The Spook's Stories: Grimalkin's Tale

onto my shoulders.
    I had been running for too long. Now, finally, it was time to fight. The thought lifted my spirits; the anticipation of combat always did that. It was what I lived for: to test my strength against my enemies’; to fight and kill.
    How many were there? I fingered the thumb-bones that hung from the necklace I wore around my neck, drawing forth their magical power before probing the darkness with my mind.
    There were nine creatures approaching. I sniffed three times to gather more information. There were others further back – almost a mile away – maybe twenty or more moving in this direction. Something puzzled me and I sniffed again. There was a new addition to this larger group; someone or something with them that I couldn’t identify. Something strange. What was it?
    Something stronger and more deadly stalks you .
    That was what the Fiend had said. Was this what he was referring to?
    Perhaps it was, but for now that whole larger group could be forgotten. First I had to deal with the more immediate threat, so I began to assess the level of danger posed by the group of nine.
    Seven of them were witches. At least one of them was of the first rank and she used familiar magic. That might be how they’d found me. A witch’s familiar could be anything from a toad to an eagle. Sometimes it was a powerful creature of the dark, although they were hard to control. So the familiar might have been able to find me despite the cloak I’d wrapped about myself.
    I could also tell that one of the group climbing the hill was an abhuman – and that the ninth was a man; a dark mage.
    It would be easy to make my escape by choosing the path of least resistance. Two of the witches were young – hardly more than novices. I could simply break through the encircling line at that point and flee into the darkness. But that was not my way. I had to remind them who I was. Send a clear message to all who pursued me that I was Grimalkin, the witch assassin of the Malkin clan. I had run for so long that they had grown disrespectful. I had to teach them fear again. So I called down the hill to my enemies.
    ‘I am Grimalkin and I could kill you all!’ I cried. ‘But I will slay only three – the strongest three!’
    There was no answer, but everything became very still and quiet. This was the calm. I was the storm.

    Now I draw two weapons. In my left hand I grip the long blade that I use for hand-to-hand combat; in my right a throwing dagger. My enemies are entering the trees now, so I descend the hill, advancing to meet them. First I will slay the mage; next the abhuman; finally the familiar witch, the strongest of all.
    I am walking slowly, taking care to make no noise. Some of my enemies either lack the skill to do likewise or are careless. My hearing is acute and I detect the occasional distant crack of a twig or the faint rustle of long skirts trailing through the undergrowth.
    Once in position above the mage, I come to a halt. He is only a man and will be the easiest of the three to overcome. Even so, he is undoubtedly more powerful than six of the advancing witches. A witch assassin must never underestimate her opponent. I will kill him quickly, then move on to the next.
    I coil myself like a sharp metal spring and concentrate on my attack, searching for the mage, probing the darkness with my keen eyes. He is a young man, but although his magic is strong, physically he is out of condition and overweight, breathing heavily from the climb.
    I whirl into motion. Three rapid steps downhill, and I hurl the throwing blade without breaking my stride. It takes the mage in the heart and he falls backwards, dead even before he can cry out. His magical defences proved inadequate.
    The abhuman is my next target. He is big, with wide-set eyes and sharp yellow fangs jutting up over his top lip. Such creatures – children of the Fiend and a witch – are immensely strong and need to be kept at a distance and tackled at arm’s length. To fall into their grasp is to risk being torn limb from limb. They are invariably brutal and morally debased, the worst of them capable of anything. If my child had been such an evil creature I would have drowned it at birth.
    I sprint towards him at full pelt, plucking another throwing knife from its leather sheath. My throw is accurate and would have taken him in the throat, but he has been protected. The witches have infused him with their power, creating wards that deflect my blade. It