The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  Eventually I learned his name.

  Tom Ward.

  I hurried on, trying to pick up my pace. The drizzle had now become a torrential downpour, driving into my face and soaking me to the skin.

  As I ran, I meditated on the art of scrying. Generally a witch uses a mirror, but some go into deep trances and glimpse the future through dreams. Some throw bones into the north wind and see how they land. It is also possible to cut open a dead animal and examine its entrails. But seeing into the future is uncertain, no matter what some scryers would have us believe. There is always the element of chance. Not everything can be foreseen—and a witch can never foretell her own death: Another must scry it for her.

  I disliked Martha Ribstalk, but she was good at her art and I consulted her many times after that first session. During our final meeting she predicted the time and manner of my death. She insisted that it would come about many years into the future, but I could not rely on that. Time has many paths. Perhaps I have already taken one that made that prophecy void. If so, I know exactly what step that was.

  I have allied myself with John Gregory and Thomas Ward. I have chosen to use my own dark powers to fight the dark and destroy the Fiend. That could change everything.

  I was climbing now, my pace slowing. I reached a ridge and looked back in the direction of my pursuer. I crouched low so that the kretch would not see me against the skyline and waited, eager to catch my first glimpse of it.

  I did not have long to wait. I saw the beast created by my enemies emerge from a cluster of sycamores and leap a ditch before disappearing into a hedgerow. I saw it for only a second, but that was enough to tell me that I was dealing with something dangerous and formidable.

  From a distance it looked, as I had suspected, like an enormous wolf. Just how big, it was difficult to estimate. It seemed to be loping along on four legs and was covered in black hair that was flecked with silver on its back. But then I realized that the front two limbs were really powerful, muscular arms. The creature was designed to fight and kill me. Everything about it would have been crafted to achieve one objective—my death.

  It would be swift in combat, and very strong. Those arms would be like those of an abhuman, able to crunch my bones and tear off my limbs. No doubt its teeth and claws would be poisoned. One bite, or even a scratch, might be enough to bring about my slow, agonizing death. Perhaps that was what Agnes Sowerbutts had meant when she referred to the threat of a mortal wound.

  My instincts screamed at me to turn and fight now, to get it over with and slay this kretch. Pride bade me do the same. I wanted to test myself in combat against it. I would prove that I was stronger and better than anything they could send against me.

  Oh, Mr. Wolf! Are you ready to die?

  But more was at stake here than my survival and my pride. In battle, chance often played a part. An ankle could be twisted by a stone hidden in the grass; an enemy less skilled than me might be favored by a lucky strike. Malkin assassins had died like that before, bested by inferior opponents. I found it very difficult to imagine being defeated under any circumstances, but if I did lose, the Fiend’s head would fall into the hands of my enemies, and before long he would walk the earth once more.

  I had promised to keep the Fiend’s head out of the clutches of his servants, so despite my lust for combat I would continue to run for just as long as I could.

  CHAPTER III

  YOU ARE BLEEDING

  Look—you are bleeding! Maybe close to death. The pain is terrible.

  Now your enemy approaches, ready to take your life.

  Is this the end? Are you finally defeated?

  No! You have only just begun to fight!

  Believe me because I know.

  I am Grimalkin.

  AS I ran on, I went through my options once more.

  In which direction should I go? So far my journey had been unplanned.

  After following a long meandering path through Ireland, I had made a safe crossing from its eastern shores to the County by threatening a lone fisherman. After that voyage, most Pendle witches would have killed the man and taken his blood or thumb bones. But I, the most dangerous of them all, had spared his life.

  “You will never be closer to a violent death than you have been these past few hours,” I told him as I stepped onto the shore of the County. “Go back to your family. Live a long and happy life.”

  Why had I behaved thus? My enemies would see it as a weakness, evidence that I was growing soft and was ready to be taken, that I was no longer fit to be the witch assassin of the Malkin clan. How wrong they would be! He was no threat to me. When you kill as often as I am required to do, you grow weary of taking lives—especially the easy ones. Besides, the man begged. He had told me of his wife and young children and the daily struggle to keep them from starvation. Without him, he’d said, they would die. So I set him free and continued on my way.

  Where should I go now? I could travel north into the lair of the hostile water witches and weave my way through the hills and lakes, but those slimy hordes were loyal supporters of the Fiend. South was another option, but there a different danger awaited me. The forces that had invaded the County had only recently been driven south. It would be foolish to head toward their lines.

  Yes, to keep moving was the best way to make sure that the head stayed out of the clutches of the Fiend’s servants. But I needed to rest, and there was one place I could go that my enemies might not expect. I could return to Pendle, the home of my clan. Both friends and enemies awaited me there. Some witches were happy to see the Fiend loose in the world; others would like to destroy him or return him to the dark. Yes, I would head for Pendle—for a special place where I could take refuge while I rested, regained my strength, and augmented my magical resources. Malkin Tower, once the stronghold of my clan, was now in the possession of two feral lamia witches, sisters of Tom Ward’s dead mother.

  Would they allow me in? They were enemies of the Fiend, so perhaps I could persuade them to let me share that refuge.

  It was worth a try, so I changed course and ran directly toward Pendle.

  However, long before I reached it, I realized that I would have to fight the kretch first. I had no choice. Better to turn and fight the enemy face-to-face than be brought down from behind. To continue running was no longer an option—the creature was now little more than a hundred yards to my rear and closing fast.

  My heart began to beat faster at the thought of combat. This was what I lived for. . . .

  I paused at the top of a small rise and looked back. The kretch had just crossed the narrow valley below and was starting to lope up the hill, its black fur sleek with rain. Its eyes met mine, and I saw more than eagerness there. It was frantic to sink its teeth into me, to tear my flesh and chew my bones. That was its sole purpose in life, and its desperate need for victory would add spice to our battle.

  I placed the sack on the ground. I did not like to leave it unattended even for a moment, but I would fight more effectively if I was unencumbered. Now I must do everything right, everything to the best of my ability. My attack must be perfect. I would need magic as well as martial skills.

  I reached for the necklace around my neck and began to touch each thumb bone in turn, working from left to right. A monk fingers his beads one by one, using them as an aid to memory as he counts the circle of his prayers; my ritual is the muttering of each spell while drawing into my body the power that is stored within the bones. Each was a relic cut from the body of an enemy slain in combat. Each had been boiled with care until the flesh peeled off cleanly.

  The initial spells, those of making, have to be chanted accurately and with a precise cadence. If all is done correctly, the bones float to the surface of the cauldron and dance among the churning bubbles as if trying to leap out. Each is picked out by hand, despite the pain, and must not be allowed to fall to the ground. Then it is drilled through and added to the necklace.

  The stronger the enemy, the greater t
he power that is now stored within each bone. But it is finite. Once a bone is drained of power, it must be replaced.

  First I touched those of Janet Fox; she was strong, and we had fought for two hours beneath the afternoon sun. I drew out the power that was left; now her bones would need to be replaced. The bones of Lydia Yellowtooth I didn’t drain completely. She was subtle in combat—I needed some of that subtlety now, but chose to save a portion for later. So I continued to turn the necklace, fingering the bones. At last I had what I needed.

  I was ready.

  I run at full tilt toward the kretch. With every stride the rational part of me, my calculating mind, warns of just how difficult it will be to win here. The creature is far bigger than I estimated. Although in form it resembles a wolf, in size it is more like a small horse. In addition to those muscular arms, with their long, sharp-taloned fingers, there are pouches around its hairy body. These are not leather straps and sheaths; they are formed of its flesh, and weapons protrude from them.

  But I have the instincts of a warrior and great self-belief. Whatever the odds, I will win. I am Grimalkin!

  Without breaking stride, I stop my heart from beating. It is a skill that I have practiced over the course of many years. My blood quiets: there are no peaks and troughs of surging circulation to spoil my aim. I draw a throwing knife from its scabbard and hurl the blade straight at the creature’s head.

  My throw is accurate, and I find my target. However, to my annoyance and frustration, the blade does not penetrate the hide, but skids across the hairy head to fall harmlessly into the long grass. A metal helmet could not have provided a more effective defense.

  Then I see a gleam of blood in the dark fur. I have cut the flesh, but the skull beneath is strong and thick, a bone barrier against my blades.

  Surely the rest of the body cannot have similar defenses? The movement of the sleek, lithe creature that runs toward me with such fluidity and grace says otherwise. There must be points of weakness. I will find them and the creature will die.

  So I test its body, hurling a second blade straight at its flank. Its reactions are quick, and it twists away so that the blade misses. I allow my heart to resume its beating.

  Now the kretch rushes at me from a different angle. I am still sprinting forward and the long blade is in my left hand; this is the one I use for fighting at close quarters.

  Matching me move for move, the kretch also draws a long blade from a pouch on its shoulder. It also uses its left hand. The talons of its right hand are ready to receive me too. But now I have decided exactly what to do. I know how I may swiftly win this battle and continue my flight with the Fiend’s head.

  There is a mighty clash as we come together; the kretch growls, showing its sharp fangs, and stabs toward my head. The stench of its rancid breath fills my nostrils as I duck under the blade and skid, feet first, beneath it. Sliding down the wet grassy slope beneath its furry body, I swing right and left with my blade, cutting into both hind legs, severing the hamstrings.

  The creature gives a cry and collapses back onto its haunches, its blood spurting onto the grass. But I have already rolled clear, and I run back up the hill toward the leather sack, which I swing firmly up onto my shoulder. I look down the slope again and smile in triumph. The creature is howling, desperately trying to pull itself up the incline toward me with its strong forelimbs.

  Oh, Mr. Wolf! Now you are limping!

  Its hind legs drag uselessly behind it. Thus hamstrung, it can never catch me now. No doubt its creators will find the beast and put it out of its misery. I am pleased with what I have achieved, but I had expected the struggle to be more difficult. Yet it is good to triumph over my enemies.

  My heart light now, I run on toward Pendle. I am filled with the exultation that comes from victory. Even the rain has stopped. There are gaps in the cloud, and soon the sun will shine. As for my other pursuers, I have left them far behind.

  I sat cross-legged on the grass and made myself comfortable. Next, I plucked the Fiend’s head out of the sack and, holding it by the horns, placed it on a grassy bank so that it was almost level with my own.

  I removed the green apple and the thorns and waited patiently for our conversation to begin. It always began in exactly the same way.

  “Unstitch my eyes!” the deep voice cried. The Fiend’s words seemed to vibrate up through the grassy bank.

  “Why repeat yourself? Will you never learn to accept your lot? Your eyes will remain stitched. Be grateful that I allow you a little time to speak. Don’t waste it. Have you anything to tell me? Anything worth listening to?”

  The Fiend did not reply, but beneath the lids the eyeballs were moving frantically. Then the mouth opened as if he were speaking to someone, but I could hear nothing.

  “Are you in communication with someone?” I demanded. “Have you been conversing with one of your servants? If so, I will put you back in the sack!”

  “My servants speak to me all the time, whether I am able to reply or not. They tell me things. I have just learned something very interesting.”

  The mouth smirked as if relishing what it had been told, and dribbles of blood and saliva ran down its chin. I did not give the Fiend the satisfaction of asking what he knew. He was going to tell me anyway. I just had to be patient.

  “It is done,” he said at last. “You are finished—as good as dead. Soon I will be free.”

  “I maimed the kretch that your servants created. So do not build up your hopes.”

  “Soon enough you will see the truth, witch. Very soon, in fact!”

  “What? Truth from the Father of Lies?” said I, laughing contemptuously.

  Always mindful of the Fiend’s comfort, I plucked a big bunch of stinging nettles and spread them within the sack to make him a restful bed. Next I thrust the green apple and rose thorns back into his mouth.

  “Sleep well! Sweet dreams!” I cried, tying the string to bind him into the sack.

  An hour before sunset I halted and set traps for rabbits. It was a warm, pleasant evening, and the grass had dried. I was already on the edge of Pendle District, and the hill itself was clearly visible to the northeast.

  I decided to use my mirror to make contact with Alice Deane and see if she, Tom Ward, and the Spook had reached the County safely. It was a week since I had last been in touch with her. At that time they had been about to leave the southwest of Ireland and travel overland by coach to Dublin to take a boat home. I was well ahead of them: I had already landed south of Liverpool and made my way northward, keeping close to the coast before I’d had my first contact with the Fiend’s servants west of Ormskirk.

  Pulling the mirror from its sheath, I said the magical words of contact and waited patiently for Alice to appear.

  The mirror brightened and she smiled out at me.

  “I trust all is well?” I asked.

  Alice nodded. We’ve been home for three days, and Old Gregory has already got people working hard to rebuild his house. We’re sleeping under the stars at the moment! How are you? Is the head still safe? she mouthed.

  “Yes, child,” I told her. “There has been danger, but I have survived. The head is still safe in my hands—but I cannot run forever. Tell Thomas Ward to put his thinking cap on! We need to destroy the Fiend—we must fix him permanently.”

  I smiled at Alice and put the mirror away, staring toward the looming mass of Pendle.

  I was almost home now. When I reached Malkin Tower, would the lamias let me take refuge there? I wondered. If not, could I take it from them by force? Two together would be difficult to overcome, but if I entered by the tunnel I might be able to lure one down into the dungeons. In theory they were my allies, but if it proved necessary, I would kill them both.

  I felt the mirror move again in its leather sheath. When I pulled it out, Agnes Sowerbutts was already staring at me. She looked concerned.

  “I hamstrung the kretch,” I told her. “That danger is past.”

  I only wish that w
ere so, Agnes mouthed back at me. I spied the creature reflected in the surface of a small lake, where it paused to slake its thirst. Now it is following you once more with just the merest of limps. Soon it will be able to run freely again.

  I have now managed to scry the name of its father. The kretch was begat of Tanaki, one of the hidden demons who are invoked rarely and only with great difficulty. Little is known of him, other than he has great perseverance. Once set on a course, he never deviates until his will is accomplished. Not only that: Any defeat makes him stronger. Each time he fights, he grows more formidable. Such traits will have been passed on to the kretch. It has been given great powers of healing.

  I frowned and nodded. The hamstringing should have been permanent. This creature was going to be very difficult to overcome. I could no longer allow myself the respite of a night’s sleep.

  There is worse, Agnes said, looking directly at me, her lips moving silently. Your forehead is cut.

  I reached a finger up to my brow and, to my dismay, traced the line of a gash. My finger came away faintly smeared with red. It was little more than a scratch, no doubt inflicted by one of the kretch’s talons. In the heat of the fight I hadn’t felt a thing. I remembered that Agnes had scryed that I would suffer a mortal wound.

  “Surely this small scratch is nothing?” I said.

  The wound is slight. But poison may have entered your bloodstream. Would you like me to scry again and see the outcome?

  I felt quite well and hardly thought it was necessary, but to please Agnes I nodded, and the image in the mirror faded. I spent the next hour cooking and eating two plump rabbits while I thought about the kretch. Just how cleverly had my enemies crafted the creature? Maybe the glands at the base of its claws secreted a substance that stopped its victims from feeling pain? This was a trick employed by some predators so that their prey failed to seek attention for the poisoned wound . . . until it was too late. But I was still not overly concerned. Filled with new energy, I ran on through the night toward Pendle. I felt strong. I had no symptoms of poisoning at all.