Free The Spook's Stories: Grimalkin's Tale by Delaney Joseph Page A

stop me now.
    Wearing my thickest leather gloves, I forged three blades, each one tipped with silver alloy. It was painful for me even to be close to that metal which is harmful to all who have allegiance to the dark. But I gritted my teeth and did the work to the very best of my ability. Next I had to find my enemy – but that was the easy part.
    The Fiend does not visit on every sabbath; some years he does not come at all. But Halloween was the most likely, and for some reason he particularly favours the Deanes at that time. So, shunning the Malkin celebration on Pendle Hill, I set off for Roughlee, the Deane village.
    I arrived at dusk and settled myself down in a small wood overlooking the site of their sabbath fire. I was not too concerned about being detected. They would all be excited and distracted by their preparations, and besides , I had cloaked myself in my strongest magic, and such a thing as I planned would come as a surprise to them, to say the least. Most witches would consider it insane. The Deanes are not generally known for their imagination and are the least creative of the three clans.
    Soon the witches began to gather and, combining their magic, they ignited the fire with a loud whoosh . Most of the fuel used was wood, but at its heart was a large pile of old bones, those no longer useful for dark magic. Most people call such a blaze a bonfire, but that name is derived from the word that witches use – bone -fire. The coven of the thirteen strongest witches formed a tight circle around its perimeter; their lesser sisters encircled them.
    Just as the stink of the fire began to reach me, the Deanes began to curse their enemies. With wild shrieks and guttural cries, they called down death and destruction upon those they named. Someone old and enfeebled, or a witch grown careless might fall victim to such curses, but mostly they were wasting their time . All witches have defences against such dark magic. But I heard them name Caxton, the High Sheriff at Caster. He had arrested one of their number recently and now they wanted him dead. I knew that he would be lucky to survive the week.
    As they finished cursing, there was a change in the fire: the yellow flames became orange, then red. It was the first sign that the Fiend was about to appear, and I heard an expectant gasp go up from the gathering. I stared towards the fire as he began to materialize. Able to make himself large or small, the Fiend was taking shape in all his fearsome majesty in order to impress his followers. The flames reached up to his knees, revealing that he was tall and broad – perhaps three times the size of an average man – with a long sinuous tail and the curved horns of a ram. His body was covered in thick black hair, and I saw the coven witches reach forward across the flames, eager to touch their dark lord.
    I knew he would not stay for long. I had to strike now!
    I left my hiding place in the trees and began to run as fast as I could, straight towards the fire. The witches would not see me approaching out of the darkness. Neither would they hear the pounding of my feet, distracted and excited as they were by the monster at the heart of the flames.
    I had a blade in each hand; the third gripped tightly between my teeth. There was great danger here, but I hated the Fiend and was quite prepared to meet my death, either blasted by his power or torn to pieces by the Deanes. I cast my will before me; I had the power to keep him away but I did the reverse: I wished him to stay.
    I ran through the gaps between those witches on the fringe of the gathering. As the throng became denser, I pushed them aside with my elbows and shoulders, and saw surprised and angry faces twisting towards me. At last I reached the coven and threw the first dagger. It struck the Fiend in the chest, burying itself up to the hilt. He shrieked long and loud. I’d hurt him badly and his cry of pain was music to my ears. But he twisted away in the flames so that