After taking what I needed, I lifted her body from the pit using her own ropes. Finally I hung her by her feet so that at dawn the birds could peck her bones clean. That done, I passed through the dell without incident, the dead witches keeping their distance. Grim Gertrude was on her hands and knees, still rooting through the moldy leaves, trying to find her head. Without eyes it would prove difficult.
When I emerged from the trees, the clan was waiting to greet me. I held up Kernolde’s thumb bones and they bowed their heads in acknowledgement of what I’d done. Even Katrise, the head of the coven of thirteen, made obeisance. When they looked up I saw the new respect in their eyes; the fear, too. Now I would begin my quest to one day destroy my enemy, the Fiend.
My name is Grimalkin. I am the witch assassin of the Malkins, and I fear nobody.
Grimalkin
MANY villains and demons have threatened the peace and safety of the County: the water witches of the far north; Golgoth, the Lord of Winter, who dwells beneath the bleak southern moor of Anglezarke; Wurmalde, the incomer witch who united the Pendle clans to bring the Fiend himself through the dark portal into our world; Morgan, the necromancer, an ex-apprentice of the Spook who tried to raise Golgoth and bring a perpetual winter to the County. These are just a few of the servants of the dark that Tom Ward has had to face, and there are others whose stories are yet to be told.
But of all these, the most dangerous is the Fiend, the dark personified, and here is one more clue that points toward how the Last Apprentice series will continue.
The highest point in the County is marked by mystery.
It is said that a man died there in a great storm, while binding an evil that threatened the whole world.
Then the ice came again and, when it retreated, even the shapes of the hills and the names of the towns in the valleys were changed.
Now, at that highest point on the fells, no trace remains of what was done so long ago, but its name has endured.
They call it …
the Wardstone.
Does this hint at the death of Tom Ward or maybe the Spook? And is that “evil” the Fiend? Only time will tell. There are many more stories to be told before the answers are finally revealed.
THE GALLERY OF VILLAINS
Mother Malkin
Mother Malkin, one of the vilest witches imaginable, has been bound in a pit in the Spook’s garden for years. Then the Spook’s apprentice, Tom Ward, is tricked into giving her blood cakes, and she gains enough strength to break free.
She looked up at me then, lifting into the moonlight a face that was something out of a nightmare, a face that didn’t belong to a living person. Oh, but she was alive all right. You could tell that by the noises she was making eating that rat.
But there was something else about her that terrified me so much that I almost fainted away on the spot. It was her eyes. They were like two hot coals burning inside their sockets, two red points of fire.
And then she spoke to me, her voice something between a whisper and a croak. It sounded like dry, dead leaves rustling together in a late autumn wind.
“It’s a boy,” she said. “I like boys. Come here, boy.”
I didn’t move, of course. I just stood there, rooted to the spot. I felt dizzy and light-headed.
She was still moving toward me and her eyes seemed to be growing larger. Not only her eyes; her whole body seemed to be swelling up. She was expanding into a vast cloud of darkness that within moments would darken my own eyes forever.
Without thinking, I lifted the Spook’s staff. My hands and arms did it, not me.
“What’s that, boy, a wand?” she croaked. Then she chuckled to herself and dropped the dead rat, lifting both her arms toward me.
It was me she wanted. She wanted my blood. In absolute terror, my body began to sway from side to side. I was like a sapling agitated by the first stirrings of a wind, the first storm wind of a dark winter that would never end.
I could have died then, on the bank of that river. There was nobody to help, and I felt powerless to help myself.
But suddenly it happened… .
The Spook’s staff wasn’t a wand, but there’s more than one kind of magic. My arms conjured up something special, moving faster than I could even think.
They lifted the staff and swung it hard, catching the witch a terrible blow on the side of the head.
She gave a sort of grunt and fell sideways into the river. There was a big splash, and she went right under but came up very close to the bank, about five or six paces downstream. At first I thought that that was the end of her, but to my horror, her left arm came out of the water and grabbed a tussock of grass. Then the other arm reached for the bank, and she started to drag herself out of the water.
I knew I had to do something before it was too late. So, using all my willpower, I forced myself to take a step toward her as she heaved more of her body up onto the bank.
When I got close enough, I did something that I can still remember vividly. I still have nightmares about it. But what choice did I have? It was her or me. Only one of us was going to survive.
(For the full story, read The Last Apprentice: Revenge of the Witch)
Bony Lizzie and Tusk
Bony Lizzie, Mother Malkin’s granddaughter, uses bone magic, and raised the young witch Alice, who becomes Tom’s ally.
Tusk, Mother Malkin’s son, is a monster of incredible strength. His name comes from the two yellow tusks that curve upward on either side of his nose. He lives with Bony Lizzie and obeys her without question, no matter how terrible a deed she asks of him.
There, standing at the summit of the slope ahead, was a tall figure dressed in black, carrying a long staff. It was the Spook, all right, but somehow he looked different. His hood was thrown back and his hair, lit by the rays of the rising sun, seemed to be streaming back from his head like orange tongues of flame.
Tusk gave a sort of roar and ran up the slope toward him, brandishing his blade, with Bony Lizzie close at his heels. They weren’t bothered about us for the moment. They knew who their main enemy was. They could deal with us later.
By now Alice had come to a halt, too, so I took a couple of shaky steps to bring myself level with her. We both watched as Tusk made his final charge, lifting his curved blade and bellowing angrily as he ran.
The Spook had been standing as still as a statue, but then in response he took two big strides down the slope toward him and lifted his staff high. Aiming it like a spear, he drove it hard at Tusk’s head. Just before it made contact with his forehead, there was a sort of click and a red flame appeared at the very tip. There was a heavy thud as it struck home. The curved knife went up in the air, and Tusk’s body fell like a sack of potatoes. I knew he was dead even before he hit the ground.
Next the Spook cast his staff to one side and reached inside his cloak. When his left hand appeared again, it was clutching something that he cracked high in the air like a whip. It caught the sun, and I knew it was a silver chain.
Bony Lizzie turned and tried to run, but it was too late: The second time he cracked the chain, it was followed almost immediately by a thin, high, metallic sound. The chain began to fall, shaping itself into a spiral of fire to bind itself tightly around Bony Lizzie. She gave one great shriek of anguish, then fell to the ground.
(For the full story, read The Last Apprentice: Revenge of the Witch)
The Bane
The Bane is an ancient, malevolent spirit—the only one of its kind—that is bound behind the Silver Gate in the catacombs beneath Priestown’s cathedral.
The head of the Bane grew larger, the face becoming even more hideous, the chin lengthening and curving upward to meet the hooked nose. The dark cloud was boiling downward, forming flesh so that now a neck was visible and the beginnings of broad, powerful, muscular shoulders. But instead of skin, they were covered in rough green scales.
I knew what the Spook was waiting for. The moment the chest was clearly defined, he would st
rike straight for the heart within. Even as I watched, the boiling cloud descended farther to form the body as far down as the waist.
But I was mistaken! The Spook didn’t use his blade. As if appearing from nowhere, the silver chain was in his left hand, and he raised his arm to hurl it at the Bane.
I’d seen him do it before. I’d watched him throw it at the witch, Bony Lizzie, so that it formed a perfect spiral and dropped upon her, binding her arms to her sides. She’d fallen to the ground and could do nothing but lie there snarling, the chain enclosing her body and tight against her teeth.
The same would have happened here, I’m sure of it, and it would have been the Bane’s turn to lie there helplessly. But at the very moment when the Spook prepared to hurl the silver chain, Alice lurched to her feet and tore off her blindfold.
I know she didn’t mean to do it, but somehow she got between the Spook and his target and spoiled his aim. Instead of landing over the Bane’s head, the silver chain fell against its shoulder. At its touch, the creature screamed out in agony and the chain fell to the floor.
But it wasn’t over yet, and the Spook snatched up his staff. As he held it high, preparing to drive it into the Bane, there was a sudden click, and the retractable blade, made from an alloy containing silver, was now bared, glinting in the candlelight. The blade that I’d watched him sharpening at Heysham. I’d seen him use it once before, when he’d faced Tusk, the son of the old witch, Mother Malkin.
Now the Spook stabbed his staff hard and fast, straight at the Bane, aiming for its heart. It tried to twist away but was too late to avoid the thrust completely. The blade pierced its left shoulder, and it screamed out in agony. Alice backed away, a look of terror on her face, while the Spook pulled back his staff and readied it for a second thrust, his face grim and determined.
But suddenly, both candles were snuffed out, plunging the chamber and tunnel into darkness.
(For the full story, read The Last Apprentice: Curse of the Bane)
Morgan
Morgan is a failed apprentice of the Spook’s who has turned to the dark, using the creatures of the dark to make his own powers greater.
“The dead have had their lives. It’s over for them. But we’re still living and can use them. We can profit from them. I want what Gregory owes me. I want his house in Chipenden with that big library of books that contains so much knowledge. And then there’s something else. Something even more important. Something that he’s stolen from me. He has a grimoire, a book of spells and rituals, and you’re going to help me get it back. In return, you can continue your apprenticeship, with me training you. And I’ll teach you those things he’s never even dreamed of. I’ll put real power at your fingertips!”
“I don’t want you training me,” I snapped angrily. “I’m happy with things just the way they are!”
“What makes you think that you’ve any choice in the matter?” Morgan said, his voice suddenly cold and threatening. “I think it’s time to show you just what I can do.”
(For the full story, read The Last Apprentice: Night of the Soul Stealer)
Marcia
Marcia, the sister of the Spook’s love, is a feral lamia witch.
The floorboards were scattered with feathers, splattered with blood and littered with fragments of dead birds. It was as if a fox had got into a chicken coop. There were wings, legs, heads, and hundreds of feathers. Feathers falling through the air, swirling around my head, stirred by the chill breeze that was blowing through the skylight.
When I saw something much larger, I wasn’t surprised. But the sight of it chilled me to the bone. Crouching in the corner, close to the writing desk, was the feral lamia, eyes closed, the top lids thick and heavy. Her body seemed smaller somehow, but her face looked far larger than the last time I’d glimpsed it. It was no longer gaunt but pale and bloated, the cheeks almost two pouches. As I watched, the mouth opened slightly and a trickle of blood ran down her chin and began to drip onto the floorboards. She licked her lips, opened her eyes, and looked up at me as if she had all the time in the world.
(For the full story, read The Last Apprentice: Night of the Soul Stealer)
Golgoth
Golgoth, Lord of Winter, is an elemental force, the most powerful of the old gods once worshipped in the County.
“Although trapped within the bounds of this circle, I can still reach you. Let me show you …”
Cold began to radiate out from the pentacle, the mosaic whitening with frost. A pattern of ice crystals was forming until I could feel the chill rising into my flesh from the floor, starting to numb me to the bone. I remembered Meg’s warning when I left for home: “… wrap up warm against the cold. Frostbite can make your fingers fall off.”
The most severe cold was at my back, close to my hands where they were bound to the ring, and as the cold bit into my flesh, I imagined my frozen fingers with the blood no longer circulating, becoming blackened and brittle, ready to break off like dead twigs from a dying branch. I felt my mouth opening to scream, the cold air rasping within my throat. I thought of Mam. Now I would never see her again. But suddenly I fell away onto my side, away from the iron ring. I glanced back and saw that it was in pieces at the foot of the wall. Golgoth had frozen and fragmented it in order to free me. He’d done it so that I could do his bidding. He spoke to me again from the pentacle, but this time his voice seemed fainter.
“Dislodge the candle. Do it now, or I’ll take more than your life. I’ll snuff out your soul, too… .”
Those words sent a deeper chill into me than the cold that had shattered the iron ring. Morgan had been right. My very soul was at risk. But to save it, all I had to do was obey. My hands were still tied behind my back and had no feeling in them, but I could have stood, moved toward the nearest candle, and kicked it over. But I thought of those who would suffer because of what I’d done. The severe winter cold itself would kill the old and the young first. Babies would die in their cradles. But the threat would become even greater. Crops wouldn’t grow, and there’d be no harvest next year. And for how many years after that? There’d be nothing to feed the livestock. Famine would result. Thousands would perish. And it would all be my fault.
(For the full story, read The Last Apprentice: Night of the Soul Stealer)
Tibb
Tibb is an inhuman creature created by the Malkin and Deane witch clans during a rare truce between them. He can see things at a distance, and can see into the future.
I could see nothing at all, but I could hear him—claws scratching and scrabbling, biting into wood. Then I realized that the sound was above, not below me. I looked upward just in time to see a dark shape moving across the ceiling like a spider, to halt directly above my bed. Unable to move anything but my head, I started to take deep breaths, trying to slow my heartbeat. To be afraid made the dark stronger. I had to get my fear under control.
I could see the outline of the four limbs and the body, but the head seemed far closer. I’ve always been able to see well in the dark, and my eyes were continuing to adjust until I could finally make some sense of what threatened from above.
Tibb had crawled across the wooden panels of the ceiling so that his hairy back and limbs were facing away from me. But his head was hanging down backward toward the bed, supported by a long, muscular neck, so that his eyes were below his mouth; and those eyes were glowing slightly in the dark and staring directly toward my own; the mouth was wide open, revealing the sharp needlelike teeth within.
Something dripped onto my forehead then. Something slightly sticky and warm. It seemed to fall from the creature’s open mouth. Twice more drops fell—one onto the pillow beside my head, the next onto my shirtfront. Then Tibb spoke, his voice rasping harshly in the darkness.
“I see your future clearly. Your life will be sad. Your master will be dead and you will be alone. It would be better if you had never been born.”
(For the full story, read The Last Apprentice: Attack of the Fiend)
Wurmalde
Wurmalde comes from the same land as Tom’s mother—in fact, they are old enemies, and Wurmalde carries her grudge onto Tom.
Mistress Wurmalde frowned, and anger flashed into her eyes. She took a step toward me: Her skirts rustled and the sound of her pointy shoes made two hard clicks on the cold flags of the kitchen. “Time to think is a luxury that you can ill afford,” she told me. “Have you got an imagination, boy?”
I nodded. My mouth was too dry to speak.
“Then let me paint a picture for you. Imagine a grim dungeon, dark and dreary, crawling with vermin and rats. Imagine a bone pit, redolent of the tormented dead, its stench an affront to high heaven. No daylight reaches it from the upper ground, and just one small candle is allowed each day, a few hours of flickering yellow light to illuminate the horror of that place. Your brother Jack is bound to a pillar. He rants and raves; his eyes are wild, his face gaunt, his mind in hell. Some of it is our doing, but most of the blame must fall to you and yours. Yes, it is your fault that he suffers.”
“How can it be my fault?” I asked angrily.
“Because you are your mother’s son, and you have inherited the work that she has done. Both the work and the blame,” said Mistress Wurmalde.
“What do you know of my mother?” I demanded, stung by her words.
“We are old enemies,” she said, almost spitting the words out.
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