The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  After that, Tom Ward wielded the Destiny Blade given to him by Cuchulain, the greatest of Ireland’s dead heroes. With two deadly blows, the Spook’s apprentice cut through the Fiend’s neck, and I carried that severed head away with me.

  While body and head are apart, the Devil is bound. But his dark servants pursue me. They want to return the head to its body and pluck out the nails and silver spears so that he is free once more.

  To thwart them, I keep moving. By so doing, I buy time so that the Spook and his apprentice can discover the means by which the Fiend may finally be destroyed or returned to the dark. But I cannot run forever, and my strength is finite. Besides, it is in my nature to fight, not to run. This is a conflict I cannot win. There are too many of them—too many powerful denizens of the dark for even the witch assassin of the Malkin clan to overcome.

  “It feels good to have you in my power!” I told the Fiend as I sat in front of him.

  For a moment the severed head did not reply, but then the mouth slowly opened and a dribble of blood-flecked saliva trickled down his chin.

  “Unstitch my eyes!” he bellowed, his voice a deep growl. His lips moved, but the words seemed to rise up from the ground beneath the head.

  “Why should I do that?” I demanded. “If you could see, you’d tell your servants where I am. Besides, it is my pleasure to watch you suffer.”

  “You can never win, witch!” he snarled, showing his broken teeth again. “I am immortal; I can outlast even time itself. One day you will die, and I will be waiting. What you have done to me I will repay a thousand times over. You cannot begin to imagine the torments that await you.”

  “Listen, fool!” I told him. “Listen well! I don’t dwell on past failings, nor do I project my mind into the future more than is necessary. I am a creature of the now and I live in the present. And you are here in the present, trapped with me. It is you who suffer now. You are in my power!”

  “You are strong, witch,” the Fiend said quietly, “but something stronger and more deadly stalks you. Your days are numbered.”

  Suddenly everything grew quiet and still. Our reference to time had spurred him to attempt again what he had already tried but failed to do the previous time I’d lifted him out of the sack. He had the ability to slow or halt time—though being separated from his body had limited his usual powers. However, taking no chances, I rammed the thorn-wrapped apple back into his mouth, then twisted my hooked implement and pulled it free.

  The Fiend’s face twitched, and beneath the stitched lids I could see the orbs of his eyes rolling in spasm. But I could hear the breeze whistling through the leaves above my head once more. Time was moving forward. The moment of danger was past.

  I returned the head to the leather sack, stared into the leafy darkness, and concentrated. One quick sniff told me that this was still a safe place. Nothing dangerous lurked in this copse that shrouded the summit of a hill, and it was an excellent location. My enemies could not approach undetected.

  My pursuers had gradually been increasing in number, but I had lost them late in the evening, and soon after had employed some of my precious remaining magic to cloak myself. I had to use it sparingly because my resources were almost exhausted. It was nearly midnight, and I intended to rest here and regain my strength by sleeping until dawn.

  Sometime later, I awoke suddenly, sensing danger. My pursuers were climbing the hill toward me, and they had spread out to encircle the wood.

  How could that have happened? I had cloaked myself well; they should not have been able to find me. I sprang to my feet and swung the leather sack onto my shoulders.

  I had been running for too long. Finally, it was time to fight. The thought lifted my spirits; the anticipation of combat always did that. It was what I lived for: to test my strength against my enemies, to fight and kill.

  How many were there? I fingered the thumb bones that hung from the necklace I wore around my neck, drawing forth their magical power before probing the darkness with my mind.

  There were nine creatures approaching. I sniffed three times to gather more information. There were others farther back—almost a mile away—maybe twenty or more moving in this direction. Something puzzled me, and I sniffed again. There was a new addition to this larger group—someone or something with them that I couldn’t identify. Something strange. What was it?

  Something stronger and more deadly stalks you now.

  That was what the Fiend had said. Was this what he was referring to?

  Perhaps it was, but for now that whole larger group could be forgotten. First I had to deal with the more immediate threat, so I began to assess the level of danger posed by the group of nine.

  Seven of them were witches. At least one of them was of the first rank, and she used familiar magic. That might be how they’d found me. A witch’s familiar could be anything from a toad to an eagle. Sometimes it was a powerful creature of the dark, although they were hard to control. So the familiar might have been able to find me despite the cloak I’d wrapped about myself.

  I could also tell that one of the group climbing the hill was an abhuman—and that the ninth was a man, a dark mage.

  It would be easy to make my escape by choosing the path of least resistance. Two of the witches were young—hardly more than novices. I could simply break through the encircling line at that point and flee into the darkness. But that was not my way. I had to remind them who I was. Send a clear message to all who pursued me that I was Grimalkin, the witch assassin of the Malkin clan. I had run for so long that they had grown disrespectful. I had to teach them fear again. So I called down the hill to my enemies.

  “I am Grimalkin and I could kill you all!” I cried. “But I will slay only three—the strongest three!”

  There was no answer, but everything became very still and quiet. This was the calm. I was the storm.

  Now I draw two weapons. In my left hand I grip the long blade that I use for hand-to-hand combat; in my right, a throwing dagger. My enemies are entering the trees, so I descend the hill, advancing to meet them. First I will slay the mage, next the abhuman, finally the familiar witch, the strongest of all.

  I am walking slowly, taking care to make no noise. Some of my enemies either lack the skill to do likewise or are careless. My hearing is acute, and I detect the occasional distant crack of a twig or the faint rustle of long skirts trailing through the undergrowth.

  Once in position above the mage, I come to a halt. He is only a man and will be the easiest of the three to overcome. Even so, he is undoubtedly more powerful than six of the advancing witches. A witch assassin must never underestimate her opponent. I will kill him quickly, then move on to the next.

  I coil myself like a sharp metal spring and concentrate on my attack, searching for the mage, probing the darkness with my keen eyes. He is a young man, but although his magic is strong, physically he is out of condition and overweight, breathing heavily from the climb.

  I whirl into motion. Three rapid steps downhill, and I hurl the throwing blade without breaking my stride. It takes the mage in the heart and he falls backward, dead even before he can cry out. His magical defenses proved inadequate.

  The abhuman is my next target. He is big, with wide-set eyes and sharp yellow fangs jutting up over his top lip. Such creatures—children of the Fiend and a witch—are immensely strong and need to be kept at a distance and tackled at arm’s length. To fall into their grasp is to risk being torn limb from limb. They are invariably brutal and morally debased, the worst of them capable of anything. If my child had been such an evil creature, I would have drowned it at birth.

  I sprint toward him at full pelt, plucking another throwing knife from its leather sheath. My throw is accurate and would have taken him in the throat, but he has been protected. The witches have infused him with their power, creating wards that deflect my blade. It skitters away uselessly and he surges toward me, roaring in fury, wielding a large club in one hand and a barbed spear in the other. He swings
the club and jabs with the spear. But I have moved before either reaches me.

  The heavy sack bounces against my back as I change direction again. Then, with my long blade, I cut the abhuman’s throat, and he falls, choking, a stream of blood spraying upward. Still without checking my stride, I run on.

  Now I must deal with the third enemy—the familiar witch.

  I am running widdershins, against the clock, so that my left and more deadly arm is facing the slope and the remaining witches, who are still moving toward me. A witch attacks, but not the one I seek. I ram the hilt of my blade into her face and she falls back. She will live, but without her front teeth.

  By now the powerful familiar witch has sensed my attack, and she turns to face me, sending dark enchantments like poisoned spears at my heart. I flick them aside and head directly for her. I hear the beating of wings, and something swoops toward my face with claws outstretched. It is a small hawk, a kestrel. I sweep my blade in an arc and the hawk screams, its feathers falling upon me like blood-flecked snow.

  The witch shrieks as her familiar dies; she shrieks again when I cut her the first time. My next blow ends her life, and the only sounds now are the slip-slap of my feet on the ground and the wish-swish of my breath as I accelerate down the hill and leave the cover of the trees.

  I speed eastward out of the wood, leaving my enemies to find their dead. As I run, I go over in my mind what has happened. An assassin must evaluate both her successes and her failures; she must always learn from the past.

  I consider again the means by which they have found me. The witch was powerful, but her familiar was just a small hawk. Their combined magic could not have seen beyond the cloak that I had cast about myself. No, it has to be something else.

  What about the strange presence advancing with the larger group farther back? What is it? Is it this that has discovered me? If so, it must be powerful. And it is something that I have never encountered before. Something new.

  It is wise to be wary of the unknown. Its unfamiliarity makes it dangerous. But soon it will be dead. How can it hope to defeat me?

  I am Grimalkin.

  CHAPTER II

  AN UNKNOWN THREAT

  Each day say to yourself that you are the best,

  the strongest, and the most deadly.

  Eventually you will start to believe it.

  Finally it will come true.

  It came true for me.

  I am Grimalkin.

  JUST before dawn I rested for an hour, drinking cool water from a stream and chewing my last few strips of dried meat.

  My supplies were almost exhausted, and I would need fresh meat to keep up my strength. Rabbits would have been easy to trap, but I was still being pursued and could not afford to rest for more than a few moments. The majority of my enemies were almost two miles back now, but one of their number had come on ahead of the group and was closing on me. It was the unknown creature that I had first sniffed back in the wood.

  It was moving faster than I was. Whatever the danger it presented, soon I would have to turn and face it. But first I had to know more. So I took a small mirror from its sheath on my shoulder strap, muttered a spell, then breathed on it.

  Within moments a face appeared. It was that of Agnes Sowerbutts. She was a Deane but bore no great love for her own clan. She lived apart from the life of Pendle and had helped me before. We had a bond between us—a common interest. She was the aunt of Alice Deane and a close friend of Tom Ward, the Spook’s apprentice.

  Agnes is skilled in the use of the mirror. Few are her equal in locating people, objects, and dark entities. But she keeps herself to herself, and few know that she is also a powerful scryer—far better than Martha Ribstalk, our greatest Malkin seer, who is now dead.

  It was too dark for Agnes to read my lips, so I breathed on the mirror and made my request by writing on its surface. I wanted to know about the creature that pursued me.

  What pursues me?

  What will happen when I face it?

  Can you help?

  I wiped the mirror. Agnes merely smiled and nodded. She would do her best to help.

  So I ran on, trying to maintain the same distance between myself and my pursuer. The leather bag slapped against my back with each second stride. The Fiend’s head seemed to be growing heavier by the hour. It was undoubtedly slowing me down. The pursuit was relentless, and gradually I was being overtaken. That fact did not displease me. Running like this was not my preferred option. I looked forward to the moment when I would have to turn and fight.

  Dawn came, and with it gray skies and a chill drizzle drifting into my face. After about an hour I felt the mirror begin to move within its sheath. Agnes was trying to make contact, so I halted beneath the shelter of a large tree, lifted out the mirror, and found Agnes’s face staring back. It was a kindly face, with round cheeks and a plump chin, but one glance at her eyes told you that she was brave and not a woman to be trifled with.

  Her name was Sowerbutts because she’d married a man from Whalley, leaving Roughlee, the Deane village, behind. Ten years later he died and she went home, but this time to live in a cottage on the outskirts of Roughlee. Although she liked to keep her distance from the clan, nevertheless she knew all their business. There wasn’t much that went on in Pendle that escaped Agnes and her mirror.

  She gave me a brief smile of welcome, but I could see the warning in her eyes before she spoke. It would not be good news. I concentrated, staring hard at her lips to read what was being silently mouthed at me.

  What follows you is a kretch. It was created by an alliance of witches, abhumans, and mages especially to hunt you down and slay you. Its mother was a she-wolf, but its father was a demon.

  “Can you name the demon?” I asked.

  That knowledge was vital. I needed to know what powers it had. It would be wolflike, but much would be determined by the gifts passed down from its father. My own clan, the Malkins, have also created kretches. The last one we named Tibb. We used it to try and counter the growing power of a seer from the Mouldheel clan. Kretches are usually created for a specific purpose. This one was supposed to kill me.

  Agnes shook her head. I am sorry, she mouthed. Strong magic cloaks that information. But I will keep trying.

  “Yes, I’ll be grateful if you do that. But did you scry also? Did you see the outcome of my fight against this kretch?”

  If you fight it soon, you will suffer a mortal wound. That much is certain, Agnes told me, her face grim.

  “And if I delay that fight?”

  The outcome is less clear. But your chances of survival increase as time passes.

  I thanked her, replaced the mirror in its sheath, and set off again at a sprint, trying to stay ahead of the kretch. As I ran, I thought over what Agnes had said. The fact that it was a kretch made me determined to elude it for as long as possible. Such creatures had short life spans. It would age rapidly, so why face it in its prime? I had to keep the Fiend’s head out of his servants’ clutches. That was more important than my growing urge to turn and fight my enemy.

  I did believe in the power of scrying, but it was not always accurate. In fact sometimes—though rarely—it could be inaccurate.

  I remember my first consultation with Martha Ribstalk. Rather than using a mirror, her chosen method of scrying was to peer into a steaming blood-tainted cauldron in which she boiled up thumb and finger bones to strip away the dead flesh. At that time she was the foremost practitioner of that dark art.

  As arranged, I visited her one hour after midnight. She had already drunk the blood of an enemy and performed the necessary rituals.

  “Do you accept my money?” I demanded.

  She looked at me disdainfully but nodded, so I tossed three coins into the cauldron.

  “Be seated!” she commanded sternly, pointing to the cold stone flags before the large bubbling pot. The air was thick with the smell of blood, and each breath I took increased the metallic taste on the back of my tongue.

/>   I obeyed, sitting cross-legged and gazing up at her through the steam. She had remained standing beyond the cauldron, so that her body would be higher than mine, a tactic frequently employed by those who wish to dominate others. But I was not cowed and met her gaze calmly.

  “What did you see?” I asked steadily. “What is my future?”

  She did not speak for a long time. It pleased her to keep me waiting. I think Martha was annoyed because I had asked a question rather than waiting to be told the outcome of her scrying.

  “You have chosen an enemy,” she said at last. “The Fiend is the most powerful enemy any mortal could face. The outcome should be simple. Unless you allow it, the Fiend cannot come near you, but he will await your death, then seize your soul and subject it to everlasting torments. However, there is something else that I cannot see clearly. There is uncertainty—another force that may intervene, one that presents a faint glimmer of hope. . . .”

  She paused, stepped forward, and peered into the steam. Once again there was a long pause. “There is someone . . . a child just born . . .”

  “Who is this child?” I demanded.

  “I cannot see him clearly,” Martha Ribstalk admitted. “Someone hides him from my sight. And as for you, even with his intervention, only one highly skilled with weapons could hope to survive—only one with the speed and ruthlessness of a witch assassin, only the greatest of all witch assassins, one even more deadly than Kernolde—could do that. Nothing less will do. So what hope have you?” Martha mocked.

  At that time Kernolde was the witch assassin of the Malkins, a fearsome woman of great strength and speed who had slain twenty-seven pretenders to her position—three each year, as this was the tenth year of her reign.

  I rose to my feet and smiled down at Martha. “I will slay Kernolde and then take her place. I will become the witch assassin of the Malkins, the greatest of them all.”

  Martha had laughed mockingly as I walked away, but I was perfectly serious. To defeat the Fiend, I knew that I would have to develop my fighting skills and become the assassin of the Malkin clan. And then I would have to form an alliance with that unknown child.