia. “I am named Thorne, and I serve Grimalkin. Her will is my will. Her enemies are my enemies. Her allies are my allies. I cower before nothing and fear nothing!”
“You speak bravely, child. But courage alone will not protect you from my claws and teeth.”
“You would not threaten us if you truly knew who Grimalkin is,” Thorne snapped. “She is the greatest Malkin assassin who has ever lived. None of her clan now dare challenge her. Some enemies have died of fear in their beds after hearing that she hunts them down.”
“I already know of her fearsome reputation,” said the lamia, “but I have lived for centuries, and the telling of my deeds would exhaust the breath of a thousand minstrels. What brings you both to this tower?”
“We seek refuge for a while,” I answered. “Our enemies pursue us. But we fear nothing for ourselves; our terror is that this should fall into their hands.”
I held up the sack. “This contains the severed head of the Fiend. I have impaled his body and buried it in a pit far from here, across the sea. Our enemies wish to reunite the two parts and restore his strength. Tom Ward seeks a way to finally destroy him, but we need to gain time for him to do so. The head must remain safe.”
The eyes of the lamia closed for a moment, as if she was deep in thought. Then she nodded slowly and pointed a taloned forefinger up toward the hole in the ceiling. “We sensed the binding of the Fiend and his pain. All who serve the dark felt that the very moment it was accomplished. I would see this head, and so would my sister. Follow me up into the tower.”
With those words, she leaped into the air and soared aloft. Moments later she had flown out of sight through the hole.
“It might be a trick,” Thorne said. “Once we’re in the open she could well attack.”
I nodded. “But it’s a chance we’ll have to take,” I said, and picking up the sack and holding the candle aloft, I passed between the nearest two pillars and began to climb the spiral staircase.
Scrambling up through the jagged hole in the ceiling, we emerged into the huge underground cylindrical base of the tower. Of the lamia, there was no sign. Water dripped from above, no doubt seeping into the stones from the moat. Cautiously we continued up the narrow spiral steps, which were slippery and treacherous. On our left was the stairwell, and to fall would result in certain death; on our right was the curve of the wall, and set into it at intervals were doors, each a dank, dark cell to hold prisoners. I peered into them all, but they were empty even of bones.
At last we reached what had once been the upper of the two trapdoors; this too had become a jagged hole in the stone to make passage for the lamias easier. We emerged into the storeroom, with its sacks of rotting potatoes and a stinking, slimy mound of what had once been turnips. When I had visited this place in my spirit form, I had been spared the stench, but it was now overpowering, even worse than when the tower was occupied by the Malkin coven. Torchlight flickered beyond the doorway, which led to the large living area.
Holding up our candles, we walked through. The winged lamia was perched on the closed trunk, and on a stool nearby sat her sister, holding a book in her left hand. A torch set in the nearest wall bracket lit the left sides of the two witches, casting their shadows almost as far as the wall. Most of the huge room lay in darkness.
“Here are o
ur two guests, sister,” the winged lamia rasped. “The young one is called Thorne. The taller one, with death in her eyes and cruelty in her mouth, is Grimalkin, the witch assassin.”
The witch on the stool attempted to smile at us but only managed to twist her face into a grimace. Her teeth were slightly too big to fit into her mouth, and she breathed noisily.
However, when she spoke, her voice was soft, with no hint of harshness. “My name is Slake,” she said. “My sister is named Wynde, after our mother. I believe you have something to show us?”
I placed the leather sack on the floor and untied it. Then I slowly drew forth the Fiend’s head and held it up by the horns so that it was facing toward the lamias. They both smiled grotesquely at the sight.
“The green apple is a clever way to ensure silence,” said Slake approvingly.
“I like the way it is wrapped in thorns,” added Wynde.
“But why don’t you simply destroy the head?” Slake asked. “We could boil it up in a cauldron and eat it.”
“Better to eat it raw,” Wynde rasped, fluttering her wings, her bestial face suddenly showing excitement. “I’ll have the tongue, sister. You can have the eyes!”
“I have already considered destroying it, but I dare not!” I interrupted. “Who can know the consequences of such an act? This is not simply a witch to be returned to the dark forever by the simple expedient of eating her flesh. We are dealing with the dark personified, the Devil himself. To eat the head might liberate him. He can change shape, make himself small or large at will. Once free, he has terrible powers—some perhaps still unknown. I have pierced his body with silver spears; thus is he bound and his power taken away. It is safer to keep the head intact yet separate, so that his servants cannot remove the spears and reanimate him.”
“You are right,” Slake said. “It would be foolish to take a chance when so much is at stake. We loved our dead sister dearly and have promised to protect her son, the Thomas Ward of whom you spoke. But tell me, is he any nearer finding a sure way to destroy the Fiend?”
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