“Not destroyed—her spirit lives on. She has spoken to us. She gave me instructions just then, as I prayed.”
I remembered how close Tom Ward had been to his mother. If she had spoken to this lamia, surely the spirit must have communicated with him too?
“Instructions … concerning what?” I asked.
“She commanded me to stay here without my sister and defend the tower against our enemies. Above all, I must protect the trunk, which contains information that might aid her son in his attempts to destroy the Fiend.”
“You’ve already searched that trunk and read the books. What did you learn? Tell me and I will pass it on.”
“It is not straightforward—far from it. Many ages ago Zenobia was in conflict with the Fiend. She tried in vain to destroy him—though she did manage to hobble him by means of dark magic, thus placing a limit on his power. These are the terms of that hobble: If he kills Thomas Ward himself, then he will reign on in our world for a hundred years before he’s forced to retreat back to where he came from. But if he enlists the services of one of his children to do the deed—the son or daughter of a witch—then the Fiend can rule on in the world indefinitely. Then there is a third way: If he can convert the boy to the dark, his dominion will also last until the end of the world.
“If we study the manner in which the hobble was imposed, we may get an idea of how we can move forward—how the Fiend might finally be destroyed,” Slake continued. “Zenobia believes that her son might glimpse something that she has missed. There could well be some loophole, a gap into which something new and efficacious may be added.”
I had heard about the hobbles before from Alice Deane. This was the first confirmation that Tom’s mother had been responsible. That limitation on the Fiend’s power had been vital—otherwise, he would have slain Tom Ward years ago. I suspected that the Fiend still hoped to convert the boy to the dark. The apprentice had certainly been moving slowly in that direction, being forced to compromise his beliefs by using the blood jar and allying himself with witches. But I suspected that the Fiend’s hatred for Tom and his need for vengeance would drive him to slay the boy the moment he was freed from the binding.
“If you stay here in this tower, how will you survive without food?” Thorne asked.
“I will go hunting for it,” the lamia replied. “My sister and I hoped to learn what was required and then escape from this refuge in human form and carry the knowledge to the apprentice. Now all has changed. What we seek is beyond our powers of understanding. Very soon the boy must return here and study the books for himself. I have already begun the process that will return me to the feral form. For a few weeks I will have to survive by drinking the blood and eating the flesh of rats, but once my wings are grown I will take to the skies and hunt larger prey—first animals, but eventually those who slew my sister.”
I nodded. “But can you defend the tower alone?”
“It will be hard at first, but I can do it. Later, once I am fully transformed, they will not dare to attack. The kretch is too large to enter the tunnels.”
“Then I think it best that Thorne and I leave while we can. Besides,” I said with a grim smile, “I do not share your taste for rats.”
Slake nodded. “You will leave immediately?”
“No, not until this time tomorrow night. First I will walk the battlements with the head of the Fiend. Immediately after the death of your sister, in revenge I put out one of his eyes with my dagger. If our enemies are nearby, then I will put out the second eye, just as I promised. But they know their master will hold them to account for what he suffers. I expect the wood to be free of witches so that we can travel some distance before being pursued again.”
“Where will we go?” Thorne demanded.
“I think that Clitheroe is probably the best option,” I told her.
“They say it’s now a ruined town, full of bandits and cutthroats,” Thorne observed.
“Then what could be a more fitting place?” I answered with a thin smile.
For a long time Clitheroe Castle had held out against the occupying forces. When it had finally fallen, starved out by siege, in revenge the enemy had put the defenders to the sword and burned the town. Now it was a ruin, but the fortification still stood.
The enemy had been defeated and driven south, but very few of the original inhabitants had returned to Clitheroe to rebuild their homes. Instead it had become a hideout for murderous robbers who pillaged the countryside west of Pendle. No doubt, in time, troops would be sent to put an end to such lawless activities, but in its present state it was just what we needed. We might well be able to get into the castle, seize it from those who occupied it at present, and take refuge there.
But first we had to leave Malkin Tower undetected and escape north through the woods.
CHAPTER XI
A GIFT FROM HELL!
A true knight has a strict code of chivalry
by which he lives his life:
He cannot refuse a challenge
and he always keeps his word.
I also have a code of honor,
but it is flexible.
WE spent our remaining time in the tower resting to regain our strength for the ordeal ahead, but ate sparingly of the pieces of mutton that Wynde had brought us. Slake would need it more than we did; soon she would have to survive on a diet of rats.
While Thorne was guarding the tunnels and Slake was up on the battlements keeping watch, I decided to talk to the Fiend once more. My intention was to exert some pressure on him and make our escape from the tower more certain, so I pulled the head out of the leather sack and placed it on a low table. Then, after I had removed the apple and thorns, I sat down cross-legged before it so that our faces were at the same height.
“If you are able, speak to your servants now. Tell them to go! If they do not leave the wood, I will take your remaining eye.”
“What is evil?” asked the Fiend, disregarding what I had said completely.
“You tell me!” I retorted. “You are the one who should know!”
The mouth smirked, revealing the stumps of broken teeth. “The only evil is to deny yourself what you really want,” he replied. “Thus I do no evil because I always impose my will upon others. I always take what I want!”
“You twist everything,” I accused him. “No wonder they call you the Father of Lies.”
“What is better—to use one’s power to the very limit and test oneself, or to restrain one’s natural urges?” he demanded. “It is better to do the former, to expand and grow in the doing. And what of you, Grimalkin? What is the difference between you and me? That is what you practice too!”
I shook my head. “I like to test myself and grow in strength and skill, but not at the expense of the weak. You have always hurt others just for the pleasure it gives you. What is the pleasure in that—to hurt those unable to defend themselves?”
“It is the greatest pleasure of all!” cried the Fiend.
There was one question that I had never asked him because I found it very difficult to put into words. But I asked it now, emotion constricting my throat so severely that I barely managed to speak audibly. “Why did you kill my child?” I demanded, grief threatening to overwhelm me.
“Our child, Grimalkin! Our child! I did it because I could. I also did it to hurt you! I did it because I could not suffer it to live! Grown to manhood, that child would have become my deadly enemy, and a dangerous one too. But now another has replaced him—the boy called Thomas Ward. I will destroy him as well. I cannot allow him to become a man. He must die too, just like your child. First, I will do it because I can! Second, to prevent him from destroying me. Third, to hurt you, Grimalkin. Because without him, your last hope of revenge will be gone!”
Without another word I stuffed the apple and thorns into the ugly mouth and pushed him back into the sack. I was shaking with anger.
Later, Thorne and I both dipped into the books in the large trunk but discovered n
othing of any direct use. I did read something written on a single sheet of paper—Tom’s mother’s account of how she had hobbled the Fiend. But, unlike the faded ink of the other notebooks, this seemed to have been written very recently—surely it could not be her hand?
The Dark Lord wished that I return to his fold and make obeisance to him once more. For a long time I resisted while taking regular counsel from my friends and supporters. Some advised that I bear his child, the means used by witches to be rid of him forever. But even the thought was abhorrent to me.
At the time I was tormented by a decision that I must soon make. Enemies had seized me, taking me by surprise. I was bound with a silver chain and nailed to a rock so that at dawn the sun’s fierce rays would destroy me. I was rescued by a sailor, John Ward, who shielded me from the sun and freed me from the silver chain.
Later we took refuge in my house, and it soon became clear that my rescuer had feelings for me. I was grateful for what he had done, but he was a mere human and I felt no great physical attraction to him. However, when I learned that he was the seventh son of his father, a plan began to take shape within my mind. If I were to bear him sons, the seventh would have special powers when dealing with the dark. Not only that: The child would carry some of my attributes, gifts that would augment his other powers. Thus this child might one day have the ability to destroy the Fiend. It was not easy to decide what to do. Bearing his seventh child might give me the means to finally destroy my enemy. Yet John Ward was just a poor sailor. He came from farming stock. Even if I bought him a farm of his own, I would still have to live that life with him, the stench of the farmyard forever in my nostrils.
My sisters’ counsel was that I kill him or give him to them. I refused because I owed him my life. The choice was between turning him out of my house so he could find a ship to take him home, or returning with him.
But to make the second option a possibility, I first had to hobble my enemy, the Fiend. This I did by subterfuge. I arranged a meeting on the Feast of Lammas—just the Fiend and me. After choosing my location carefully, I built a large bonfire, and at midnight made the necessary invocation to bring him temporarily into our world.
He appeared right in the midst of the flames, and I bowed to him and made what seemed like obeisance—but I was already muttering the words of a powerful spell, and I had the two sacred objects in my hand.
As I read this account, it seemed to me that Zenobia had hated the Fiend as much as I did and had taken a risk similar to mine when she had summoned him. It had been good to fight beside her in Greece. And now, although no longer clothed in flesh, she was still an entity to be reckoned with. It was gratifying to have her on my side.
I continued reading.
Despite all his attempts to thwart me, I successfully completed the hobble, paving the way for the next stage of my plan, which began with my voyage to the County and the purchase of a farm.
And so I became the wife of a farmer and bore him six sons, and then, finally, a seventh, whom we named Thomas Jason Ward; his first name chosen by his father, the second by me, after a hero from my homeland of whom I was once fond.
We lamias are accustomed to shape-shifting, but the changes that time works on us can never be predicted. As the years passed, I grew to accept my lot and to love my husband. I moved gradually closer and closer to the light, and eventually became a healer and a midwife, helping my neighbors whenever I could. Thus it was that a human, John Ward, the man who saved me, moved me down a path I had not foreseen.
I could not see how that provided information that might help Thomas Ward to destroy the Fiend, but combined with the other snippets of writing to be found in the trunk, it might tell us something. It was vital that the Spook’s apprentice should come and make his own thorough search of the trunk. I resolved to contact Alice again when I got the chance and tell her to bring him to visit the tower once more.
“Who wrote this?” I asked Slake.
“It is in my hand,” she replied. “It was originally written by Zenobia in code, the text scattered throughout her notebooks. She appeared in a vision to us and granted me the key to unlock this account.”
“What were the sacred objects of which she spoke?”
“One of them is in the trunk,” she replied. “The other is elsewhere.”
“Where is the other one?”
“I do not know.”
“What is the one in the trunk? Show it to me!” I demanded.
Slake shook her head and regarded me sideways from the corners of her eyes. “I may not show it to you. Zenobia has dictated that only Thomas Ward may see it.”
I nodded. “Then guard it well until he can return to this place. You said he must come here soon. How urgent is it?”
“He must visit well before Halloween. Otherwise it may be too late.”
“Our need to destroy the Fiend is indeed urgent,” I replied. “But why this Halloween? What is its significance?”
“There is a cycle of such feasts. The most propitious occur every seventeen years. In October it will be thirty-four—twice seventeen—years since Z hobbled the Fiend.”
“So we have until then....”
Slake nodded. “That is all the time that remains.”
But for the problem of the kretch and the other enemies who pursued us, I would have gone directly to Chipenden and brought Tom Ward to the tower to begin his search of the chests. But how could I lead them here and place him in danger?
I must destroy my enemies first. And time was short. It was already late in the month of April.
At last it was time to make our escape north, so I climbed up onto the battlements, carrying the leather sack, flanked by Thorne and Slake. I looked down across the clearing toward the dark line of enclosing trees. There was heavy cloud above, and a slight breeze from the west. The poor light would help us to escape unseen. I sniffed quickly three times.
The kretch and the mage were absent, but one witch remained—perhaps as a spy. I would give her something to report back!
I untied the sack, drew forth the severed head of the Fiend, and held it up high, facing toward the spot where I knew the witch to be hiding.
“I smell the blood of a witch!” I cried. “Did you not heed my warning yesterday? The blame for what I am about to do will fall upon you and you alone. Imagine what tortures the Fiend will devise to pay you back for this!”
With these words I drew a dagger and readied it to plunge the blade into the Fiend’s remaining eye. There was a cry of distress from the trees, and then the sound of running feet diminishing into the distance.
I smiled and spat on the Fiend’s forehead again. “You may keep your second eye for a little while longer,” I said before returning him to the sack.
That done, Thorne and I thanked Slake and took our leave, sensing her sadness. She had shared her sister’s life for centuries and was now alone.
We made our escape through the tunnels. There were no enemies lying in wait at the entrance, so we headed north, keeping close to Pendle Hill and passing to the west of Witch Dell. A dead witch only returns to consciousness when the light of the full moon first falls upon her leaf-covered grave. That was still several days away—otherwise, I would have entered the dell and paid my respects to Agnes Sowerbutts.
Just south of the village of Downham we turned west and headed downhill toward Clitheroe. There were no lights showing from the town, but a fire blazed on the battlements of the castle, confirming that it was occupied.
Suddenly I saw flashes, but they were inside my head, flickering a warning in the corners of my eyes. This time it was about five minutes before the other symptoms began.
I lost my balance, stumbled, and fell to my knees. I felt a sharp pain in my chest, and I struggled to breathe.
Thorne tried to help me to my feet, but I pushed her away. “No, child, leave me—it will pass in a moment.”
But it was a long hour before the world stopped spinning about me, and an anxious Thorne was
able to help me to my feet again. It would have been better to rest further before entering the ruins of the town, but we could not afford the delay. It would not be long before my enemies sniffed the direction I’d taken; soon the kretch would be following our trail once more.
Breathing heavily, I led Thorne down toward the outskirts of the town. The buildings that surrounded the castle were still in darkness, but robbers might be lurking there. I came to a halt and knelt on the grass, signaling that Thorne should crouch down beside me.
“I have heard rumors that Clitheroe is occupied by more than one group,” I told her. “The strongest band of villains will hold the castle itself, the weaker groups taking what shelter they can among the ruins of the town.”
“No doubt they’ll be bickering and fighting among themselves,” Thorne observed.
“Yes—and that is very much to our advantage, as it means that they cannot muster their full force effectively.”
I sniffed the lower reaches of the town for danger and found only sleeping men. We moved cautiously forward, past the outlying buildings and into the narrow rubble-strewn streets. Most of the houses were without roofs, and the place stank of filth and rot. We began to climb the hill on which the castle stood, picking our way through the streets without being challenged, but at last we came to the high outer stone wall of the fortification. There was no moat, and the gate was wide open. Just outside, a man was sitting on a bench beside a brazier of softly glowing coals. He tottered to his feet, looking at me in astonishment. Then a bulky figure stepped out of the shadows behind him.
“Look, lads! Women!” the big man cried. “What a gift from heaven!”
I opened my mouth and smiled broadly, showing him my pointy teeth.
His face fell. “There’s an old saying—never look a gift horse in the mouth. But it’s best to know the truth,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.