The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  “We fight now!” she cried. “I will kill you, then cut out your heart, sending you straight into the dark! Your thumb bones too I will take. You will be without honor, obliterated from the history of Malkin assassins. You will be nothing!”

  She ran at me, wielding the spear. She was beyond reason, having nursed her grievance all through the long years she had spent with the dead. I had my back to the pit and knew exactly what to do. Once again I avoided the spear, and this time delivered a blow with my fist to the back of her head. She fell into the pit without uttering a single cry. But once impaled upon Kernolde’s spikes, she began to wail like a banshee.

  “I was told that a dead witch doesn’t feel pain,” Thorne said, looking down to where Needle was transfixed by the long, thin spikes. Each was over six feet long and very thin. Four had pierced her body, and she had slid down them, right to the bottom of the pit. One had taken her in the left shoulder, another through the throat. One had speared her chest, the fourth her abdomen.

  I noted the broken spike that I had snapped off to free myself and remembered my own pain.

  “What you’ve heard is incorrect,” I told Thorne. “She is in pain, all right, but she is mainly screaming with frustration at failing to kill me. She knows that she lost and, what is worse, that I defeated her very easily. Her body may still be strong, but her mind is rotting and she’s fallen into madness. I overestimated her—she is a shadow of her former self.”

  I almost pitied her, for she had fallen far from the heights she had once scaled as an assassin. I could only hope that I would never be reduced to such a state.

  Now other sounds could be heard in the short pauses between the screams—rustles in the undergrowth. The other dead witches were approaching us, drawn by Needle’s anguish.

  But then I heard something else. Thorne and I sniffed together, but this time it was not witch magic—an attempt to discover a threat or gauge the strength of an enemy. It was something that any human would have recognized instantly; something that would fill a forester with fear.

  I could smell smoke, burning wood, and I suddenly knew what our enemies had done.

  “They’ve set fire to the dell!” Thorne cried.

  I hoisted the sack up onto my shoulder. As I did so, a strong wind sprang up from the west, howling through the trees. They had conjured a gale and fire using dark magic, and the damp foliage would prove no impediment. Now the flames would sweep through the dell, consuming everything in their path.

  Our enemies would not be forced to venture into the dell to find us, fighting any dead witches they encountered. They would be waiting in the clearing east of the dell, waiting for us to be driven out by the firestorm.

  CHAPTER XX

  GRIMALKIN DOES NOT CRY

  I anticipate a violent death

  but will take many of my enemies with me!

  WHAT alternative did we have but to run east? Already, even above the howling of the wind, I could hear the crackle of burning wood, and dark smoke gathered overhead, blocking out the light of the moon.

  “We will advance just ahead of the flames, then leave the dell and cut down those in our path,” I told Thorne.

  The words were easy to say, but to stay just ahead of the conflagration was far from easy. For one thing, the smoke began to make our eyes water, forcing us into fits of coughing. Second, the fire was advancing very rapidly, leaping from tree to tree and from branch to branch with a crackling roar; it threatened to overtake us at any moment, and our slow jog soon became a fast sprint.

  There were animals fleeing with us, a couple of hares and dozens of squealing rats, some of them with singed fur, some burning as they ran. I thought of poor Agnes. If the fire took her, at least her agony would be brief and that miserable existence in the dell as a weak dead witch would be over. But I knew that some inhabitants of the dell would survive by using their sharp talons to burrow into the leafy loam and down into the soft, wet soil beneath. They had the means and the expertise gained by long years of survival here. It was not something that we could hope to do; we didn’t have time.

  The trees were thinning, but we could see little through the smoke. Suddenly I sensed something approaching us from behind and whirled to meet the new threat. It was a dead witch—the other strong one, clothes and hair aflame as she ran past, oblivious to us. She was screaming as she ran. The flames were consuming her and she realized that her time in the dell was over. Soon her soul would fall into the dark.

  Where was the kretch? I wondered. No doubt it would be waiting somewhere ahead. As we left the trees, a witch attacked us from the left; this time a live one, from the vanguard of our enemies. Thorne cut her down without faltering, and we accelerated away from the danger.

  Even above the whine of wind and roar of the fire, I heard the eerie wail of the kretch somewhere behind us. Then it began to bay for our blood, a powerful, rhythmic cry, as if a score of howling wolfhounds were on our trail.

  “You are mine!” it called out, its voice booming through the night. “You cannot escape! I will drink your blood and tear your flesh into strips! I will eat your hearts and gnaw the marrow from your shattered bones!”

  We were curving away south now; our path would take us east of Crow Wood. I thought of the lamia, still in the tower. If only she’d had time to shape-shift to her winged form, she might have seen us and flown to our aid. But it was too soon for that. There was no hope of help from that source.

  Then, as I ran, the warning lights once again flickered in the corners of my eyes. Would I have time enough to lead Thorne to safety? But too soon the weakness was upon me again; I felt a fluttering in my chest and my breathing became shallow and ragged. I began to slow, and Thorne looked back at me in concern. I halted, hands on hips, aware of the irregular beating of my heart and the trembling in my legs. Now my whole body was shaking.

  “No! No! Not now!” I shouted, forcing my body onward, drawing upon my last reserves and every final shred of willpower. But it was useless. I managed to take only a dozen faltering steps before coming to a halt. Thorne paused and came back to stand by my side.

  “You go on!” I cried. “You can outrun them; I can’t. It’s the damage done by the poison.”

  Thorne shook her head. “I won’t go without you!”

  I lifted the sack off my shoulder and held it out to her. “This is what matters. Take it and run. Keep it out of their hands at all costs.”

  “I can’t leave you to die.”

  “You can and must,” I said, pushing the sack into her hands. “Now go!”

  I was resigned to dying here. I could do no more. I was spent.

  Thorne swung the sack up onto her shoulder—but it was already too late.

  There was a howl close behind us, and the kretch padded into view.

  The beast had changed again since the last time we’d faced it. There was something different about its eyes. They had regenerated since Thorne and I had pierced them with our blades, but not quite in the same way. There was a thin ridge of white bone above each one.

  Moreover, it was even larger. Its forearms seemed more muscular, the talons sharper and longer. There were more flecks of gray in its black fur too. Was it aging already? Kretches usually had a short lifespan. Tibb, the last kretch the Malkins had created, had lived for only a few months.

  In one fluid motion, Thorne drew a blade from a shoulder sheath and hurled it straight at the right eye of the beast. It was a good shot, exactly on target. But before the dagger struck, the ridge of bone moved. It flicked downward, covering and protecting the eye so that the blade was deflected harmlessly away.

  With the power inherited from its demon father, the beast learned and improved itself all the time. Exploit a weakness, and the next time you encountered the creature, that weakness would be no more. Protected by armored lids, its eyes were no longer easy targets for our blades.

  I took a deep breath, tried to steady my trembling body, and threw a blade at its throat, targeting a spot ju
st below its left ear. The kretch seemed faster than ever. It brought up its left hand and swatted my blade aside. Again I staggered, and spots flashed within my eyes, bile rose in my throat. Then I saw what Thorne was attempting and cried out, “No!”

  To no avail. She was brave, but sometimes reckless too, and that latter quality was a dangerous fault that now became her undoing. She was the ten-year-old running at the bear again, a blade in her left hand. And it was that same blade, her first one, the one I had given her as we sat eating bear meat by the fire.

  She was faster and far more deadly than the child who had stabbed the bear in the hind leg. However, the kretch was stronger and more dangerous than any bear that had ever walked this earth. And I was unable to repeat the throw that slew the beast before it killed her. I was on my knees, the world spinning, my mind falling into darkness.

  The last thing I saw was the kretch opening its jaws wide and biting savagely into Thorne’s left shoulder. She fought back, drawing another blade from a sheath with her right hand, stabbing it repeatedly into the beast’s shoulder and head.

  Then I knew no more.

  How long I have laid here I know not, but I surmise that it is no more than an hour. I come to my knees slowly and am immediately sick, vomiting again and again until only bile trickles from my mouth.

  The kretch has gone. What has happened? Why didn’t it kill me while I lay there, helpless? I stand groggily and begin to search for tracks. There was no evidence that witches have been here—just a muddy circle where the beast and Thorne fought, and then the prints of the kretch setting off northward.

  Has it carried Thorne off in its jaws?

  I begin to follow the tracks. I am still unsteady on my feet, but my strength is gradually returning, and my breathing begins to slow to a more normal rhythm. I follow the trail of the kretch almost back to the edge of Witch Dell. The trees are still burning, but the magic is no more and the wind has changed direction. It is evident now that perhaps over half of Witch Dell will remain untouched by fire. But it has been cut in two by a broad black belt of burned trees.

  Then I see something lying on the ground, close to a blazing tree stump. It is a human body.

  Is it that of the dead witch who fled the dell? I begin to move toward it, slowing with every step. I do not really want to reach it because, deep down, I already know whose corpse it is. The ground is churned to mud. Many witches have gathered here.

  Moments later, my worst fears are confirmed.

  It is the body of Thorne.

  There can be no doubt. No more room for hope.

  She is lying on her back, stone dead. Her eyes are wide open and staring, an expression of horror and pain etched upon her face. The grass is wet with blood. Her hands have been mutilated. They have taken her thumb bones, cut them from her body while she was still alive.

  I kneel beside her and weep.

  Grimalkin does not cry.

  But I am crying now.

  Time passes. How much I do not know.

  I crouch before a fire, cooking meat on a spit. I turn it slowly so that it is well done. Then I break it into two with my fingers and begin to eat it slowly.

  There are two ways to make sure that a witch does not return from the dead. The first is to burn her; the second is to eat her heart.

  So I have made doubly sure that Thorne’s wishes are carried out. I have already burned her body. Now I am eating her heart. And still I am weeping.

  When I have finished, I begin to speak aloud, my voice caught by the wind, spinning it away through the trees to the four corners of the earth.

  “You were brave in life; be brave in death. Heed not the cackle of foolish witches. Your thumb bones matter naught. They have taken them but cannot take away your courage, cannot negate what you were. For had you lived, you would have become the greatest witch assassin of the Malkin clan. You would have taken my place; surpassed my deeds; filled our enemies with dread.

  “If reputation concerns you, then worry not. Who will be able to say, ‘We took her bones?’ There will be nobody left to say it because none will live. I will kill them all. I will kill every last one.

  “So rest in peace, Thorne, for what I say I will do.

  “It will all come to pass.

  “I am Grimalkin.”

  CHAPTER XXI

  MY ONLY REMAINING ALLY

  I am a hunter and also a blacksmith,

  skilled in the art of forging weapons.

  I could craft one especially for you;

  the steel that would surely take your life.

  AT dawn I took stock of the situation and put aside my grief and anger. I needed to be cold and rational. I needed to think and plan.

  Why had the kretch not killed me?

  Maybe even as she died, Thorne had fought so fiercely, damaged it so badly, that it could not deal with us both? I said that to myself but knew that it was not true. I had been unconscious. It could have killed her, then dispatched me at its leisure.

  No—the answer was clear. Even more important than my death was the retrieval of the sack containing the Fiend’s head. That was its prime objective. It was created to kill me, but only as a means to an end: the reclaiming of the head and the resurrection of the Fiend. Thorne had been carrying it over her shoulder. Once the kretch had her in its jaws, it had the sack as well.

  So it had taken the Fiend’s head straight back to its creators. They had quickly cut away Thorne’s thumb bones and left her to die. Now they would be heading for the coast. They needed to return to Ireland to reunite head and body.

  So what could I do? I had to follow. I had to try and stop them. But as I sat in the cold gray morning light, with my wrath set aside, I knew that I had little chance of success. My magic was used up, the resource gone. It would not be easy to restore it. My health was uncertain. I could suffer another bout of weakness at any time. And I was alone. Alone against so many.

  I needed help, but who could I turn to now? The answer came immediately.

  Alice Deane.

  She was the only remaining ally I could rely on. Recently all who had tried to help me had died. I had sought out Agnes and Thorne, and both had died as a result. So many had died, including Wynde, the lamia, and the knight whom I had manipulated to serve my cause. Could I do it again, thus placing Alice in danger? Was I right to ask another friend to risk her life?

  Grimalkin should not ask such questions. To think like that was to show weakness. I must act and not think too much about the possible consequences.

  But I would not seek the help of Thomas Ward or John Gregory. The apprentice was too valuable to risk. He might be the means of finally destroying the Fiend. No, I could not take a chance with his life. Once the head was retrieved and the kretch dead, I would escort him to Malkin Tower. The sooner the better.

  As for the Spook, he was past his best, and in any case had too many scruples. He would not have the stomach for what I must do. So I would simply ask Alice. Two witches together—that would be best. She might be willing to lend me some of her strength.

  I pulled my mirror from its sheath and prepared to make contact with her. Three times I tried, but I could not reach her. Even that small magic was beyond me. I was drained and needed replenishing.

  I would have to go to her. I would travel to Chipenden, where the Spook was starting to rebuild his house.

  I followed the tracks of my enemies, passing north of Pendle and heading toward the Ribble Valley. The tracks went west then, but did not cross the ford; they kept south of the river. That meant they were not heading for Sunderland Point. They would go to Liverpool and seize a boat there.

  Moving as fast as I was able, I reluctantly left their trail and crossed the Ribble, heading northwest. I had to go to Chipenden first. It would mean losing perhaps half a day, but I could still catch the witches before they sailed.

  I avoided the village itself and began to climb the lane to the boundary of the Spook’s property. Once I would not have risked enterin
g the garden. But Alice had told me that the boggart that had once guarded it was gone, its pact with John Gregory ended when the house burned and the roof collapsed.

  Even so, I entered the trees of the western garden slowly and cautiously. In the distance I could see the Spook’s house. As I drew nearer, I also saw trestle tables and huge planks and other building materials. Out of sight, someone was sawing wood. The roof had already been replaced, and a thin spiral of smoke was rising from a chimney. Then suddenly I heard distant voices, voices that I recognized.

  Although my magic had gone, some witch skills are innate—especially that of sniffing. It was Alice and Tom Ward, the apprentice. The Spook wasn’t with them. No doubt he was warming his old bones close to the fire.

  So I crept closer and crouched behind the trunk of a large tree.

  “It just ain’t right, Tom,” I heard Alice say. “Nothing’s changed. No matter what I do, Old Gregory will never trust me. Why can’t I come with you? Try talking to him again.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Tom replied, “but you know how stubborn he can be. He wants to set off first thing tomorrow, but we’ll probably only be away for a few days, Alice. You’ll be comfortable here.”

  “I’m probably better off staying here anyway!” Alice retorted. “You two had best go and sort through them moldy old books. Anyway, you get back to the house, Tom. I’m going for a walk to think things through. Feel better for a walk, I will.”

  “Don’t be like that, Alice. It’s not my fault and you know it.”

  But Alice wouldn’t listen and began to stroll in my direction, and after a moment Tom bowed his head and walked back toward the house. As she passed me, Alice glanced in my direction. It was a shock to see her white hair—the result of being snatched away into the dark and tormented by the Fiend and his servants. She smiled, then walked on, leaving the garden and crossing the field toward the lane. She had sniffed out my presence and had worked out the situation. She knew that I didn’t want to be seen by Tom.