The Spook's Stories: Grimalkin's Tale

Seconds later, his forehead was split open and blood was running into his other eye. Unable to see, he could offer little defence and I quickly administered a chop, bringing him to his knees.
    The two crones knelt at Grist’s side. One was his mother, and I saw that tears were streaming down her cheeks.
    ‘I could kill you now,’ I cried, ‘but you’re just a man and hardly worth the trouble!’
    I began to walk away, but before I entered the trees I turned. I had one last thing to say.
    ‘I’m leaving this place,’ I told them. ‘But I’ll return to face Kernolde.’

    There is one thing that I have not yet told you. Grist had trained my older sister, Wrekinda. She was Kernolde’s fifth victim: one more reason to kill the witch assassin.
    It was fortunate that I was already skilled in the ways of the forest and crafting weapons. Fortunate too that, as the third accepted for training, I’d be the last to face Kernolde. Even in defeat the other challengers might weaken her, or at least drain some of her strength.
    So I trained myself. I worked hard; invited danger; ate well; built up my strength; swam daily to increase my endurance for combat – mile upon mile despite the winter cold. I also crafted the best blades of which I was capable and carried them in sheaths about my body, which grew stronger and faster by the day. I ran up and down the steep slopes of Pendle to improve my stamina, readying myself for the fight to the death against Kernolde.
    In a forest far to the north, beyond the boundaries of the County, I faced a pack of howling wolves. They circled me, moving ever closer, death glittering in their hungry eyes. I held a throwing knife in each hand. The first wolf leaped for my throat; leaped and died as my blade found its throat first. The second died too. Next I drew my long blade, awaiting the third attack. With one powerful stroke I struck the animal’s head from its body. Before the pack turned and fled my wrath, seven lay dead, their blood staining the white snow red.

    At last the time to face Kernolde arrived and I returned to Pendle. Did I say I hoped the other challengers would weaken the witch assassin? My hopes were short-lived. She slew each with ease; both were dead in less than an hour. On the third night it was my turn.
    The challenge always takes place north of the Devil’s Triangle, where the villages of the Malkins, Deanes and Mouldheels are located. Kernolde chose as her killing ground Witch Dell, where witches are taken by their families after death; taken there and buried amongst the trees to rise with the full moon, scratching their way back to the surface to feed upon small animals and unwary human intruders. Some of the dead witches are strong and can roam for miles seeking their prey. Kernolde used these dead things as her allies – sometimes as her eyes, nose and ears; sometimes as weapons. More than one challenger had been drained of blood by the dead before Kernolde took her thumb-bones as proof of victory. But she often triumphed without these allies. She was skilled with blades, ropes, traps and pits full of spikes; once her opponents were captured or incapacitated , she would often simply strangle them to death.
    All this I knew before my challenge started; I had thought long and hard about it and had visited this dell many times during the previous months. I had gone there in daylight, when the dead witches were dormant and Kernolde was out hunting prey in distant parts of the County. I had sniffed out every inch of the wood; knew every tree, the whereabouts of every pit and trap.
    So I was ready. I stood outside the dell in the shadow of the trees just before midnight, the appointed time for combat to begin. High to my left was the large brooding mass of Pendle, its eastern slopes bathed in the light of the full moon, which was high in the sky to the south. Within moments a beacon flared at the summit, sparks shooting upwards into the air, signalling that the witching hour had begun.
    Immediately I did what no other challenger had done before. Most crept into the dell, nervous and fearful, in dread of what they faced. Some were braver but still entered cautiously. I was different. I announced my presence in a loud, clear voice.
    ‘I’m here, Kernolde! My name is Grimalkin and I am your death!’ I shouted into the dell. ‘I’m coming for you , Kernolde! I’m coming for you ! And nothing living or dead can stop me!’
    It was not just bravado, although