The Spook's Stories: Grimalkin's Tale

that played a part. It was the product of much thought and calculation. I knew that my shouts would summon up the dead witches, and that’s what I wanted. Now I would know where they were.
    You see, most dead witches are slow and I could outrun them. It was the powerful ones I had to beware of. One of them was named Grim Gertrude because of her intimidating appearance, and she was both strong and relatively speedy for one who had been dead more than a century. She roamed far and wide beyond the dell, hunting for blood. But tonight she would be waiting there: she was Kernolde’s closest accomplice, well-rewarded in blood, for she helped to bring about each victory.
    I waited for about fifteen minutes – long enough to let the slowest witch get near. I’d already sniffed out Gertrude, the old one. She’d been close to the edge of the dell for some time but had chosen not to venture out into the open: she had retreated deeper into the trees so that her slower sisters could attack me first. I heard the rustling of leaves and the occasional faint crack of a twig as they shuffled forward. They were slow, but I didn’t underestimate them. Dead witches have great strength, and once they fasten onto your flesh, they cannot be easily prised free. Soon they begin to suck your blood until you weaken and can fight no more. Some of them would be on the ground, hiding within the dead leaves, ready to reach out and grasp at my ankles as I sped by.
    I sprinted into the trees. I had already sniffed out Kernolde. She was where I expected, waiting beneath the branches of the oldest oak in the dell. That was her tree; the one in which she stored her magic; her place of power.
    A hand reached up towards me from the leaves. Without breaking my stride, I unsheathed a dagger from the scabbard on my left thigh and pinned the dead witch to a thick, gnarled tree root. I thrust the blade into her wrist rather than her palm, making it more difficult for her to tear herself free.
    The next witch shuffled towards me from my right, her face lit by a shaft of moonlight. Saliva was dribbling down her chain and onto her tattered gown, which was covered in dark stains. She jabbered curses at me, eager for my blood. Instead she got my blade, which I plucked from my right shoulder sheath, hurling it towards her. The point took her in the throat, throwing her backwards. I ran on even faster.
    Four more times my blades sliced into dead flesh, and by now most of the other witches were left behind – the slow and those maimed by my blades. But Kernolde and the powerful old one waited somewhere ahead. I wore eight sheaths that day; each contained a blade. Now only two remained.
    I leaped a hidden pit, then a second. Even though they were covered with leaves and mud, I knew they were there. At last the old one barred my path. I came to a halt and prepared myself to attack her. Let her come to me!
    I looked at Grim Gertrude, noting the tangled hair that came down to her knees. She was grim indeed and well-named! Maggots and beetles scuttled within the rank curtain that obscured all of her face save one malevolent eye and an elongated tooth jutting upwards over her top lip almost as far as her left nostril.
    She rushed towards me, kicking up leaves, her hands extended to rend my face or squeeze my throat. She was fast for a dead witch; very fast. But not fast enough.
    With my left hand I drew the largest of my blades from its scabbard at my hip. This was not crafted for throwing; it was more like a short sword, with two razor-sharp edges. I leaped forward and cut Grim Gertrude’s head clean from her shoulders. It bounced on a root and rolled away. I ran on, glancing back to see her hands searching amongst the pile of rotting leaves where it had come to rest.
    Now for Kernolde. She was waiting beneath her tree. I saw that ropes hung from the branches, ready to bind and hang my body. She was rubbing her back against the bark, drawing strength for the fight. But I was not afraid – she looked more like an old bear ridding itself of fleas than the dreaded witch assassin feared by all. Running directly towards her at full tilt, I drew the last of my throwing knives and hurled it straight at her throat. End over end it spun, my aim fast and true, but she knocked it aside with a disdainful flick of her wrist. Undaunted, I increased my pace and prepared to use the long blade. But then the ground opened up beneath my feet: my heart lurched and I fell into a