The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  “Stand back, Master Ward. I’ll deal with this,” Arkwright said, moving forward and readying the blade of his staff.

  Suddenly the creature spat, and Arkwright quickly stepped to one side, just in time to avoid the large globule of dark liquid that had been aimed at his legs.

  “Keep your distance,” he advised, gesturing me back with his right arm. “Remember what I said about worme spit! If the venom touches your skin, you could be dead within minutes. Pass me the candle, then move away to the left.”

  I handed him the candle, and he held it high. The worme seemed to move its head and stare toward the light, but then it twisted back to face Arkwright and breathed out another plume of mist. Next, hidden by that cloud, it hissed and spat again; a thick ball of slime landed on Arkwright’s right boot. Luckily the boot leather would be too thick to be penetrated; it was a good job it hadn’t landed on his trousers.

  Again Arkwright moved the candle. “The light fascinates it,” he said softly. “It’s a good idea to distract its attention. Now you move a little closer and threaten it with your staff. Not too close, mind!”

  I did as he commanded, thrusting my staff toward it. Its eyes were on me now, and then, in a fury, his staff raised, Arkwright suddenly rushed in to attack the ugly creature. He brought the blade down hard, three times in quick succession. The first blow missed as the beast twisted away, but the second and third blows struck home, and the long blade went deep into its head and neck. It thrashed and writhed, sliding back into the darkness under the boat. Its blood was dark and thick, a viscous slime oozing out onto the ground.

  Arkwright handed the candle back to me. “Crouch down and give me as much light as possible,” he ordered.

  Then he put down his staff, fished a long-bladed knife from his bag, and crawled under the boat. By the light of the candle I watched him stabbing the creature again and again until it gave a great gasp and lay still.

  “Not quite as difficult as I’d thought,” he remarked when, once more, he was standing beside me. “Well, Master Ward, let’s go and tell Farmer Dalton the job’s done.”

  V V V

  In answer to Arkwright’s triple rap, the farmer came to the front door. I saw that his eyes were red and swollen with grief.

  “The beast’s body is lying in the biggest of the boatyards yonder, and soon it’ll start to rot,” Arkwright said, gesturing toward the salt marsh. “It’ll need attending to. I have urgent business elsewhere now.”

  The farmer nodded and gave a great sob that shook his whole body.

  “I’m sorry for the loss of your son,” Arkwright said respectfully.

  The man nodded but couldn’t speak.

  “Well, erm, we’d best be on our way,” continued my master.

  “Wait! You’ll want paying,” said the farmer. “Forget the mutton and cheese—I do have a little emergency money in the attic. . . .”

  “No payment is required,” my master said. “Put it toward the funeral expenses.”

  With that, we were on our way east again, heading back toward the Wicklows’ residence. For a while we walked in silence, keeping up a steady pace, but then I remembered the strange business of the banshee.

  “The banshee, Mr. Arkwright . . .”

  “The banshee, indeed, Master Ward. We really do need to be seen to sort that banshee now. We must hope they pay us well for our trouble. I hadn’t the heart to take anything from Dalton after what happened.”

  “But it wasn’t a banshee, Mr. Arkwright. At least, I don’t think so. . . .”

  Arkwright came to a sudden halt and glared at me. “Did you see it?” he demanded.

  I nodded.

  “Was she as pretty as the gardener said?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, he was an old man. To a man of his age, any woman looks pretty!”

  “She was hideous. Her skin was cracked and disfigured.”

  “Was she washing a burial shroud?”

  “It was covered in blood and there were big dark stains in the water—that predicts a violent death, doesn’t it? Yet Master Wicklow is suffering from congestion of the lungs. . . .”

  Arkwright rubbed the top of his head and frowned. “So what makes you think it wasn’t a banshee?”

  “She left footprints in the mud at the water’s edge. Banshees don’t leave footprints, do they? That type of elemental is just a spirit. And she spoke to me. Warned me off. Said if I lingered, I’d be dead. Then she set off through the trees.”

  As I spoke, I heard her voice in my memory, and I realized something that I’d thought nothing of at the time. “She had the same accent as Mistress Wicklow. She was from Ireland, the big island across the water.”

  “Was she now? So what happened then, Master Ward? Did you obey her?”

  “No. I followed her. I was running as fast as I could, but I didn’t catch her. She sprinted toward the burial mound and disappeared. Her footprints went right up to it. It was as if she’d vanished.”

  “Really?” said Arkwright, scratching his head. “Well, that’s interesting.”

  “And just before that there was a flash of bright light,” I continued. “I think she was a witch. There was a black crow on a branch just above her while she was washing the shroud. Could that have been her familiar?”

  Arkwright looked thoughtful and perhaps a little worried. “Come on, Master Ward, let’s continue on our way. I’ll have to think about this for a while.”

  So we went on toward Lune Hall, my master silent and deep in thought.

  CHAPTER IV

  The Celtic Assassin

  IT was getting dark again by the time we reached the hall, but the sky was clear and the moon would soon be up.

  “Right, Master Ward, we need to talk,” Arkwright said, stepping off the track, placing his bag and staff on the ground and leaning back against a tree trunk. “It’s been a long day, and our bellies must be thinking our throats have been cut. I was going to suggest we get ourselves a bite to eat, but we can’t risk that now. We need to follow the advice that John Gregory gave us, and fast before facing the dark. Because I think we’re about to step into unknown territory. Ever heard of the Celtic witches?”

  I put down my own staff and bag and frowned, searching my memory. “I’m not sure whether the Spook’s Bestiary has an entry on them or not—if so, it’s very short.”

  “Exactly, Master Ward, because not a lot’s known about them. They mostly come from the southwestern region of Ireland. That whole island is shrouded in mystery. Some call it the Emerald Isle, because it gets even more rainfall than the County and the grass there is just as green. But it has dense mists, too, and treacherous bogs. In the south-west there are also malevolent goat mages. We know more about them than we do about the witches—”

  “I do remember reading about them!” I interrupted.

  “Aye, they worship the old god, Pan. They’re a force to be reckoned with but never leave Ireland. As far as records go back, there is no mention of these Celtic witches visiting the County, either. But among our fragments of knowledge is the name of the old god they worship—the Morrigan. She haunts battlefields, and some call her the goddess of slaughter. When summoned to this earth by one of the Celtic witches, she usually takes the shape of a large black crow—”

  “The big crow on the branch?”

  Arkwright shrugged. “Who knows? But there’s one more thing that I’ve heard said about Celtic witches. There are lots of burial mounds in Eire—and I mean a lot. For every one we have in the County, they have at least another ten. It’s said that those witches can get into burial mounds and take refuge there. And that’s exactly what she did when you chased her—I’m almost certain of it. I think we’re dealing with a Celtic witch, Master Ward, and because we don’t know much about her or her powers, that makes her very dangerous!”

  Before going into the garden to keep watch, Arkwright decided to pay his respects to the mistress of the house again, so we went round to the tradesmen’s entra
nce. This time it was a long while before anyone answered the door, and Arkwright started snorting with impatience.

  The same maid answered, but this time she didn’t meet our eyes and merely beckoned us inside. We were led, not into the kitchen, but toward the front of the house and were shown into a large drawing room.

  Mistress Wicklow was standing with her back to the fire, her face pale; she was dressed in black. To her right, beneath the curtained window, was a coffin positioned on a long, low table draped with a purple cloth. Two large candles were burning, one at its head, the other at its foot.

  “My husband died suddenly last night at the very moment that the banshee wailed for the third time. Where were you?” she demanded, a dangerous chill to her voice.

  “A child was killed by a worme and I was called away urgently,” Arkwright said abruptly, bending the truth a little. “But I left my very capable apprentice here on watch. And from what he tells me, I don’t think we are dealing with a banshee at all.”

  Mistress Wicklow lowered her gaze to the carpet, and her hands started to flutter nervously. She clasped them together tightly in an attempt to keep them still.

  “Ah, I see it now. You knew that already, didn’t you?” Arkwright accused her. “You knew there was a witch out there. . . .”

  She looked up to meet his gaze, her eyes brimming with tears. “We’ve been here in the County almost five years and I thought we were safe. But they’ve sent a witch assassin after us. She’s killed my husband and I’ll be next.”

  “They? Who? A witch clan?” demanded Arkwright.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Celtic witches don’t form clans. They always work alone. The goat mages sent her. They want revenge for what my husband did. Do you know of those mages? Do you know what they do?”

  “We know very little about them, ma’am. Most of what happens on that island of yours is a mystery to us.”

  “Each year the mages tether a goat to a high platform,” she explained. “They worship it for a week and a day. Human beings are sacrificed until the animal is gradually possessed by one of the old gods called Pan. Soon the goat starts to talk, stands upon its hind legs, and grows larger, dominating the proceedings and demanding more and more sacrifices.”

  What she was telling us was already in the Spook’s Bestiary. Arkwright would also have read it there, but he let her speak without interruption in the hope of learning something new from a native of Ireland.

  “The power they gain during those days of bloodshed lasts the goat mages for almost a year. But some years things go badly wrong. If Pan doesn’t possess the goat, the mages must flee the region, taking refuge in hiding places throughout Ireland. They’re vulnerable then, and their sworn enemies, a federation of landowners to the southwest, hunt them down. My husband was part of that federation; at that time, eight years ago, when the mages were weak, he was its leader. The landowners managed to kill five of them.

  “But, following that, there was a succession of good years for the mages, when their power was in the ascendancy. Then it was their turn to hunt and kill the landowners. So, in fear for our lives, we gathered what we could of our wealth and fled here. This house belonged to my husband’s brother, a bachelor. He died in a riding accident last year, and my husband inherited it. We thought we were safe here, but the goat mages and the federation are in a perpetual state of war. Somehow our enemies found out where we were living and sent the witch after us.”

  “If you knew, why didn’t you tell us? My apprentice could have been killed!”

  “I thought if you found out what you faced, you might not take on the job. I was scared and desperate.”

  “What do we face, then? You come from that land. What powers does a Celtic witch have—especially an assassin?”

  This really was an area we knew nothing about; more material for my notebook.

  “They are deadly with blades and spears. Sometimes they impale their enemies so that they die slowly. But their favorite method is the one used against my husband—the one that will soon be employed against me. They mimic banshees. That’s why my people call them banshee witches, though instead of just foretelling a death, they bring it about. When they lift the burial shroud from the water and wring it out, by dark magic they twist the heart and arteries of their victim. Last night, when the witch wailed for the third time, my husband’s heart burst and blood spurted from his mouth to saturate the pillow. Tonight she’ll begin the process again. This time I’ll be the victim.”

  “Not if we can help it. But it may take us more than one night,” Arkwright said.

  “You have until her third cry on the third night. Then, if you fail, I will also die.”

  Arkwright nodded, then turned to leave the room. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

  “He wasn’t a nice man,” Mistress Wicklow told us, an edge of bitterness in her voice. “Ours was a marriage arranged by our families. I never loved him. He was a fool, and he caused me nothing but trouble.”

  Arkwright bowed his head, at a loss for words.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked us.

  “We fast when we face the dark,” Arkwright answered. “But we’d appreciate a light breakfast tomorrow morning. We’ll need to keep up our strength for what’s ahead.”

  Mistress Wicklow rang for the maid, who showed us out through the tradesmen’s entrance once more. We began to walk down the garden, heading toward the lake.

  “Well, Master Ward,” Arkwright commented, keeping his voice low. “This is something new, all right. We face a Celtic witch, so ready your silver chain!”

  CHAPTER V

  The Banshee Cry

  ONCE more we settled ourselves down on the nar-row bridge. My silver chain was now in the left pocket of my breeches, and I coiled it about my wrist, ready to throw. We didn’t have to wait long. . . .

  Soon the terrible wailing banshee cry echoed over the garden. This time it came from farther round the lake, near the burial mound. Immediately Arkwright set off at a run; I followed close at his heels.

  The second cry came far more quickly than it had the previous night. Would the witch shriek for the third time before we reached her? She did, and I groaned inside. Mistress Wicklow would already have been hurt.

  Arkwright was now on my right, almost level with me and running toward the source of the cry. “There she is!” he called out, pointing with his staff as he ran. I saw a female figure ahead, fleeing through the trees.

  Suddenly something dark swooped down toward me, claws outstretched. I ducked and glanced to my right as it glided on silently toward Arkwright. It was the large black crow I’d seen the previous night. I heard him cry out, saw him stumble.

  “Keep going!” he shouted. “Keep after her!”

  I kept running, but the moon had gone behind a cloud and all that told me the witch was still ahead was the slap-slap of her bare feet against the ground. We were coming toward the end of the trees, and the mound lay just beyond the wood. This time I felt sure that I was catching up with her. I prepared to throw my silver chain, relying on my ears to guide me.

  All at once, straight ahead, there was an explosion of light so bright that it hurt my eyes. It was like gazing directly into the sun. My vision instantly darkened, and I stumbled to a halt. The light quickly faded in intensity; now it was just the silver of a full moon, but one that had fallen to earth.

  It wasn’t the moon, though; it was a circular door in the grassy wall of the burial mound. I could see the black silhouette of the banshee witch against it. As the light faded, I glimpsed things beyond, within the mound; what looked like a table and chairs . . .

  Now it was dark once again, and I walked slowly forward to face the mound. Now there was no sign of a door at all—just grass. The real moon came out again; I looked down and saw more footprints.

  Arkwright ran to my side. There was a cut on his head, just above his left eye. Blood was running down his face.

  “Are you all right?” I asked
.

  “It’s nothing,” he growled. “Bit of a scratch. That bird did it. Probably her familiar. So the witch got away again?”

  I nodded. “She did go into the mound—I’m sure of it. I saw a door this time, a circular entrance, and things inside. Looked like furniture.”

  “Furniture? You’ll be telling me next that she’s got a bed in there and is going to settle down for a cozy sleep. Sure you weren’t seeing things, Master Ward?”

  “It really did look like a table and chairs.”

  “Well, the eyes can play funny tricks in such situations, but I am inclined to believe that by use of dark magic she’s somehow taken refuge in that mound.”

  We spent the rest of the night on the bridge, taking it in turns to sleep. Not that we expected anything to happen again that night, but Arkwright wasn’t taking any chances.

  At dawn we washed our faces and hands in the lake, then went back to the tradesmen’s entrance once more.

  “Your mistress promised us a bite of breakfast,” Arkwright told the maid.

  We ate a light meal of bread, cheese, and ham, and were then shown through to the drawing room again. Mistress Wicklow was sitting in an armchair in front of the fire, wrapped in a long shawl. She was shivering, and her lips had a blue tinge.

  “I’ve always had a fear of dying in my bed,” she said, her voice slightly breathless, “so I prefer to sit in my chair until all this ends—one way or the other. . . .”

  “She escaped into the mound,” Arkwright explained. “But don’t you worry. She won’t get away tonight.”

  “You’ve hurt your face,” she observed.

  “It was a black crow that seems to be around whenever the witch is—probably just her familiar. Though I reckon it could be the Morrigan. But if it really is her, I’d expect her to do more than just scratch my face.”

  Mistress Wicklow shook her head. “Not necessarily. They say that those who are cut or scratched by the Morrigan are marked for death. They always die within the year. Of course, that’s probably just a foolish superstition—and it probably wasn’t the goddess anyway.”