Grimalkin's Tale

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 can I do? Without ruthlessness and savagery I would 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? Do you possess speed and agility? Have you had the training of a warrior? It matters nought 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 before long I’ll catch and kill you. I am a hunter and also a blacksmith skilled in the art of forging weapons. I could craft one especially for you; the steel that would surely take your life.
All the prey 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 greatest darkness of all – and I am no longer afraid.
My greatest enemy is the Fiend – the dark made flesh. Even as a child I disliked him; saw the way he controlled my clan; watched the way its coven fawned over him. That growing revulsion was something instinctive in me; a natural-born hatred. I knew that unless I did something, he would become a blight upon my life, a dark shadow over everything that I did.
But there is one way in which a witch can ensure that he keeps his distance. A method that is very extreme but ensures that she is free of his fearsome power. She has to be close to him just once and bear his child. After he has inspected his offspring, he may not approach her again. Not unless she wishes it.
Most of the Fiend’s children are abhumans – evil creatures that will do the bidding of the dark. Others grow 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.
I had never felt such love for another creature. To feel its warmth against my body, so trusting, so dependent, was wonderful beyond my dreams; something I had never imagined or anticipated. This little child loved me and I loved it in return; it depended upon me for life, and I was truly happy for the first time in my life. But such happiness rarely lasts.
I remember well the night that mine ended. The sun had just set and it was a warm summer’s night, so I walked out into the garden to the rear of my cottage, cradling my child, humming to him softly to lull him to sleep. Suddenly lightning flashed overhead and I felt the ground move beneath my feet. The Fiend was about to appear and my heart lurched with fear. At the same time I was glad, because once he saw his son he would leave and never be able to visit me again. I would be rid of him for the rest of my life.
I was not prepared for the Fiend’s reaction though. No sooner had he materialized than, with a roar of anger, he snatched my innocent baby boy and lifted him high in the air, ready to dash him to the ground.
‘Please!’ I begged. ‘Don’t hurt him. I’ll do anything but please let him live …’
The Fiend never even looked at me. He was filled with wrath and cruelty. He smashed my child’s 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 and my only reason to continue living. 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 for ever, and once I’d decided to pursue that course of action, nothing could stop me. Nothing would stop me now.
Wearing my thickest leather gloves, I forged three blades, each one tipped with silver alloy. It was painful for me even to be close to that metal which is harmful to all who have allegiance to the dark. But I gritted my teeth and did the work to the very best of my ability. Next I had to find my enemy – but that was the easy part.
The Fiend does not visit on every sabbath; some years he does not come at all. But Halloween was the most likely, and for some reason he particularly favours the Deanes at that time. So, shunning the Malkin celebration on Pendle Hill, I set off for Roughlee, the Deane village.
I arrived at dusk and settled myself down in a small wood overlooking the site of their sabbath fire. I was not too concerned about being detected. They would all be excited and distracted by their preparations, and besides, I had cloaked myself in my strongest magic, and such a thing as I planned would come as a surprise to them, to say the least. Most witches would consider it insane. The Deanes are not generally known for their imagination and are the least creative of the three clans.
Soon the witches began to gather and, combining their magic, they ignited the fire with a loud whoosh. Most of the fuel used was wood, but at its heart was a large pile of old bones, those no longer useful for dark magic. Most people call such a blaze a bonfire, but that name is derived from the word that witches use – bone-fire. The coven of the thirteen strongest witches formed a tight circle around its perimeter; their lesser sisters encircled them.
Just as the stink of the fire began to reach me, the Deanes began to curse their enemies. With wild shrieks and guttural cries, they called down death and destruction upon those they named. Someone old and enfeebled, or a witch grown careless might fall victim to such curses, but mostly they were wasting their time. All witches have defences against such dark magic. But I heard them name Caxton, the High Sheriff at Caster. He had arrested one of their number recently and now they wanted him dead. I knew that he would be lucky to survive the week.
As they finished cursing, there was a change in the fire: the yellow flames became orange, then red. It was the first sign that the Fiend was about to appear, and I heard an expectant gasp go up from the gathering. I stared towards the fire as he began to materialize. Able to make himself large or small, the Fiend was taking shape in all his fearsome majesty in order to impress his followers. The flames reached up to his knees, revealing that he was tall and broad – perhaps three times the size of an average man – with a long sinuous tail and the curved horns of a ram. His body was covered in thick black hair, and I saw the coven witches reach forward across the flames, eager to touch their dark lord.
I knew he would not stay for long. I had to strike now!
I left my hiding place in the trees and began to run as fast as I could, straight towards the fire. The witches would not see me approaching out of the darkness. Neither would they hear the pounding of my feet, distracted and excited as they were by the monster at the heart of the flames.
I had a blade in each hand; the third gripped tightly between my teeth. There was great danger here, but I hated the Fiend and was quite prepared to meet my death, either blasted by his power or torn to pieces by the Deanes. I cast my will before me; I had the power to keep him away but I did the reverse: I wished him to stay.
I ran through the gaps between those witches on the fringe of the gathering. As the throng became denser, I pushed them aside with my elbows and shoulders, and saw surprised and angry faces twisting towards me. At last I reached the coven and threw the first dagger. It struck the Fiend in the chest, burying itself up to the hilt. He shrieked long and loud. I’d hurt him badly and his cry of pain was music to my ears. But he twisted away in the flames so that my next two blades did not quite find their intended targets; even so, they buried themselves deep within his flesh.
For a moment he looked directly at me, his pupils red vertical slits. I had nothing with which to defend myself against the power that he could marshal: I waited to die. What was worse, however, he would, I well knew, find me after death and inflict never-ending torments on my soul.
Now I was willing him away. Would he go? Or would he destroy me first?
To my relief, he simply vanished, taking the flames of the fire with him so that we were all plunged into darkness. The rule had held. I had carried his child, so he could not be in my presence; not unless I wished it.
There was confusion all around me, shrieks of anger and fear; witches running in all directions. I slipped away into the darkness and made my escape. Of course, I knew that they would send assassins after me. It meant I’d have to kill or be killed.
I ran, heading north and passing beyond Pendle Hill, then curved away west towards the distant sea. I knew exactly where I was going, having planned my escape far in advance. On the flatlands, east of the river Wyre’s estuary, was the spot where I would make my stand. I had wrapped myself in a cloak of dark magic, but it would not be strong enough to hide me from all those who followed me. I needed to fight in a place where I might gain an advantage.
There is a line of three villages there: Hambleton, Staumin and Preesall, aligned roughly north to south, joined by a narrow track that sometimes becomes impassable because of the tide. On all sides they are surrounded by soggy moss. The river is tidal, with extensive salt marshes, and north-west of Staumin, right on the sea margin, is Arm Hill, a small mound of firm ground that rises above the grassy tussocks and treacherous channels along which the tide races to trap the unwary. On one side is the river; on the other, the marsh, and nobody can cross it without being seen from that vantage point.
I waited for my pursuers, knowing there would be more than one. My crime against the Deane clan was terrible indeed. If they caught me, I would die slowly and in great pain. The first of my enemies came into sight at dusk, picking her way slowly across the marsh grass.
As a witch, I have many skills and talents. One of these proved very useful now. As an enemy approaches, I instantly know her worth: her strength and ability in combat. The one crossing the marsh towards me now was competent enough, but not of the first order. No doubt her talents as a tracker and her power to penetrate my dark magical cloak had brought this witch to me first.
I waited until she was close, then showed myself to her. I was standing on that small hill, clearly outlined against the fading red of the western sky. She ran towards me, a blade in each hand. She did not weave; made no attempt to make herself a difficult target.
It was me or her. One of us would die. So be it!
I pulled my favourite throwing knife from my belt. This one was not tipped with silver alloy but that wasn’t necessary; it was sufficient to slay a witch. I hurled it at my attacker and it took her in the throat. She made a little gurgling noise, dropped to her knees and fell face down in the marsh grass.
She was the first human being I had ever killed, and I felt a momentary pang. But it quickly passed as I concentrated on ensuring my own survival. I hid the witch’s body under a shelf of grass tussocks, pushing her down into the mud. I did not take her heart. We had faced each other in honourable combat and she had lost. One night that witch would return from the dead, crawling across the marsh in search of prey. As she was no further threat to me, I would not deny her that.
I waited almost three days for the next to find me. There were two and they arrived together. We fought at noon, the late autumn sun painting the slow tidal ebb of the river blood-red. I was strong and fast, but they were veterans of such fights, with a repertoire of tricks that I had never encountered. They hurt me badly, and the scars of those wounds mark my body to this day. The struggle lasted over an hour, and it was close, but at last victory was mine, and the bodies of two more Deanes went into the marsh.
It was almost three weeks before I was fit to travel, but in that time they sent no more avengers after me. The trail had gone cold and it was unlikely that anyone would have recognized me that night when I attacked the Fiend. I thought long and hard about what had happened. I had hurt the Devil. Would he try to kill me in some way? Or might I find a way to destroy him first?
I consulted a scryer. Her name was Martha Ribstalk, an incomer from the far north. She did not use a mirror to see the future; her method was to peer into a steaming blood-tainted cauldron, one boiling up thumb- and finger-bones to strip away the dead flesh. 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 large bubbling pot. The air was tainted with blood, and each breath I took increased the metallic taste at the back of my tongue.
I obeyed, sitting cross-legged and gazing up at her through the steam. She had remained standing so that she was higher than me, a tactic often practised 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. Unless you wish it, the Fiend cannot approach you, but 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. Just a glimmer of hope for you …’
She paused, then stepped closer 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,’ Martha Ribstalk admitted. ‘Someone hides him from my sight. And as for you, even with his intervention, only one highly skilled with weapons could hope to survive. Only one with the speed and ruthlessness of a witch assassin. Only the greatest of all assassins – more deadly even than Kernolde – could do that. Nothing less will do. So what hope have you?’ she 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 Malkin assassin were trained annually, but this year one place remained to be filled. No wonder – for most believed it was certain death to face Kernolde. The other two witches had been in training for six months. Thus half a year remained before the three days assigned for the challenges. That was the time left for me to gain some of the skills necessary. Barely time for most to learn the rudiments of the assassin’s trade.
The training school was in a clearing in Crow Wood. My first day there filled me with dismay. The other two trainees had no confidence, and death was already written on their foreheads. I grew more and more disgruntled with every hour that passed.
At last, just before dark, I spoke my mind. We three were sitting cross-legged on the ground, looking up at Grist Malkin, our trainer. He was droning on about blade-fighting. Behind him were two sour-faced matriarchs of our clan, both witches. They were there to ensure we did not use magic against our trainer.
‘You are a fool, Grist!’ I snapped, no longer able to control my irritation. ‘You’ve already prepared twenty-seven defeated challengers before us. What can you teach us but how to lose and how to die?’
For a long time he did not speak but simply locked eyes with me and glared, his face twitching with fury. He was a big man, a head taller than me and heavily muscled. But I was not afraid and met his gaze calmly. It was he who looked away first.
‘On your feet, girl!’ he commanded.
I stood slowly and smiled.
‘Take that grin off your face. Don’t look at me!’ he barked. ‘Look straight ahead. Have some respect for your teacher. Listening to me might just save your life …’
He began to circle me slowly. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he disappeared behind my left shoulder. Suddenly he seized me in a bear hug, trying to squeeze the breath from my body. I felt a sharp pain as one of my ribs cracked.
‘Let that be a lesson to you!’ he cried, throwing me down into the dirt.
But I made sure that he did not speak again: I was on my feet in an instant and broke his nose with my left fist, the punch knocking him to the ground.
The struggle between us was over quickly. I did not let him get close to me again. My blows were swift and executed with precision. Within moments one of his eyes was swollen and closed. Seconds later, his forehead was split open and blood was running into his other eye. Unable to see, he could offer little defence and I quickly administered a chop, bringing him to his knees.
The two crones knelt at Grist’s side. One was his mother, and I saw that tears were streaming down her cheeks.
‘I could kill you now,’ I cried, ‘but you’re just a man and hardly worth the trouble!’
I began to walk away, but before I entered the trees I turned. I had one last thing to say.
‘I’m leaving this place,’ I told them. ‘But I’ll return to face Kernolde.’
There is one 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 witch assassin.
It was 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 weaken her, or at least drain some of her strength.
So I trained myself. I worked hard; invited danger; ate well; built up my strength; swam daily to increase my endurance for combat – mile upon mile despite the winter cold. I also crafted the best blades of which I was capable and carried them in sheaths 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 the fight to the death against Kernolde.
In a forest far to the north, beyond the boundaries of the County, I faced a pack of howling wolves. They circled me, moving ever closer, death glittering in their hungry 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 stroke 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.
At last the time to face Kernolde arrived and I returned to Pendle. 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 as her killing ground Witch Dell, where witches are taken by their families after death; taken there and buried amongst 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; sometimes 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 she often triumphed without these allies. She was skilled with blades, ropes, traps and pits full of spikes; once her opponents were captured or incapacitated, she would often simply strangle them to death.
All this I knew before my challenge started; I had thought long and hard about it and had visited this dell many times during the previous months. I had gone there in daylight, when the dead witches were dormant and Kernolde was out hunting prey in distant parts of the County. I had sniffed out every inch of the wood; knew every tree, the whereabouts of every pit and trap.
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 brooding mass of Pendle, its eastern slopes bathed in the light of the full moon, which was high in the sky to the south. Within moments a beacon flared at the summit, sparks shooting upwards into the air, signalling that the witching hour had begun.
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.
‘I’m here, Kernolde! My name is Grimalkin and I am your death!’ I shouted 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 the product of much thought and calculation. I knew that my shouts would summon up the dead witches, and that’s what I wanted. Now I would know where they were.
You see, most dead witches are slow and I could outrun them. It was the powerful ones I had to beware of. One of them was named Grim Gertrude 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 there: she was Kernolde’s closest accomplice, well-rewarded in blood, for she helped to bring about each victory.
I waited for about fifteen minutes – long enough to let the slowest witch get near. 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 retreated deeper into the trees so that her slower sisters could attack me first. I heard 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 fasten onto your flesh, they cannot be easily prised free. Soon they begin to suck your blood until you weaken and can fight no more. Some of them 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 already sniffed out Kernolde. She was where I expected, waiting beneath the branches of the oldest oak in the dell. That was her tree; the one in which she stored her magic; her place of power.
A hand reached up towards me from the leaves. Without breaking my stride, I unsheathed a dagger from the scabbard on my left thigh and pinned the dead witch to a thick, gnarled tree root. I thrust the blade into her wrist rather than her palm, making it more difficult for her to tear herself free.
The next witch shuffled towards me from my right, her face lit by a shaft of moonlight. Saliva was dribbling down her chain and 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 towards her. The point took her in the throat, throwing her backwards. I ran on even faster.
Four more times my blades sliced into dead flesh, and by now most of the other witches were left behind – the slow and those maimed by my blades. 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. Even though they were covered with leaves and mud, I knew they were there. At last the old one barred my path. I came to a halt and prepared myself to attack her. Let her come to me!
I looked at Grim Gertrude, noting the tangled hair that came down to her knees. She was grim indeed and well-named! Maggots and beetles scuttled within the rank curtain that obscured all of her face save one malevolent eye and an elongated tooth jutting upwards over her top lip almost as far as her left nostril.
She rushed towards me, kicking up leaves, her hands extended to rend 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. This was not crafted for throwing; it was more like a short sword, with two razor-sharp edges. I leaped forward and cut Grim Gertrude’s head clean from her shoulders. It bounced on a root and rolled away. I ran on, glancing back to see her hands searching amongst the pile of rotting leaves where it had come to rest.
Now for Kernolde. She was waiting beneath her tree. I saw that 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 – she looked more like an old bear ridding itself of fleas than the dreaded witch assassin feared by all. Running directly towards her at full tilt, I drew the last of my throwing knives and hurled it straight at her throat. End over end it spun, my aim fast and true, but she knocked it aside 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.
The moon was high, and as I fell I saw the sharp spikes below waiting to impale me. I twisted desperately, trying to protect my body, but to avoid every spike was impossible. All I could do was contort myself so that only one spike speared into me, inflicting the least damage.
The least, did I say? It hurt me enough: the spike pierced right through my thigh. Down its length I slid until I hit the ground hard and all the breath left my body, the long blade flying from my hand to lie out of reach.
I lay there, trying to breathe and control the 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 last moment to add another trap.
A witch assassin must constantly adapt and learn from her own mistakes. Even as I lay there, facing my imminent death, I recognized my stupidity. I had been too confident and had underestimated Kernolde. If I survived, I swore to temper my attitude with a smidgeon of caution. If …
The witch assassin’s broad moon-face appeared above and she looked down at me 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. Once victorious, Kernolde sometimes 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. She would soon put her hands about my throat and squeeze the breath and life from my body. I knew that I would die here.
She began to climb down into the pit. 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 towards me through the spikes, flexing her big muscular hands, I prepared myself to cope with pain. Not the pain she would inflict upon me; that which I chose myself.
My hands were strong; my arms and shoulders capable of exerting extreme leverage. The spikes in the pit were thin but sturdy; flexible, not brittle. But I had to try. From where I lay I could reach only the one that had pierced my leg, so I seized it and 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 away at the spike, until it finally yielded and broke, coming away in my hands.
Quickly I lifted my leg clear of the stump and knelt to face Kernolde, my blood running down to soak the earthen floor of the killing pit. I held the spike like a spear and pointed it towards her. Before her hands could reach my throat I would pierce her heart.
But the witch assassin had drawn much of her stored magic out of the tree, and now she halted and concentrated, beginning to hurl shards of darkness towards me. First of all she tried dread – that dark spell a witch uses to terrify her enemies, holding them in thrall to fear. Terror tried to claim me and my teeth began to chitter-chatter like those of the dead on the Halloween sabbath.
Kernolde’s magic was strong; but not strong enough. I braced myself and shrugged aside her spell. Soon its effects receded and it bothered me no more than the cold wind that had blown down from the arctic ice when I slew the wolves and left their bodies on the snow.
Next she used the unquiet dead – the ‘bone-bound’ – against me, hurling towards me the spirits she had trapped in Limbo. They clung to my body, dragging my arm down so that it took all my strength to keep hold of that spike. They were strong and fortified by dark magic – one was a strangler, who gripped my throat so hard that Kernolde herself might have been squeezing it. The worst of them was an abhuman spirit, the ghost of one born of the Fiend and a witch. He darkened my eyes and thrust his long cold fingers into my ears so that I thought my head was about to burst, but I fought back and cried out into the darkness and silence:
‘I’m still here, Kernolde! Still to be reckoned with. I am Grimalkin, your doom!’
My eyes cleared and the abhuman’s fingers left my ears with a pop so that sound rushed back. The weight was gone from my arms and I struggled to my feet, taking aim with the spike. Kernolde rushed at me then – a big ugly bear of a woman with strangler’s hands. But my aim was true. I thrust the spear right into her heart and she fell at my feet, her blood soaking into the earth to mix with mine. She was choking, trying to speak, so I bent and put my ear close to her lips.
‘You’re just a girl,’ she croaked. ‘To be defeated by a girl, after all this time … How can this be?’
‘Your time is over and mine is just beginning,’ I told her. ‘This girl took your life and now she will take your bones.’
After taking what I needed, I lifted Kernolde’s body out of the pit using her own ropes. Finally I hung her up by her feet so that at dawn the birds could peck her bones clean. That done, I passed through the dell without incident: the dead witches kept their distance. Grim Gertrude was on her hands and knees, still rooting around in the mouldy leaves, trying to find her head. Without eyes it would prove difficult.
When I emerged from the trees, the clan was waiting to greet me. I held up Kernolde’s thumb-bones, and they bowed their heads in acknowledgement of what I’d done; even Katrise, the head of the coven of thirteen, made obeisance. When they looked up, I saw the new respect in their eyes; the fear too.
Now I would begin my quest to destroy my enemy, the Fiend. The spikes in the pit had given me an idea. What if I crafted a sharp spike of silver alloy and somehow impaled the Fiend on it? What if it went right through his heart? And if that didn’t work, there had to be some other way …
One day I will find a way to destroy him.
My name is Grimalkin. I am the witch assassin of the Malkins and I fear nobody.