“Yes,” I said softly, “we are a gift from hell.”
Thorne moved close to my side and drew two daggers.
“You are mere men! What chance can you possibly have against us?” I jibed, drawing my own blades, hoping to provoke the two bandits into making a reckless attack. I had sensed others hiding nearby also.
The man lifted his heavy spear and pointed it at us, while more men ran to his assistance from the shadows, gathering at his back. They formed a tight bunch behind him and carried an assortment of weapons. Some looked like they had been in the army; they were most likely deserters, because the war was still being fought to the south of the County. One even wore a tattered uniform with a red rose epaulet. There were only nine of them, and the big man with the spear was obviously their leader.
“Stay close to me, child, and guard my back,” I whispered into Thorne’s ear. “I’ll kill the one with the spear first.”
I ran straight at him. He was big and strong but clumsy, and I parried his spear thrust with ease. When my blade found his heart, his eyes opened wide in pained astonishment, and he collapsed at my feet. Thorne dispatched two to my rear while I concentrated on wounding as many of the others as possible. I had killed their leader, and that was enough. I simply wanted to drive them away from the castle. Moments later they had fled, most of them bleeding.
“Now for the battlements,” I said.
We entered the castle and climbed the narrow spiral steps cautiously, alert for danger. The battlements appeared to be deserted, but the fire was still burning there, and I could sniff someone’s presence—one person. Male; young.
Was he waiting in ambush? As we approached the fire, I realized that he was capable of no such thing. He was lying against the wall, gagged and bound from head to foot—a boy of no more than fifteen. I knelt beside him, and he flinched as I cut through his bonds, regarding me with wide, terrified eyes.
I returned my blade to its sheath, then pulled him up into a sitting position and took the gag out of his mouth. His face was dirty and covered in bruises, his left eye swollen. But despite that evidence of mistreatment, he was good-looking, with blue eyes and fair hair.
“What’s your name, boy?” I asked.
He flinched again when I spoke. He was watching my mouth, probably appalled by the sight of my teeth.
I meant the boy no harm, but it gave me satisfaction to see fear in another’s eyes. It was a confirmation of who I was. I liked to instill terror and respect.
“W-Will,” he answered, a slight stammer in his voice.
“Well, Will, what did you do to deserve being treated like this?”
“My father is a knight. I was snatched by these bandits, and those escorting me were slain. They’re trying to ransom me, but my father can’t afford what they are asking. He owns extensive lands, but they are tenanted by many poor farmers and he has little money. Tomorrow they were planning to cut off one of my fingers and send it to him.”
“Your parents must be very upset. It is a terrible thing to abduct a son in this way.”
“My mother passed away three years ago in a plague that swept through the northern lands. But yes, my father loves me very much.”
“Well, you’re free to go back to him, boy,” I told him. “But leaving this stronghold is not a good idea at the moment. There are men down there who would cut your throat as soon as look at you. Where is your home?”
“It’s to the north, on the County border. No more than five hours on foot.”
“Does your father know where you are being held captive?”
“He may, but they’ve told him they’ll kill me if he or his men attempt a rescue.”
I nodded, then peered down over the battlements toward the open gate. A group of armed men were gathered just beyond it, looking up toward us. It was time to close the gate and deter any who might be foolish enough to venture in.
“Stay here with the boy, Thorne,” I commanded.
I walked down the steps and crossed the yard, stepping over the bodies of the three we had killed. Words would be wasted on such men. Despite the loss of their leader, no doubt they’d fill themselves with drunken courage and attack before dawn. However, I might be able to frighten them off, so without slowing down, I fingered the bones on my necklace and began to chant the words of a spell under my breath.
It was a pity to use up more of my magical store, because I’d need it later, but it was a spell of illusion and not too costly. Besides, I knew it well and routine makes for economy. It was the spell called dread, and I saw the eyes of the bandits widen and their faces twist with terror. By now, to them, my face would appear demonic, my hair transformed into writhing snakes with venomous forked tongues.
They had fled before I reached the gate, so I closed it and shrieked at their fast-disappearing backs. I had no means to lock it, so I gripped it firmly in both hands and uttered another short spell to bind it shut, at least for a while. I knew it would not withstand the force of the kretch or a band of determined witches. But the former was too big to get up the narrow steps to the battlements, while the latter could be killed one by one as they ascended.
That done, I returned to the castle. I expected the kretch to arrive before dawn.
CHAPTER XII
IT WILL COME TRUE FOR ME
All the prey that I hunt I will eventually slay.
If it is clothed in flesh, I will cut it.
If it breathes, I will stop its breath.
WE did not sleep that night and I was ever vigilant, sniffing the darkness for danger. But we did not go hungry. There were fresh animal carcasses on the battlements, and we roasted half a pig on a spit over the fire, then shared it among the three of us. But I was aware that from now on, we would have to ration our food and prepare for a siege. At present it was difficult to estimate how long we might have to stay here.
The boy was taciturn, nervous, and fearful, but that did not lessen his appetite. While remaining silent, he listened to our conversation with rapt attention—though terror still twitched across his face. His eyes were continually drawn toward the leather bag, which seemed to hold a terrible fascination for him. It may well have been because of the strange sounds that occasionally escaped from it. Despite the large green apple and the rose thorns, the Fiend gave an occasional faint groan or a rustling hiss, as if letting out a breath.
“Well, Thorne,” I demanded. “In my absence, did you continue with your training tasks?”
Thorne smiled at me. “Every day without fail I repeat the mantra that you taught me. I am the best, the strongest, and the most deadly,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “Eventually I will believe it. It came true for you—one day it will come true for me!”
“Do you still practice with blades every day?” I asked, glancing at Will and delighting in the fear that flickered in his eyes in response to my question.
She nodded, then swallowed a mouthful of pork before continuing. “Recently I have been practicing throwing my blades. I’m still some years off achieving my maximum strength. Until then, I shall continue to kill my enemies from a distance. When I am taller and heavier, I will move in close! You taught me that too.”
“That’s wise. You listen to what I say and act accordingly. I couldn’t have wished for a better pupil!”
“Your own early training was not so happy,” Thorne remarked, pleased to receive my praise—which I gave only very rarely.
“That’s true.”
“Then tell me the tale again. I’m sure Will would like to hear it. Wouldn’t you?”
The boy nodded, desperate to agree with anything she said.
“Well, then, why don’t you tell the story for me?” I suggested. “You’ve nagged me to the telling often enough—you should know it by heart by now!”
Thorne shrugged and smiled. “Why not?” she said, turning to face Will. “To begin with, I’d better explain that the witch assassin of the Malkin clan is usually chosen by single combat. Challenge
rs must face the incumbent in a fight to the death.
“But first there must be a period of intense training for those who hope to win the right to the position. Grimalkin had decided to become the Malkin witch assassin but came late to that year’s preparations. She joined two others who had already been training for six months. What was worse, only half a year remained before the three days assigned for the challenges. So she’d very little time to learn the basics of the assassin’s trade.
“Her first day in the training school was a disaster. The other two trainees were weak—doomed to be killed by Kernolde, who was the Malkins’ assassin at that time. As the day slowly passed by, Grimalkin became more and more annoyed. At last, just before dark, she voiced her thoughts. She was sitting on the floor looking up at Grist Malkin, their inept trainer, who was blathering on about fighting with blades, his words showing just how ineffectual and stupid he was—he hadn’t a clue. Standing behind him were two of the ugliest old hags from our clan, both witches. So ugly were they that they had warts on their warts and more bristles on their chins than on a hedgehog’s arse!”
Thorne laughed deep in her throat as she said that, and in response Will gave a weak smile and blushed to the roots of his pale hair.
“The hags were there to make sure the trainees didn’t use magic against Grist Malkin,” Thorne continued. “Her patience finally at an end, Grimalkin rose to her feet and shouted at him.”
I smiled as Thorne lurched to her own feet and shouted out the words as if she were actually there in my place and Will was Grist.
“‘You’re a fool, Grist! You’ve already prepared twenty-seven defeated challengers before us. What can you teach us but how to lose and how to die?’”
So vehement was her outburst that Will actually flinched away.
Thorne smiled wickedly. “You should see Grist now. He retired at the end of that year, and he’s grown old and fat. It was this confrontation with Grimalkin that finished him off. For a long time he didn’t speak,” she went on, sitting down again, “but simply locked eyes with Grimalkin and glared, his foolish fat face twitching with fury. He was a bear of a man, at least a head taller than Grimalkin and heavily muscled. But Grimalkin wasn’t the slightest bit afraid, and met his gaze calmly. He looked away first. Deep down he was scared, although he tried not to show it.
“‘On your feet, child!’ Grist commanded. Grimalkin obeyed, but she was smiling and mocking him with her eyes.
“‘Take that grin off your face. Don’t look at me!’ he bellowed. ‘Look straight ahead. Have some respect for the man who teaches you!’ He began to circle Grimalkin slowly. Suddenly he seized her in a bear hug, squeezing so hard that one of her ribs snapped with a loud pop. Then he threw her down hard into the dirt, thinking that this was the end of the matter.
“But what did Grimalkin do? Did she lie there moaning with pain? No! She was on her feet in an instant and broke his nose with her left fist, the punch knocking him to the ground. And after that she fought like an assassin. You should never let anyone bigger than you get close—she kept him at a distance. The struggle was over quickly. Each blow was well timed and precise. In moments Grist Malkin was beaten to a pulp! One of his eyes was swollen and closed, and his forehead was split wide open; blood was running into his other eye. Grimalkin punched him to his knees.
“‘I could kill you now!’ she cried. ‘But you’re just a man and hardly worth the trouble.’
“So Grimalkin was forced to train herself. Of course she was already skilled in forest craft and forging weapons. So she worked hard, ate well, and gradually built up her strength, swimming daily to increase her endurance for fighting—even though it was a long bitter winter, the worst for many a long year. She also forged the best blades she could and carried them in sheaths about her body.
“Then, in a cold northern forest in the dead of winter, she faced a pack of starving wolves. They circled her, moving in slowly, saliva dripping from their jaws, death glittering in their hungry eyes. Grimalkin readied a throwing knife in each hand. When the first wolf leaped, her blade found its throat. The second died just as easily. Finally she drew her long blade as a third wolf bounded toward her. As easily as knocking off a dandelion’s head with a stick, she struck the animal’s head clean from its body. When the pack finally fled, seven blood-splattered bodies lay dead, staining the white snow red.
“At last it was time for Grimalkin to face Kernolde, and she returned to Pendle. Kernolde slew the first two challengers easily enough—in less than an hour, without breaking a sweat. Finally it was Grimalkin’s turn—”
“If you are so strong and brave, why have you taken refuge in this castle?” Will interrupted. “I think my father is braver than either of you!”
We both stared at the boy in surprise. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted the anger that flickered across Thorne’s face. I put my hand on her shoulder to restrain her. Then I answered the boy.
“Of course your father is brave,” I agreed, smiling without opening my mouth—for what son would not think that of a father who was good to him? “He is a knight and it must be part of his nature. Do minstrels sing his praises?”
“They do! He has fought and overcome many opponents, but his greatest deed was to slay the great worme that besieged our castle.”
“Are wormes real?” Thorne asked. “I thought they were just stories told at dusk to scare children.”
“They are indeed real,” I replied. “Wormes are dangerous creatures covered in tough scales, and they have jaws filled with powerful fangs. Many have long snakelike tails, which they use to wrap around their victims and squeeze the life from them. They usually drain the blood of cattle but like to eat humans whole—blood, flesh, and bones. They are quite rare in the County,” I continued, “and I have seen only one. It was lurking in long grass on the edge of a lake. I was curious and wanted a closer look. As I approached, it slid into the water and quickly swam away. It was no larger than a dog.”
But some wormes could be bigger, or so I had heard. “You called it the great worme—was it exceptionally large?” I asked the boy.
“It was the biggest anyone had ever seen—much bigger than a horse. My father had a special suit of armor forged—one covered with sharp metal spikes. When the worme wrapped itself around him, its body was pierced and he cut it to pieces with his sword.”
I smiled, showing him my teeth. Once more he flinched. “You said that your father is a knight without wealth. How many men does he have at his disposal?”
“He has few men, but those he commands are well trained, including eight master archers skilled with the longbow.”
I liked what I was hearing. I realized that this knight, with his spiked armor and expert bowmen, might make the killing of the kretch far easier.
“Listen, boy,” I told Will. “I too am brave, and so is Thorne. We have taken refuge in this fortification because we are being pursued by many powerful enemies. That alone would not dissuade me from facing them directly in combat, but by dark magic they have created a terrible creature that is part wolf and part man. Until I find a way to destroy it, I need a refuge such as this. But I think your father’s castle would be a better place. Not only that—your brave father and his archers could help me destroy my enemies. If I help you escape this place and deliver you safely to him, would he give us shelter in his castle, do you think? Would he put his fighting prowess next to ours and help us to victory?”
“I’m sure he would!” Will cried out, his eyes shining. “Get me to safety, and I promise that he will help you!”
I turned to face Thorne. “We came here out of desperation. We will be hard-pressed to defend this castle. The Fiend’s servants may lay siege for weeks and starve us out. Now we have the chance for a proper refuge. The journey will be risky, but once we reach its end we will be far safer than we are here. What do you say?”
Thorne assented, so I turned back to face the boy, staring hard into his eyes. “Even if we rescue you, we a
re still witches, feared and loathed by many people, especially men, and we cannot be sure that your father will honor the promises of his son.”
“I give you my word,” he replied. “My father is a man of honor; he will be bound by what I have promised.”
I thought quickly. Could the boy really hold his father to that promise? It was possible. Knights, like all men, varied in their characters: some were good, others bad, while most balanced on a line between the two states. However, many did hold to a code of chivalry. Above all, they believed in honor and kept their word. I looked down at the gate. Soon the kretch would arrive. Despite my magic, it would eventually tear the barrier from its hinges, and then the Fiend’s human servants would attack. We would hold them off at first, but how many more would come, summoned from the far corners of the world to take back the head? In the end we would lose.
I dozed for a while, leaving Thorne on watch. I awoke to the murmur of voices and slowly opened one eye.
Thorne and the boy were sitting very close together, almost touching, and talking together softly in an animated way, lost in their own private world. It was the first time I had ever seen Thorne show interest in a boy, but she had reached an age when the right one might hold a fascination for her. They clearly liked each other, and it put me in mind of my first meeting with the Fiend.
I was young, not much more than sixteen, when I first encountered him. Of course, I did not know he was the Fiend. I was passing a ruined chapel—one abandoned by the Church after the local population had dwindled; the bishop had deconsecrated the ground ten years earlier, and it was now a wilderness of empty graves.
A young man was standing in the shadows, watching me. I was annoyed to find myself being stared at, and I prepared to cast a small spell—nothing too severe; one that would have loosened his bowels rather suddenly, or brought vomit up into his throat. But then he did something that pushed all such thoughts from my mind.