The Spook's Stories: Grimalkin's Tale

then curved away west towards the distant sea. I knew exactly where I was going, having planned my escape far in advance. On the flatlands, east of the river Wyre’s estuary, was the spot where I would make my stand. I had wrapped myself in a cloak of dark magic, but it would not be strong enough to hide me from all those who followed me. I needed to fight in a place where I might gain an advantage.
    There is a line of three villages there: Hambleton, Staumin and Preesall, aligned roughly north to south, joined by a narrow track that sometimes becomes impassable because of the tide. On all sides they are surrounded by soggy moss. The river is tidal, with extensive salt marshes, and north-west of Staumin, right on the sea margin, is Arm Hill, a small mound of firm ground that rises above the grassy tussocks and treacherous channels along which the tide races to trap the unwary. On one side is the river; on the other, the marsh, and nobody can cross it without being seen from that vantage point.
    I waited for my pursuers, knowing there would be more than one. My crime against the Deane clan was terrible indeed. If they caught me, I would die slowly and in great pain. The first of my enemies came into sight at dusk, picking her way slowly across the marsh grass.
    As a witch, I have many skills and talents. One of these proved very useful now. As an enemy approaches, I instantly know her worth: her strength and ability in combat. The one crossing the marsh towards me now was competent enough, but not of the first order. No doubt her talents as a tracker and her power to penetrate my dark magical cloak had brought this witch to me first.
    I waited until she was close, then showed myself to her. I was standing on that small hill, clearly outlined against the fading red of the western sky. She ran towards me, a blade in each hand. She did not weave; made no attempt to make herself a difficult target.
    It was me or her. One of us would die. So be it!
    I pulled my favourite throwing knife from my belt. This one was not tipped with silver alloy but that wasn’t necessary; it was sufficient to slay a witch. I hurled it at my attacker and it took her in the throat. She made a little gurgling noise, dropped to her knees and fell face down in the marsh grass.
    She was the first human being I had ever killed, and I felt a momentary pang. But it quickly passed as I concentrated on ensuring my own survival. I hid the witch’s body under a shelf of grass tussocks, pushing her down into the mud. I did not take her heart. We had faced each other in honourable combat and she had lost. One night that witch would return from the dead, crawling across the marsh in search of prey. As she was no further threat to me, I would not deny her that.
    I waited almost three days for the next to find me. There were two and they arrived together. We fought at noon, the late autumn sun painting the slow tidal ebb of the river blood-red. I was strong and fast, but they were veterans of such fights, with a repertoire of tricks that I had never encountered. They hurt me badly , and the scars of those wounds mark my body to this day. The struggle lasted over an hour, and it was close, but at last victory was mine, and the bodies of two more Deanes went into the marsh.

    It was almost three weeks before I was fit to travel, but in that time they sent no more avengers after me. The trail had gone cold and it was unlikely that anyone would have recognized me that night when I attacked the Fiend. I thought long and hard about what had happened. I had hurt the Devil. Would he try to kill me in some way? Or might I find a way to destroy him first?

    I consulted a scryer. Her name was Martha Ribstalk, an incomer from the far north. She did not use a mirror to see the future; her method was to peer into a steaming blood-tainted cauldron, one boiling up thumb- and finger-bones to strip away the dead flesh. At that time, before the rise of Mab, the young scryer of the Mouldheels, she was the foremost practitioner of that dark art. I visited her one hour after midnight, as we had arranged. One hour after she had drunk the blood of an enemy and performed the necessary rituals.
    ‘Do you accept my money?’ I demanded.
    She nodded, so I tossed three coins into the cauldron.
    ‘Be seated!’ she commanded sternly, pointing to the cold stone flags before the large bubbling pot. The air was tainted with blood, and each breath I took increased the metallic taste at the