by Darren Shan
TRYING to race to safety. Hindered by the wind, which is returning to its source, blowing fiercely against us, a gale in the tunnel. And not just the wind — it contains all the demons and undead that it’s captured. They swirl and tumble through the air, smash into us, knock us over, send us sprawling, threaten to drag us back to their world with them.
Abandoning our efforts to stand, we lie on our stomachs and crawl, side by side. But even this would be impossible if we were normal, since the wind — and its captive demons — fills the tunnel.
But we’re not normal. We’re beings of magic and I use that power to protect us. I draw from deep down and around me, using the magic in my body and the walls of the tunnel, creating a barrier around us. It doesn’t keep out the wind, but most of the demons bounce off it without harming us. Most, not all. Sometimes a limb, claw, or fang breaks through and bundles us over, bruising or cutting us.
Bran was laughing when we started up the tunnel — he thought it was great fun. He’s not laughing now. Blood coats his face — I can see him in the glow of the light I created to guide us — and his right arm hangs uselessly by his side, snapped in two or three places.
I’m in no better shape. I have to pause frequently to wipe blood from my eyes. A few of the toes on my left foot have been ripped off — I don’t stop for a close examination. The tunic on my back has been torn to tattered shreds, and much of the flesh underneath too.
I ignore the terrible pain. Battle against the savage wind. Shrug off the blows of the beastly demons. And drag myself ever farther up the tunnel, towards the promise of escape and life.
Crawling. Panting. The demons hitting us more often as my power dwindles. The closing spells took a lot out of me. I was all-powerful clutching the lodestone, but now I’m the weakest I’ve been in a long time. It’s a struggle to move, never mind cast spells. I want to abandon the shield and divert all of my strength to my flesh and bones, but I’d be swept away within seconds if I did that, and Bran beside me.
Part of me thinks about letting Bran go. It’s hard enough protecting myself. If I halved the problem, I’d stand a better chance of getting out alive.
I turn a deaf ear to the treacherous thoughts, gasp as nails dig along the length of my spine, then strengthen the shield around us. At the same time I let the light die — it didn’t require much power, but every last bit of magic might count in the end. I don’t want to fall just short of the exit because of some unnecessary ball of light.
Impossible to tell in the darkness how much farther there is to go. Forcing our way on, the wind deafening, demons striking freely. I can’t maintain the shield. I now use magic to root us to the floor when we’re struck and on the point of being blown away. Quick bursts instead of extended spells. Dangerous — if I’m knocked unconscious, we’re doomed — but I don’t have the strength for anything else.
How long is this damn tunnel! We came down so quickly — or was that a trick of my mind? What if it has somehow extended, if Brude caused it to double or triple in length to spite us? Is that possible? I don’t know. I choose to believe it isn’t. Otherwise despair will consume me and I’ll certainly fail.
Onward by slow, painful, bloody, hard-fought-for patches. So sore and weak. Struggling to breathe. Every spell dug up from the deepest depths of my spirit. Thinking each time I cast one, “This is it. The last spell. I can’t do any more.” But constantly surprising myself, finding a smattering of power here, a glimmer there.
Barely aware of Bran, sticking by me doggedly, patting my arm every few seconds to reassure himself that I’m here. Poor Bran. He didn’t ask for this. The rest of us understood the risks. Did he? No way of knowing. He can comprehend some things, but how much did he really know of what he was letting himself in for? I listen to him panting, heavy and fast, and...
The thought dies unfinished.
I can hear him panting. But I haven’t been able to hear anything since we started crawling, because of the roar of the wind and the screams of the demons. I raise my head and realize the wind has died away. It’s over. Which means...
Panicking, I find another burst of magic and create light again. It flares around us, blinding after the darkness. I shut my eyes against it, then force them open and stare ahead desperately, expecting to find nothing but rock, the pair of us buried alive, to die beneath the earth in a ready-made tomb.
For a moment I think we’re lost, that we’ve won the battle but surrendered our lives in the process. My heart sinks. I ready myself to sob with terror.
But then — a gap! The exit still exists and we’re close to it. The walls are just walls now, no traces of Brude’s veins or guts. But they’re grinding together, the mouth of the tunnel tightening and closing. There’s enough space for us to get out but there won’t be for much longer. We have to move!— fast!— now!
“Bran!” I gasp, struggling to my feet. So weak, near the end of my resources. But one last surge. One final effort. Then we’ll be safe. We can sleep. Recover. No demons. We’ll have all the time we need.
“Bran!” I shout, dragging his head up. He looks around, dazed, defeated. Then he spots the opening and cries out with fresh hope. He leaps up beside me, stumbles, then finds his feet and lurches forward, taking my hand, gurgling happily.
We reel towards the exit, a pair of barely living, impossibly weary spirits. The hole in the rock continues to close, but at the same regular pace. If we keep moving as we are...if we don’t collapse...if we don’t give up...
We’ll make it! I don’t want to let myself hope too strongly — that might tempt the gods to act against us — but if we can maintain our slow, steady stagger, I’m sure we’ll —
Something clatters into my back. I fall, crying out with pain and surprise. Teeth lock around my right leg and bite through to the bone. I scream and try to shake my attacker loose, but can’t.
The light fades. But in the dimness I catch sight of my assailant — Lord Loss’s pet demon, Vein! The one with a dog’s body, a strange long head, and a woman’s hands. She’s gnawing at my leg. The pain is dreadful. I scream again, kicking at her with my free foot, to no effect.
Then Bran’s by her side. He tries to tug the demon loose. When that fails, he kneels beside her and murmurs desperately, stroking her head, smiling shakily. After a few seconds Vein stops biting, lets go, and yaps at Bran with delight, falling under his spell as she did before.
As soon as I’m free, I freeze out the pain, leave Bran to deal with the demon, and turn and focus on the gap. My insides harden. The delay’s ruined us. The hole has been narrowing steadily. We’re not going to make it, even if we pick up our pace. I search within myself, digging deep for magic, going to the very core of my spirit, trying to find enough power to propel us forward and shoot us to safety like a pair of arrows fired from a bow.
But it isn’t there. I’m magicked out. Enough for one last minor spell perhaps — definitely no more.
Sorrow overwhelms me. I feel madness coming on. But I force it back and turn my gaze on Bran. He’s still playing with the dog but his eyes are flicking from me to the hole. He knows it’s closing. He knows I can’t make it in my condition. He also knows that at the speed he can run, he could abandon me and escape.
But he won’t. He’s going to stay with me, protect me from the demon, keep me company as the gap shuts and seals our fate.
“Bran,” I sob. “You have to go.” He just smiles. “Bran! You must!” Again the smile. He won’t leave. He’ll be my faithful friend forever. He’d rather die by my side than skip free without me.
I return the smile. “Very well,” I sigh and reach out a hand. Bran takes it, expecting only my touch. But what he gets on top of that is the last of my magic. A swift, improvised spell. I reach into his mind and send an image into his thoughts, of the hole, him dashing out of it, racing through the cave and not coming back. And then, with all the magical force I can muster, I yell at him — “Run fast!”
He shoots off. Running without meani
ng to, roaring with surprise and fright. He flies up the tunnel, leaps through the hole, and keeps on going, a temporary slave of my magic. I wave after him sadly, letting out a long, shuddering breath. Alone at last — and damned.
I expect Vein to attack again, now that Bran’s gone, but she doesn’t. I hear her growls, close to where I’m stranded, but for some reason she leaves me be.
Watching the hole in the ever-fading light. It’s the size of a baby now, closing all the time. Narrower and narrower, until there’s barely room to fit an arm through. I’m thinking about quenching the light before the hole shuts — this is just torture — when a face suddenly appears.
It’s Bran. The spell has passed and he’s come back. He wants to get through, to be with me. But the hole’s too small. He punches it, pulls at it, slips his fingers into the gap and strains with all his might — but it’s no good. The rock continues to grind together. The hole gets smaller, the width of a finger now.
At the last moment Bran presses his mouth up to the hole and roars with raw pain and loss, at the top of his voice, “Bec!” It’s the only time he’s ever uttered my name. Anyone’s name. His anguished cry stabs at my heart and tears spring to my eyes. I open my mouth to shout his own name back, to offer whatever small shred of comfort I can... but then the rock closes all the way and a fierce rumbling drowns out the echoes of Bran’s cry.
I stare at the solid rock. My mouth closes. The light fades.
Darkness.
Full Circle
LOST in the all-enfolding shadows, I pull myself forward, away from Vein — she’s stopped growling — towards the place where the hole used to be. I wonder if the rest of the tunnel will close the way the hole did. Impossible to tell in this total, unearthly darkness. Probably better that way. Banba used to say that knowledge was strength, and for the most part she was right. But in this place knowledge only means more distress and pain.
Struggling forward, weeping softly, steeling myself against the bite of Vein’s teeth, sure she’s playing with me, waiting to jump on my back when I least expect it. Why didn’t she return to the Demonata’s universe along with the rest of her kind? How did she remain? I’d have made it to safety if she hadn’t attacked. I’d be in the cave now with Bran, laughing at our close escape, mourning the deaths of Drust and my friends, looking forward to...
No. Forget such thoughts. They can only torment me. I didn’t get out. Vein delayed me just long enough. I’m trapped here now. Accept it. Take comfort in the fact that it won’t be for long.
My left hand touches rock. The end of the tunnel.
I press an ear to the rock, in case I can still hear Bran. But there’s nothing, not even the rumbling sound. Not as warm as it was either. The rock is cooling quickly now that it’s rid of the druid Brude.
Maybe, if Vein isn’t here — if she’s been sucked back to her own realm a little later than the others — I can rest. Return to the lodestone. Recharge. Then force my way out. Break a hole through the rock with magic and...
Light behind me. A green, low, throbbing light. And a sad chuckle.
I turn slowly, already knowing what I’ll find.
“Poor little Bec,” Lord Loss says, floating not far away from me, flesh as lumpy as ever, coated in a red sheen from the blood oozing out of the cracks in his skin, the hole in his chest filled with those wriggling eel-like creatures. He’s holding Drust’s bag and a couple of his hands are rooting through the contents, stroking the chess board stored within.
Lord Loss drifts closer. I spot Vein behind him, sitting at attention, eyes hot with evil delight. The demon master picks a piece out of the bag and gazes at it. “All alone,” he sighs, looking at the chess piece but speaking to me. “Friends dead or cut off. No way out. If only you’d known it would end this way. Maybe you would have stayed in your rath. Or perhaps you wouldn’t have used up all your magic on the lodestone.”
“We won,” I snarl. “We beat you. We sent all the demons back.”
“Really?” Lord Loss’s crimson eyes widen and he drops the piece back into the bag. “Then what am I doing here?” He grins when I can’t answer. “Poor Bec. You know so little of the universes. I didn’t come to this world through the tunnel. I was wandering your land long before Brude set about his ignoble task. Your wind — impressive as it was — had no claim on me. I was too powerful for it.”
“You weren’t so powerful when Drust banished you from sight,” I sneer.
Lord Loss’s features twitch. “I grant you that one. But I wouldn’t be so boastful if I was in your position. That spell of Drust’s was clever but costly. Remember my geis?”
“I’m not afraid of a demon’s geis,” I tell him.
“You should be,” he replies, face darkening. “Humans should never mock a demon master. We make perilous enemies. I might have let you live if you hadn’t scorned me. I liked you, Bec. I gave you some of my magic. I was looking forward to watching you mature.”
“Why did you give me the magic?” I ask, curiosity winning out over fear. “We wouldn’t have been able to close the tunnel if you hadn’t.”
Lord Loss smiles smugly. “I am a sentinel of sorrow. I feed on the misery of humanity. I cherish this world and its sad, pathetic, pain-struck humans. But if my fellow Demonata had been able to come here at will, they would have destroyed it. Demons are vulgar, wrathful creatures. They would have murdered every human in sight, swiftly, leaving no survivors, and in a short few years I would have had no more subjects to play with. I couldn’t let that happen, could I?”
I stare at him with disbelief. “You betrayed your own kind! You tricked them! You gave me power so that I could close the tunnel!”
“Of course,” he chuckles. “I couldn’t act too obviously — I don’t want hordes of Demonata screaming for my head — but by slyly interfering, providing you with the means of stopping Brude, I was able to secure peace for this world, thus preserving my mortal minions of misery.”
“But . . .” My head’s awhirl. I can see it all now. “Connla was working for you. That’s why he protected Drust whenever he was threatened.”
“My wolf in the fold,” Lord Loss laughs. “I let him kill some of the others for sport but warned him not to let any harm befall you or the druid. He forgot that at the end and summoned the demons to butcher you all. He almost ruined everything. I’m glad you dealt with him, though I would have preferred to do it myself — I’d have made him suffer much more.”
“Why use him at all?” I cry. “Why set him against the rest of us if we were working towards the same goal?”
“Pain,” Lord Loss says, his smile growing. “I knew he would create discord and unhappiness, delicious misery for me to relish. I was having so much fun.” His smile fades. “Until the druid banished me.”
The demon master clicks his fingers and Vein trots over. Lord Loss tickles the demon’s head with one of his eight twisted hands. “You could have walked away from this,” he whispers. “Your death serves no purpose. You’d have been more interesting to me alive. Misery would have followed you — I could sense it. I’d have been there, trailing you, delighting in the sorrow you both suffered and caused.
“But that can’t be. In my fury I cast a geis. I made a solemn vow. And now, as a creature of my word, I must make good on my promise.”
He drifts away from me. The green light fades slowly. Vein stays where she is. Other demons join her. A score or more. Monstrous creatures, misshapen. One with fire for eyes and the body of a baby, another covered in scales like a fish, another a giant insect with a knife-sized stinger in its tail.
“My familiars,” Lord Loss whispers, disappearing from sight in the lengthening shadows. “They have more fleshly appetites than me.”
“No,” I whimper, cringing against the wall. “Please don’t do this. I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll...”
I stop and catch myself. Remember who I am, my heritage, my people.
“Damn you then,” I growl as the light fades away to
the dimmest of glows, even the light in the sockets of the demon with fire instead of eyes.
“Goodbye, Bec,” Lord Loss calls softly.
“Damn you!” I shout again, throwing it after him as a challenge.
The last light flickers out and everything turns black.
Silence for a moment. Then a snicker. A growl. The sound of claws and fingers scuttling forward. I relax against the rock, resigned, not crying or begging. I want to die with dignity, like a true priestess or warrior. The sounds come closer. Hissing. Crackling. The grinding of teeth and fangs.
I lay my head against the wall. Stare up into nothingness. Try to be strong.
Fingers touch my damaged legs. Claws and tendrils explore. Soon I’m being mauled everywhere, pinched, stroked, sliced. Their breath is both hot and cold on my face as they crowd around me. I imagine their savage jaws, twisted faces, and sharpened fangs.
I tremble, then grit my teeth hard, determined not to give Lord Loss the satisfaction of crying out. “I won’t scream!” I tell myself. “I won’t! I won’t! I —”
Teeth and fangs bite into my flesh, every part of me at once. Nails dig in deep, burrowing through to my guts. Hands worm inside me and pull bits of my innards out, scraping at my skin from the inside. I’m being torn apart. The pain is unbearable. I lose control. My mouth shoots open. My senses dissolve. My brain goes wild. The last thing I hear, before madness and demons consume me, is the tunnel filling with my anguished, uncontrollable death howls.
Screams in the dark.
CELTIC TERMS AND PHRASES USED IN BEC
Ana (Ay[as in “play” or “way”] nah) — the mother of all the gods
Balor’s eye — Balor was a one-eyed giant, one of the Fomorii
banshees — the souls of dead women who wail loudly when somebody is about to die
brehons (breh-hons) — lawmakers, an early type of judge
bricriu (brick-roo) — a troublemaker cashel — a stone fort
cathair (ca-hair) — a round fort, surrounded by a stone wall
coirm (kworm) — an alcoholic drink
crannog (cran-ogue) — a fort built on an island in the middle of a lake
curragh (cur-ah) — a small boat, like a canoe
dolmens (dole-mens) — tombs made of three upright stones, set in a pyramid-type shape, capped by a flat stone. Normally one person would be buried beneath them, or their ashes might be left in them.
Fomorii (Fuh-mor-ee) — an ancient tribe, reputed to be part demons
geis (gesh [rhymes with “mesh”]) — a curse
hurling (her-ling) — a traditional Irish sport, the fastest team game in the world. It’s played on a rugby-sized pitch, fifteen players per side. Each player has a stick that ends in a curved, flat head. They use it to hit a small, hard leather ball, and score goals and points by hitting it into their opponent’s goal or over the bar.
