The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  “That is your decision to make, but despite that, an exchange is required for what we have freely provided. Fill the chalice so that my mistress may live!”

  So saying, the dark warrior held the vessel out to the witch assassin.

  “With what shall we fill it?” Grimalkin asked.

  At first the warrior did not reply. His head turned, and he seemed to look along the row, checking each of us in turn. Then my heart filled with dismay. I was still unable to see his eyes, but I knew beyond all doubt that his gaze had settled upon me.

  “My mistress needs sustenance. She must drink warm blood from the body of the youngest here!” he declared, pointing his blade directly at me. “Surrender his life. Fill the cup from his heart’s blood!”

  I began to tremble again. Despite everything I had been told, even though I knew that Grimalkin would fight for my life, I was afraid. All sorts of doubts began to whirl through my head, and a cold fear clutched at my heart. Was I going to die here? Had the Fiend spoken the truth after all? Had this been Mam’s intent all along—to make a sacrifice of me? Perhaps her slow reversion to the feral state had leached away any human love she might have had for her son.

  Grimalkin shook her head. “You ask too much!” she cried in a loud, commanding voice. “We demand the right of combat!”

  The warrior inclined his head. “That is your right. But do not undertake such a challenge lightly. If I win, all your lives are immediately forfeit. Do you still wish to proceed?”

  Grimalkin bowed her acceptance of the terms. And suddenly everything grew dark. I heard sighs and whispers all around, and then, as light filled the hall once more, I saw that the warrior now stood armed and ready in the middle of the mosaic floor. He no longer carried the chalice. In his right hand he hefted a long blade; in his left, a spiked metal orb on a long chain.

  Grimalkin drew two long blades and, with consummate grace, leaped across the table, landing like a cat. She began to pad toward the armored figure, a slow, deadly stalking of her opponent. And it seemed to me that a smile played about the lips of the witch assassin. This was what she lived for. She would enjoy combat with this knight. She liked to test her skill against a worthy opponent, and I knew that she had found one who would push her to the limit. Grimalkin was not afraid to die. But if she failed and was killed, then we also would forfeit our lives.

  Her adversary stepped forward and began to whirl the spiked orb around his head. The chain spiraled higher and higher, the heavy metal sphere at its end scything through the air with enough force and velocity to remove Grimalkin’s head from her body.

  But not for nothing was Grimalkin the assassin of the Malkin witches. Timing her attack to perfection, she stepped inside the orbit of the whirling orb and struck straight at the left eye slit of the helmet, her blade rasping against metal to miss by less than the width of a finger.

  The warrior’s sword was as swift as Grimalkin’s blades, and they exchanged savage blows, but she was in too close for him to wield the orb. It hung uselessly on its chain while she used two blades against his one. For a while she seemed to have the upper hand and pressed him hard.

  Then it was the warrior’s turn to gain the ascendancy. The witch assassin had no armor, and now, in retreat, that drawback became apparent. Twice he directed kicks at her body, the spike threatening to disembowel her, but she spun like a wheel, with great economy of movement, staying too close for him to use the chain and orb. Again and again her blades struck her opponent’s body with metallic clangs but were deflected by the armor that encased it. It seemed impossible that she could survive, let alone win. What chance had she against such a heavily protected foe? Her legs and arms were naked, her flesh vulnerable.

  It suddenly struck me that she had given up something that would have been greatly to her advantage. Had she retained the blade and dark wish, she could have employed them now. She had made a great sacrifice indeed.

  Now Grimalkin whirled away from her enemy, moving counterclockwise in a circling retreat to our table. I became concerned. The tactic seemed ill-advised. At this distance the warrior could once more wield his deadly orb effectively against her. He began to whirl it above his head, faster and faster, readying himself for the killer blow. Grimalkin stepped closer to him, as if placing herself in the perfect position and waiting for the spiked orb to crush her. My heart was in my mouth. I thought it was all over.

  But when the weapon descended, the witch assassin was no longer there. The orb struck the table a terrible blow, sending dishes and goblets crashing to the floor. And then Grimalkin committed herself, aiming directly for the slit in the helmet that marked the position of her enemy’s unseen left eye. Her blade struck home, and a great scream of pain filled the hall.

  In an instant all became dark, the air freezing cold. Powerful dark magic was being used. I felt dizzy and reached out to the table to steady myself. The great hall was silent as the echo of that shriek faded. But then, in the darkness, I saw two glittering eyes moving toward us from the direction of the pit.

  Again the light steadily increased, and we were all seated at the table—although I couldn’t remember having sat down. The goblets and dishes that littered the floor had been returned to their proper places. Grimalkin was back in her original position at the table.

  The dark warrior was once more standing directly before us, carrying the crystal chalice and his long blade. Was it the same man? Had he been returned to life by dark magic? Is was as if the fight with Grimalkin had never happened.

  “My mistress needs sustenance. She must drink warm blood from the body of the boy!” he declared, pointing his blade directly at me again. “Fill the cup!”

  As the fearsome warrior held out the crystal chalice, my heart fluttered in my chest with fear.

  “We’ve won, child!” Grimalkin whispered into my ear, her voice filled with triumph. “He no longer demands your life—just that we fill the cup. It’s exactly what we want.”

  Silently the warrior placed the crystal goblet on the red silk of the tablecloth. Grimalkin picked it up and withdrew a short knife from its leather scabbard. She turned toward me. “Roll up your sleeve, child. The right arm . . .”

  With shaking fingers I did as she asked. “Now take the chalice and hold it under your arm to catch the blood.”

  I lifted my bare arm and positioned the exquisitely wrought vessel beneath it. Grimalkin made a small cut into my flesh. I hardly felt it, but blood began to drip downward; however, it stopped flowing before the chalice was half full.

  “Just one more cut and it’s done,” she said.

  I felt the blade again and sucked in my breath as the sharp pain bit. This time my blood cascaded freely, and to my surprise the vessel suddenly became much heavier. It filled rapidly, but no sooner had the blood reached the rim than the flow suddenly ceased. I saw that it had already congealed into a thin red line against the pale flesh of my arm.

  The witch assassin placed the cup on the table; the warrior picked it up and carried it toward the pit. We watched him descending the steps until he was lost to view, then waited in silence until he was some distance from the hall. We couldn’t risk his hearing a disturbance and turning back. It was vital that my blood be given to the Ordeen. The minutes passed slowly, but at last Grimalkin smiled and pulled a small mirror from her sleeve, preparing to signal our success.

  However, before she could do so, everything went dark, and I felt a sudden chill again. Once more bright, glittering eyes moved toward us from the direction of the pit. Had the servants of the Ordeen guessed our intent?

  Suddenly I was aware that, notwithstanding the intense silence, the hall was now full of people. And what strange and terrifying people they were!

  The men were very tall, with long, pointy noses and chins and elongated faces. They must be demons, I thought, with their cavernous eyes, and their dark, loose clothes that hung from their bodies like gossamer sails stretched over willowy trees. At their belts were imposing, curved swords
.

  The demons brought to my mind an old County proverb.

  Pointy nose and pointy chin,

  Darkness surely dwells within!

  By contrast, the women were sleek, with voluptuous curves, revealing skin that glistened as if freshly anointed. And they were dancing, whirling rhythmically to the beat of a distant unseen drum. These women danced alone while the men brooded on the edge of the dancing space or lurked in the gloom of the pillars, watching with hungry eyes.

  I looked back along the table and saw that everyone in our party seemed transfixed by the dancers. Their strange movements held some sort of enchantment. Grimalkin still had the mirror in her hand but seemed powerless to use it. We were helpless. Had we gotten so close to success only to be thwarted at the last moment?

  And then I realized that some of Mam’s escort, Seilenos among them, were eating greedily from their plates and gulping wine from the golden goblets—despite the warning they’d been given. I knew then that the Greek spook lacked the willpower and determination of John Gregory. It would now surely be his undoing.

  I turned back to the women dancing before the pit and saw that whereas each had previously danced alone, now they spun in twos, woman with woman, following the mosaic patterns of the long serpents. The drumbeat was getting louder, faster, and more frantic, and now there was more than one drum. It made me want to tap my feet, and I felt a strong urge to rise from my seat. I looked across to Alice and saw that she too was gripping her seat, stopping herself from joining the dancers. I slowed my breathing and fought the impulse to move until it began to subside.

  Then I saw that one of the dancers was actually a man—one I recognized. It was Seilenos. Just moments earlier I’d seen him eating the forbidden food; now he was suddenly part of that wild dance. I lost sight of him for a moment, but then he whirled back into view, this time much closer to our table. And I could see that a woman had her mouth against his neck, her teeth biting deep into his flesh; blood was dribbling onto his chest. Terror showed in his bulging eyes; they rolled wildly in their sockets. His belly seemed to be convulsing, and his clothes were torn, revealing deep wounds across his back. The woman was draining Seilenos of blood. He was spun back into the press of bodies, closer to the pit, and I didn’t see him again.

  I was grateful that I had been well taught by the Spook and had fasted before entering the citadel. Seilenos’s love of food and wine had cost him his life—maybe even his soul!

  Then, to my right, I saw Grimalkin again, her face straining with the immense effort of fighting the powerful dark magic that bound us all. She slowly brought the mirror to her mouth. She breathed on it and, rapt with concentration, began to write with her forefinger. It was the signal to begin the attack.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Fire Elementals

  FOR some time the dancing figures continued to whirl frantically to the wild rhythm, but finally they began to slow. The drums faltered, then ceased altogether. The demons stood immobile, frozen in time, just as we had minutes earlier. Some inclined their heads, and I sensed that they were listening.

  I heard a distant pounding of feet. Closer and closer it came. The doors were flung back with a crash, and the Pendle witches burst into the hall, long knives at the ready, their faces savage and eager for battle. There were Mouldheels among them, but no sign of Mab and her two sisters. Why hadn’t they joined the attack? I wondered.

  Once again, Grimalkin vaulted across the table and joined the fight. Any enchantments possessed by the demons were either not used or ineffective against the combined wild onslaught of the witches. To right and left they cut, wielding their blades to powerful effect. Their enemies resisted, drawing their swords and fighting back, but within moments several of them lay dead, their red blood pooling on the floor.

  It all happened so quickly that we had no time to join the fray. One moment there was ferocious fighting, the next the demons were retreating down the steps into the pit. But it was an orderly retreat. Some fought a rearguard action while the women escaped. Soon only the witches remained, gazing down the steps into the darkness.

  Alice gripped my arm tightly as we moved to join them, but already they were turning their backs upon the pit.

  “It’s too dangerous to follow them,” Grimalkin said. “I expect that’s exactly what they want. They gave up and retreated far too easily. No doubt they want to lure us down into the darkness and ambush us. We’ll take the route advised by your mother, child. I suggest you wait here until the mercenaries have launched their attack. They’re on their way now, so we’ll go ahead and press on deeper into the citadel.”

  With that, she led the blood-spattered witches out into the tunnel, to the inner courtyard.

  “Best do as she says, Tom,” Alice said, still holding my arm tightly. “We’ll follow on in a few moments.”

  Some of the survivors of Mam’s escort nodded in agreement. Without their leader, they seemed nervous. The bodies of Seilenos and two more of Mam’s escort lay in pools of blood, unseeing eyes staring up at the high ceiling.

  “Let’s move closer to the door,” Alice said, looking nervously to the steps. “Now that the witches have gone, those demons might come back up.”

  It seemed a good idea, so we all headed for the open doorway.

  Within moments we heard horses galloping toward us. We watched as the mercenaries thundered in through the entrance and along the tunnel to begin their attack. It took a long time for them to pass. As the last hooves echoed into the distance, we left the hall and followed them to the inner courtyard.

  I looked back briefly. There was no sign of Mam, the Spook, or the others. Surely they should be here by now? I thought.

  We hadn’t taken more than a couple of dozen paces along the tunnel when the sound of galloping could be heard again. It was getting louder and louder! The warriors were coming back. They were in retreat already! What had gone wrong?

  A riderless mount swept past, almost trampling Alice beneath its hooves. Its eyes rolled in fear, and it was foaming at the mouth. More horses galloped by, some with riders, their weapons gone, eyes wide with terror. Yes, they were in retreat all right. There was no doubt about it. This was a rout. What had made those warriors turn and flee like that?

  As more and more thundered toward us, I realized that we were in real danger of being crushed. I pushed Alice into a niche in the tunnel wall, shielding her with my body. The horses buffeted against us, filling the tunnel with the beat of many hooves. It seemed to go on forever, but at last all was silent again and I stepped away from the wall.

  “You all right, Alice?” I said as I picked up my staff and bag.

  She nodded. “Where’s your mam’s escort?” she asked.

  I looked around. Three more of them were dead, their bodies trampled, but of the remainder there was no sign. And where were Mam, the Spook, and Arkwright? Were they in the tunnel behind us? Had they been crushed in the stampede? A lump came into my throat.

  I called out, “Mam! Mam!” But there was no reply, just an eerie silence.

  “We should follow the witches,” Alice suggested. “Maybe your mam and Old Gregory have been delayed. They might not even have been in the tunnel when those horses came through.”

  I nodded and we went on. I was still worried about Mam, but also afraid of what might be waiting ahead. Whatever it was, a thousand mounted warriors had fled in fear rather than face it. Was it the Ordeen herself? Had she received my blood and awakened already?

  We were approaching the end of the tunnel now, and mist began to swirl toward us. A strange fear gnawed at my insides. Waves of cold swept through me like a gale trying to force me backward.

  “Do you feel it, Tom?” Alice asked.

  I nodded. For a spook, any degree of fear was dangerous when facing the dark. It made the enemies of the light much more powerful.

  We struggled on. I tried to block out the fear by thinking of happy times in my childhood: sitting on Mam’s knee, or Dad telling me stories
about his time at sea. We forced ourselves forward until at last, from out of the mist, the high inner wall of the Ord loomed up before us, its huge stones still steaming.

  We’d reached the wide cobbled courtyard. There were dead horses on the ground; warriors, too, their eyes wide open and staring, their faces twisted with terror.

  “What killed them, Alice?” I cried. “There are no marks on them. No wounds at all.”

  “Died of fright, they did, Tom. It froze their minds and stopped their hearts. . . . But look! There’s an open gate.”

  Ahead of us, set into the wall, stood a wide wooden gate. It was open, but darkness waited within. As I stared at it, despair washed over me, and I couldn’t find the will to take a single step nearer. It had all been for nothing. The warriors had fled or died, and now there was no chance of entering and destroying the Ordeen before she drew on her mantle of power again.

  We stood staring at the open gate. What could Alice and I do alone? And how long before the Ordeen awoke?

  “I haven’t got the strength to go in,” I told Alice, knowing that I was in thrall to the powerful dark magic that had been used against the mercenaries. “I’m not brave enough for this. . . . I haven’t the will. . . .”

  Alice’s only reply was to nod her head wearily in agreement.

  Although neither of us voiced our thoughts, it seemed certain that the Pendle witches had already gone through ahead of us. But we still didn’t move. I was wondering what could have happened to Mam and the others. The heart and courage had gone out of me.

  I don’t know how long we’d have remained standing there, but suddenly I heard footsteps behind and turned to see a tall hooded figure carrying a staff and bag emerge from the tunnel. To my astonishment, I saw that it was the Spook. At his heels was Bill Arkwright, who looked resolute, as if in the mood for breaking a few heads. But there was no sign of his three dogs.

  Arkwright nodded, but the Spook strode straight past us without even a glance in our direction. Then, as he reached the gate, he turned and looked back at me, his eyes glittering fiercely.