“This is called Monks’ Hill,” Lizzie told me. “This was once a monastery—until the monks were taken and drained of their blood, one by one. This marsh used to be home to scores of water witches who did as they liked. Until the spooks grew stronger in the County, that is. Even now, but for Arkwright and his dogs, they’d soon be back for good. Ain’t no doubt about that, girl.”
Lizzie led the way to the top of the incline and hunkered down with her back to the wall, facing the marsh. I settled down at her side and followed her gaze. Nothing moved, but I felt very uneasy. There wasn’t even a breath of wind, and a mist was starting to rise, its snakelike tendrils twisting up onto the lower slopes of the hill.
Suddenly Lizzie sniffed three times before giving me an evil grin. “They’ll be here shortly, but I’d as soon watch ’em for a while without being seen.”
Didn’t bother sniffing myself, did I? I was sure Lizzie was right. I could sense danger approaching.
She began to mutter under her breath, and I recognized the cloaking spell.
“That should keep us hidden,” Lizzie said.
I was confused. “I thought you wanted to form a coven with them?”
“It all depends which of our slimy sisters show up here,” she replied. “Most water witches are stupid—little better than animals. In return for a bit of blood, they’ll help me capture the seven children I need. But there’s one sister who is really dangerous. I don’t want any dealings with her. She’d want the egg all for herself. Her name is Morwena, and her father was the Fiend himself. No, we don’t want her to see us!”
As Lizzie spoke the name Morwena, a ripple of cold fear ran right up my spine. I felt sure I’d heard that name before; it was as if someone had walked over my grave.
I was surprised to see fear in Lizzie’s eyes too. “How dangerous is she?” I asked. “Has she powerful dark magic?”
“Aye, that she has, girl. She’s stronger and faster than any of her sisters, and she has a deadly weapon—a blood-filled eye. One glance and you’re paralyzed, rooted to the spot like a defenseless tree before a forester with a big, sharp ax. You’re helpless while she sinks her sharp fangs into your throat. So if we see her here tonight, we’ll leave and look elsewhere for the help I need.”
We waited in silence until darkness fell and we could no longer see the edge of the marsh. But the sky was clearing, and soon a moon shone down, bathing the whole area in its silvery light.
All at once I saw a movement below—and this time I wasn’t imagining it. A ripple on the water, the lightest of splashes, and then a dark shape dragged itself up onto dry ground at the foot of the hill. It was the first of the water witches, and she stood with her back to us, water dripping from her tattered clothes, which seemed to be composed of weed and slime rather than cloth.
Suddenly she turned in our direction and sniffed very loudly, as if searching for us. I held my breath, but Lizzie’s cloaking magic proved strong enough. The witch turned back to face the water, but not before I’d glimpsed the long fangs protruding from her open mouth and the sharp talons that sprouted from each finger. And then I noticed that each of her forefingers was exceptionally long.
Soon other water witches joined her on the bank, and they began to talk. I say talk, but it was hardly speech. I recognized a few words, such as “hungry” and “blood,” but mostly it was just a series of grunts and belches.
I had always looked down on most of the Malkins. The stench of their cottages, with the heaps of bones left in the sink or by the door, turned my stomach, but these creatures were far worse. Lizzie was right. These water witches were little better than animals. Did we really want to be teaming up with them? I asked myself.
Soon there were about a dozen witches dripping on the edge of the marsh; a few were dragging something strange onto the bank. It was a tubular wooden cage, about one and a half times the length of a tall man but considerably narrower than a human torso. Within it, something was moving.
And more was to come. The next three witches to emerge from the water brought prisoners with them: two men and a woman, who looked half drowned. They were choking and sputtering, the whites of their eyes showing, and covered in bog slime from head to toe. They were thrown down into the mud without ceremony, rolled onto their backs, dragged about ten paces away from one another, and arranged in a row. Next, short stakes were driven into the ground a little way from their heads and feet. Then, quickly and efficiently, their arms and legs were bound to the stakes with narrow twine. The two men were hardly breathing now, but the woman groaned as the twine was pulled taut, stretching her arms and legs wide.
The witches formed a line on the bank facing the prisoners. This meant that they were now looking toward Lizzie and me too. As they joined hands and began to chant, I wondered whether their combined magical power might allow them to see through the magical cloak the Lizzie had summoned. That made me nervous.
Wasn’t bad at cloaking spells myself, but as much as I wanted to, I daren’t add mine to hers. Take it as an insult, she would—it would seem like I doubted her.
I needn’t have worried. Her magic proved strong enough. Soon the water witches stopped chanting, and one of them left the line. This one did not approach the prisoners, as I had assumed she would. She made directly for the wooden cage. In seconds she had opened a hinged door at the end; then she rejoined her slimy companions.
I stared at the cage, fascinated. For a few moments nothing moved. Then something slowly emerged from the open door. It looked like a large insect and stepped delicately on spindly legs. All at once I saw its elongated head, and I began to tremble with fear. It had a long, thin snout, which I knew was called a bone tube. I had never seen such a creature in the flesh before, but I had seen drawings in a book from Lizzie’s small library about dark magic.
This creature was a skelt.
For a moment it seemed to be looking right at me. Suddenly it gave a loud hiss and turned to face the three captives. With a shrug, it appeared to grow larger and, on eight multijointed legs, scuttled toward the nearer man. It thrust its long snout into his chest, and the victim cried out in pain. Immediately I saw the bone tube darken. If I had been watching by sunlight rather than moonlight, I knew I would have seen the transparent tube turn a bright red. The creature was sucking up blood from its victim at an alarming rate.
After that first cry of pain, the victim merely gave a series of moans, which gradually became weaker. When the skelt withdrew its bone tube, the man gave a loud gasp and a sigh. I knew he had taken his final breath.
Now the skelt turned its attention to the next in line. This was the woman; she began to struggle against her bonds and scream at the top of her voice. But in vain: The skelt was upon her in seconds, this time thrusting its sharp snout into her neck. Once more the tube darkened, and the woman’s screams became a choking gurgle—until the skelt had drained her of blood, and she twitched and lay still.
The third victim did not scream or struggle. He began to pray out loud.
“Father, forgive them!” he cried into the night. “Let them see the error of their ways and turn away from the darkness. I accept the pain of my death. Use it to lessen the pain of others.”
I wondered if he was a priest. But priest, farmer, innkeeper, or bargeman, it made no difference to the predator which scrambled up onto his body. The man tried to speak again, but instead his body convulsed as the skelt stabbed his neck. Soon he too lay still.
The skelt moved slowly away from his body, and then turned toward the still and silent line of witches, who were staring at it as if waiting for something.
Surely it wasn’t going to attack them? I thought. How much blood did the terrible creature need?
But it was not the skelt that attacked.
It was the witches!
They surged toward us, madness in their eyes.
CHAPTER XII
BETSY GAMMON
FOR a heart-stopping moment I thought Lizzie and I were their targets. B
ut I was wrong. As if at some silent, invisible signal, they ran toward the skelt, mouths wide, showing their sharp fangs. They stretched their hands out toward it; long talons gleamed in the moonlight.
The creature tried to scuttle through the surging throng to reach the water, but there were too many of them and they were too fast.
Ferociously they fell upon the skelt and, to my horror, began to tear it to pieces. Arms, legs, and head were ripped from the body as blood began to pool on the muddy ground—no doubt its own blood as well as that of the three people it had gorged itself on. Like some insects, its body was divided into two segments, and these were quickly sundered by the taloned hands. Even afterward, the legs and body segments continued to twitch.
I realized that these water witches were exceptionally strong and wondered how Lizzie dared to try and enlist them in her cause. What if they turned on us? All her magic would be useless against so many fierce creatures who seemed hardly human at all.
For now they were feeding upon the remains of the skelt, breaking into its body cavities to feed, splitting its limbs with their teeth to strip the meat from within.
I watched them, revolted and yet unable to pull my gaze away from the sight. It was then that I heard the barking. . . .
The witches looked up from their frantic feeding. Now, in addition to the baying of approaching dogs, I could hear the pounding of heavy boots.
“It’s Arkwright and those wolfhounds, back sooner than we expected!” Lizzie hissed into my ear. “Whatever you do, girl, don’t move and don’t make a sound. The cloak should protect us from the spook, but the biggest danger is that the dogs might sniff us out. With luck they’ll be too busy biting pieces out of our slimy sisters!”
As the dogs emerged from the mist, teeth gleaming in the moonlight, saliva dripping from their open jaws, most of the witches ran for the water. They entered quickly, with hardly a splash, submerged, and disappeared from sight.
For some reason, about five of them sprinted along another path into the marsh. I thought they were going to escape too, but the last one left it too late.
The first wolfhound seized her ankle in its jaws. She fell to her knees but struck back viciously at the animal. The long talons would have sliced open its head, but just in time, the second dog leaped onto her and gripped her wrist firmly in its jaws, shaking it like a rat.
The dogs looked capable of finishing her off, and she began to shriek and thrash, trying to drag herself back toward the water’s edge. But then the shaven-headed spook emerged from the mist and, with a curse, clubbed the witch with his long staff, striking her on the back of the skull. She went limp, and without hesitation he seized her by her long, matted hair.
“Good girl! Good lad!” he exclaimed. “Now let go and we’ll take her back and put her where she rightly belongs!”
At that, the dogs obediently relinquished their prey, and Arkwright began to drag the witch away by the legs, her head bouncing along the muddy path.
Lizzie grinned at the sight of this. I couldn’t understand it. This spook was the enemy of witches. It could just as easily be our heads banging on the ground.
Within moments, spook, water witch, and hounds had vanished into the mist.
When the sounds of their retreat had faded away, Lizzie turned toward me and twisted her face into an evil smile. “Well, girl, this could work out better than I expected!” she said, full of glee.
“I don’t understand. Doesn’t this spoil your plan?” I asked.
“Be patient and I’ll explain later. Just keep still and be quiet.”
But I was curious and couldn’t resist asking Lizzie a question.
“Why did the witches let the skelt feed first, before taking the victims’ blood at secondhand?” I asked. “They’re really strong. They could have ripped those people to pieces with their bare hands!”
“Of course they could, girl!” Lizzie snapped. “But that’s part of their ritual, ain’t it? Taking human blood that the skelt has already sucked up triples the strength of the magic.”
After about half an hour, to my dismay, I once more heard the barking of the dogs getting louder and louder.
“They must have our scent,” I told Lizzie nervously. “Let’s run for it!”
“You stay put, girl. Got scents aplenty, they have, but they ain’t ours, don’t you worry.”
I didn’t understand how she could be so sure. Once more the dogs bounded out of the mist, the grim-faced spook hard on their heels. For one heart-stopping moment I thought they were going to run right at us, but then the dogs halted on the bank near the cage, sniffing at the blood-soaked ground and moving in widening circles.
Within moments they had bounded away down the path taken by the escaping witches, and Arkwright followed, gripping his staff, his face hard with determination.
When at last the sound of their pursuit faded away into the distance, I whispered to Lizzie, “Wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night.”
“You ain’t spoken a truer word, girl. They don’t come any meaner. It’s one thing to deal with an old spook like Jacob Stone; facing the Arkwrights of this world is a different matter. Ruthless, he is, and never gives up. Those dogs of his can track prey even across a marsh. Before dawn he’ll no doubt catch at least one more of our slimy sisters. But while he’s away, we have time to set the first one free!”
With those words Lizzie set off, heading back in the direction we’d come from—toward the old water mill where the spook lived.
When we reached the edge of the moat, Lizzie halted and stared at me hard. “What do I want?” she demanded at last.
“To be carried across the salty water,” I replied.
“Of course I do, girl, so what are you waiting for? Shouldn’t have to ask, should I? You know what needs to be done!” she hissed.
So I gave Lizzie a piggyback across the moat, through cold water that came just above my knees. Since I wasn’t yet a witch, neither the water nor the salt worried me. On the other side, she led the way toward the dilapidated mill. I thought she was going to try and get in through the front door, or maybe break a window. Instead she went around the side, heading toward the waterwheel. There were bits of it missing—it didn’t look like it had moved in years, despite the stream that still flowed beneath it.
There was a narrow door beside the wheel, but when Lizzie turned the handle and pushed, she found it was locked.
“Soon have that open,” she crowed, bending forward so her mouth was level with the lock. Then she spat into it and muttered a spell I didn’t know under her breath. She cocked her head and placed her ear next to it as if listening for something.
Don’t know why she needed to put her dirty earhole so close. I heard it from three paces away—the grind and click as the lock opened. With a smile of triumph, Lizzie seized the handle again, turned it, and opened the door.
Inside there was a stink of rotten wood, and the air was damp. It was muddy underfoot, and on our left, through the gloom, I could make out the big curve of the waterwheel. With a mutter, Lizzie tugged something out of her skirt pocket. Instantly a flame flickered into life, and she held it up and led the way forward.
She moved slowly and cautiously. No doubt she reckoned the spook might have set some sort of trap to catch anyone who managed to get inside. She shuffled right and left as if searching for something. Then, at last, she found it.
We came to the edge of a square pit with thirteen bars across the top. Lizzie held out the candle to illuminate it. The pit was filled with water, but there was a shelf of mud on one side, and the captured water witch was lying there on her back, looking up at us, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
I’d thought that some of the Pendle witches were ugly, but this water witch was truly grotesque, with her big scary fangs. Would we be safe if Lizzie freed her from the pit? I wondered.
“Listen, sister,” Lizzie called down to her. “Come to get you free, we have. In return I’ve a proposal for you, and another e
leven of your kind. Will you take us to your keeper so we can talk terms?”
I wondered what Lizzie meant by “your keeper,” but as usual she didn’t bother to explain what was going on.
The witch got to her knees and looked directly at Lizzie. Then I saw her nod.
“Right.” Lizzie smirked at me. “We have a deal, girl. I’ll soon get her out of here. No time for rats-and-flies magic, so it’s lucky we aren’t in Chipenden facing one of John Gregory’s witch pits. There the bars are securely fixed in place, and without magic we’d need the help of a blacksmith to pull ’em free. Here it’s just a hinged lid with two locks. Do you know why Arkwright makes it so easy to get in and out of this pit?”
I shrugged. I hadn’t got a clue.
“When John Gregory puts a witch in a pit, he means her to stay there until the end of her days, so the bars are permanent. That ain’t the case with Arkwright. If a witch kills an adult, it’s one year in the pit; two if it’s a child. He’s like a judge passing sentence, and at the end of their time he pulls ’em out and kills ’em. To make sure they ain’t coming back from the dead, he cuts out the heart, slices it in half, and feeds it to his dogs.”
Bill Arkwright was a really scary spook. Lizzie’s tale made me nervous. What if he tired of the chase and came back? I didn’t fancy being shut in one of his slimy pits!
Lizzie spat into each lock, and within moments both had clicked open. The lid was free, but there was no way that she was going to touch it.
“Made of iron, those bars are. You’ll have to lift the lid, girl. You ain’t a witch yet, so you shouldn’t feel much. Get on with it!”
The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection Page 238