Chapter 1: The Lost Grimoires of Hetty Yikkar
Hetty Yikkar is stirring trouble for Haligern Coven. Be careful what magick you choose to dabble in!
They say that the lost grimoires of notorious black witch, Hetty Yikkar, are cursed and that whoever finds and uses them without permission shall perish in a grisly and unfortunate manner. It is the sworn and sacred duty of warlock Arne Lothbrok, to find The Thirteen Books of Harmful Intent before Lucifer’s Brides, a sect of dark and rotten satanic witches, can gather them together and wreak havoc upon the world.
This is the prologue to his quest.
1487, Haligern, England
Beatrice jostled against Loveday’s shoulder as they peered through the kitchen window to where a group of men, their bulky forms blurred by the thick glass of the window’s small panes, had gathered in the yard. The air was heavy with their deep and angry voices.
“Hlúttre,” Loveday murmured as she wiped her hand through the air as though cleaning the glass. Beatrice took a step backwards as the warped glass became transparent, her rich auburn hair sparking with copper embers. “‘Tis only a clarifying charm and only for us,” Loveday assured her.
The magic, drawn from the aether, tingled at the tips of Loveday’s fingers sending shivers of sparks into her hand. She used the energy sparingly as each draw down was notched as a debt, one it was impossible not to repay. In her younger days she had revelled in its power, and flaunted her talents, using her magick as a weapon in battle, but now she took greater care.
Despite the confidence the gift of magick gave her, the beat of her heart betrayed the dread she felt at the sight of the men. It had been decades since their presence on the outskirts of the village had brought trouble to their door.
Beatrice returned to her side and peered into the yard. “Do they have pitchforks?”
“Only one carries a weapon,” Loveday replied, taking comfort from that fact as she scanned the scowling mob of men. She recognised each one, had watched them grow from birth to become energetic boys, turn into chaotic youths, then virile men, husbands, fathers, and grandfathers.
“They do seem angry.”
One of the men, large and broad-shouldered with a wild mop of black hair, stepped forward. A series of hard raps sounded at the door.
“Morys the smith is knocking at our door,” stated Beatrice. Black specks swirled among the violet of her eyes, mirroring the angst in her voice. “He could knock it down if he wanted. He has the build of a bull!”
Ignoring Beatrice, Loveday raised her hand as though lifting the air and the mumbled voices became clear.
‘Knock again, Morys,” Davy Mabson, one of the few freemen in the village, said. “She is inside. I know it!”
“Break down the door. We shall have the witch out!”
Hard rapping repeated as Morys knocked. The door shook beneath his fist.
“Drag them out!” another man shouted. “Find the witch.”
“Burn the witch!” a wiry man in a ragged tunic shouted from the back of the group.
“We do not know that she is a witch,” another man said in more temperate tones. “We should call on the Parish Constable to arrest her.”
“Pah! That drunkard is a useless oaf. What would he do? Nothing.”
“We can give her a dunking and see if she is a witch. Tis what they did over at Grimston.”
“She sowed bitter herbs in my field,” said the man in the ragged tunic. “The witch ruined my crop!
“And Sybil Medley, swears on her bairn’s grave that the witch fornicated with the priest! She seduced him with dark words and conjured a devil to share their humping.”
“And now the cooper’s child is missing. She stole him from his mother.”
A low growl spread among the men.
“Who are they talking about, Loveday?” Beatrice’s tone was fearful. “We did no such things!”
Loveday sighed. “We both know the answer to that, sister.”
The glass grew hazy as Loveday pulled back from the window. Beatrice gripped her sleeve as she walked towards the door. “We should hide.”
“Nay, sister. I will not hide like cowardly vermin. We are innocent.”
“But she is not. She is bringing us to ruination, Loveday. They will surely drown us! Or place us in the lock-up. I have heard they have a new book they set great store by. It is causing much fear among the covens.”
“So I have heard, but these are peasants. Not one can read.”
“No, but the ideas are spreading like a fire through dry grasses. They accuse us of devil worship and demand that we be destroyed! Mawde tells me that their Pope has declared witchcraft to be Satanism, the worst of all possible heresies, to them.”
“We do not worship devils,” stated Loveday.
“But they accuse Hetty of conjuring them. And you said the same yourself.”
Hetty Yikkar’s dabbling in dark magick could not be denied. After weeks of growing concern that the new arrival had ill intentions towards the villagers, Loveday had decided to watch the woman and waited, hidden by a concealing charm, at Sybil Medley’s cottage where Hetty had taken a room. Loveday’s patience had been rewarded when the witch had left the cottage in the middle of the night. The moon had been full, and Hetty had walked from the village and made her way to the wooded area belonging to the coven. There she had lit a fire, stripped naked, and danced with the horned devils she conjured. Standing behind the trunk of a wide oak, Loveday felt the maliciousness of their energies. It pulsed and seeped towards her like gnarled and snaking fingers. She had escaped the woodlands before they sensed her, but the incident was imprinted on Loveday’s mind and confirmed her suspicions. Hetty Yikkar was practicing the worst of black magick and calling on the darkest energies within the aether to increase her power.
“And Mawde says that a woman may be tortured if they suspect she is a witch!”
Mawde was also becoming a thorn in Loveday’s side and had been spending more time away from the cottage. That she had a lover was common knowledge within the coven, despite her efforts to hide it, but she had also begun to speak of darker magick. Loveday suspected she had come under the influence of Hetty but had not yet discovered them together.
“How is Mawde suddenly so knowledgeable?”
“She says that their book tells them to kill witches,” Beatrice said, her tone edging on hysteria. “She says that in one of its books it says, ‘You shall not permit a sorceress to live’! Oh, Loveday, you heard what those men said. They said bring out the witch! If they believe Hetty is a witch, they must think that we are witches too!”
Loveday sighed. Beatrice was right. Tensions were beginning to rise, and a new fear and hatred of witches was worming its way across the sea and spreading its canker across the land. Accusations of women conjuring devils to take to their beds, and of riding through the air at night, were increasing, and a new book, The Hammer of Witches, called for them to be rooted out and exterminated. There was only one thing that they could do to return peace and goodwill to the village: Hetty had to be asked to leave. If she refused, then it was the job of Haligern coven to encourage her in a determined manner, with force if necessary.
Loveday shivered but pursed her lips. “Fear not, their power is not greater than ours but you are right about Hetty. She has brought us nothing but trouble since she arrived.”
“They will force us from the village!”
“I will see to it that they do not.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Talk to the men.”
Beatrice tugged at her arm. “No! Don’t go out.”
“There is nothing these men can do to me, sister.”
“There is much that they can do!” Beatrice thrust her arm forward, the wide band of silver circling her wrist, glinted in the light. “See!” she exclaimed. “Since Hetty arrived, our ancestors have been warning us. See how the dragon writhes! See how the boar bites the wolf’s tail.”
Loveday felt the surge of energy from her own bangle where the dragons, wolves, and boars, moulded in silver in an eternal chase, were writhing. A warning of existential threat to the coven and one that if it became extreme would enable the creatures to leave their metal bondage and take their form as protectors. It was a phenomenon that could only occur in the direst of circumstance. It was one that could betray them. The creatures’ transformation into physical beasts would give the sisters’ true nature away and mark them as women to be feared, and would ruin the efforts they had made to live in peace and harmony with the local Lord, serfs, and freemen in the area. The creatures had begun to move as soon as Hetty had arrived in the village and, as the days had turned to weeks, their agitation had become more obvious. The mob at their door proved without doubt that Hetty was a threat to the coven’s existence, a threat that had to be extinguished.
“Then we should heed their warning and rid the village of the troublesome woman.” The knot of dread tightened in her stomach. Confronting a witch as powerful as Hetty Yikkar, a power infused with the darkest of energies, would be dangerous. The air above Loveday sparked as her aura grew dark.
“Oh, Loveday! Whatever shall we do.”
“We must not let fear overcome us, sister,” she replied, noticing the waning of Beatrice’s aura. “We are not snails hiding within our shells waiting to be crushed by the farmers boot!”
Bess, Beatrice’s coal-black whippet familiar ran in a circle around her legs, then sat by her side. Loveday glanced at the slender dog as it shivered beside its mistress. “A little more stoicism in this coven would not go amiss, Beatrice. We are borne of warriors. Never forget that.”
Beatrice nodded her head in agreement although the flicker of fear remained in her eyes. Loveday placed a hand on her slender shoulder. “I will never let them hurt you, Bea,” she said in softer tones. Beatrice nodded again but Bess quivered at her feet. “Your energy is upsetting Bess. Take a breath. Fortify yourself.”
Beatrice took a breath, Bess let out a small yap, and Loveday strode across the worn flagstones to the front door.
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