I glanced down and saw that her hind feet were freshly stained with blood and that there were streaks of it in the water below the chest. She had already killed at least one of our enemies. I felt frustrated that I was unable to kill some of them myself. It was a great advantage to have wings.
“Do you think they mean to attack? Maybe they’ll come up through the tunnel?” Thorne suggested.
“They’d have to reach the entrance first,” Wynde said.
“A few might be able to get inside. The thicket around the sepulchre would offer cover,” I said. “But we could easily defend the tunnel. Just one of us could hold them off. We are in no immediate danger.”
“Then I will go down there now,” said Slake. “I will stay until dusk, when another should take my place.”
I nodded in agreement, and the lamia crossed into the storeroom and went down the steps to the lower reaches of the tower.
“If only Agnes had managed to get here,” said Thorne. “I wonder what’s befallen her. I can’t stop thinking about what they are doing to her.”
Just before noon we found out. We were watching from the battlements when a score of witches strolled out of the trees and headed directly toward us. Wynde prepared to take to the air and attack, but I bade her wait awhile.
“Why must I wait?” she demanded, fixing me with her savage eyes.
“Because they have Agnes with them as a prisoner, and she still lives,” I said, pointing to a figure to the fore of the group approaching the tower. I glanced sideways at Thorne, watching her eyes widen with concern at my words. I knew that whatever happened next would be bad, and we would be forced to bear witness to it.
Agnes was bound, her hands tied behind her back and a noose around her neck. The rope was in the hands of a black-bearded mage who walked ahead of her. I would have expected to see terror on Agnes’s face, but she seemed calm. Was she aware of the imminence of her own death, and had she therefore become resigned to it? Or did she hope to be rescued—perhaps by the winged lamia?
My attention was then drawn back to the mage. I sniffed quickly, three times. Instantly I knew a lot about him. He was capable of powerful dark magic and was also the leader of those who had created the kretch. Additionally, he was a skilled warrior, his strength such that in combat I would have to be wary of him. Only a fool would underestimate such a mage.
“I will kill that one next!” Wynde said.
“If I had your wings I’d do it now!” hissed Thorne.
“Hush!” I commanded them both. “Let us listen to what he has to say for himself.”
They came right up to the edge of the moat and halted. Immediately the mage looked up at us and called out his demands in a loud, imperious voice.
“I am Bowker,” he shouted, “the appointed leader of the Fiend’s servants. You have until sunset to give us what is ours. If you refuse, the first to die will be your friend and ally, this old witch. She likes peering into mirrors too much! Her death will not be easy.”
He turned and led the group back toward the trees, tugging roughly on the noose around poor Agnes’s neck—her groan of pain was clearly audible. Wynde fluttered her wings, preparing to take flight and attack.
“No!” I warned. “If you attack, he will slay Agnes immediately.”
The lamia shook her head. “He will kill her anyway. Once back among the trees, the advantage will be theirs. I must strike now while they are still in the open!”
She took off from the battlements, gained height, then swooped down toward the group of witches, attacking them from the rear. There was a scream of pain as Wynde soared aloft again. She was carrying one of the enemy witches, whom she released when she had risen to twice the height of the surrounding trees. Whether or not her victim was already dead was impossible to say, but there was no scream as she fell, and the body thudded heavily onto the ground.
The lamia’s attack was reckless. By now the mage might already have cut Agnes’s throat. Of course, such feral creatures are a law unto themselves and she certainly did not share my regard for Agnes, who had just recently saved my life.
The lamia killed twice more before the group reached the cover of the trees. Losing the advantage of flight, Wynde headed back toward us and landed on the battlements.
“Why didn’t you attack the mage?” I demanded. “With him dead, you might have been able to carry Agnes to safety.”
The lamia regarded me with her heavy-lidded eyes. There was blood on her lips and cruelty in her gaze. “The mage had a weapon—something I’ve never encountered before. He held a small rodent’s skull in his fist, and when he pointed it at me, my balance went awry and I almost plummeted to earth. I could not get near him without the risk of falling out of the sky.”
I nodded but said nothing. The damage was done. What it would cost Agnes Sowerbutts was impossible to say. I expected them to kill her anyway.
At dusk the screams began.
CHAPTER IX
IS SHE A COWARD TOO?
A witch should not fear her own death.
It is just the setting of a sun
and a promise of the darkness
that is our true home.
THEY were torturing Agnes, and there was nothing I could do to help. Thorne covered her ears and started to moan.
“Poor Agnes!” she exclaimed. “What has she done to deserve this?”
“Nothing, child. But you don’t have to listen. Go down to the tunnels and relieve Slake of her guard duty. I will change places with you soon after dawn.”
I spent the remainder of the night watching from the battlements with the two lamia sisters, Wynde scratching her talons against the flags in frustration. Just after dawn, the screaming stopped. Then they threw a body out from under the trees. It landed on the edge of the clearing. Even from this distance I could see that it was Agnes.
“I’ll go and collect her,” Wynde said.
“Take care—it could be a trap!” I warned her, simultaneously wishing that I could do something, anything, rather than remain as a spectator. I itched to fight and avenge Agnes’s death. But it was very likely that our enemies would be waiting just within the trees. If the mage used his skull weapon, causing Wynde to fall, dozens of them could surround her within seconds.
But with her usual impetuousness, the lamia flew down from the battlements and snatched up the body. She soared back toward us and laid it gently at my feet.
Agnes was dead, her eyes wide open and staring. Her clothes were in tatters, and the torturers had left their marks on her poor aged body.
“They haven’t taken her heart,” Wynde said. “I could carry her to the dell. Is that what she would want?”
I didn’t know what Agnes wanted because we had never spoken of it. Hunting from Witch Dell as a dead witch was attractive to some. Others, such as Thorne, found it abhorrent and preferred to go directly to the dark. I wasn’t sure, but a decision had to be made, so I opted for the dell. I hoped I’d done the right thing.
“Yes, please carry her body there and bury it close to the center. Make a shallow grave and cover it with leaves.”
With strong flaps of her wings, Wynde climbed above the tower in a slow spiral, then flew north toward Witch Dell, a dark speck against the gray sky, slowly diminishing into the distance. Within the hour she returned and told me that she had buried Agnes beside a large oak tree, right at the heart of the dell.
I thanked her, then went down to the tunnels to take over from Thorne.
“They killed Agnes,” I told her gently. “At least she is now beyond anything that our enemies can do to her.”
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.
Afterward 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 tow
er. 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 up 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 toward 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 demonic, 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 counseled 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 among yourselves like weaklings!” the kretch called up, pointing its blades toward 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. “It is very fast and strong, and its claws contain a deadly poison. Moreover, its bones are as tough as armor. 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 toward 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 toward 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 to stop it from regenerating.
I glanced up at the lamia as she dived toward 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. The kretch saw that, 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 held 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, 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.
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 b
ody. 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 toward the combatants, and from a distance of about six paces he pointed his rodent-skull weapon at the lamia. I saw the air shimmer, and Wynde shuddered.
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 toward 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 Wynde’s 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 no longer 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.
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