I could see that within two years Thorne would be my equal.
And after that?
Eventually she would be capable of defeating me, just as I had defeated Kernolde. The thought brought me happiness, not fear. I would not wish to live once my powers began to decline. It was good to know that I had a worthy successor.
The soldier was lowering the drawbridge now, but other footsteps were racing toward us through the darkness. This time I did not order Thorne to attack. One of those approaching was smaller than the rest. It was Will, the son of the dead knight.
The group halted about twenty paces from us—five men. The two flanking the boy were the last of the master bowmen.
“Release Father Hewitt!” cried the boy. “It’s a sin to harm a priest!”
“Tell your men to put down their weapons, and I will allow him to live,” I said softly. “If you refuse, then I will kill this poor excuse for a priest, and you will be responsible for his death.”
“You caused my father’s death!” Will screamed hysterically. “Now you will die too!”
He put his hands on the shoulders of the archers who flanked him. “Aim low!” he cried. “They will try to dive beneath your arrows!”
The archers raised their bows and fired.
CHAPTER XVIII
YOU’RE JUST A GIRL
I chose to bear the Fiend’s child
so as to be free of him forever;
once I’d decided to pursue that course,
nothing could ever have stopped me.
My intention is to destroy him.
Nothing will stop me now!
FASTER than the flight of the arrow, I yanked the priest in front of me, pushing him to his knees as a shield. They fired low as commanded, and an arrow embedded itself in his chest. He gave a groan of pain and fell, stone dead, to the ground. I glanced to my left and saw that Thorne had deflected the other arrow with her blade.
Before the archers could pull further arrows from their quivers, our throwing blades pierced the left eye socket of each, and the bows slipped from their dead fingers as they crumpled at the feet of the boy.
He took a step backward, terror animating his features. But what would it profit us to slay him? I asked myself. He was just a child whose world had been turned upside down. I could read a whole range of emotions on Thorne’s face. There was anger and outrage at Will, who had tried to kill us, but also sadness and regret. I knew that she felt betrayed.
“The priest is dead, Will,” I told him with a grim smile. “Your guardian has been retired from his duties. You are in charge here now. Rule wisely and rule well!”
Will looked at Thorne and tried to speak, but the drawbridge was almost down, and we couldn’t wait. With Thorne at my heels, I ran up its slippery wooden incline and leaped the narrowing gap to land on the soft earth at the far edge of the moat. Arrows whistled toward us from the battlements, but we were running fast, weaving from side to side, and these were not masters of their craft. In a few seconds we were lost in the safety of the darkness.
The real danger lay somewhere ahead. Had the kretch regenerated itself yet? Would the mage and the witches know that we had left the castle?
The answer to my first question was uncertain, but it was likely that spies would be watching. They would have heard the shouts and seen the drawbridge being lowered. Even now they would be alerting their sister witches.
So we ran hard in a direction that was roughly east, toward the rising sun. I was thinking desperately: Where could we go? What refuge remained?
My mind twisted first one way, then another, seeking what was not to be found. It was true that there was one place we might use to our advantage, although we might encounter more enemies than friends. I changed direction and picked up my pace.
“Witch Dell lies directly ahead!” Thorne said, running alongside me.
“Yes, that’s where we are heading, child. It may prove a good place to stand and fight!”
Before long Pendle Hill dominated the skyline. It was shaped like a huge whale—the great sea mammal that I had glimpsed on one of my journeys across the great northern sea that lay beyond the borders of the County.
We rested for a while in a wood, confident that we had put a good distance between us and our pursuers. We would not approach Witch Dell until nightfall.
I turned to Thorne. “How do you feel, child?” I asked. I wondered whether her experiences in the dungeon might affect her ability to fight.
“Feel?” she snapped. “Feel about what—the boy?”
“Yes, the boy—and also the physical hurt that you received.”
“The boy is nothing to me now. Are all men fools like that?”
“Not all men are fools, but there are plenty of dolts to spare for women who want them. But do not think too badly of Will. He lost his father—and, by making a bargain with us, set up the chain of events that led to his father’s death. But forget him. He is in the past and could never have been part of your life anyway. You are a witch and will soon become a fully fledged assassin. He will become a knight. You come from different worlds.”
“Yes, I will try to forget him. I will push him from my mind.”
Thorne fell silent, so after a moment I spoke again. “What about the torture?” I asked.
“The pain of being stabbed with the bodkin was terrible at first,” Thorne answered, “but after a while I grew less sensitive and coped better. The priest realized that, so he threatened to take my thumb bones. He was enjoying my fear and really meant to cut them from me while I still lived. I could read it in his eyes. It was unbearable. Never have I felt such terror and despair. All that I have been and could have become would have been taken from me. I would have been nothing—a shameful thing, to be ridiculed forever.”
“Well, it did not happen, child. You were brave and bore the pain. The priest is dead, and you live to fight another day. We will destroy our enemies and prevail.”
“Will we be safe in the dell?” Thorne asked. “Will we find allies there?”
“Nowhere on this earth is safe for us now, child. But it depends on who we encounter first. Some of the dead may be well disposed toward us; most will just want our blood. But they will protect their territory. If we can get into the heart of the dell, they will defend it against the larger threat of those who pursue us.”
“Witch Dell is the place where you fought Kernolde and became the witch assassin, isn’t it?” Thorne asked.
“It is indeed, child. Years have passed, but it seems like only yesterday.”
“Tell me about it,” Thorne asked.
“You know the story. You’ve heard it from my own lips more than once.”
I listened to the wind sighing through the trees and checked our surroundings for danger. All was clear. Our enemies were still some distance away.
“Then please tell it one more time. Stories change a little with each telling. A good teller of tales remembers new things and forgets what is least important.”
I sighed, but then began my tale. Why not? It would distract us both for a while from the danger that lay ahead and behind.
“The challenge always took place north of the three villages of the Malkins, Deanes, and Mouldheels; the spot was usually selected by the then-assassin.
“Kernolde chose as her killing ground Witch Dell, where she routinely used these dead things as her allies—the only witch who has ever done so successfully. More than one challenger was drained of blood by the dead before Kernolde took her thumb bones as proof of victory.”
“Wasn’t that cheating, to use dead witches to aid her?” Thorne asked.
“Some might think so, but she had been the Malkin assassin for many years. She was feared. Who would dare to question what she did?”
“I’ve heard that some of the dead witches are really strong and can roam for miles seeking their prey. How many are there at present like that?” Thorne asked.
“There were five until autumn, but as you know, eve
n dead witches do not survive forever. Gradually they weaken, and parts of their bodies begin to decay and fall off. I learned from Agnes that the winter took its toll; now there are only three really strong ones.”
“Who will they side with—you or our enemies?”
“That is uncertain, child. But if at least two fight alongside us, the balance of power will be in our favor.”
Thorne nodded, deep in thought. “Tell me more about Kernolde,” she demanded.
“Kernolde often proved victorious without her dead allies. She was skilled with blades, ropes, traps, and pits full of spikes, but her specialty was strangulation. Once they were defeated, she invariably strangled her opponents. She enjoyed inflicting that slow death upon those she had overcome.
“I knew this long before my challenge began. I’d thought long and hard about it and had visited the dell many times during the previous months. I had usually gone there in daylight, when the dead witches were dormant and Kernolde was out hunting prey. I had sniffed out every inch of the wood; knew every tree, every blade of grass, the whereabouts of every pit and trap. And there were lots of those. Some who fought Kernolde died even before they reached her.
“So I was ready. I stood outside the dell in the shadow of the trees just before midnight, the appointed time for combat to begin. High to my left was the large mass of Pendle Hill, its eastern slopes bathed in the light of the full moon, which had risen high to the south. Within moments a beacon flared at the summit, sparks shooting upward into the air to signal the beginning of my challenge.
“Immediately I did what no other challenger had done before. Most crept into the dell, nervous and fearful, in dread of what they faced. Some were braver but still entered cautiously. I was different. I announced my presence in a loud clear voice.”
“Let me say it for you, Grimalkin. Please!” Thorne interrupted.
I nodded, and Thorne got to her feet, put on a very serious face, and called out the words that I had used all those long years ago:
“‘I’m here, Kernolde! My name is Grimalkin, and I am your death!’” she shouted at the top of her voice. “‘I’m coming for you, Kernolde! I’m coming for you! And nothing living or dead can stop me!’”
She sat down, and we both laughed for a while. “Did you mean it?” Thorne asked. “Did you really believe your own words?”
“To a certain extent I believed. It was not just bravado, although that played no small part. My behavior was a product of much thought and calculation. I knew that my shouts would bring the dead witches toward me, and that’s what I wanted. Now I would know where they were. It is always important to spy out the location of any danger that we face.
“Most dead witches are slow, and I knew that I could outpace them. It was the powerful ones I had to beware of. One of them was named Gertrude the Grim because of her intimidating and repulsive appearance, and she was both strong and quick for one who had been dead for more than a century. She roamed far and wide beyond the dell, hunting for blood. But tonight she would be waiting within it, for she was Kernolde’s closest accomplice, well rewarded in blood for aiding each victory.
“I waited for fifteen minutes or so, long enough to let the slowest witch get near to me. I’d already sniffed out Gertrude, the old one. She’d been close to the edge of the dell for some time but had chosen not to venture out into the open; she had moved in among the trees so that her slower sisters could threaten me first. I could hear the rustling of leaves and the occasional faint crack of a twig as they shuffled forward. They were slow, but never underestimate a dead witch. They have great strength, and once they have hold of your flesh they cannot easily be pried free. Soon they begin to suck your blood, until you weaken and can fight no more. Some would be in the ground, hiding within the dead leaves and mud, ready to reach out and grasp at my ankles as I sped by.
“I sprinted into the trees. I had already sniffed out Kernolde, and she was exactly where I expected, waiting beneath the branches of the oldest oak in the dell. This was her tree, the one in which she stored her magic; her place of power.”
I enjoyed telling the tale to Thorne and thus reliving my fight to become the witch assassin. I have won many battles since, but that first victory brought me the greatest enjoyment because it was where Grimalkin truly began.
“A hand reached up toward me from the leaves. Without breaking stride, I slipped a dagger from the scabbard on my left thigh and pinned the dead witch to the thick gnarled root of a tree. And here is some good advice for you, Thorne. Never pin a witch through the palm of her hand—she can simply tear herself free. Always thrust your blade into the wrist rather than the palm. And that is what I did.
“Another witch shuffled toward me from the right, her hideous face lit by a shaft of moonlight. Rivulets of saliva dribbled down her chin and dripped onto her tattered gown, which was covered in dark stains. She jabbered curses at me, eager for my blood. Instead she got my blade, which I plucked from my right shoulder sheath, hurling it toward her. The point took her in the throat, throwing her backward. I ran on even faster.
“Four more times my blades speared dead flesh, and by now the other witches were left behind, the slow and those I’d maimed. But Kernolde and the powerful old one waited somewhere ahead. I wore eight sheaths that day; each contained a blade. Now only two remained.
I leaped a hidden pit, then a second. Although they were covered with leaves and mud, I knew they were there. At last Grim Gertrude barred my path. I came to a halt and awaited her attack. Let her come to me! Her tangled hair fell down to her knees. She was grim indeed, and well named! A worm wriggled and dropped from her left nostril. Maggots and beetles scuttled through the slimy curtain that obscured all of her face save one malevolent eye—that, and an elongated black tooth that jutted upward over her top lip almost as far as her left nostril.
“She ran toward me, kicking up leaves, her hands extended to claw at my face or squeeze my throat. She was fast for a dead witch, very fast. But not fast enough. With my left hand, I drew the largest of my blades from its scabbard at my hip. As you know, this knife is not crafted for throwing; it is more akin to a short sword, with razorsharp edges. I leaped forward to meet Grim Gertrude, and with one blow I cut her head clean from her shoulders.
“It bounced on a root and rolled away. I ran on, glancing back to see her searching among the pile of rotting leaves where it had come to rest.”
“Is Gertrude still to be found in the dell?” Thorne asked.
“There are few sightings of her now,” I answered. “She is failing, her mind decaying more quickly than her body. No doubt I hastened her demise. But back to my story . . . once Gertrude was dealt with, I was ready to face Kernolde. She was waiting beneath her tree. Ropes hung from the branches, ready to bind and hang my body. She was rubbing her back against the bark, drawing strength for the fight. But I was not afraid—to me she looked like an old she bear ridding herself of fleas rather than the dreaded witch assassin feared by all. Running at full pelt straight for her, I drew the last of my throwing knives and hurled it at her throat. End over end it spun, my aim fast and true, but she knocked it to one side with a disdainful flick of her wrist. Undaunted, I increased my pace and prepared to use the long blade. But then the ground opened up beneath my feet, my heart lurched, and I fell into a hidden pit.
“I remember my feeling of shock at that moment. I had been so confident, but as I fell I realized that I had underestimated my opponent. A speedy victory had been snatched away—however, I was resilient and still determined to survive and fight on.
“The moon was high, and as I fell I saw the sharp spikes waiting to impale me. I twisted desperately, trying to avoid them, but it was impossible. All I could do was contort myself so that my body suffered the least damage.
“The least, did I say? The spike hurt me enough, damaged me badly. It pierced my outer thigh, and I bear the scar to this day. Down its length I slid, until I hit the ground hard and all the breath left my body, the l
ong blade flying from my hand to lie out of reach. I lay there in agony, struggling to breathe and control the extreme pain in my leg. The spikes were sharp, thin and very long—more than six feet—so there was no way I could lift my leg and free it. I cursed my folly. I had thought myself safe, but Kernolde had dug another pit, probably the previous night. No doubt she’d been aware of my forays into the dell and had waited until the very last moment to add this extra trap.
“A witch assassin must constantly adapt and learn from her mistakes. Even as I lay there, facing imminent death, I recognized my stupidity. I had been too confident. If I survived, I swore to temper my attitude with a smidgeon of caution.
“Kernolde’s broad moon face appeared above me, and she looked down without uttering a word. I was fast and I excelled with blades. I was strong too, but not as strong as Kernolde. Not for nothing did some call her Kernolde the Strangler. As I’ve told you, once victorious, Kernolde usually hung her victims by their thumbs before slowly asphyxiating them. Not this time, though. She had seen what I had achieved already and would take no chances. I would die here.
“She began to climb down into the pit, preparing to place her powerful hands about my throat and squeeze the breath and life from my body. I was calm and ready to die if need be—but I had already thought of something. I had a slim chance of survival.
“As Kernolde reached the bottom of the pit and began to weave her way toward me through the spikes, flexing her big, muscular hands, I prepared myself to cope with pain—not the pain that she would inflict upon me; that which I chose myself. My hands and arms and shoulders were very strong. The spikes were thin but sturdy, flexible, not brittle. But I had to try. Seizing the one that pierced my leg, I began to bend it. Back and forth, back and forth, I flexed and twisted the spike, each movement sending pain shooting down my leg and up into my body. But I gritted my teeth and worked the spike ever harder, until finally it yielded and broke, coming away in my hands.
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