“Shall I take the lead for a while and carry the sack?” Thorne asked.
“By all means take the lead, child, but the sack is my burden.”
She came forward, sniffed the entrance for danger, and with a quick nod, went in.
I followed without hesitation. I trusted her judgment, and at present she was probably fitter, stronger, and more alert to danger than I was.
After a while we came to a pool of stagnant water, its surface the color of mud. Here there had once dwelled a dark creature called a wight, created by the Malkin coven to guard the tunnel. A wight is the large, bloated body of a drowned sailor; it is animated by its soul, which is bound to the will of its creators. Such a creature is usually blind, its eyes having been eaten by fishes before the body was salvaged. The wight hides under the water and, upon sensing the approach of an interloper, reaches up to grasp the ankle of its victim, who it drags beneath the surface and drowns.
Wights are strong and dangerous, but this one had been slain by one of the lamias, who had ripped its body to pieces. Now all that remained was a faint stink of rot and death. We picked our way along the narrow, slippery path that bordered the water and moved on farther into the tunnel. As yet there was no hint of danger, although the lamias could well be lurking somewhere ahead, out of normal sniffing range. I could have used my necklace bones to probe further, but I needed to conserve my finite store of magic.
We reached a stout wooden door set in the stone, hanging wide open upon its hinges. This was the entrance to the dungeons. In the days when this was a Malkin fortification, it would have been securely locked.
After sniffing for danger, Thorne led the way inside and we stepped into a dark, dank passageway flanked on either side by cells. Water dripped from above, and our footsteps echoed on the damp flags. All the doors were open and no living prisoners remained, but by the flicker of our candles we saw that some contained human bones, with partial skeletons dressed in mildewed rags still manacled to walls. Many had limbs missing, bitten off and dragged away by the hordes of rats that used to frequent the dungeons. There was no sign of them now, and I soon found out why.
We reached a large, high-ceilinged circular chamber, with stone steps curving upward to a jagged hole. There had once been a trapdoor that gave access to the floor above, but the lamias had enlarged the opening to afford them easy access. My gaze quickly moved from that to the circle of five stone supporting pillars. Each was hung with manacles and chains. This was where prisoners had been tortured. The farthest pillar—the one next to a wooden table covered in instruments such as knives and pincers—was different.
At its foot was a large wooden bucket into which blood was dripping. Thirteen chains hung down from the darkness above. Each terminated at a different height; each bore a dead creature. There were rats, rabbits, hares, a fat badger, a kestrel, and a black-and-white cat. Most were dead, their life blood having long since drained into the bucket. But two, both large gray rats with long whiskers, still twitched as their blood slowly leaked out, drop by drop.
“Why would a lamia do this?” Thorne whispered, her eyes wide.
“This is a lamia gibbet.... Its true purpose is unknown. Some think they are a warning to others, but there may well be another significance. No doubt enough blood eventually accumulates in the bucket to make it worthwhile,” I answered. “But lamias can hunt and kill much larger prey—sheep, for example. Maybe they enjoy the taste of such small creatures. Some Pendle witches actually prefer a rat’s blood to a human’s. But if this is so, why the thirteen chains? That suggests a ritual. Perhaps it’s some type of lamia magic,” I speculated.
As we stared at the grisly spectacle, we both suddenly sensed danger and glanced up at the hole in the ceiling. I sniffed quickly. “The lamia—it’s the winged one!” I warned.
A second later, something large dropped down toward us. It fell fast, wings held close to its body, like a hawk swooping toward its prey.
CHAPTER VII
PROMISE ME
Why kill the weak when you can fight the strong?
Why tell a lie when you can speak the truth?
A witch assassin should be honorable
and always keep a promise.
AT the last moment the lamia spread her wings wide, soared away from the wall, and began to circle the chamber. Then she swooped toward us again.
Thorne drew a blade. I shook my head. “Don’t be a fool!” I cried, grabbing her arm and dragging her in the direction of the narrow passageway. We would be better off there than in this huge chamber, where the lamia could attack us from above. I remembered how my blades had bounced off her scales in the battle on Pendle Hill.
We reached the entrance of the passage and stepped inside. The lamia landed in the very center of the chamber and started to scuttle toward us on all four limbs. This type of winged lamia, known as a vaengir, was relatively rare but extremely dangerous. It would be better to negotiate than fight—but I would kill her if necessary.
She halted less than six feet away and stood up on her muscled hind limbs, stretching her forelimbs toward us threateningly. I knew that such creatures could move very quickly. She could be upon us in a second. So I put down the sack, stepped in front of Thorne, and drew my long blade.
But rather than attacking us, the lamia spoke. “Who are you, witch? You are foolhardy to enter our domain for a second time!”
Thorne looked at me in astonishment. I had not told her that I had visited the tower in spirit.
“I am Grimalkin, the assassin of my clan, the former owners of this tower. I come in peace. I am an ally of Thomas Ward and therefore yours too. We oppose the Fiend—he is our mutual enemy.”
“And who is the child who cowers to your rear?”
Thorne stepped forward and pointed her blade toward the lamia. “I am named Thorne, and I serve Grimalkin. Her will is my will. Her enemies are my enemies. Her allies are my allies. I cower before nothing and fear nothing!”
“You speak bravely, child. But courage alone will not protect you from my claws and teeth.”
“You would not threaten us if you truly knew who Grimalkin is,” Thorne snapped. “She is the greatest Malkin assassin who has ever lived. None of her clan now dare challenge her. Some enemies have died of fear in their beds after hearing that she hunts them down.”
“I already know of her fearsome reputation,” said the lamia, “but I have lived for centuries, and the telling of my deeds would exhaust the breath of a thousand minstrels. What brings you both to this tower?”
“We seek refuge for a while,” I answered. “Our enemies pursue us. But we fear nothing for ourselves; our terror is that this should fall into their hands.”
I held up the sack. “This contains the severed head of the Fiend. I have impaled his body and buried it in a pit far from here, across the sea. Our enemies wish to reunite the two parts and restore his strength. Tom Ward seeks a way to finally destroy him, but we need to gain time for him to do so. The head must remain safe.”
The eyes of the lamia closed for a moment, as if she was deep in thought. Then she nodded slowly and pointed a taloned forefinger up toward the hole in the ceiling. “We sensed the binding of the Fiend and his pain. All who serve the dark felt that the very moment it was accomplished. I would see this head, and so would my sister. Follow me up into the tower.”
With those words, she leaped into the air and soared aloft. Moments later she had flown out of sight through the hole.
“It might be a trick,” Thorne said. “Once we’re in the open she could well attack.”
I nodded. “But it’s a chance we’ll have to take,” I said, and picking up the sack and holding the candle aloft, I passed between the nearest two pillars and began to climb the spiral staircase.
Scrambling up through the jagged hole in the ceiling, we emerged into the huge underground cylindrical base of the tower. Of the lamia, there was no sign. Water dripped from above, no doubt seeping into the stones from the moat. Cau
tiously we continued up the narrow spiral steps, which were slippery and treacherous. On our left was the stairwell, and to fall would result in certain death; on our right was the curve of the wall, and set into it at intervals were doors, each a dank, dark cell to hold prisoners. I peered into them all, but they were empty even of bones.
At last we reached what had once been the upper of the two trapdoors; this too had become a jagged hole in the stone to make passage for the lamias easier. We emerged into the storeroom, with its sacks of rotting potatoes and a stinking, slimy mound of what had once been turnips. When I had visited this place in my spirit form, I had been spared the stench, but it was now overpowering, even worse than when the tower was occupied by the Malkin coven. Torchlight flickered beyond the doorway, which led to the large living area.
Holding up our candles, we walked through. The winged lamia was perched on the closed trunk, and on a stool nearby sat her sister, holding a book in her left hand. A torch set in the nearest wall bracket lit the left sides of the two witches, casting their shadows almost as far as the wall. Most of the huge room lay in darkness.
“Here are our two guests, sister,” the winged lamia rasped. “The young one is called Thorne. The taller one, with death in her eyes and cruelty in her mouth, is Grimalkin, the witch assassin.”
The witch on the stool attempted to smile at us but only managed to twist her face into a grimace. Her teeth were slightly too big to fit into her mouth, and she breathed noisily.
However, when she spoke, her voice was soft, with no hint of harshness. “My name is Slake,” she said. “My sister is named Wynde, after our mother. I believe you have something to show us?”
I placed the leather sack on the floor and untied it. Then I slowly drew forth the Fiend’s head and held it up by the horns so that it was facing toward the lamias. They both smiled grotesquely at the sight.
“The green apple is a clever way to ensure silence,” said Slake approvingly.
“I like the way it is wrapped in thorns,” added Wynde.
“But why don’t you simply destroy the head?” Slake asked. “We could boil it up in a cauldron and eat it.”
“Better to eat it raw,” Wynde rasped, fluttering her wings, her bestial face suddenly showing excitement. “I’ll have the tongue, sister. You can have the eyes!”
“I have already considered destroying it, but I dare not!” I interrupted. “Who can know the consequences of such an act? This is not simply a witch to be returned to the dark forever by the simple expedient of eating her flesh. We are dealing with the dark personified, the Devil himself. To eat the head might liberate him. He can change shape, make himself small or large at will. Once free, he has terrible powers—some perhaps still unknown. I have pierced his body with silver spears; thus is he bound and his power taken away. It is safer to keep the head intact yet separate, so that his servants cannot remove the spears and reanimate him.”
“You are right,” Slake said. “It would be foolish to take a chance when so much is at stake. We loved our dead sister dearly and have promised to protect her son, the Thomas Ward of whom you spoke. But tell me, is he any nearer finding a sure way to destroy the Fiend?”
I shook my head. “He is still searching and thinking. He wondered if there was something in that chest that might help.”
Slake smiled, showing her teeth, and tapped the book she was holding. “I have been sorting through the chest with that same object in mind—to finish the Fiend forever. So far I have found nothing. Perhaps while you stay with us, you would care to help?”
I smiled and nodded. The lamias had just offered us refuge. “I will be happy to help,” I said. “But no doubt we’ll soon have enemies at our walls.”
“Let them come and enter my killing ground, below the walls of this tower,” Wynde said. “It will be good sport—the best hunting for many a year!”
Thorne and I ate well that night. Wynde, the winged lamia, snatched another sheep and dropped it onto the battlements for us; she had already drained its blood. I butchered it there and brought the most succulent pieces inside to cook on a spit.
The ventilation in the chamber was poor, and smoke went everywhere. Not that it bothered me: my stinging eyes brought to mind the many happy hours I’d spent here as a child, watching the coven’s servants prepare and cook their meals.
“Who was the very first person you killed?” Thorne asked as we tucked into our late supper.
I smiled. “You already know that, child. I have told you this story before, many times.”
“Then tell me again, please. I never tire of it.”
How could I deny her? Without Thorne’s help I would be lying dead to the west of Pendle. So I began my tale.
“I wanted to hurt the Fiend badly after what he had done to my child, and I knew where and when I’d be most likely to find him. At that time the Deanes were his favorite clan, so at Halloween I shunned the Malkin celebration and set off for Roughlee, the Deane village.
“Arriving at dusk, I settled myself down in a small wood overlooking the site of their sabbath fire. They were excited and distracted by their preparations, and I’d cloaked myself in my strongest magic, so had little fear of being detected. Combining their magic, the Deane witches ignited the bone and wood fire with a loud whoosh. Then the coven of the thirteen strongest formed a tight circle around its perimeter, while their less powerful sisters encircled them.
“Just as the dead-bone stink of the fire reached me, the Deanes began to curse their enemies, calling down maimings, death, and destruction upon those they named. Remember, child, that curses are not as effective as a blade. Someone old and enfeebled might fall victim to them, but mostly they’re a waste of time because all competent witches have defenses against such dark magic.
“Soon there was a change in the fire: The yellow and ocher flames turned brilliant red—the first sign that the Fiend was about to appear. I heard an expectant gasp go up from the gathering, and I brought all my concentration to bear, staring into the fire as he began to materialize.
“Though he was able to make himself large or small, the Fiend now appeared in his fearsome majesty in order to impress his followers. He stood in the fire, the flames reaching up to his knees; 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 and stroke their dark lord.”
“How did you feel?” Thorne asked excitedly. “Were you nervous, or even a little afraid? I certainly would have been! You say now that you fear nothing, but you were young then, no more than seventeen, and you were about to attack the Fiend within sight of an enemy clan.”
“I was certainly nervous, child, but also excited and angry. If there was fear within me, it was buried so deeply under those other emotions that I was unaware of it. I knew that the Devil would not stay in the flames for long. I had to strike now! So I left my hiding place among the trees and began to sprint toward the fire. I came out of darkness, a blade in each hand, the third gripped tightly between my teeth. I hated the Fiend and was ready to die, either blasted by his power or torn to pieces by the Deanes.
“So I cast my will before me. Although I had the power to keep him away, I did the opposite now: I willed him to stay. I ran between those on the fringe of the gathering. As the throng became denser, I pushed the witches aside with my elbows and shoulders, surprised and angry faces twisting toward me. At last I reached the coven and threw my first dagger. It struck the Fiend in the chest and buried itself up to the hilt. He shrieked long and loud. I’d done some damage, and his cry of pain was music to my ears. But he twisted away through the flames so that my next two blades did not quite find their intended targets; even so, they pierced his flesh deeply.
“For a moment he looked directly at me, his pupils vertical red slits. I’d nothing with which to defend myself against the power that he could summon.
Worse, he would be certain to find me after my death and inflict never-ending torments on my soul. So I willed him away. Would he go? I wondered. Or would he destroy me first? But he simply vanished, taking the flames of the fire with him so that we were plunged into absolute darkness. The rule had held. I had carried his child, so he could not remain in my presence, not unless I wished it.
“There was confusion all around—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 hurried north, passing beyond Pendle Hill, then curved away west toward the distant sea, still running hard. I knew exactly where I was going, having planned my escape far in advance: I would make my stand on the flatlands east of the River Wyre’s estuary. I had wrapped myself in a cloak of dark magic but knew that it was not strong enough to hide me from all those who followed me. Some witches have a special ability that allows them to see through such a cloak. So I needed to fight in a place that would give me the advantage.
“There is a line of three villages there, aligned roughly north to south and joined by a narrow track that sometimes becomes impassable because of the tide. On all sides they are surrounded by bog and soggy moss. The river is tidal, with extensive salt marshes, and northwest of Staumin, right on the sea margin, stands 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 salt marsh, and nobody can cross it without being seen from that vantage point. Any witch who ventures there suffers great pain, but I gritted my teeth and made the crossing and waited for my pursuers, knowing there would be more than one.