I have allied myself with John Gregory and Thomas Ward. I have chosen to use my own dark powers to fight the dark and destroy the Fiend. That could change everything.
I was climbing now, my pace slowing. I reached a ridge and looked back in the direction of my pursuer. I crouched low so that the kretch would not see me against the skyline, and waited, eager to catch my first glimpse of it.
I did not have long to wait. I saw the beast created by my enemies emerge from a cluster of sycamores and leap a ditch before disappearing into a hedgerow. I saw it for only a second, but that was enough to tell me that I was dealing with something dangerous and formidable.
From a distance it looked, as I had suspected, like an enormous wolf. Just how big, it was difficult to estimate. It seemed to be loping along on four legs and was covered in black hair that was flecked with silver on its back. But then I realized that the front two limbs were really powerful, muscular arms. The creature was designed to fight and kill me. Everything about it would have been crafted to achieve one objective – my death.
It would be swift in combat, and very strong. Those arms would be like those of an abhuman, able to crunch my bones and tear off my limbs. No doubt its teeth and claws would be poisoned. One bite, or even a scratch, might be enough to bring about my slow, agonizing death. Perhaps that was what Agnes Sowerbutts had meant when she referred to the threat of a ‘mortal wound’.
My instincts screamed at me to turn and fight now, to get it over with and slay this kretch. Pride bade me do the same. I wanted to test myself in combat against it. I would prove that I was stronger and better than anything they could send against me.
Oh, Mr Wolf! Are you ready to die?
But more was at stake here than my survival and my pride. In battle, chance often played a part. An ankle could be twisted by a stone hidden in the grass; an enemy less skilled than me might be favoured by a lucky strike. Malkin assassins had died like that before – bested by inferior opponents. I found it very difficult to imagine being defeated under any circumstances, but if I did lose, the Fiend’s head would fall into the hands of my enemies, and before long he would walk the earth once more.
I had promised to keep the Fiend’s head out of the clutches of his servants, so despite my lust for combat I would continue to run for just as long as I could.
Look – you are bleeding! Maybe close to death. The pain is terrible. Now your enemy approaches, ready to take your life. Is this the end? Are you finally defeated? No! You have only just begun to fight! Believe me because I know. I am Grimalkin.
AS I RAN on, I went through my options once more.
In which direction should I go? So far my journey had been unplanned.
After following a long meandering path through Ireland, I had made a safe crossing from its eastern shores to the County by threatening a lone fisherman. After that voyage, most Pendle witches would have killed the man and taken his blood or thumb-bones. But I, the most dangerous of them all, had spared his life.
‘You will never be closer to a violent death than you have been these past few hours,’ I told him as I stepped onto the shore of the County. ‘Go back to your family. Live a long and happy life.’
Why had I behaved thus? My enemies would see it as a weakness, evidence that I was growing soft and was ready to be taken – that I was no longer fit to be the witch assassin of the Malkin clan. How wrong they would be! He was no threat to me. When you kill as often as I am required to do, you grow weary of taking lives – especially the easy ones. Besides, the man begged. He had told me of his wife and young children and the daily struggle to keep them from starvation. Without him, he’d said, they would die. So I set him free and continued on my way.
Where should I go now? I could travel north into the lair of the hostile water witches and weave my way through the hills and lakes, but those slimy hordes were loyal supporters of the Fiend. South was another option, but there a different danger awaited me. The forces that had invaded the County had only recently been driven south. It would be foolish to head towards their lines.
Yes, to keep moving was the best way to make sure that the head stayed out of the clutches of the Fiend’s servants, but I needed to rest, and there was one place I could go that my enemies might not expect. I could return to Pendle, the home of my clan. Both friends and enemies awaited me there. Some witches were happy to see the Fiend loose in the world; others would like to destroy him or return him to the dark. Yes, I would head for Pendle – for a special place where I could take refuge while I rested, regained my strength and augmented my magical resources. Malkin Tower, once the stronghold of my clan, was now in the possession of two feral lamia witches – ‘sisters’ of Tom Ward’s dead mother.
Would they allow me in? They were enemies of the Fiend, perhaps I could persuade them to let me share that refuge.
It was worth a try, so I changed direction and ran directly towards Pendle.
However, long before I reached it, I realized that I would have to fight the kretch first. I had no choice. Better to turn and fight the enemy face to face than be brought down from behind. To continue running was no longer an option – the creature was now little more than a hundred yards to my rear and closing fast.
My heart began to beat more quickly at the thought of combat. This was what I lived for …
I paused at the top of a small rise and looked back. The kretch had just crossed the narrow valley below and was starting to lope up the hill, its black fur sleek with rain. Its eyes met mine and I saw more than eagerness there. It was frantic to sink its teeth into me, to tear my flesh and chew my bones. That was its sole purpose in life, and its desperate need for victory would add spice to our battle.
I placed the sack on the ground. I did not like to leave it unattended even for a moment, but I would fight more effectively if I was unencumbered. Now I must do everything right – everything to the best of my ability. My attack must be perfect. I would need magic as well as martial skills.
I reached for the necklace around my neck and began to touch each thumb-bone in turn, working from left to right. A monk fingers his beads one by one, using them as an aid to memory as he counts the circle of his prayers; my ritual is the muttering of each spell while drawing into my body the power that is stored within the bones. Each was a relic cut from the body of an enemy slain in combat. Each had been boiled with care until the flesh peeled off cleanly.
The initial spells – those of ‘making’ – have to be chanted accurately and with a precise cadence. If all is done correctly, the bones float to the surface of the cauldron and dance amongst the churning bubbles as if trying to leap out. Each is picked from it by hand, despite the pain, and must not be allowed to fall to the ground. Then it is drilled through and added to the necklace.