The Last Apprentice: Rage of the Fallen by Joseph; Patrick Arrasmith Delaney

Author:Joseph; Patrick Arrasmith Delaney [Delaney, Joseph; Patrick Arrasmith]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Harper Collins, Inc.
Published: 2011-04-18T21:00:00+00:00

At dawn the mages returned to the square and lowered the platform to the ground. I was dragged off onto the cobbles, while, thankfully, someone scrubbed the goat’s filth off the wooden boards. My hands were untied, and a bowl of hot soup and two slices of thick bread were thrust at me.

“Don’t want you dying on us too soon!” one of the mages said maliciously.

I ate ravenously while the goat was also fed and watered. Surrounded by dozens of watchful eyes, I had no chance of escape. When the empty bowl was taken from me, the mages moved back to allow a huge, shaven-headed man to step forward and confront me. I recognized him immediately.

“Bow your head, boy!” a voice hissed in my ear. “This is Magister Doolan.”

When I hesitated, my head was seized roughly from behind and forced down. As soon as I was able to straighten my neck again, I looked up into the face of the most powerful of the goat mages, the one they called the Bantry Butcher. When his eyes met mine, I saw that they were indeed the eyes of a fanatic: They gleamed with certainty. Here was a man with an inflexible mind who would do anything to further his cause.

“You are here to suffer, boy,” he said, raising his voice so that the assembled mages could hear his every word. “Your suffering is our gift to Scarabek, in thanks for her generosity in giving her life for our cause. The life of a spook’s apprentice should be a most welcome addition to our sacrifices. It will also serve as a lesson to any who might think to oppose us.”

He pointed to the executioner’s block and smiled coldly; then my hands were tied once more and I was hoisted aloft.

Within the hour the triangular patch of cobbles was full of stalls. Cattle were driven through the streets to holding pens. As the day progressed, people gradually became more boisterous, sitting in doorways or lounging against walls, tankards of ale in their hands. This was the first day of the three-day fair, and the inhabitants of Killorglin—along with those who had traveled many miles to be here—were starting to enjoy the festivities.

By the time the sun set behind the houses, the marketplace was empty again. The platform was lowered, and I was dragged off onto the cobbled area. Magister Doolan was waiting with his huge double-bladed ax. Now he was dressed in black like an executioner, with leather gloves and a long leather butcher’s apron. But there were leather straps crisscrossing his body: These held knives and other metal implements, and I was reminded of Grimalkin, the witch assassin, who carried her weapons in a similar manner. He turned and looked me up and down as if estimating the size of coffin I’d need, and then gave me an evil grin.

For a terrifying moment I thought I was going to be executed there and then. But I was mistaken. There was no sign of the witch, but standing next to the executioner was Cormac, the mage whom we had interrogated.

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