I chanted the necessary words, getting the cadence exactly right, and concentrated on exerting my will. For a second all became dark, and then I was floating above my chained body again, in a world within which everything was a shade of green. I looked down on myself, at the closed eyes and deep, steady breathing, then drifted toward the dungeon door. My spirit passed right through it.
I emerged in the passage beyond, and it was easy to find the room where Thorne was being tortured. It was the next cell to the left. The door was wide open, and a guard, his body glowing green with life force, was standing outside with his back against the wall. Once inside, I took in the situation with one glance.
Thorne lay on her back, tied to a metal table with thick ropes. There was blood on her bare shoulders and arms. A burly man was standing over her, stripped to the waist, his chest hairy and his skin gleaming with sweat. In his right hand he held a bodkin—he had been stabbing the long thin sharp point repeatedly into Thorne’s body. They were trying to find the place where she had supposedly been touched by the Fiend, the place where she could feel no pain, the place that proved she was a witch.
All this was completely unnecessary. We were clearly witches; we did not deny it. But the priest hovered close, wearing a smile on his thin lips. He was enjoying this.
And then I understood what it was that had caused Thorne to cry out and beg like that. It had little to do with the work of the bodkin on her body; little to do with the extreme pain that she must be suffering. No. What had caused her so much terror was the tool the priest was holding.
It was a pair of scissors that belonged to me, those with which I snipped away the thumb bones of my dead enemies. The remainder of my weapons were aligned in a neat row on a small wooden table in the far corner of the room. But the priest must have known something of witch lore, because he had selected the scissors.
Boiled up in a pot, accompanied by the correct rituals, thumb bones bring dark magical power to their possessor. But losing her thumb bones is one of the worst things that a witch can suffer. It brings great dishonor. All that a witch has achieved in her lifetime instantly becomes null and void. And such a fate is even more terrible for a witch assassin. Having been exalted, feared, and respected by her clan, she immediately becomes nothing more than an object of laughter and ridicule.
Although it is possible for a living witch to survive if her thumb bones are taken, most die of shock after such a procedure. But even if they are taken after death, there may be consequences. It is believed that a dead witch thus maimed cannot be reborn; she cannot return to walk the earth once more. She must remain in the dark forever.
No wonder Thorne had cried out in anguish at such a threat. For her, the worst thing would be the shame and loss of respect. Not only had she hoped to become the greatest Malkin assassin of all time; she wanted that reputation to endure after her death. With two snips of those scissors, the priest threatened to take that away from her.
I quickly took in the situation, noting the two other guards standing against the far wall. So there were four men to deal with in the room, and one outside in the passage.
I retreated fast, jerking my spirit back into my body as quickly as I could. I opened my eyes and began to use the last of my magical resources, twisting my neck and projecting my tongue out as far as I was able. I curled it around the necklace and manipulated the final potent thumb bone into my mouth. Next I sucked it, slowly drawing into my body the last of its stored power. That done, I released it and concentrated hard, focusing on the solitary guard outside the cell door.
My final shred of magic was certainly not strong enough to compel him to enter my cell and free me from my chains. But I could bring him to me in another way—by putting an element of doubt in his head. His duty would be to guard the passage, barring entry to the torture cell, but at the same time ensuring that I was safely confined. I used a simple spell that filled his mind with anxiety about me.
Seconds later he inserted a key into the lock, turned it, opened the door, and came into my cell. He took two steps forward and stared at me intently. I held my breath. What I was about to attempt was difficult, and I would only get one chance.
The wisdom tooth at the back of my lower left jaw is hollow. I’d drilled the deep, thin hole myself, with a tool I forged specially for the purpose. That tooth contains a fine needle coated with a poison that eats away at a person’s will, making them malleable enough to obey another’s commands. It is a poison to which I have built up an immunity over many years by taking very small doses and increasing them steadily. Thus I can store the poisoned needle in my mouth without suffering any adverse effects.
I flicked aside the false top of the tooth with the tip of my tongue and sucked the needle out of the cavity. A second later it was positioned between my lips. I had practiced this maneuver many times, but the needle was tiny and the guard still some distance away from me. Success was far from certain.
At the last moment he started to turn away. Some instinct of self-preservation must have made him aware of the danger. But he was too late. I spat the needle toward him with great force, and it embedded itself in the side of his neck, just below his right ear. He staggered and almost fell, and a look of bewilderment settled across his face.
“Look at me!” I urged. “Listen to all I say and obey every word without question!”
The guard stared at me. The poison had already taken effect. He was breathing noisily with his mouth open, and saliva was dribbling from his lower lip and dripping from his chin.
“Release me from my chains!” I commanded.
He came forward and did as I asked, but the poison made his movements slow, and he fumbled with the key. At any moment the priest might take Thorne’s thumb bones, but I had to stay calm and patient and wait to be released.
At last I was free. I took the guard’s weapons—two daggers and a heavy club. I could have killed him then, but there was no need. Instead I told him to lie down and fall into a deep sleep. He was snoring before I left the cell.
Hoping against hope that I would not hear Thorne scream, I tiptoed into the passage. The moment I showed myself in the doorway to the cell, I attacked. The priest was gripping Thorne’s left hand, the blades of the scissors wide open as he prepared to snip away the first of her thumb bones.
Faster than thought, I threw the blade in my left hand. My own weapons, particularly my throwing blades, are perfectly suited to their purpose—finely balanced and calibrated. I also practice with them constantly. This was an unfamiliar weapon and one designed for hand-to-hand combat—not throwing. So I took no chances.
Normally I would have gone for the throat or the eye; either shot would have slain the priest almost immediately. This time I buried my blade deep into his shoulder. It was an easy target, and it caused him to drop the scissors. Besides, I had other plans for him. I could always kill him later if it proved necessary.
With the other blade and the club, I attacked the two guards. I did not think; my body simply acted, guided by my long years of training, while my mind vibrated with the ecstasy of combat. Such was my speed that the first died before he could cry out. The second probably survived, but the blow to his temple laid him out cold. The whole thing had lasted barely two seconds. Beyond was the burly torturer, still gripping the bodkin he had used on Thorne. He stabbed it toward me, but I dashed it aside with the club and killed him by driving my dagger up under his ribs and into his heart.
The priest was on his knees now, whimpering with pain. I threw the club aside, and when I tugged the blade from his flesh, he screamed. I used the knife to cut the ropes that bound Thorne to the table. The priest’s cry did not alarm me; it was shrill and high and could well have been the cry of a girl being tortured. It would not bring others to investigate.
We had to get out of the castle, and I intended to use the priest as our hostage. The main barriers to our escape were the remaining archers. They could kill us from a distance.
“You’r
e safe,” I told Thorne, helping her from the table. “I know you are hurt and have endured an experience that might have broken the mind of a strong witch. But it is important that you gather yourself and prepare for danger. Are you ready, or do you need a few more moments to compose yourself?”
“I’m ready now,” Thorne answered, giving me a brave smile, her voice little more than a croak. I was proud of her at that moment; she had become more than I ever hoped for.
“Then first we have to retrieve the head of the Fiend.”
After returning my blades and scissors to their sheaths, I tore a strip from the hem of the priest’s cassock and used that to gag him. As I dragged him along, he made no attempt to resist; he looked terrified. We reached our chamber without incident, and soon the leather sack was safely on my shoulder once more.
Pushing the priest ahead of us, we reached the castle yard. It was dark outside, with heavy cloud, and three hours at least till dawn. That would make it more difficult for the archers.
There was a soldier on guard, standing with his back to the portcullis. He held a flickering torch aloft as we approached. It illuminated the figure of the priest first, and I saw the man’s expression of deference and obedience change to incredulity and fear as he saw the priest’s terrified face and the blood-soaked arm of his cassock.
I held a blade to the priest’s throat. “We are leaving. Prepare our way or he dies!”
With shaking hands the soldier began to raise the portcullis by turning the capstan. The clanks and rattles of the chains sounded very loud in the darkness. That would attract attention. Others would wonder why someone should be leaving or entering the castle at such an hour.
A voice called down from the battlements. “Who goes there? Show yourselves!”
We stepped closer to the wall and pressed ourselves into the shadows. The portcullis was rising very slowly. At last it was high enough for us to duck underneath.
“That’s enough. Now get that door open! Do it quickly!” I said, gripping the priest by the hair and pressing the blade against his throat.
The frightened soldier hastened to obey and unlocked the door quickly, pulling it inward until it was wide open, revealing the outer portcullis and the drawbridge beyond. He didn’t wait to be told to work the second capstan, and the portcullis was raised faster this time.
But now I could hear distant shouts of command and footsteps running toward us across the darkness of the yard. We did not enter the gateway, fearing that we might be targeted from the side, as we had been when we’d entered this place. We prepared to meet their attack, and I brought them into focus with my keen eyes. They were not archers, just three men armed with pikes.
“They are yours, Thorne!” I hissed. I knew that after suffering the pain of the torture, it would be good for her to get back into action as soon as possible.
“All three?”
“Yes, but make it quick!”
Thorne whirled forward to meet them, just as I had taught her. She was fast, and her combat skills were honed almost to perfection. Some had been acquired by long hours of practice, but there were some things that cannot be taught. Thorne had the art born in her, and with consummate grace she avoided the hastily jabbed pikes of the soldiers, and her blades flashed, dealing out death to all three in a matter of seconds.
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 l
ike 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.”