Bec

by Darren Shan

  “No.” Fiachna smiles weakly. “I’d rather lie here, watch the clouds drift across the sky, and die in my own, natural time. It’s peaceful.”

  “But the pain?” Goll inquires.

  “Not so bad,” Fiachna says. “It was worse in the night. The fire’s turned to ice. It still hurts but I can bear it.”

  “Very well.” Goll salutes the blacksmith. Lorcan salutes too and so does Connla, though his salute is quick and disinterested.

  Drust spreads his hands over Fiachna. “I will pray for your spirit. And if we succeed, I’ll tell people of your bravery and the debt they owe you.”

  “Thank you.” Fiachna coughs, then shudders.

  I kneel beside him. A few weeks ago I would have fought not to cry. But now I let tears flow freely. I don’t care how I’m supposed to behave. I’ll miss Fiachna dreadfully and I want him to know that.

  “I could...if there’s anything...I wish . . .” I can’t find suitable words. In the end I abandon speech, throw my arms around Fiachna, and kiss him fully, a kiss between a woman and a man. It’s the first time I’ve ever kissed someone this way. It will also probably be the last.

  Fiachna smiles when I break the embrace. “I had my eye on you for a few years, Little One. If you hadn’t been a priestess . . .” He touches my left cheek with cold, trembling fingers. “Perhaps in the Otherworld?”

  “I’ll pray for it,” I sob, then rise and stumble away, wiping tears from my cheeks, not looking back for fear I’d crumble completely and beg to stay with him. There’s no time for that. He must die by himself on this miserable day if we are to press on and prevent many more from dying soon after.

  I hear Lorcan ask, “Do you need a weapon?”

  Fiachna replies, “No. I have my knife. If I’m not dead by nightfall, and the demons come, that will take care of the job.”

  Then I’m gone. The others soon come after me — Connla among them, although I half-expected him to part from us here — our ranks lessened by the fall of yet one more much loved friend.

  An hour later. Jogging steadily. Silent, thoughts heavy, wondering if Fiachna has succumbed to the disease yet or is still clinging on. Then noises from the far side of a hill. Like the growing sound of thunder, only coming from the ground, not the sky. We look around, puzzled. Then Connla gasps, “Horses!”

  Moments later they appear, galloping over the hill, seven of them. Six are bareback. On the seventh, a rider — Bran! He laughs as the horses surge around us and come to a stop. He hops off and beams, pointing to the steeds. “Bubbly,” he says proudly. “Run fast!”

  “I don’t believe it!” Goll howls with delight.

  “Will the spells work on them?” I ask Drust quickly.

  “Aye.” He smiles softly with wonder. “And they can run much quicker than we could. We’ll be able to rest them every few hours and still make great time.”

  “Enough?” I ask. “Will we get to the tunnel before...?”

  “Possibly,” Drust says. “But let’s not waste precious minutes talking about it. Mount up!”

  As Goll puts me atop one of the smaller horses — I’ve never been on one before, so I’m nervous — and the other men mount theirs, Bran looks for Fiachna.

  “Drust,” I call, then nod backward. “Could we...?”

  “There’s no point,” Drust says as kindly as he can. “Whether he dies on the ground or on horseback, he’ll surely die, if he hasn’t already.”

  I think about that and how hard it would be to bid Fiachna farewell a second time. I nod sadly, shedding a few fresh tears.

  “Do you want a horse?” Goll grunts at Connla.

  The arrogant warrior stares back haughtily. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I thought, from what you said earlier, you might have other plans. You don’t need a horse to get to the coast or hunt for a boat.”

  Connla sneers. “I never said I was leaving. I simply said it would be the wise thing for the rest of you to do. I’m not one for running away from a challenge.” And, with Goll staring at him in disbelief, he leaps up on one of the horses’ backs and sits there regally, looking calmer and more relaxed than any of us.

  Drust works his spell — I help, once he’s demonstrated on the first horse — and moments later we’re off. The seventh, riderless horse runs along behind us, but we’re going too fast for it, sped along by magic. It soon gives up and turns aside to head back wherever it came from, leaving us to charge across the land ahead of even the jealous wind.

  The Final Day

  WE move so fast, it’s as though we’re not really part of the world. The horses push on at tremendous speeds without appearing to tire. It’s only when we stop at Drust’s command that they sweat and pant, trembling from exhaustion. We rub them down to warm them, find water for the beasts to drink, and let them graze for a while. The others are keen to continue but Drust says we mustn’t rush the horses.

  “I’m keeping a close eye on the time,” he snaps, irritated at being questioned. “This is my quest. I’m the one who knows what we can and can’t do, when to race and when to rest.”

  While the horses are grazing, the druid approaches me. “I want you to ride beside me when we remount,” he says. “I’m going to teach you the spells needed to close the tunnel.”

  “Why? I thought you were going to cast them.”

  “I am. But if anything should happen to me...”

  “The Old Creatures said it would only work if a magician or priestess was sacrificed.”

  Drust sighs. “Aye. But if the worst comes to the worst, you might as well try it on one of the others. Cast the spell — it’s complicated but I think you’ll be able to master it — then pick someone for sacrifice . . .” He hesitates, gaze flickering over my friends. It comes to rest on Bran.

  “No,” I say instantly.

  “He’s a kind of magician,” Drust says. “Of the four, he’d be most suitable. You’d stand a better chance with him than —”

  “No,” I say again. “Goll or Lorcan would give their lives willingly — maybe even Connla, though I doubt it — but Bran wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t make a choice. I won’t kill someone who doesn’t know what’s being asked of him.”

  “I’m not so sure he wouldn’t understand,” Drust murmurs. “But if he didn’t, wouldn’t that be for the best? You could do it quickly, mercifully. He needn’t even know what’s happening.”

  I shake my head stubbornly. “If I have to, I’ll ask one of the others. But I won’t murder Bran.”

  “Even knowing the consequences if we fail?” Drust asks menacingly.

  “Even then,” I mutter. “There are certain things we should never do. Otherwise we’ll become like the demons — mere monsters, best suited to the dark.”

  Drust shrugs sourly. “As you wish. If luck is with us, it won’t come to that. But I thought I’d make you aware of your options. Just in case.”

  He rises and shouts at Bran to gather the horses — though they obey us when we’re on their backs, they revert to creatures of the wild when left to graze, and only Bran can get close to them. Soon we’re off, racing through a forest, Drust riding beside me, teaching me the spells that will hopefully destroy the tunnel between this world and the Demonata’s.

  We rest several times over the course of the day. The third time, one of the horses collapses and dies. I ride with Bran after that, my hands loose around his waist. I can tell he enjoys having me behind him by the way he tilts his head back to nuzzle my cheek.

  We stop for nightfall. This time Lorcan and Goll don’t question Drust’s judgment, but it’s plain from their worried expressions that they think we should press on. Drust sees this, and though he scowls, he takes the time to reassure them. “We made excellent progress today. If we rest the horses tonight, we can push them hard tomorrow and arrive at the tunnel by afternoon. If we continued now, they’d die before dawn, leaving us to walk — we wouldn’t make it on time.”

  Many demons pass us during the night, s
nuffling and snorting, more than I’ve ever seen before. It must be because we’re so close to the tunnel through which they cross. It’s hard masking the horses from the demons, but Bran gathered them in a small circle before dusk and dozes in the middle of them, waking whenever one stirs, shushing them, keeping them motionless.

  I don’t sleep. I can’t. This is probably my last night alive. It’s horrible, lying here, shivering with cold and fear, knowing what’s to come, thinking about death and all that I’ll lose. Why couldn’t I have fallen in battle, killed quickly, no time to worry about the Otherworld and what I was leaving behind? This waiting is worse than death itself.

  I have moments of doubt in the middle of the night, when the world is a lonely place. I could run. Desert with Connla. I’m not sure why he’s stuck with us this long. He could have left when we were at the coast or when Bran brought the horses. He said he wasn’t one to flee a challenge but maybe it’s just that he fears running by himself, with no one to watch his back. If I said I’d go with him, I’m certain he’d jump at the chance. With his strength and standing, allied to my magical abilities, we could be a mighty pair. Set ourselves up as rulers of some far-off tuath. Connla a king, me a priestess-queen. All-powerful.

  It’s tempting. I know my duty and I believe my suffering will be brief, that I’ll find peace in the Otherworld. But in my heart I’m a young girl, afraid of the darkness of death, wanting to grow up and see more of the world, taste more of life. I cry quietly to myself, thinking of the terrible sacrifice I must make, the joys I will never know, the love I’ll now definitely never find. Part of me wants to slither across to Connla, put my offer to him, then leap on a horse and ride out of this nightmare as fast as I can.

  But I don’t. Duty wins out over fear in the end. I can’t stop the shivers or the fast beat of my heart, but I can wipe away tears and hold my ground. And I do. I hate the prospect of dying and I’m more afraid than I ever thought I could be. But if this is my destiny...if it’s what the gods ask of me... so be it. Better to die for my people in my own land than rule in another and suffer a lifetime of cowardly guilt.

  Many of the demons return in the hour before dawn, some bearing trophies of their battles with humans — heads, limbs, torsos, sometimes children who are still alive, kicking and screaming in terror. It’s hard to ignore the cries of the young but there’s nothing we can do without giving our position away. If we did that, the demons would attack in great and unmerciful force and we’d all perish.

  “They’ll be the last,” Drust whispers, his eyes hard. “After tomorrow, no more will die at the hands of the Demonata.”

  “You promise?” I ask, my fears and doubts causing me to question him, desperately searching his face for a hint of the lie that would provide me with an excuse to bail out.

  “I promise,” Drust says calmly. “It won’t be easy, but having come this far I’m sure we won’t fail.” He pauses. “You’re still prepared to...?”

  “Of course!” I snap, pretending to be offended by the notion that I might have had second thoughts.

  He lays a gentle hand on my right knee. “It will be quick. It won’t hurt. You have my word.”

  I shrug as if that was the furthest thing from my thoughts, then listen to the demons crashing by and try to drown out the echoes of the children’s screams.

  Day. The order of the world restored. My final sun. Fittingly, it’s obscured by heavy gray clouds. I’ve heard that clouds are rare in some lands, that the sun shines all day in a clear blue sky. But surely those are fanciful tales, told for the amusement of the young. This world was made to be cloaked in gray. It wouldn’t feel natural if the sun shone brightly all the time.

  Drust examines the horses and declares one of them unfit for the trek. We let it go, and after a few mumbles from Bran it wanders off to find a good grazing spot. Perhaps it will be the only survivor of our group this day.

  Before we leave, Drust makes a final speech, looking around slowly, his gaze lingering on each of us in turn, first Connla, then Lorcan, Goll, Bran, and me.

  “I’ve acted as if I don’t care about you. In the beginning it was true. You were figures for me to manipulate, like pieces on my chess board. I didn’t care if you lived or died. I couldn’t afford to.

  “But I’ve changed. I wasn’t aware of it happening but it did. I think of you as friends now. You’ve been loyal and brave, putting the welfare of others before your own, risking all on the strength of my promise to rid this world of demons.

  “So I say to you now, as friends — you can leave. Only Bec and I need go on. If our plan works, there won’t be any battle. If something goes wrong and we have to fight, the chances are you won’t make much difference against the masses of demons. You can step aside and return home without any shame or guilt.”

  He stops and awaits the men’s response.

  “A gracious offer,” Goll says warmly, “but I’ll stay. I want to see how it finishes, so I can tell those in our tuath and bask in the glory. I’ve always wanted to be part of a legend!”

  “Me too,” Lorcan says. “Besides, I want to kill a few more demons before you banish them from our land. For Ronan.”

  We all look at Connla. “I’m going nowhere,” he says quietly, defiantly.

  Drust smiles. “True warriors one and all.” He puts a hand out and, one by one, we touch it, until all of us are joined, even Bran, who squints at the hands as if he expects a trick.

  “To the end,” Drust says simply.

  “To the end,” we repeat.

  “Of the demons!” Goll adds and we laugh.

  Then we mount up — Drust rides with Bran, while I sit behind Lorcan — and set off. Our final journey. Our final challenge. My final day.

  Working on the spells of closure. Not one spell but several. Spells to join split rock back together, move earth, seal magical gaps. The most difficult spells I’ve ever tried to learn. Even with my vastly expanded powers I have trouble mastering them. My tongue trips on the words. Despite my perfect memory, I get the order wrong and muddle them up.

  Drust doesn’t lose his temper. He repeats the spells over and over, making me slowly practice the words and phrases that are particularly difficult.

  “This is helpful for me too,” he says as we take a short break. “I’ve never cast these spells before. It’s good that I get the order straight within my mind and the words clear on my tongue.”

  “If you...if I have to replace you,” I say. “When do I make the sacrifice?”

  “You’ll know when the time comes,” he says. “The spells will direct you. There is no single right moment. These spells react to the threat that the caster faces, so they’re different each time. Even as you’re uttering them, they’ll change. As long as you keep the original spells clear within your thoughts, and don’t stumble, you’ll be fine — the new spells will carry you along.”

  “And if I make a mistake? Should I stop and start again?”

  “No,” he says quickly. “Once you start, you must continue. If you say a wrong word or stutter, don’t stop. Push on and hope the error wasn’t important. There will be forces working in opposition to our magic. Once the Demonata realize what we’re doing, they’ll set themselves against us. The spells will protect us — I hope — but if they break down, a second is all it will take for our enemies to destroy us.”

  I wish he could be more encouraging, but this is a time for the truth, however troubling it might be. So I listen. And repeat. And hope that I’m never charged with the task of having to do this. Because I’m not only unsure whether or not I’d be able to get the spells right — I also don’t know if I could bring myself to take up a weapon against one of my friends and kill him.

  The World Beneath

  THE tunnel. The rent between this world and the Demonata’s. The passageway for demons. The source of the nightmares.

  We’re here.

  It’s an hour or so before sunset. We’ve set the horses free and are on our knees, hiding be
hind bushes, studying the scene. A hole in the ground ahead is the focal point. The branches of the trees around it are thick with strips of cloth, bits of wood, bodies of the dead. A solid ceiling, like the one around the ring of magical stones where we sheltered earlier, in what feels now like a separate age.

  Beneath the cover of the trees — hordes of demons. Most sleeping. Some fighting, playing with dead bodies, eating. Every disgusting shape and shade imaginable. Some undead too, but not many.

  “We’ll never get through them all,” Goll whispers.

  “I could create a diversion,” Lorcan suggests. “Attack at one side and draw them away. The rest of you could sneak in while they were dealing with me.”

  “No,” Goll says. “That wouldn’t work. Maybe Bran could dance and lead them astray.”

  “Run fast,” Bran says, nodding vigorously.

  “Too many,” Drust mutters. “Not all would be lured away.”

  “Magic?” I ask. “A masking spell?”

  Drust nods. “That’s our best hope but we can’t count on it. These are superior to most of the demons we’ve faced. They’re some of the more powerful demons who have crossed, placed here by their masters to guard the opening.”

  “Then they might see through the spell,” I note.

  “Aye. But we’ll have to risk it. We’ll cast a strong spell over you, me, and Bran, then advance. Goll, Lorcan, and Connla can attack at the same time, at different spots, to create distractions.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Goll says. “How about you, my fine young...?” He stops, brow furrowing as he stares at Connla. The vain warrior has cut the flesh of both his palms and is daubing his cheeks and forehead with blood, quietly muttering words that could be either a spell or a prayer. “What are you doing?” Goll asks suspiciously.

  Connla finishes the spell or prayer, then smiles. “A bit of added protection.”

  “That won’t help,” Drust says.

  “We’ll see,” Connla chuckles, casually glancing over the top of the bush at the demons. “Well, I’m ready. Make up your minds, tell me what you want to do, and on we’ll go.”

  Drust regards Connla with uneasy surprise. Some warriors are never afraid going into battle, but Connla isn’t one of them. Yet here he