The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  What would be would be. . . .

  When I got back to the kitchen, my master, James, and Judd were still sitting around the table. I could sense an atmosphere.

  “Sit down, lad!” the Spook snapped, an edge of irritation in his voice.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It goes against the grain to ally myself with witches. Grimalkin I have respect for, despite what she is, but the other two—especially that sly woman with blood under her fingernails and the stink of it on her breath—well, I never thought it would come to this!”

  “We have no choice,” I said, trying to calm him. “If we’re to have any chance, we need them and those they lead.”

  “Yes, lead! That’s another thing that rankles.” He raised his voice in anger now. “James spoke up, but you were quiet, lad—and you didn’t utter a single word, Judd. They’ll make all the decisions if we let them.”

  “I’m sorry, John,” Judd replied. “I’m not good at speaking out in company. I’ve only just arrived, still learning about the situation. I thought it best to just sit and listen.”

  The Spook looked at him and nodded wearily.

  “I know you’re not going to like this,” I told my master, looking him right in the eye, “but it has to be said. We face a big battle. This is not one or two of us against some single threatening entity from the dark. So we need a leader who is strong in combat skills, someone who can unite us. It can’t be James—he’s mostly unknown to our allies. It can’t be a spook or an apprentice, because witches barely trust us at best. It has to be Grimalkin. They’ll all follow her, either through fear or respect. She knows what she’s doing in this situation. So we have to accept that and live with it.”

  “Live with it or die with it!” snapped the Spook. “If we deal with the Fiend, it’ll be worth it, I suppose—at last we’ll have paid him back for all the suffering he’s inflicted. Well, I’m off to bed now. We’ll be traveling tomorrow, and sleeping on hard ground. So take your last bit of comfort while you can.”

  I nodded and smiled, but his words struck home. It might be the last time either of us ever slept in a bed again.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  THE CLASH OF WITCH ASSASSINS

  MAB returned at noon the following day with the results of her latest scrying, beaming at her success. She had learned that the ritual would take place at sunset, rather than just before midnight, which had seemed most likely.

  Soon after that, Grimalkin took her leave. “We will meet just south of Clough Pike, as agreed,” she said. “I will go to clear the way. Then it will be time for the battle that will decide everything.”

  She was taking a few hand-picked witches with her to search for and kill those who might lie in wait for us.

  “Aye.” The Spook nodded. “That time is fast approaching.”

  Grimalkin walked away from us without even a trace of a limp. No doubt she still felt pain from the silver pin, but she was disguising it well. Suddenly she turned and looked back.

  “Remember to carry both swords with you,” she told me.

  Within the hour, we had set off for the appointed place. The Spook, James, Judd, and I traveled together, along with the three dogs, Claw, Blood, and Bone. The bands of witches went separately; they would meet us at midday tomorrow. We spoke little on the journey, even when we made camp far to the west of the Wardstone. We sat around the fire, deep in thought, staring into the embers.

  Later, James regaled me with stories about life on the farm during the past year. Little Mary had evidently gotten up to all sorts of mischief. But I had little to say in reply. Most of my news concerned struggles against the dark, which disturbed most people. I didn’t mention Alice, either—I couldn’t bear to talk about her anymore.

  Halloween began with rain. We ate a late breakfast of cold chicken, miserable and uncomfortable in the partial shelter of a wood, with big drops dripping from the branches.

  We were the last to arrive at Clough Pike, and my heart sank to my boots as I gazed around. How few we had managed to gather to our cause, in the end: the Spook, my brother James, Judd Brinscall with the three wolfhounds, Grimalkin, and perhaps a hundred and fifty Pendle witches, the majority of them from the Mouldheel clan, led by Mab and her two sisters. There were also about a dozen witches Grimalkin had summoned from the far north; they had crossed the sea to fight alongside us. We were silent, driven to inner reflection by the task that faced us, in the course of which many of us would surely lose our lives.

  The wind whistled across the fell tops, and somewhere in the distance I heard the call of a lapwing, but the dogs were as silent as we were. Animals are sensitive—perhaps they had an inkling of what lay ahead.

  Then, as we prepared to head toward the Wardstone, there was a surprise addition to our group. The sky had cleared, and now, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, I glimpsed something dark flit across it. Moments later, a winged figure was falling toward us.

  Once seen, never forgotten. It was Slake, the vaengir, Mam’s lamia sister, whom I’d last seen in Malkin Tower. She’d told me she would stay there until the Fiend was destroyed, and only then be free to fly away.

  The witches scattered, some shrieking in fear, as she dropped to where the Spook and I were standing. Some of our present allies would have fought against us on Pendle two years earlier. They had reason to fear the winged lamia who, together with her sister, had played a decisive part in the battle.

  Slake landed in front of me and my master. I studied her in awe. Black-feathered wings were folded across her back, covering the more delicate inner ones; her powerful lower body was scaly, and her four limbs ended in razor-sharp talons. It was not comfortable standing so close to her, gazing into her cruel, unblinking eyes.

  “Zenobia’s plan is not being carried out!” she hissed in accusation. “I scryed your disobedience and came here to see for myself!”

  Zenobia was Mam’s lamia name. I had been asked to sacrifice Alice, and that was what Slake had expected to happen. She had not come to join our cause; she had arrived to challenge me.

  “The victim is no longer willing,” I told her. “She’s formed an alliance with the mage Lukrasta. She thinks it better that the Fiend should survive, lest another god take his place—one who’d lead his people in a war to annihilate humanity. Whether I wish it or not, the sacrifice would be useless.”

  “The Fiend has already been bound to the Wardstone for the ritual,” said the lamia. “I flew over the stone and saw what was being done. His head and body are joined. Time is short. Have you a better plan? What do you propose to do?”

  “We’ll do what we can,” said the Spook, answering for me. “We’ve gathered as many as we can here. We’ll disrupt the ritual, then try to separate the head from the body again and carry it away. This time we’ll carve him up before we scatter, each with a small piece, and attempt to keep them out of the clutches of his supporters.”

  “You are few and they are many, perhaps five of them for each one of you. And they will have Lukrasta and the girl Alice on their side. The outlook is bleak.”

  I thought back to the battle on Pendle Hill. With the help of Slake and her sister lamia we had won—though our main objective had not been realized. We had failed to prevent the witches from summoning the Fiend. Slake was right—the outlook was indeed bleak. It seemed likely that we would fail again.

  “We can but try,” I said.

  “Aye! It’s better to die fighting than stand by and do nothing,” agreed the Spook.

  “I agree wholeheartedly with that,” said Grimalkin, coming to face the winged lamia. “A great battle awaits us. The odds against us are overwhelming, and the price of defeat is terrible. All my life has led up to this point. What could be better than to die in such a battle? I tell you this—I am Grimalkin, and if I die, then I will take many of our enemies with me. So will you join us, sister?”

  By now the other witches had moved closer and were listening with rapt attention to the witch
assassin’s every word.

  Slake stared at her for a long time. Then, slowly, she nodded her fierce head. “Yes, I will join my strength with yours. Remember that each one of us gathered here needs to take the lives of at least five of those who oppose us. Do that, and we might win, despite the great odds.”

  Moments later, we were heading for the Wardstone, Grimalkin leading the way. We made slow progress. The ground was soggy underfoot, with pools of deep, stagnant water to trap the unwary. The wind was growing in force, but it was no longer a prevailing westerly, gusting instead in our faces. The sky was still clear, the setting sun illuminating the landscape; as yet, there was no threat of rain.

  But then, suddenly, I saw a flash on the horizon directly ahead. Was it lightning? I wondered. There was no answering rumble of thunder. Soon afterward there was another flash of blue.

  “Magic is being used,” said Grimalkin. “You can smell it!”

  There was a faint stink of brimstone being carried toward us on the air, and I knew that she was right.

  As we drew nearer to our goal, the dark mass of the Wardstone slowly reared up before us like some malevolent beast ready to pounce. In the setting sun it looked as if it had been painted with blood. Then we spotted our enemies encircling the rock; as we approached, they turned to face us, weapons at the ready. The sight was daunting. It was one thing to know the numerical odds we faced . . . much worse to see their massed ranks in the flesh. How could we win through to the Wardstone against such opposition?

  I looked for Alice or Lukrasta but could see no sign of them. That was a relief. To find Alice among the opposing forces would have sickened me.

  Behind them, I could make out the huge form of the Fiend bound to the Wardstone. Ropes encircled his body; these were fastened to pegs that had been driven into the rock. It seemed that he had to be in contact with the rock in order for the dark magic to work. Why else would they have bound him in such a way? Without the ropes, he would have slid off onto the flat boggy ground below.

  Never had he looked more terrifying. I feared that at any moment he might open his eyes, see me, and tear himself free to come for me. I knew that the ritual had not yet been completed, but the terror did not leave me.

  As we advanced, the ground became a little firmer, and we picked up our pace. We would not halt now. At any moment I expected to be setting off in a wild charge. The Spook had accepted Grimalkin’s leadership, as I always knew he would. She would make the decisions regarding the coming battle, giving the all-important order to attack.

  She walked ahead, in complete command of our small army. Who would challenge her right to lead us? In this type of battle, there was no question that she was the right person.

  I looked up as lightning targeted the Wardstone. This time it wasn’t a sheet of light; this was a blue zigzag that came out of a cloudless sky. It struck the massive body of the Fiend, who began to writhe, twisting his head from side to side. The ritual had started, and dread filled me once more.

  My mind went back to the tower, and I remembered the tendrils that had grown from the base of the head to intertwine with those from the stump of the neck. Here the process seemed far more advanced. Was the head already fully attached to the body, as Slake had indicated?

  Suddenly I felt a pressure against my face and body. It wasn’t just the wind, which seemed to be blustering at us straight from the Wardstone. This was a strange cold force, immediately chilling me to the bone and causing my body to tremble uncontrollably. I glanced left and right and saw that others were feeling something too. One witch began to shriek and pull handfuls of hair from her scalp. Another fell to her knees and began to beat her forehead against the ground.

  Others were still moving forward, but much more slowly now. Even Grimalkin and my master seemed to be struggling. I was finding it an effort just to lift my feet. Powerful dark magic was being used to halt our advance—no doubt through the collective will of the mass of witches who opposed us. Lukrasta and Alice might also be contributing.

  Seventh sons of seventh sons are usually able to defy the spell called dread, which induces a terrible fear in its victims. But the Spook and I both came to a complete halt. I felt rooted to the spot, befuddled, all my willpower drained from me.

  What about the starblade? I thought. Wasn’t that supposed to protect me from any attack of dark magic? Could it be that the force being used against us was even stronger than what Grimalkin had forged? Maybe Lukrasta was just too powerful?

  The witches around the Wardstone began to taunt us, pointing and shrieking with wild laughter. Then the tall witch assassin, Katrina, stepped forward and began to mock Grimalkin, calling out to her in a loud voice. As she shouted, the shrunken skulls in which she stored her magic spun and danced.

  “I see you shiver and shake with fear, Grimalkin! Your knees tremble, and terror dries the stinking spittle in your fetid mouth. Fools have whispered your name in the dark and trumpeted forth lies about your vaunted reputation. But all is falsehood! I am Katrina, the greatest of all the witch assassins—the most formidable who has ever walked the earth! In the face of my strength, you are weak; I am brave and you are cowardly. I can hear your knees knocking together. You dare not step forward to fight!”

  I expected Grimalkin to answer, but she remained silent, and to my dismay, I saw that her whole body was trembling. But surely it was not fear that caused her to shake; it must be the enemy magic.

  “This night you will die, Grimalkin!” Katrina continued. “You face a stronger assassin than you have ever met before. When dawn comes, our master will be lord of the earth and your shrunken skull will adorn my body to mark my victory!”

  Still Grimalkin did not reply, but I could see that she was moving now, forcing herself forward defiantly, taking one slow, painful step after the other to where the grinning Katrina was waiting, sharp blades at the ready.

  Had Grimalkin’s magic failed her? I wondered. Where were her usual grace and strength? And what chance did she have against such an opponent, backed by the powerful magic of Lukrasta?

  Then, suddenly, in one fluid movement, Grimalkin cast off the spell completely, drew two blades, and ran directly toward her enemy, accelerating with every stride. It was as if she had used her own magic to throw off the yoke that held her back. Or was it simply her iron will—the determination and self-belief that had served her so well in the past?

  There was no trace now of the injury that had caused her to limp so badly. If she felt pain, as surely she must, it did not affect her in the slightest.

  When she reached her opponent, there was no wary circling, no tentative exchange of blows; caution was thrown to the winds by both antagonists. Grimalkin was performing her usual dance of death, spinning and whirling, her blades reflecting the red from the setting sun. But Katrina seemed to be matching her, meeting each cut and thrust with her own blades.

  I had a sudden moment of doubt, and feared for Grimalkin. She had always seemed so formidable, so totally in control whenever it came to combat. What if her leg wasn’t back to full strength and she had finally met her match?

  The loss of Grimalkin now would be a devastating blow to us all—but particularly to the witches. If, in addition to their numerical superiority, our enemies proved to have the deadlier assassin, we might lose the battle before it had even begun.

  With the odds against us so great, it required an act of faith; we had to believe that we would win. The defeat of Grimalkin might shatter our self-belief.

  The opposing sides had begun by shouting encouragement to their own champion or hurling insults at her opponent, but that didn’t last. Gradually they fell silent, concentrating all their attention upon the spectacle of two well-matched witch assassins, each at the height of her power and skill.

  At one point they came together, blade against blade, in close combat. Muscles straining, they both tried to win the ascendancy. Grimalkin gained ground, only to be thrust steadily back again. To and fro they struggled—I could har
dly bear to watch. I kept thinking about the shattered bone held by that silver pin. Surely Grimalkin’s leg would give way.

  But suddenly, to my relief, they broke apart again, and now speed and timing became more important than brute strength.

  For a while they seemed evenly matched, but then the tide of the battle changed. Grimalkin’s power now ebbed, as Katrina pushed her back like some unstoppable wave. Blood sprayed upward, and a huge groan went up from our side as Katrina drew first blood.

  Grimalkin had received a cut above her left eye, and she staggered back, for a moment apparently overwhelmed by her opponent’s furious onslaught. Things were going badly for her. Blood was pouring down, partially obscuring her vision, and she now seemed less agile, barely managing to defend herself against each stab or thrust of a blade.

  Then, to my dismay, Grimalkin turned her back on Katrina and ran toward our lines. My heart sank. I’d never thought to see such a day.

  “See—she flees! She flees!” Katrina cried in exultation, while behind her the enemy witches whooped and cheered with glee.

  It was then that Grimalkin halted her flight to turn and face her enemy once more. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead to divert the flow of blood and muttered under her breath. She was panting hard but made no response to Katrina.

  I noticed then that the blood was no longer dripping from the wound. She had used her magic to stem its flow.

  Now she began to run toward her opponent again, accelerating with every step.

  Three things happened almost simultaneously.

  A red spray of blood plumed up above the place where they came together—but this time it was not Grimalkin’s.

  Katrina slumped to the ground.

  The victorious witch assassin ran on, still not checking her pace.

  She headed straight for the waiting ranks of our enemies.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  THE BATTLE OF THE WARDSTONE

  GRIMALKIN had slayed Katrina almost casually, like an upstart pawn swept from a chessboard by the advance of a black queen. She looked black indeed. Although in alliance with the light, for this struggle against the Fiend and his supporters she was Grimalkin, the darkest and most dangerous of all the witch assassins; Grimalkin, who loved to fight; Grimalkin, who would do anything to win—and would willingly die here if it proved necessary.