“Want one o’ these?” Jennet asked, holding out her hand toward the other two girls.
Mab declined with a curt shake of her head, but Beth popped a couple into her mouth and began to chew. “Good, these,” she said with a crooked smile.
“Should be!” Jennet mumbled, stuffing her own mouth full of writhing maggots. “Got ’em from a dead cat. Black one, it was, too. Black-cat maggots are always the tastiest.”
“Well, sisters,” Mab said, squinting straight into my face. “What should we do with this ugly Deane? Roast her over hot coals, or tie her to a tree and let the crows peck out her eyes?”
“Best we cover her with leeches,” said Beth. “Once they’re plump and squishy with blood we can eat ’em! Nothing quite so juicy as a bloated leech.”
“Prefer sheep ticks,” Jennet said. “But they’re hard work collecting.”
“Ain’t a Deane any longer,” I interrupted, directing my words at Mab. “Finished with my family, I have. Could be on your side if you’d have me. Sick of the Deanes. Sick of the Malkins, too.”
“Who you trying to fool?” Mab sneered. “Wasn’t born yesterday, was I? You’d better talk now and tell us why you’re here. What brings you back to Pendle?”
“Supposed to be a seer, ain’t you?” I laughed. “Wouldn’t have to ask questions if you knew your craft!”
Shouldn’t have laughed like that. Mab was livid. Tried to fight ’em off, but my legs were bound and it was three against one. The twins held me down while Mab pulled out a blade and cut off a lock of my hair. I began to tremble then. Knew I was in her power now, all right. Using dark magic, they could hurt me real bad. They took me back to the row of cottages where Mab and her sisters lived. Got me down into a cellar and started to work on me.
The first time they questioned me it wasn’t that bad. Mab slapped me a few times. Getting her own back, she was, for the pasting I’d given her in the woods. I said nowt anyway. And didn’t cry out. Wouldn’t give ’em the satisfaction.
After that, they left me alone in the dark for an hour or so. There were four mirrors in that cellar, one on each wall. Despite the dark, out of the corners of my eyes I kept glimpsing things. Witches spying on me. Making sure I wasn’t trying to get away.
When Mab and her sisters came down the steps the second time, they meant business. Mab had my lock of hair. Kept stroking it, she did, and muttering dark spells. Then the pains started. Pins and needles in my feet for starters. Next bad cramps in my stomach. But the worst thing of all was when I started to choke. It was just like cold invisible hands squeezing my throat. Couldn’t breathe, could I? An hour of that and I told ’em everything they wanted to know. No hope of escape either. Even if I could have gotten free of the padlock and chain, they’d put a bind on me—a spell that meant I couldn’t go more than fifty paces from that cellar. Hopeless, it was.
Told ’em about Tom and the Spook staying at Downham presbytery. Told ’em why we’d come to Pendle—to rescue Tom’s family and get back his boxes.
“That’s all I need, Alice Deane!” Mab gloated. “I’m off to Downham now to lure Tom back here. I’ll tell him you asked me to bring him. He’ll follow me for sure then. We’ll have his bones before the night’s over!”
I really hadn’t wanted to do it. Last person in the world I’d hurt is Tom; I felt really bad giving his whereabouts away. Putting him in danger like that. And I was afraid that Mab’s plan to lure Tom here might just work. She set off for Downham right away, taking her sisters with her.
After that it was all up with me. Said they were going to take both my bones and my blood just before dawn. Left me down in the cellar for a couple of hours, then some others from their clan took me out into the yard, where a big cauldron was bubbling, and made me sit on the ground nearby. Lots of other Mouldheels there—they all came across and gathered round me. Thought they were going to hit me, but they just stared down at me, their mouths thin, hard lines. Women and men, there were—not all witches, but every last one of ’em a clan member and sworn enemy of a Malkin or a Deane.
Someone shouted that the food was ready, so they left me alone then. But they didn’t eat from the pot. Two big baskets full of roasted chicken were brought out, and they filled their plates and went and sat in small groups, leaving me be. Started laughing and chatting among themselves then. Nobody offered me any chicken but I was too scared and anxious to eat anyway.
An old woman was stirring the pot. She came across and sneered down at me. “Pain’s coming your way, girl!” she gloated. “Lots and lots of pain. It hurts a lot when they take your bones. No matter how sharp the knife, it’s still agony. Brewed you up a broth, though. I’ll fetch you some now.”
So saying, she went back to that bubbling pot and ladled some broth into a bowl. Came back and offered it to me. “Sip that, girl. Laced with special herbs, it is. It’ll take away some of the pain—not all of it, but it might just make it bearable.”
I shook my head. Maybe she meant it kindly but most likely not. Didn’t like the smell wafting up from the bowl she was holding under my nose. Some believe that the more it hurts when they take your bones, the more powerful the dark magic, so it could have been a broth to make me hurt more. I couldn’t take a chance. I shook my head a second time, and she shuffled away, grumbling and muttering under her breath.
Soon after that, Mab and her two sisters came down the hill. I was relieved that Tom wasn’t with them. Mab looked angry, so something must have gone wrong. Went right up to the fire, Mab did, and spat into it. Flames died down right away. Then, on Mab’s orders, one of the Mouldheel men picked me up and carried me back down to the cellar and left me alone.
I waited to die. Thought then of all I’d lost. I’d never see Tom Ward again. That hurt me most of all. Didn’t seem fair. Tears came to my eyes, and I sobbed deep in my throat. I’d assumed that we’d have years together; that I’d be with him until he’d finished his apprenticeship with Old Gregory and then some more. Couldn’t believe it was all over.
I was scared, too. Really scared. I thought of the knife, the pain, and dying in agony. It started to get really cold in that cellar. Witches kept glancing down at me from the mirrors on the walls. And then something else appeared in a mirror that was even more scary. I saw the ugliest of faces. Looked like a child, but it had no hair at all and a grown man’s features with really sharp needlelike teeth. What was it? And then, suddenly, I knew. It had to be Tibb, the creature that the Malkins and Deanes had made. It seemed to be looking straight at me, laughing and leering, till I turned away in fear and let a few tears come.
I heard boots coming down the steps and my heart began to race, my whole body trembling with fear. Then the door opened, and somebody was standing there holding a candle. But it wasn’t a Mouldheel with a sharp knife.
It was Tom Ward. He’d come to rescue me. From a clan of witches, I am, and don’t deserve to be Tom’s friend. But I’d do anything for him. Anything at all. Even die for him if necessary.
Alice
GRIMALKIN’S TALE
GRIMALKIN, the witch assassin, is deadly indeed and this plays an important role in the adventures of Tom Ward. The challenge is that she belongs to the dark, while Tom fights for the light. Their temporary alliances are frowned on by the Spook, who cannot tolerate any compromise with evil.
This is the story of how the young Grimalkin first decided to become a witch assassin; of how that seventeen- year-old girl challenged Kernolde the Strangler and fought her and her allies in the dark dell east of Pendle Hill.
The Witch Assassin
MY name is Grimalkin, and I fear nobody. But my enemies fear me. With my scissors, I snip the flesh of the dead, the clan enemies that I have slain in combat. I cut out their thumb bones, which I wear around my neck as a warning to others. What else would I do? Without ruthlessness and savagery I could not survive even a week of the life I lead. I am the witch assassin of the Malkin clan.
Are you my enemy? Are you strong, with spee
d and agility? Have you had the training of a warrior? It matters not to me. Run now! Run fast into the forest! I’ll give you a few moments’ start. An hour if you wish. Because no matter how hard you run, you’ll never be fast enough, and I’ll catch and kill you before long.
All the prey that I hunt I will slay. If it is clothed in flesh, I will cut it. If it breathes, I will stop its breath. And your magic daunts me not, because I have magic of my own. And boggarts, ghosts, and ghasts are no greater threat to me than they are to a spook. For I have looked into the darkness—into the blackest darkness of all—and now I am no longer afraid.
My greatest enemy is the Fiend, the dark made flesh, to whom a witch must make obeisance. But there is one way that a witch can free herself from his fearsome majesty—one way to ensure that he keeps his distance. She need be close to him just once, then bear his child. After that, after he has inspected his offspring, he may not approach her again.
Most of the Fiend’s children prove to be abhumans, evil creatures that will do the bidding of the dark. Others are born to be powerful witches. But a few—and it is rare indeed—are born perfect human children, untainted by evil. Mine was such a child, but I was not prepared for the Fiend’s reaction. With a roar of anger he picked up my innocent baby boy, lifted him high, and smashed his fragile head against a rock. Then he vanished.
For a long time I was insane with grief. And then thoughts of revenge began to swirl within my head. Was it possible? Could I destroy the Fiend? Impossible or not, that became my goal. My only reason to continue to live. I was still young; just turned seventeen, although strong and tall for my age. I had chosen to bear the Fiend’s child as a means to be free of him forever, and once I’d decided to pursue that course nothing could have stopped me. With the same dedication, I now sought the role of witch assassin as the first step to achieving revenge.
A scryer had placed the thought within my head. Her name was Martha Ribstalk, an incomer from the far north. At that time, before the rise of Mab, the young scryer of the Mouldheels, she was the foremost practitioner of that dark art. I visited her one hour after midnight as we had arranged. One hour after she had drunk the blood of an enemy and performed the necessary rituals.
“Do you accept my money?” I demanded.
She nodded, so I tossed three coins into the cauldron.
“Be seated!” she commanded sternly, pointing to the cold stone flags before the bubbling cauldron. The air was tainted with blood, and each breath that I took increased the metallic taste on the back of my tongue.
I obeyed, sitting cross-legged and gazing up at her through the steam. She had remained standing beyond the cauldron, so that her body would be higher than mine, a tactic often practiced by those who wish to dominate others. But I was not cowed and met her gaze calmly.
“What did you see?” I demanded. “What is my future?”
She did not speak for a long time. It pleased her to keep me waiting. I think Ribstalk was annoyed because I had asked a question rather than waiting to be told the outcome of her scrying.
“You have chosen an enemy,” she said at last. “The most powerful enemy any mortal could face. The outcome should be simple. The Fiend cannot approach you, but he can send many against you. He will await your death, then seize your soul and subject it to everlasting torments. But there is something else. Something that I cannot see clearly. An uncertainty. Another force that may intervene. For you, just a glimmer of hope.”
She paused, stepped forward, and peered into the steam. Once again there was a long pause. “There is someone there. A child just born . . .”
“Who is this child?” I demanded.
“I cannot see him clearly. Someone hides him from my sight. But even with that intervention, only one highly skilled with weapons could hope to survive with the Fiend as her enemy. Only one with the speed and ruthlessness of a witch assassin. Only the greatest of all witch assassins, more deadly even than Kernolde, could do that. Nothing less will do. So what hope have you?” Ribstalk mocked.
Kernolde was then the assassin of the Malkins. A fearsome woman of great strength and speed who had slain twenty-seven challengers for her position. Three each year, as this was the tenth year of her reign.
I rose to my feet and smiled down at Ribstalk. “I will slay Kernolde and then take her place. I will become the witch assassin of the Malkins. The greatest of them all.”
I turned and walked away, listening to the scryer cackling with mocking laughter behind me. But mine were not vain boasts. I believed that I could do it. I truly believed.
Three pretenders to the position of assassin were trained annually, but this year only two had come forward. No wonder, for most believed it was certain death to face Kernolde. The other two had been in training for six months. Thus half a year remained before the three days assigned for the challenges. I was given just that time to gain some of the skills necessary. Barely time for most to learn the rudiments of the assassin’s trade.
But I walked out of that training school after less than a month. The other two trainees had no confidence, and death was already written on their foreheads. Grist Malkin, our mentor and trainer, had already prepared twenty-seven defeated challengers before us. What could he teach me but how to lose and how to die? And one more thing that I have not yet told you. Grist had trained my older sister, Wrekinda. She was Kernolde’s fifth victim. One more reason to kill the assassin.
It was fortunate that I was a hunter and an able blacksmith; fortunate that I was already skilled in the ways of the forest and crafting weapons. Fortunate, too, that as the third accepted for training, I’d be the last to face Kernolde. Even in defeat the other challengers might injure her or, at least, drain some of her strength.
So I trained myself. Worked hard. Invited danger. In a forest, far north beyond the boundaries of the County, I faced a pack of howling wolves. They circled me, moving ever closer, death glittering in their eyes. I held a throwing knife in each hand. The first wolf leaped for my throat. Leaped and died as my blade found its throat first. The second died, too. Next I drew my long blade, awaiting the third attack. With one powerful sweep I struck the animal’s head from its body. Before the pack turned and fled my wrath, seven lay dead, their blood staining the white snow red.
I crafted the best blades of which I was capable. I wore them in sheathes about my body, which grew stronger and faster by the day. I ran up and down the steep slopes of Pendle to improve my stamina, readying myself for combat against Kernolde.
Did I say I hoped the other challengers would weaken the witch assassin? My hopes were short-lived. She slew each with ease; both were dead in less than an hour. On the third night, it was my turn.
The challenge always takes place north of the Devil’s triangle, where the villages of the Malkins, Deanes, and Mouldheels are located. Kernolde chose Witch Dell as her killing ground, where witches are taken by their families after death. Taken there and buried among the trees to rise with the full moon, scratching their way back to the surface to feed upon small animals and unwary human intruders. Some of the dead witches are strong and can roam for miles, seeking their prey. Kernolde used these dead things as her allies, sometimes as her eyes, nose, and ears; other times as weapons. More than one challenger had been drained of blood by the dead before Kernolde took her thumb bones as proof of victory. But Kernolde often proved victorious without these allies. She was skilled with blades, ropes, traps, and pits full of spikes; once they were captured or incapacitated, she invariably strangled her opponents.
All this I knew before my challenge began. I had thought long and hard about it. In the shadow of the trees I stood outside the dell just before midnight, the appointed time for combat to begin. High to my left was the large brooding mass of Pendle Hill, its eastern slopes bathed in the light of the full moon that was high to the south. Within moments a beacon flared at the summit, sparks shooting upward into the air, signaling the witching hour had begun.
Immediately, I di
d 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.
“I’m here, Kernolde! My name is Grimalkin, and I am your death!” I shouted loudly into the dell. “I’m coming for you, Kernolde! I’m coming for you! And nothing living or dead can stop me!”
It was not just bravado, although that played a part. It 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.
You see, most dead witches are slow, and I could sprint beyond them. It was the powerful ones I had to beware of. One of them was named Gertrude the Grim because of her intimidating appearance, and she was both strong and relatively speedy for one who had been dead 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 for aiding each victory.
I waited about fifteen minutes. I’d already sniffed out Gertrude, the old one. She’d been close to the perimeter for some time but had chosen not to venture out into the open and had moved back deeper into 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 I didn’t underestimate them. Dead witches have great strength, and once they grip your flesh cannot be easily prized free. They begin to suck your blood until you weaken and can fight no more. Some would be on the ground, hiding within the dead leaves, ready to reach out and grasp at my ankles as I sped by.
I sprinted into the trees. I had sniffed out Kernolde. She was 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.
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