The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

This was the part of our escape that carried the greatest risk. If we were seen now, dozens of armed men would reach us in seconds. Once again we set off, leaving the fires behind now, the welcome darkness waiting to swallow us and hide us from our enemies.

  Again we rested and lay face down in the dark. But then, as we began to crawl forward again, one of our soldiers stifled a cough. Instantly we froze. I glanced back to my left and saw that sentry outside the nearest tent was coming toward us. I held my breath. He halted but continued to stare in our direction. I could hear the soldier ahead of me spluttering and choking. He was fighting the almost irresistible urge to cough. If he failed, he would put all our lives in jeopardy.

  He lost the battle and let out a loud, explosive sound. The sentry shouted something and, drawing his sword, began to run toward us. There were other shouts, and more enemy soldiers joined him. We got to our feet and began to sprint away. Our only hope was to lose our pursuers in the darkness.

  Our escort had fled for their lives, so we ran, too. For a few moments Alice was running just ahead of me, but then I passed the Spook, who was struggling with Cormac, the captive mage. I grabbed the man’s other shoulder, and together my master and I dragged him forward. But it was hopeless. When I glanced back, I could see flickering torches and hear the pounding of feet. They were catching us fast. The going underfoot was getting worse. The ground was uneven, and I kept splashing through water. We were entering the bog.

  No doubt there were safe paths through it, but we were scattered now, our guides somewhere ahead, and I feared we could blunder into dangerous ground that might suck us in. But the greatest threat was close on our heels, and acting simultaneously and instinctively, the Spook and I released the prisoner, pushing him to his knees, and spun, staffs at the ready, to face our attackers.

  I remember wondering where Alice was: She was unarmed and couldn’t stand and fight, but neither could she afford to wander too far from the protection of the blood jar. Then I had to focus on the immediate threat. A bearded mage brandishing a sword in his right hand and a torch in his left ran straight at me, aiming a blow at my head, his mouth stretched wide to show his teeth; he looked like a wild animal.

  Ignoring the sword, I jabbed the base of my staff toward his forehead. The blow struck home, its force aided by his forward momentum. He went down, the sword spinning out of his hand. But there were more armed men, and then they were all around us. For a few moments I stood back-to-back with my master. Almost simultaneously we pressed the buttons on our staffs and used our retractable blades. Now it was kill or be killed. We fought desperately, whirling and jabbing, but then, under pressure from the attack, we became separated.

  Threatened from every side and with nobody to guard my back, I was already starting to tire; the attack was relentless. I thought it was all over for me, but then I saw my chance. Three soldiers were pressing me hard, but only one carried a torch. I knocked it out of his hand, and it fell, extinguishing itself on impact with the waterlogged ground, plunging us into darkness.

  In the confusion, I made for what I thought was southeast, toward the River Inny. The Spook had told us to meet up there if things went wrong. Well, they’d gone wrong, all right, and I was increasingly worried about Alice. If she was too far from the blood jar, the Fiend might come for her.

  Our attempt to escape with our hostage had been a disaster. We were scattered and on the run, and the mages had surely rescued him. Now they would go ahead with the ceremony. Dark times lay ahead for the Alliance.

  At one point I paused and glanced back, listening intently. There were no signs of pursuit, but my eyes had adjusted to the dark now and I could see the distant campfires, no more than tiny pinpoints of light in the darkness. So I continued more cautiously, using my staff to test the depth of the water ahead. On more than one occasion it saved me from drowning or being sucked down into the bog. Even so, I was constantly tripping over big tussocks of marsh grass or plunging up to my knees in ice-cold stinking water.

  My memory of Shey’s map gave me few clues as to how long the journey should take, and the going was difficult. I remembered that I needed to keep well north of the mountains in order to reach the river. Apart from that, my knowledge of the terrain was vague, but I knew that somewhere on the southern edge of the hills was the Staigue ring fort. Some of the mages and their servants would still be there—it was a place to be avoided at all costs.

  It was hard to judge the passage of time, but eventually the sky ahead started to grow lighter and I knew it wouldn’t be long before dawn. I’d hoped that would enable me to take my bearings from the mountains and find the river, but it wasn’t to be. Soon tendrils of mist were snaking toward me, and I quickly became enveloped in a dense fog. The air was still, and apart from the sound of my own breathing and my boots squelching through the bog, all was silent.

  Later, in the early dawn light, I saw a cottage looming up before me through the mist. A tall, thin man carrying a shovel over his shoulder came out of the door. He was wearing a jacket with a hood, not unlike my own, but no hair was visible on his forehead. From a distance, he looked like a turf cutter setting off for a hard day’s work, eager to make the best of the winter’s short daylight hours. He came across to intercept me and gave me a broad smile. It was then that I noticed how pale his narrow face was. It was not the face of someone who worked outdoors.

  “You look lost, boy. Where are you heading?” he demanded, his voice as harsh as the croak of an old bullfrog. The skin was stretched tight across his cheekbones; from close up, it looked a little yellow, as though he’d recently been ill. His eyes were deep set, as if they were sinking into his skull, droopy eyelids and folds of skin closing over them.

  “I’m making for the river,” I told him. “I’m supposed to meet some friends there.”

  “You’re slightly off track—you should be heading that way,” he said, pointing in what seemed to be a more easterly direction. “Have you been walking all night?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, in that case you’ll be cold and hungry. Mistress Scarabek will make you something to eat and let you warm yourself by the fire for a while,” he said, indicating the front door of the cottage. “Knock quietly at the door so as not to wake the young ’un, and ask her for some breakfast. Tell her that Thin Shaun sent you.”

  The man’s appearance was odd, but I was in urgent need of food and shelter. I nodded my thanks, approached the cottage, and rapped lightly on the door, trying to make as little noise as possible.

  I heard the slip-slap of bare feet, and the door opened a crack. It was dark inside, but I thought I could make out a single unblinking eye.

  CHAPTER IX

  SMALL COLD FINGERS

  I opened my eyes; it was dark in the cottage, and I felt stiff and cold. The fire was out but there was a candle burning on the mantelpiece.

  I felt utterly weary and wanted to close my eyes and drift back into a deep sleep. I was about to do just that when I saw something that made me gasp with concern. The baby’s cradle had fallen over and was lying on its side!

  There was the infant, half in, half out of it, still wrapped in a woolen blanket. I tried to call out for its mother, but when I opened my mouth, all that came out was a faint croak. I realized then that I was breathing rapidly; my heart was fluttering in my chest with a scary irregular beat that made me fear it was about to stop at any minute. I was unable to move my limbs.

  Was I seriously ill? I wondered. Had I caught some type of fever in the bog lands?

  Then I thought I saw the baby’s blanket move. It gave a sort of twitch, then began to rise and fall rhythmically, suggesting that the child was still breathing and had survived the fall. I tried to call for the mother again but could still only manage a weak cry; the effort sent my heart into such a speedy fluttering rhythm that I began to tremble all over, fearing that I was dying.

  I suddenly realized that the woolen blanket was now moving in a different way. It seemed to be coming slowl
y toward me. How old was the baby? Was it old enough to crawl like that? Even though it was completely covered by the blanket and couldn’t possibly see where it was going, it was heading directly for me. Could it hear my breathing? Was it seeking comfort? Why didn’t Scarabek come to check on it?

  Then I heard a strange sound. It was coming from the baby. Despite the utter silence of the room, I could hear no breathing—only a sort of rhythmical clicking. It sounded like gnashing teeth. Suddenly I was scared. Babies that small didn’t have teeth!

  No, it had to be something else. The moment that thought entered my head, a cold tremor ran the length of my spine, a warning that something from the dark was very close. I desperately tried to move my limbs, but they were still paralyzed. I lay there, watching it helplessly.

  As the baby approached me, the woolen blanket seemed to convulse, and I heard a big gasp, as if whatever it was beneath the blanket had been holding its breath for a very long time and now desperately needed energy for some immense effort.

  It reached my foot and came to a halt for a few moments. Once again I heard what sounded like another huge in-breath, but this time I identified the sound; my first guess had been wrong. It was sniffing—sniffing like a witch, gathering information about me. It left my boot and began to move up along my body, pausing beside my chest. Once again it sniffed very loudly.

  I shuddered as it then climbed slowly up onto my chest. I was aware of four small limbs moving across me. Even through my clothes they felt very cold, like four blocks of ice. Whatever it was had finally reached my face now, and I began to panic; my heart pounded even more wildly. What was it? What horrible thing was hidden beneath that moving blanket?

  I tried to roll away onto my side but couldn’t find the strength. All I could do was raise my head a little. Nor could I manage to fend it off with my hands—they trembled uselessly at my sides while rivulets of sweat ran down my forehead into my eyes. I was unable to defend myself.

  It had reached my throat now, and raised itself up a little on its tiny hands as if to peer into my face, causing the blanket to fall back so that, simultaneously, I saw its face, too.

  I expected to see a monster, and my fears were fully realized—but not in the way I expected.

  The head was no larger than that of a baby of two or three months, but it had the face of a little old man; it was malevolent, filled with some desperate need. And it looked very like Thin Shaun, the turf cutter who had sent me here for food. And I suddenly understood that although I’d been fed, given a little gruel, I was also food—nourishment for this grotesque being. What I’d eaten must have contained some sleeping draft to render me weak and helpless. Now the creature’s mouth opened wide, revealing long needle-like teeth, and they were aiming for my throat.

  I felt its small cold fingers on my neck, then a sudden sharp stab of pain as the teeth punctured my flesh. It began to suck noisily, and I felt the blood being drawn out of my body—and with it my life.

  I had no strength to resist. There was little pain, just a sense of floating away toward death. How long it went on I have no idea, but the next thing I knew, Scarabek was walking purposefully into the room, her shadow flickering on the ceiling in the candlelight. She came across and gently plucked the creature from me; as it came away, I felt a tugging at my throat as its teeth were withdrawn. She carried it over to the cradle, which still lay on its side, and swaddled it in the woolen blanket again.

  She started singing to it in a low voice—a lullaby that might have been used to soothe a human child. Then she righted the cradle and placed the creature inside, carefully adjusting the blanket to keep it warm.

  Scarabek came back and stared down at me, and I saw that her face had changed. Previously, she must have used some enchantment to disguise herself. The truth was now revealed, and I recognized her instantly. There was no doubt: She was the Celtic witch from my dreams. These were the eyes—one green, the other blue—that I had seen in the cloud as we’d approached Ireland, and I shuddered at the malevolence glaring from them.

  But how was it possible? How could she have returned from the dead when the dogs had eaten her heart?

  “Tom Ward! How easily you fell into my hands! Ever since you approached our shore, I have been watching and waiting!” she cried. “It took the simplest of spells to lure you into my cottage. And how well you obeyed me, leaving your precious staff at the threshold. Now you are totally in my power. My life will end soon, my spirit given up in sacrifice to Pan. You will die too, but only after suffering terribly for what you did to my sister.”

  Sisters…were they twins? They looked so alike. I wanted to ask her, but I was almost too weak to draw breath. How much blood had the little creature taken? I wondered. I fought to remain conscious, but my head began to spin, and I fell into darkness. The witch had promised to make me suffer, but I already felt close to death—although there was no fear, just a terrible weariness.

  How long I was unconscious I don’t know, but when I came to, I heard voices: a man and a woman talking together quietly. I tried to make sense of what they were saying—something about barrows and traveling north. At last I managed to find the strength to open my eyes. The two of them were standing over me—Scarabek, the witch, and the man called Thin Shaun.

  But was he really a man, or something else? His hood was pulled back, revealing an emaciated head that could almost have been that of a corpse. The skull was clearly visible, the skin thin and parchment dry, his hairless head covered in patches of flaking skin.

  “He conceals a deadly weapon in the left pocket of his cloak,” said Scarabek. “Take it from him, Shaun. I cannot bear to touch it.”

  Thin Shaun reached into my pocket. I had no strength to resist, and he drew out my silver chain. As he did so, I saw the pain upon his face; with a shudder, he dropped it on the ground, out of my reach.

  “He used that to bind my sister before she was slain. But he won’t ever need to use it again. His life as an apprentice spook is over. We’ll take him north now, Shaun,” said the witch. “I’m going to hurt him badly and let him feel something of the suffering I experienced.”

  I was dismayed at the loss of my silver chain, but at least he hadn’t discovered the blood jar in my pocket.

  Thin Shaun picked me up and threw me over his shoulder, just as my master would carry a bound witch before putting her into a pit. He held me by the legs so that my head was hanging down toward his heels. I lacked the strength to resist, and I was aware of a strange musty smell emanating from him, an odor of dank underground places. But what really unnerved me was the extreme coldness of his body; even though I could feel and hear him breathing, it was as if I was being carried by a dead man.

  Curiously, though my body was weak, my mind became strangely alert. I tried to practice what the Spook had taught me and take careful note of my situation.

  We left the cottage and headed north, Scarabek taking the lead and carrying the creature in the woolen shawl close to her bosom, as if it were a human baby. Perhaps it was her familiar. A witch usually gave a familiar her own blood, but this was often augmented by blood from her victims. The most common familiars were cats, rats, birds, and toads, but sometimes witches used something more exotic. I had no name for the thing she was carrying; it certainly wasn’t mentioned in the Spook’s Bestiary. But I was dealing with a witch from a foreign land, and her powers and habits were largely unknown to me.

  To the east, the sky was already becoming lighter. I must have slept for at least a day and a night. The fog was lifting, and I could see the bulk of two mountains rising up ahead and to the right. And then I caught sight of something else—the unmistakable shape of a burial mound—and we were moving directly toward it. It was small, hardly more than twice the height of a man, and covered in grass. When we were less than five yards away, there was an intense flash of yellow light. As it dimmed, I saw the silhouette of the witch against a round doorway.

  Moments later, the breeze died down and the air imm
ediately became significantly warmer; we were surrounded by darkness, right inside the barrow. There was a sudden flare of light, and I saw that the witch was holding a black candle, which she’d just ignited by magic. Within the mound stood a table, four chairs, and a bed, to which she pointed.

  “Put him there for now,” she instructed, and Thin Shaun dumped me on it without ceremony. “It’s time to feed him again….”

  I lay there for several minutes, struggling to move. I was still suffering from that strange paralysis. The witch had gone into another room within the barrow, but Thin Shaun stood there silently, his unblinking eyes staring down at me. I was starting to feel a little stronger, and my heart and breathing were gradually returning to normal. But I guessed that Scarabek was now going to feed me more of the gruel laced with poison. If only I could manage to regain the full use of my limbs.

  She returned within minutes, carrying a small bowl. “Lift his head, Shaun,” she commanded.

  With his right hand, Thin Shaun gripped my shoulder, lifting the upper part of my body almost upright. This time the witch had a small wooden spoon, and as she brought it toward me, she held my forehead firmly while, with his left hand, Thin Shaun tugged my jaw downward, forcing my mouth wide open.

  The witch kept stuffing the spicy gruel into my mouth until I was forced to either swallow or choke. As the concoction went down my gullet, she smiled.

  “That’s enough for now—let him go,” she said. “Too much will kill him, and I have other plans for him first.”

  Thin Shaun lowered me back onto the bed and stood beside Scarabek. They stared down at me while my mouth grew dry and the room started to spin.

  “Let’s go out and get the girl,” I heard the witch say. “He’ll be safe enough here.”

  The girl—which girl? I wondered. Did they mean Alice? But then, once again, I felt my heart flutter and I fell into darkness. I knew no more for a while but kept having dreams of flying and falling. For some strange reason I was compelled to jump from a cliff, spreading my arms wide like a bird’s wings. But then I would plunge downward out of a dark sky, the unseen ground rushing up to meet me.