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 dishonour: all that a witch has achieved in her lifetime instantly becomes null and void. And such a fate is all the 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 for ever.
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 practised this manoeuvre 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 danger. But he was too late. I spat the needle towards 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 again, 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 practise 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 towards me, but I dashed it aside with the club and killed him by driving my dagger up under his ribs and into his heart.