I hesitated for a moment before giving chase, wondering whether I should cut Jenny free and lower her to the ground. But I decided that it was better to finish off the beast first. I couldn’t bind it, so I would kill it and end its threat. Who knew what it might conjure against me if I delayed? I followed it up a spiral staircase cut into the inner trunk of the tree.

I emerged into the large room I’d first seen, the one furnished with the chairs, table, and shelves of books and jars. I looked again at the red lambskin rugs. I wondered if they’d been dyed with blood. But surely blood wouldn’t stay so red. . . .

The creature appeared through a doorway to my right. It now clutched weapons in both hands: in its left was a curved sword, which is sometimes called a saber; in its right, a long-bladed dagger.

I attacked immediately, driving the beast backward. But it was very skilful: the saber met each blow of my sword, filling the room with the clash of metal upon metal.

I was wary of the dagger, which the creature held close to its side, waiting for an opportunity to strike. I resolved not to step too close. My opponent might drag me in and use that short blade.

There are two effective modes of combat. One is to remain cold and calculating, observing every detail of an opponent’s technique, assessing strengths and weaknesses, before delivering the death blow. The other is to surrender to what the mind and body already know and fight using instinct, the weapons and moves mere extensions of one’s own body, which then acts faster than thought.

But there is also a third, more dangerous way of doing battle—to fight driven by rage. Those opponents who attack you filled with a berserker fury are the easiest to counter and kill.

This was how I fought now. My anger was fueled by the creature’s behavior—by the way it had treated Jenny, biting her back and shoulders, tying her up and hanging her by her feet from the ceiling like an animal ready for the slaughter before drinking her blood. Moreover, it had murdered the other three girls. Its arrogance and presumption . . . to think that it could enter the County, which I guarded against the dark, and treat women like slaves, taking their lives as if they were of no value.

In a fury, I drove the beast backward until I had forced it right up against the heavy table. Then I did something I hadn’t planned; I simply used what was at hand. I seized one of the bottles of red wine from the tabletop and smashed it into the beast’s head.

The bottle broke, showering the creature with red wine. It staggered back, shaking that huge head as if momentarily stunned. Taking advantage of its predicament, I thrust my blade past its guard and deep into its chest.