After a while we came to a pool of stagnant water, its surface the colour of mud. Here, there had once dwelt 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. It hides under the water and, upon sensing the approach of an interloper, reaches up to grasp the ankle of its victim, which 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 further 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 upwards to a jagged hole. There had once been a trap door 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 furthest 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 grey 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 towards the hole in the ceiling. I sniffed quickly. ‘The lamia – it’s the winged one!’ I warned.
A second later, something large dropped down towards us. It fell fast, wings held close to its body, like a hawk swooping towards its prey.
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 honourable, 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 towards 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 centre of the chamber and started to scuttle towards us on all four limbs. This type of winged lamia, known as 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 towards 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 that cowers to your rear?’
Thorne stepped forward and pointed her blade towards 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.’