BOOK SEVEN
THE LAST
APPRENTICE
RISE OF THE HUNTRESS
Illustrations by
PATRICK ARRASMITH
JOSEPH DELANEY
Dedication
FOR MARIE
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Rise of the Huntress
CHAPTER I - Red with Blood
CHAPTER II - You Ain’t Dead Yet!
CHAPTER III - The Old Man
CHAPTER IV - Rats with Wings
CHAPTER V - The Abhuman
CHAPTER VI - Another Dead One!
CHAPTER VII - Thumb Bones Were Taken
CHAPTER VIII - Buggane Lore
CHAPTER IX - The Attack of the Buggane
CHAPTER X - A Dangerous Opponent
CHAPTER XI - The Witch’s Pet
CHAPTER XII - The Bone Yard’s Eye
CHAPTER XIII - My Gift to the County
CHAPTER XIV - Fight to the Death
CHAPTER XV - Thumb Bones
CHAPTER XVI - Your Master’s Worst Nightmare
CHAPTER XVII - Stone Dead
CHAPTER XVIII - A Lost Spirit
CHAPTER XIX - The Grim Cache
CHAPTER XX - Immense Power
CHAPTER XXI - Prepared to Fight
CHAPTER XXII - The Battle at Tynwald Hill
CHAPTER XXIII - Nightmares
CHAPTER XXIV - Terrifying Things
CHAPTER XXV - The Beating of Wings
CHAPTER XXVI - Corrupted by the Dark
CHAPTER XXVII - I’ll Take Your Bones Now!
CHAPTER XXVIII - The Buggane
CHAPTER XXIX - One for Sorrow
CHAPTER XXX - A Full Reckoning
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Rise of the Huntress
CHAPTER I
Red with Blood
THE Spook, Alice, and I were crossing the Long Ridge on our way back to Chipenden, with the three wolfhounds, Claw, Blood, and Bone, barking excitedly at our heels.
The first part of the climb had been pleasant enough. It had rained all afternoon but was now a clear, cloudless late autumn evening with just a slight chilly breeze ruffling our hair: perfect weather for walking. I remember thinking how peaceful it all seemed.
But at the summit, a big shock awaited us. There was dark smoke far to the north beyond the fells. It looked like Caster was burning. Had the war finally reached us? I wondered fearfully.
Years earlier, an alliance of enemy nations had invaded our land far to the south. Since then, despite the best efforts of the combined counties to hold the line, they had been slowly pushing north.
“How can they have advanced so far without our knowing?” the Spook asked, scratching at his beard, clearly agitated. “Surely there’d have been news—some warning, at least?”
“It might just be a raiding party from the sea,” I suggested. That was very likely. Enemy boats had come ashore before and attacked settlements along the coast—though this part of the County had been spared so far.
Shaking his head, the Spook set off down the hill at a furious pace. Alice gave me a worried smile, and we hurried along in pursuit. Encumbered by my staff and both our bags, I was struggling to keep up on the slippery, wet grass. But I knew what was bothering my master. He was anxious about his library. Looting and burning had been reported in the south, and he was worried about the safety of his books, a store of knowledge accumulated by generations of spooks.
I was now in the third year of my apprenticeship to the Spook, learning how to deal with ghosts, ghasts, witches, boggarts, and all manner of creatures from the dark. My master gave me lessons most days, but my other source of knowledge was that library. It was certainly very important.
Once we reached level ground, we headed directly toward Chipenden, the hills to the north looming larger with every stride. We’d just forded a small river, picking our way across the stones, the water splashing around our ankles, when Alice pointed ahead.
“Enemy soldiers!” she cried.
In the distance, a group of men was heading east across our path—two dozen or more, the swords at their belts glinting brightly in the light from the setting sun, which was now very low on the horizon.
We halted and crouched low on the riverbank, hoping that they hadn’t seen us. I told the dogs to lie down and be quiet; they obeyed instantly.
The soldiers wore gray uniforms and steel helms with broad, vertical nose guards of a type I hadn’t seen before. Alice was right. It was a large enemy patrol. Unfortunately, they saw us almost immediately. One of them pointed and barked out an order, and a small group peeled off and began running toward us.
“This way!” cried the Spook, and snatching up his bag to relieve me of the extra weight, he took off, following the river upstream; Alice and I followed with the dogs.
There was a large wood directly ahead. Maybe there was a chance we could lose them there, I thought. But as soon as we reached the tree line, my hopes were dashed. It had been coppiced recently: there were no saplings, no thickets—just well-spaced mature trees. This was no hiding place.
I glanced back. Our pursuers were now spread out in a ragged line. The majority weren’t making much headway, but there was one soldier in the lead who was definitely gaining on us. He was brandishing his sword threateningly.
Next thing I knew, the Spook was coming to a halt. He threw down his bag at my feet. “Keep going, lad! I’ll deal with him,” he commanded, turning back to face the soldier.
I called the dogs to heel and stopped, frowning. I couldn’t leave my master like that. I picked up his bag again and readied my staff. If necessary, I would go to his aid and take the dogs with me; they were big, fierce wolfhounds, completely without fear.
I looked back at Alice. She’d stopped, too, and was staring at me with a strange expression on her face. She seemed to be muttering to herself.
The breeze died away very suddenly, and the chill was like a blade of ice cutting into my face. All was suddenly silent, as if every living thing in the wood were holding its breath. Tendrils of mist snaked out of the trees toward us, approaching from all directions. I looked at Alice again. There had been no warning of this change in the weather. It didn’t seem natural. Was it dark magic? I wondered. The dogs crouched down on their bellies and whined softly. Even if it was intended to help us, my master would be angry if Alice used dark magic. She’d spent two years training to be a witch, and he was always wary of her turning back toward the dark.
By now the Spook had taken up a defensive position, his staff held diagonally. The soldier reached him and slashed downward with his sword. My heart was in my mouth, but I needn’t have feared. There was a cry of pain—but it came from the soldier, not my master. The sword went spinning into the grass, and then the Spook delivered a hard blow to his assailant’s temple to bring him to his knees.
The mist was closing in fast, and for a few moments my master was lost to view. Then I heard him running toward us. Once he reached us, we hurried on, following the river, the fog becoming denser with every stride. We soon left the wood and the river behind and followed a thick hawthorn hedge north for a few hundred yards until the Spook waved us to a halt. We crouched in a ditch, hunkering down with the dogs, holding our breath and listening for danger. At first there were no sounds of pursuit, but then we heard voices to the north and east. They were still searching for us—though the light was beginning to fail, and with each minute that passed it became less likely that we’d be discovered.
But just when we thought we were safe, the voices from the north grew louder, and soon we heard f
ootsteps getting nearer and nearer. It seemed likely that they would blunder straight into our hiding place, and my master and I gripped our staffs, ready to fight for our lives.
The searchers passed no more than a couple of yards to our right—we could just make out the dim shapes of three men. But we were crouched low in the ditch, and they didn’t see us. When the footsteps and voices had faded away, the Spook shook his head.
“Don’t know how many they’ve got hunting for us,” he whispered, “but they seem determined to find us. Best if we stay here for the rest of the night.”
And so we settled down to spend a cold, uncomfortable night in the ditch. I slept fitfully but, as often happens in these situations, fell into a deep slumber only when it was almost time to get up. I was awakened by Alice shaking my shoulder.
I sat up quickly, staring about me. The sun had already risen, and I could see gray clouds racing overhead. The wind was whistling through the hedge, bending and flexing the spindly leafless branches. “Is everything all right?” I asked.
Alice smiled and nodded. “There’s nobody less than a mile or so away. Those soldier boys have given up and gone.”
Then I heard a noise nearby—a sort of groaning. It was the Spook.
“Sounds like he’s having a bad dream,” Alice said.
“Perhaps we should wake him up?” I suggested.
“Leave him for a few minutes. It’s best if he comes out of it by himself.”
But, if anything, his cries and moans grew louder and his body started to shake; he was becoming more and more agitated, so after another minute I shook him gently by the shoulder to wake him.
“Are you all right, Mr. Gregory?” I asked. “You seemed to be having some kind of nightmare.”
For a moment his eyes were wild, and he looked at me as if I were a stranger or even an enemy. “Aye, it was a nightmare, all right,” he said at last. “It was about Bony Lizzie. . . .”
Bony Lizzie was Alice’s mother, a powerful witch who was now bound in a pit in the Spook’s garden at Chipenden.
“She was sitting on a throne,” continued my master, “and the Fiend was standing at her side with his hand on her left shoulder. They were in a big hall that I didn’t recognize at first. The floor was running red with blood. Prisoners were crying out in terror before being executed—they were cutting off their heads. But it was the hall that really bothered me and set my nerves on edge.”
“Where was it?” I asked.
The Spook shook his head. “She was in the great hall at Caster Castle! She was the ruler of the County.”
“It was just a nightmare,” I said. “Lizzie’s safely bound.”
“Perhaps,” said the Spook. “But I don’t think I’ve ever had a dream that was more vivid.”
We set off cautiously toward Chipenden. The Spook said nothing about the sudden mist that had arisen the previous night. It was the season for them, after all, and he had been busy preparing to fight the soldier at the time. But I was sure that it had appeared at Alice’s bidding. Though who was I to say anything? I was tainted by the dark myself.
We’d only recently returned from Greece after defeating the Ordeen, one of the Old Gods. It had cost us dear. My mam had died to gain our victory, and so had Bill Arkwright, the spook who’d worked north of Caster—that’s why we had his dogs with us.
I’d also paid a terrible price. In order to make that victory possible, I’d sold my own soul to the Fiend.
All that prevented him from dragging me off to the dark now was the blood jar given to me by Alice, which I carried in my pocket. The Fiend couldn’t approach me while I had it by me. Alice needed to stay close to me to share its protection—otherwise, the Fiend would kill her in revenge for the help she’d given me. Of course, the Spook didn’t know about that. If I told him what I’d done, it would be the end of my apprenticeship.
As we climbed the slope toward Chipenden, my master grew more and more anxious. We’d seen pockets of devastation: some burned-out houses, many that were deserted, one with a corpse in a nearby ditch.
“I’d hoped they wouldn’t have come so far inland. I dread to think what we’ll find, lad,” he said grimly.
Normally he would have avoided walking through Chipenden village: most people didn’t like being too close to a spook, and he respected the wishes of the locals. But as the gray slate roofs came into view, one glance was enough to tell us that something was terribly wrong.
It was clear that enemy soldiers had passed this way. Many of the roofs were badly damaged, with charred beams exposed to the air. The closer we got, the worse it was. Almost a third of the houses were completely burned out, their blackened stones just shells of what had once been homes to local families. Those that hadn’t gone up in flames had broken windows and splintered doors hanging from their hinges, with evidence of looting.
The village seemed completely abandoned, but then we heard the sound of banging. Someone was hammering. Quickly the Spook led us through the cobbled streets toward the sound. We were heading for the main road through the village, where the shops were. We passed the greengrocer’s and the baker’s, both ransacked, and headed for the butcher’s shop, which seemed to be the source of the noise.
The butcher was still there, his red beard glinting in the morning light, but he wasn’t carrying out repairs to his premises; he was nailing down the lid of a coffin. There were three other coffins lined up close by, already sealed and ready for burial. One was small and obviously contained a young child. The butcher got to his feet as we entered the yard and came across to shake the Spook’s hand. He was the one real contact my master had among the villagers, the only person he ever talked to about things other than spook’s business.
“It’s terrible, Mr. Gregory,” the butcher said. “Things can never be the same again.”
“I hope it’s not . . . ,” the Spook muttered, glancing down at the coffins.
“Oh, no, thank the Lord for that at least,” the butcher told him. “It happened three days ago. I got my own family away to safety just in time. No, these poor folk weren’t quick enough. They killed everybody they could find. It was just an enemy patrol, but a very large one. They were out foraging for supplies. There was no need to burn houses and kill people, no cause to murder this family. Why did they do that? They could just have taken what they wanted and left.”
The Spook nodded. I knew what his answer was to that, although he didn’t spell it out to the butcher. He would have said it was because the Fiend was now loose in the world. He made people more cruel, wars more savage.
“I’m sorry about your house, Mr. Gregory,” the butcher continued.
The color drained from the Spook’s face. “What?” he demanded.
“Oh, I’m really sorry. Don’t you know? I assumed you’d called back there already. We heard the boggart howling and roaring from miles away. There must have been too many for it to deal with. They ransacked your house, taking anything they could carry, then set fire to it.”
CHAPTER II
You Ain’t Dead Yet!
Making no reply, the Spook turned and set off up the hill, almost running. Soon the cobbles gave way to a muddy track. After climbing the hill, we came to the boundary of the garden. I commanded the dogs to wait there as we pushed on into the trees.
We soon found the first bodies. They had been there some time, and there was a strong stench of death; they wore the gray uniforms and distinctive helmets of the enemy, and they’d met violent ends: either their throats had been ripped out or their skulls crushed. It was clearly the work of the boggart. But then, as we left the trees and headed out onto the lawn near the house, we saw that what the butcher had said was correct. There had been too many for the boggart to deal with. While it had been slaying intruders on one side of the garden, other soldiers had moved in and set fire to the house.
Only the bare, blackened walls were standing. The Spook’s Chipenden house was now just a shell. The roof had collapsed and the inside was
gutted—including his precious library.
He stared at the ruins for a long time, saying nothing. I decided to break the silence.
“Where will the boggart be now?” I asked.
The Spook replied without looking at me. “I made a pact with it. In return for guarding the house and doing the cooking and cleaning, I granted it dominion over the garden. Any live creature it found there after dark—apart from apprentices and things bound under our control—it could have, after giving three warning cries. Their blood was its for the taking. But the pact would only endure as long as the house had a roof. So after the fire, the boggart was free to leave. It’s gone, lad. Gone forever.”
We walked slowly around the remains of the house and reached a large mound of gray-and-black ashes on the lawn. They had taken a load of the books off the library shelves and made a big bonfire of them.
The Spook fell to his knees and began to root around in the cold ashes. Almost everything fell to pieces in his hands. Then he picked up a singed leather cover, the spine of a book that had somehow escaped being totally burned. He held it up and cleaned it with his fingers. Over his shoulder I could just make out the title: The Damned, the Dizzy, and the Desperate. It was a book that he’d written long ago, as a young man—the definitive work on possession. He’d once lent it to me when I was in terrible danger from Mother Malkin. Now all that remained was that cover.
My master’s library was gone, words written by generations of spooks—the heritage of countless years battling the dark, a great store of knowledge—now consumed by flames.