The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  I rose up onto my knees, gasping, and quickly glanced about me. I was in a wood, and all the trees looked huge. That was strange enough, but everything was also bathed in a silver light. It was as if it radiated from everything—trees, ground, and sky—and I knew one thing for certain: I had left the world I knew far behind.

  Suddenly I realized the truth. This wasn’t the dark. I was back in the Tech Duinn, the Hollow Hills—the place where Pan had taken me in spirit.

  I looked up at Scarabek. She gave me an evil smile, but she seemed to be fading. I remembered what Shey had told us. Witches could not stay here for very long.

  “I’m leaving you here, boy! I’m handing you over to the Morrigan. She’ll come for you at the twelfth peal of the midnight bell! You won’t forget that, I’m sure! And try not to forget who you are!” Scarabek cried in a mocking voice.

  And then she was gone, leaving me to my fate.

  I got to my feet, her final words spinning around inside my head. Forgetfulness! That was a real danger. What was it that Pan had told me?

  …memories bleed away into the silver light, and they are lost forever. Only heroes can endure….

  The heroes were those of Ireland—the ancients, the great ones such as Cuchulain. Despite her magic, even a Celtic witch couldn’t stay here for long. So what chance had I? I was here in the Otherworld—both in body and in soul. How could I hope to survive against the Morrigan? I had salt and iron in my pockets, and my silver chain tied about my waist. However, they couldn’t hurt a goddess. I remembered my fight with the Ordeen back in Greece, how she had simply shrugged off the silver chain I had cast about her.

  I’m not entirely sure what happened next—but I suddenly found myself crawling on all fours rather than walking, and I felt befuddled and disoriented. I was searching for the staff, which had been knocked out of my grasp. Where was it? I desperately needed a weapon; I knew instinctively that without one I couldn’t survive.

  Midnight was fast approaching, and a terrible creature would come for me then. But what was it? Some sort of demon? All I could remember was that a witch had sent it. She wanted revenge for something I’d done to her. But what had I done? What was it?

  Why couldn’t I recall these things properly? My mind was whirling with fragments of memory—pieces that I couldn’t fit together. Was I already under some sort of dark enchantment? I wondered. I suddenly felt cold, very cold. Something from the dark was drawing close now.

  In a panic, I leaped to my feet and desperately began to sprint through the trees, hindered by branches and thorny bushes that scratched and tore, but not caring. I just had to get away.

  I could hear something chasing me now, but it wasn’t on foot. There was a furious flapping of gigantic wings. I glanced back over my shoulder and wished I hadn’t, because what I saw increased my terror and panic.

  I was being chased by an immense black crow.

  A fragment of my shattered memory fell into place.

  The huge crow was the Morrigan, the bloodthirsty Old God of the Celtic witches. She scratched her victims to mark them for death. She haunted battlefields and pecked out the eyes of the dying.

  A second fragment of memory slotted into its correct position.

  This one filled me with hope. I knew that I still had a slim chance of escaping her. Ahead lay a church of some sort; once inside, I would be safe from the goddess. Could I reach it before I was seized by the Morrigan? I had dreamed this situation so many times, but now it was real. Were it not for that recurrent nightmare, this silver-lit world of the Hollow Hills would have snatched every last bit of my memory. I wondered if this ability to learn from my dreams was another gift I’d inherited from Mam.

  Churches weren’t usually places of refuge from the dark. Priests might think so, but spooks certainly didn’t. Nevertheless, somehow I knew that I had to reach this one—or face death.

  I’d been running hard, taking little heed of obstacles such as fallen logs and roots. Inevitably I tripped and went down. I got to my knees and looked up at my pursuer.

  A dreadful creature was standing before me wearing a black, bloody gown that came down to her ankles—part woman, part crow. Her feet were bare and her toenails were talons, as were her fingernails, but she had a huge feathered head with a deadly beak.

  She began to shift her shape. The beak shrank, the bird eyes changed until the head became human in appearance.

  A third fragment of memory clicked into place.

  I knew that face. It was the Celtic witch Scarabek. No doubt the Morrigan had taken on that identity to remind me of my crime against the witches who worshipped her.

  All at once, in the distance, I heard the chime of a bell. Was it a church bell? If so, I could follow that sound to its source and take refuge!

  It was worth a try, so on the second stroke I leaped to my feet and began to run toward the sound. I suddenly wondered how far away it was. Could I get there in time? The third peal sounded very near, but I could sense the Morrigan behind me, gliding closer and closer with every rapid step. I glanced back and saw that her face had been replaced by the huge crow’s head. The sharp beak was open wide, the sharp talons lunging toward me, ready to tear my flesh, mangle my body, and scatter my splintered bones.

  But now, through the trees, I glimpsed the silvery outline of a building. It was little more than a chapel with a small bell tower. If only I could reach it!

  As I got nearer, however, its outline began to shimmer and slowly shift its shape. The sharp angles softened, the tower disappeared, and it settled into the form of a burial mound. There was more: Beneath the dome of the grass-covered roof lay a structure of gleaming white stone. Now I could see an open doorway with an intricately carved stone lintel; absolute darkness waited within.

  The Morrigan’s talons raked toward my left shoulder, but I twisted away and dived through the small square entrance to that dark refuge. When I hit the ground, it felt soft; there was a covering of yellow straw, and I rolled over a couple of times before coming to a halt. I let my eyes slowly adjust to the dark—and soon I was able to make out my surroundings.

  I took a couple of deep breaths, then came up into a crouch and looked about me. In the center of the high ceiling of the mysterious chapel hung a seven-branched golden candelabrum, the thin candles blue and almost transparent. But the dim light didn’t reach the four corners of the chamber, where darkness gathered in impenetrable pools.

  However, most significantly, the mysterious silver light had completely disappeared. The chapel was indeed a refuge from the Otherworld, and my mind, which had become increasingly sluggish and forgetful, felt sharp and clear again, and I recalled everything that had happened.

  I heard a low growl and then the padding of heavy feet. Out of the shadows emerged a monstrous hound. I began to tremble. Claw and her fully grown pups, Blood and Bone, were fearsome beasts, but this hound was the size of a shire dray horse, as big and powerful as all three wolfhounds put together.

  Was it the guardian of this place? If so, I had little chance against such a creature. But I didn’t need to defend myself, because an even bigger monster emerged from the shadows and put an enormous hand on the hound’s head to restrain it.

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE HOUND OF CALANN

  HE was a giant of a man, with a wild mane of coarse red hair. He carried a spear in his right hand and a sword at his belt.

  His striking red hair suddenly drew my attention again. Although there was no breeze, the hair seemed to be moving. It was standing on end and writhing slowly, like underwater reeds moving in a swirling current.

  “You’re safe here, boy,” he said in a deep booming voice as he settled down next to the magnificent hound. “This hound won’t touch you. It’s what’s out there that you should fear. I fear the Morrigan too, but she can’t enter here. This is a sidhe—a place of refuge. Do you have a name?”

  My throat was dry, and I had to swallow before I could speak. “Tom Ward,” I replied.


  “And what do you do, Tom? What brings you here?”

  “I’m an apprentice spook. My master and I fight the dark. I was tricked by a witch into entering this Otherworld—she wants the Morrigan to hunt me down.”

  “Well, as long as you stay within this sidhe, she can’t touch you. Not even a goddess can enter. But it wouldn’t be wise to stay too long. Time passes differently here. It doesn’t flow at the same rate as it does back on earth. It moves forward in great surges. It is nearing midnight. Very soon the bells will chime the hour. At the twelfth peal, time will suddenly lurch forward: In one second spent here, many long years will have passed back in your world. Everyone you know will be dead. Go quickly, while you still have something to return to.”

  “I want to get back, but I don’t know the way. And how can I get past the Morrigan?”

  “You could fight her. I’ve fought her before, but it always ends in pain, and I wake up here and wait for my strength to return.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “They once called me the Hound of Calann because I killed this dog here with my bare hands. Now, in the afterlife, we’re bound together.”

  I remembered the tale Shey had told us. “So you’re Cuchulain—one of the great heroes of Ireland….”

  The giant smiled at that. “Is that how they describe me, Tom? I like that. What else do they say about me?”

  “They say that you’re resting here and will return when Ireland needs you.”

  Cuchulain laughed. “Me—return? I don’t think so! One life was enough for me, short as it was. I’ve done with killing men. No, I won’t be going back, that’s for sure. But I’ve a good mind to help you get back. I’m in the mood for a fight—though I must warn you, I’m not the best of men to accompany you. In battle, a great fury comes upon me and a red mist clouds my vision. In that state, I’ve killed friends as well as enemies. I’ve regretted it afterward, but that doesn’t undo what’s been done. It doesn’t bring back the dead. So beware! But the offer is there—take it or leave it. Though don’t spend too long making up your mind, now.”

  The huge hound lay down and closed its eyes, and a silence fell between me and Cuchulain. After a few moments, his head nodded onto his chest and his eyes closed, too.

  If I accepted the hero’s offer of help, there was no guarantee that he could really protect me against Scarabek. Hadn’t he just said that when he fought her, it ended in pain and suffering? He always lost. Then there was the battle frenzy that came over him—while fighting her, he could just as easily kill me. But if I stayed here, I thought, I was as good as dead. I would never see anyone I cared about again. Although I knew now that Alice was lost to me, there was still my family. And the Spook and Grimalkin. Even my chance to bind the Fiend would be gone, and I’d be a stranger in an unknown world. I had a duty to fight the dark. I needed to complete my training and become a spook in my own right. No, I had to leave the sidhe—and as soon as possible, whatever the risk.

  “You know a way back to my world?” I said to Cuchulain.

  The dog growled in its sleep and he patted its head, his own eyes still closed. “I know several doors that lead back. The nearest lies not far from here. We could be halfway there before the goddess even realizes we’ve left this refuge.”

  “I have to escape,” I told him. “Will you help me?”

  Cuchulain opened one eye and gave me a lopsided grin. “My heart quickens!” he cried. “I can smell the blood of the Morrigan. It’s worth a go. This time I could win. This time I could strike off her head!” He laughed. “You see, I’m an eternal optimist. Never give up! That’s the true quality that marks a hero. Never give up, even when things look hopeless! And I think you have that quality, boy. You too are a hero!”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m just a spook’s apprentice—I often get scared when facing the dark.”

  Cuchulain smiled. “Even heroes are sometimes afraid, Tom. It takes the bravery of a hero to admit fear. Besides, you are here in the sidhe, and still breathing. Were you made of less, you would have been destroyed the moment you entered this place.”

  He got to his feet and picked up his huge spear. “Have you no weapons, Tom?” he demanded.

  “I use a spook’s staff, but I lost it when I was dragged through the doorway from my world. I have nothing but salt and iron and my silver chain….”

  “The Morrigan won’t be bothered much by salt and iron, and the chain would only bind her for moments. She’d shift her shape and slip out of it in the twinkling of an eye. Here—take this dagger,” he said, reaching into his leather jerkin and handing me a weapon. “Strike her hard with this. She’ll feel it, mark my words!”

  To Cuchulain it might have been a dagger, but he was a huge man, over twice the size of the village smith at Chipenden. The blade he handed me was a sword. It looked a very special sword, too, no doubt crafted for a king. The hilt was ornate, shaped like the head of some sort of beast. With a shock, I recognized it. It was a skelt, the creature that hid in crevices near water, then scuttled out to drink the blood of its victims. The skelt’s long snout formed the serrated blade of the sword; its eyes were two large rubies. It made sense—Ireland had lots of bogs and water, which would be home to skelts, so the sword had been fashioned in its likeness.

  I took the handle in my left hand and tested it for balance. It felt right—almost as if it had been made for me.

  Then I saw that the blade itself was crafted from a silver alloy. Such a weapon could destroy a demon. Although it was not effective against one of the Old Gods, the blade could still injure the Morrigan and buy precious time while I made my escape.

  Suddenly I saw that blood was dripping from the sword and forming a small red pool on the ground. For a moment I thought that I’d cut myself on the sharp blade, but then, to my astonishment, I realized that the blood was weeping from the two red ruby eyes.

  Cuchulain grinned. “It likes you, boy!” he exclaimed. “It likes you a lot! The first time I held that blade, it dripped a little blood. But nothing like as much as that! You belong to the blade. It owns you. You’ll belong to it until the day you die.”

  How could a sword own me? I wondered. Surely it was I who owned the sword? However, this wasn’t the time to contradict Cuchulain.

  “Are you ready, Tom?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “We have to move fast. As soon as we’re clear of the sidhe, turn sharp left. About fifty paces will bring us to a ford. It’s not an easy crossing, but on the other side lies a cave. Run straight in and don’t slow down. The far wall is the doorway back to the world of humans—but to pass through, you must run at it at full pelt. Do you hear?”

  I nodded again. “I’m ready,” I told him.

  Cuchulain gripped his spear and sprinted out of the sidhe, the huge hound at his side. I ran after him, holding my sword ready. Once more we were bathed in that sickly silver light. I forced myself to concentrate, fearing for my memory.

  Once outside, there was no sign of the Morrigan. Cuchulain and his hound were pulling away, and I struggled to keep up, but then I caught sight of the river ahead, a fat silver snake meandering through the trees. Suddenly I found myself alongside Cuchulain. Had I somehow managed to speed up, or had he slowed down?

  I glanced to my right and saw that he was now staggering. When we’d left the sidhe, his left shoulder and arm had been strong and muscular. Now they were withered, so feeble that he could barely grasp his spear. As I watched, he transferred it to his right hand and stumbled onward, slowing with every stride as if about to fall. I remembered Shey’s story: During Cuchulain’s life, he’d been weakened by a witch’s curse. Was the Morrigan now exerting her power over him, renewing the spell?

  I heard a new sound then—the harsh chatter of crows. The branches of the trees ahead of us were bowed down under their weight. Was the Morrigan among them? I wondered. The answer came quickly.

  No! A monstrous crow as big as Cuchu
lain was flying directly toward us, claws extended, beak agape. As the Morrigan swooped through the trees, I swerved away to the left, but Cuchulain hefted his spear and stabbed at her. Feathers flew and the goddess screamed. He’d hurt her, and she landed heavily. But then she flew at him again, talons lashing out.

  I turned, ready to go to his aid, gripping the sword tightly. They were grappling in close combat, her talons tearing at his flesh, but I also saw blood-spattered feathers on the ground. Both of them were bleeding. The Morrigan was shrieking like a banshee witch, while Cuchulain roared and bellowed like a beast.

  I moved closer, waiting for my chance to stab her with the sword. I saw that the hound was watching, too. Why didn’t it go and help its master? I looked closely at Cuchulain and realized that he was starting to change. The battle fury was coming upon him. One eye seemed to be bulging out of his forehead, and his hair was standing up and thickening like the sharp quills of a hedgehog. The skin of his face was rippling, his teeth bared in a snarl, as though he wanted to bite off the head of the crow that confronted him.

  I ran forward, raising my sword to strike the goddess. Luckily I never got close enough to do so—it would have been the end of me. Mad with rage, Cuchulain reached out with his left hand and seized the neck of the hound. In spite of his withered arm, insane anger lent him strength. He swung the hound against the trunk of the nearest tree. The massive trunk shuddered with the impact, but the head of the hound broke open like an egg, splattering brains and red gore on wood and ground.

  Cuchulain threw the lifeless body away and then glared about him. For a moment his eyes rested upon me, and terror froze me to the spot. Then his gaze moved on, but rather than going for the Morrigan with renewed fury, he attacked a mighty oak tree! He swung his spear at it again and again, the blows resounding through the forest. Branches broke and fell to the silver grass in splinters. Then he began to drive the point of his spear into the trunk. Deeper and deeper went the blade with each blow, shards of wood flying up into the air. But my eyes were no longer on Cuchulain. I was staring at the giant crow, which was changing even as I watched.