The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  When I went back the following morning, Nanna Nuckle was very still. She looked dead. Couldn’t tell whether Old Spig was still alive inside her skull, but when I put my ear really close there were no sounds. Of course, it didn’t help that I’d pulled the curtains right back and a shaft of bright sunlight was shining straight into her face. Wasn’t over yet, though, was it? I still had to face Lizzie and tell her what I’d done.

  I was sitting on a stool in front of the fire when Lizzie came home. It was late afternoon.

  “You still here?” she asked. “Thought you’d be dead by now.”

  “It’s Old Spig that’s dead,” I replied. “I killed him.”

  “Pull my other leg,” she said. “It’s got bells on it!”

  “Ain’t joking,” I told her. “He’s upstairs.”

  Lizzie must have read in my face that I was telling the truth, because she sort of twisted her mouth like she does when she’s angry, grabbed me by the wrist, and dragged me upstairs. She peered closely at Nanna Nuckle, and then, with her forefinger, traced the jagged line of stitches across that broad forehead, then put her nose very close, and after sniffing three times, shook her head.

  “What I can’t understand is why he didn’t just saw his way out,” she muttered. Then her eyes drifted across to the place behind the door, and she noticed the cleaver still sticking out of the floorboards and Old Spig’s little bone saw lying on the floor. The stump was red with his blood.

  “I threw salt at him and put more inside the skull. When he jumped into it, I stitched him up.”

  Lizzie didn’t say anything for a long time; she just kept staring at the top of Nanna Nuckle’s head.

  “It was him or me. You told me I had to sort it one way or the other or I wouldn’t be up to the job. Well, I sorted it, didn’t I?”

  “Get hold of her legs, girl. I’ll take the shoulders,” Lizzie said. “Can’t leave ’em here or they’ll start to rot.”

  So we buried them out in the woods. One grave, two bodies—not that you’d notice. After that I walked back to the house with Lizzie, not sure what would happen next. I was past being scared. At that moment, after all I’d done, I didn’t care one jot what happened to me.

  We sat in front of the fire, and it was a long time before Lizzie spoke.

  “In a way, girl, you did me a favor,” she said, staring into the flames. “Using a familiar as strong as Old Spig is dangerous. The longer it goes on, the more they start to get the upper hand. In the end I was killing when I didn’t need fresh bones. Just doing it to keep him happy and stocked up with his favorite tipple—brain plugs in apple juice.

  “He was starting to control me, and when it gets like that it’s best for a witch to put an end to it and get herself a new familiar. But me and Old Spig were close, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do him in. So I was half hoping that you might do the job for me. And you did well, girl. You remind me of myself when I was a girl of your age. You could almost be my daughter,” she said, giving me a wicked smile.

  So that was it. I’d survived my first week with Bony Lizzie. And that was what I was going to do in the future. Wasn’t going to drink people’s blood or take their bones, but I was willing to learn all the tricks that would keep me safe from other witches—and anyone else who tried to harm me.

  I’m going to survive. You can be sure of that. It’s as certain as my name’s Alice Deane.

  The Banshee Witch

  CHAPTER I

  A Hard Lesson

  THE enemy before me was big, strong, and ruthless. This was dangerous, and I couldn’t afford to make a mistake. He clasped a long knife in his right hand and a heavy club in his left and was eager to use them.

  With a roar of anger, he charged straight at me, swinging his club in an arc from right to left. I managed to block it, but the force of the impact jarred my arm and shoulder so badly that I almost dropped my staff. I groaned and twisted away, retreating clockwise.

  We were in a ruined building, an old tavern long abandoned to the elements. I’d been chased through the woods and, thinking I’d shaken my pursuer off my trail, had taken refuge here. It was a big mistake: now I was in serious trouble.

  We were fighting in a confined space, down in a large, gloomy cellar with only one door. Steps led upward, but he was standing between me and my escape route. I feinted with my staff, and when he responded to block it, I changed the direction of my swing and made contact with his right temple. It was a good strong blow, and he dropped to one knee. I hit him again—a hard crack on his shoulder. Then I ran for it, up the steps and toward the open door.

  There was a thud as the knife buried itself in the woodwork to my left, just a few inches from my shoulder. Then he was pounding up the steps after me, getting nearer with every stride. I almost made it through the door, but then he jumped on me from behind, bringing me down hard, flat on my face. His right arm came across my windpipe and started to press. I’d just time to suck in a quick breath before I began to choke.

  I struggled, kicking my legs and twisting my body, but it was no good. I was still gripping my staff with my left hand, but from that prone position couldn’t use it. My eyes were darkening. He was strangling the life out of me. . . .

  So I rapped three times on the top step with my right hand. Instantly my assailant relinquished the choker hold and stood up. I stumbled to my feet, my head spinning, but feeling happy just to be able to breathe again.

  “Not one of your best days, Master Ward!” he said, shaking his head. “Never take refuge in any room that’s only got one door! Mind you, you did get in a couple of good blows with your staff. But never turn your back on an enemy with a knife. I could have stuck it in the back of your neck with my eyes shut!”

  I bowed my head and said nothing, but I knew there was no chance he would have put the knife into me from behind. His job was to train me, not kill me. I’d taken my chance of escape and had come close to succeeding.

  I’m a spook’s apprentice, being trained to deal with all manner of things that come out of the dark, such as ghosts, ghasts, boggarts, and witches. Facing me was a large, shaven-headed man called Bill Arkwright. My master, John Gregory, had seconded me to him for training in the physical skills needed by a spook: fighting with staffs, unarmed combat, hunting and tracking.

  Picking up my staff, I followed him out of the house; soon we were on the canal bank, heading back to the dilapidated old mill that was his home. Arkwright was the spook who looked after the County north of Caster. He specialized in things that came out of the lakes, marshes, and canals of this region—water witches mainly, but there were also all manner of weird beasts, such as wormes, selkies, skelts, and kelpies to contend with, some of which I’d never seen except in the Bestiary, the big book of creatures of the dark that my master, John Gregory, had illustrated with his own hand.

  Recently we’d defeated the water witch Morwena, and now Mr. Gregory had set off back to his house at Chipenden without me. The final months of my training with Bill Arkwright were proving to be the hardest I’d ever experienced. I was covered in bruises from head to foot. The practice sessions when we fought with staffs were brutal, with no quarter given. But I was sharpening my skills, slowly starting to improve.

  Arkwright’s mill had once been haunted by the ghosts of his mam and dad, trapped there despite all his efforts to release them. That had made him bitter, driving him to drink. But recently I’d helped him to liberate them, and they had gone to the light. As a result, Arkwright had slowly changed, a lot of his pain and anger dissipating. Now he drank rarely and his temper was much better. I preferred John Gregory as my master, but Bill Arkwright was teaching me well, and despite his rough ways, I was learning to respect him.

  But Arkwright was still a very hard man. John Gregory kept live witches imprisoned in pits indefinitely. Bill Arkwright confined them as a punishment for a limited time. Then he killed them, cutting out their hearts so that they couldn’t return from the dead. He was a good spook,
but I knew him to be ruthless.

  It was misty on the towpath, and before we came within sight of the large tethering post on the canal bank outside the mill, we heard the bell. Three rings indicated that it was spook’s business, so Arkwright picked up the pace, and I followed close at his heels.

  A middle-aged woman was standing beneath the huge bell. She wore a dark wide-brimmed hat pulled low over her eyes, black stockings, and sturdy leather shoes with flat heels. I thought she looked like a servant from a big house, and I was soon proved right.

  “Good day to you, sir,” she said, giving a little curtsy. “Would you by any chance be Mister Arkwright?”

  I tried to keep a straight face. Bill was wearing his cloak with the hood up against the damp and carrying his big staff with its twelve-inch blade and six backward-facing barbs. Quite clearly he was the local spook.

  “Aye, I’m Bill Arkwright,” he replied. “What brings you here on a cold, damp winter afternoon?”

  “Mistress Wicklow of Lune Hall has sent me. She’d like to see you as soon as possible. We’ve heard a banshee wailing two nights in a row, and we’re all frit to death! The gardener saw it on the lake side near the narrow bridge. It was washing a burial shroud in the water—which means someone is going to die soon—”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” Arkwright said.

  “My mistress thinks it’ll be her husband.”

  Arkwright raised one eyebrow. “Is he in good health at present?”

  “Fell off his horse in the autumn and broke a leg. Got pneumonia soon after and it’s left him with a bad cough. Mistress says he’s not the man he was. Getting worse by the hour . . .”

  “Tell your mistress I’ll be there before dark.”

  The servant gave another little curtsy, and with a muttered thanks turned north and set off down the towpath.

  “It’s a waste of time, really,” Arkwright said as we watched her disappear into the mist. “There’s nothing a spook can do about a banshee. They forecast deaths but don’t bring them about.”

  “Mr. Gregory doesn’t even think they do that,” I said. “He doesn’t believe anybody can see into the future.”

  “Do you agree with him, Master Ward?”

  “Witches are able to scry, I’m sure of it. The things they prophesy can happen. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “Your master would just say it was coincidence,” Arkwright said, rubbing the top of his bald head, “but I’m sure that you and I are both of the same mind. There’s got to be something in it. Some people and some entities, including a banshee, can see what’s going to happen in the future. So I think it’s very likely that Master Wicklow or somebody else in that house will be dead before the end of the week. But it won’t be the banshee that actually does the killing. It’s sensed a coming death, that’s all.”

  “So why are we going, then? Why get involved?”

  Arkwright frowned. “People expect us to help; they feel better if we’re around in situations like this. Think how many times a doctor repeatedly visits the bedside of a dying man when he’s unable to do anything—sometimes not even to relieve the pain. But he visits anyway, because it makes the patient and his family feel better.

  “And we have a second reason for going. We need the money. Clients have been few and far between recently. I’ve killed water witches, but nobody has paid me for it. Our larder is bare, Master Ward, and although they’re easy enough to catch, we don’t want to eat fish every day. Up at that big house they pay good money to local tradesman. They can well afford it, so we might as well have our share.

  “And there’s a third reason, if the first two aren’t enough for you. An apprentice should see and hear a banshee if there’s one about. It’s part of your training to learn the limitations of a spook. As I said, we can do nothing about ’em!”

  CHAPTER II

  The Shroud Washer

  CARRYING our bags and staffs, we set off within the hour, heading north. Normally we would have taken Claw, the big wolfhound that Arkwright used to hunt water witches through the marshes, but she was expecting pups and would give birth any day now.

  “Let’s hope they give us a bite of supper and a hot drink,” Arkwright growled as we left the canal and headed northeast through the trees. “It’s a miserable damp night to keep watch.”

  We hadn’t been walking much more than half an hour when we saw a figure jump over a stile and head our way down the towpath. It was a red-faced farmer, striding toward us in big muddy boots. He looked very worried, as if carrying the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.

  “Here comes trouble!” Arkwright said, keeping his voice low as the man approached. “Not known for paying his bills, is Farmer Dalton. Half the tradesmen in the district are chasing him!”

  “Thank goodness I’ve caught you, Mr. Arkwright!” he said, blocking our path. “Three sheep have been taken in one night. In the west pasture. The one next to the marsh.”

  “Taken? Do you mean missing, eaten, or drained?” Arkwright asked.

  “Drained of blood.”

  “Big wounds or small?”

  “Deep puncture marks on their necks and backs.”

  “Three in one night, you say? Well, it’s not a ripper boggart or their bellies would be cut open—most likely a water witch is to blame. Though for them to take animals is rare. It suggests the witch is injured and can’t get human prey. In that case, she could be very dangerous—might even approach the farmhouse.”

  “I’ve young children. . . .”

  “Well, they’ll be safe enough as long as you keep all your doors and windows secure. I’ll sort it, but I expect to be paid.”

  “Won’t have money until after the first spring market.”

  “I can’t wait that long,” Arkwright said firmly. “I’ll take mutton and cheese in direct payment. A week’s supply. Is that a deal?”

  The farmer nodded but clearly wasn’t pleased at having to cough up payment so soon.

  “I’ll be there soon after dark,” said Arkwright. “I’ve another job to attend to first.”

  The farmer soon left us, climbing back over the stile to head for his farm, now clearly really worried that his family might be at risk.

  The mist thickened, hampering our progress, and we didn’t reach the manor house much before dark. Lune Hall was big, with a fancy turret, and was set in extensive grounds. Approaching it from the west, I could see a lake to the rear, with a small island at its center, connected to the main garden by a narrow ornamental bridge. Beyond the lake was what looked like an ancient mound.

  “Is that a burial mound?” I asked. “A barrow?”

  “Indeed it is, Master Ward. Some say it’s the last resting place of an important Celtic chieftain.”

  The Celts were the race who arrived in the County as the native Little People were starting to decline. Centuries later, they sailed west across the sea to the large island called Ireland and made that their home.

  I turned my attention back to the large and imposing house. Only lords, ladies, knights, and squires would be admitted through the front door of such an establishment, so Arkwright led us round the back to the tradesmen’s entrance. After he’d knocked twice, the door was opened by the same maid who’d made the journey to the mill. She showed us into the kitchen and, without being asked, brought us each a bowl of hot soup and some generous slices of bread, thickly buttered. We sat at the table and tucked in. When we’d finished, she led us along a gloomy wood-paneled corridor and out into a small flagged yard to the rear, where a small woman in a dark, well-tailored coat and sturdy walking shoes was waiting.

  “This is Mr. Arkwright, ma’am,” said the maid, who immediately turned and went back into the house, leaving us alone with her mistress.

  “Good evening, Mr. Arkwright,” said the woman, giving us a warm smile. “Is this your apprentice?”

  Her accent told me that she originated from Ireland. Long ago, when I visited the Topley market with my dad, there were
lots of horse traders there from that country. They used to race their mounts up and down the muddy lanes.

  “It is that, ma’am,” Bill Arkwright replied, giving a little bow. “His name is Tom Ward.”

  “Well, thank you both for coming so promptly,” she said. “I do fear that my husband’s life is in danger. His cough is worsening by the hour.”

  “Has the doctor attended him?” asked Arkwright.

  “To be sure, he comes twice a day but can find no explanation for my husband’s very sudden deterioration. He had recovered fully from the pneumonia. There’s no reason for him to get worse now. I fear the banshee has marked him for death. I’m just hoping that you can do something to save him. Follow me—I’ll show you where she appears.”

  It was still winter, so the garden was not at its best. Even so, you could tell that in spring and summer it would really be something special. It was subdivided into many sections, the path weaving its way through wicker archways and bowers sheltered by stone ivy-clad walls. The shrubs and ornamental trees gradually started to give way to larger species of oak and ash as the garden merged naturally into a wood.

  We followed Mistress Wicklow down the long garden path toward the bridge that crossed the lake to give access to the island.

  “In my country, banshee means ‘woman of the fay folk,’” she said, glancing back at us over her shoulder. “A fay is what you’d call a fairy in the County. . . .”

  “We don’t believe in goblins and fairies, ma’am,” Arkwright told her. “We have enough to contend with without them!”

  “I’m sure you do, Mr. Arkwright, but this threat is real enough. Matthew, my gardener, has seen her and I’ve heard her. ’Tis a terrible scream, enough to curdle the blood. Anyway, here is Matthew—he is waiting for us now.”

  Matthew stepped forward out of the gloom and touched his cap in respect. He was old and weather-beaten, long past his prime. It must have been hard for him to keep up the hard physical work of gardener to such a big house.