by Darren Shan
Some years later the boy found himself on an island, set at the westernmost limit of the known world. Demons had broken through and established a permanent tunnel. Thousands of monsters had flooded the land. They were terrorising the locals, laying siege to the villages and towns, slaughtering all in their path.
Beranabus eagerly trudged around the country in search of the tunnel, admiring the torments perpetuated by the Demonata. But as he moved from one village to another, a dim sense of unease grew within him. He felt nothing substantial for the dead humans he saw every day, or the terrified living who would soon be butchered by the demons. But something about their plight troubled him. He had changed inside, and although the change was slight, it had altered his view of slaughter.
Human suffering was different to what he’d seen in the demon universe. On this world, those who survived mourned for the dead. Demons laughed at death, but people here cared about their families and friends. Beranabus found it hard to wring pleasure from their pain. It was too… human.
His unease made him more determined than ever to find the tunnel and leave this world. In the Demonata’s universe he could revert to his old ways and simply revel in the merciless mayhem. He didn’t like the way he was changing. The world was more fun if you could enjoy it with complete abandonment, untouched by the misery of others.
As he instinctively learnt and practised new words, Beranabus sometimes tried to mutter his name aloud. He could remember what his mother called him, but he couldn’t pronounce it. The closest he could get was “Bran”. Those who heard him took it to be his name. Having a name was a new experience and Beranabus found it oddly comforting. He started to mutter “Bran” every time he met someone new, so they would know what to call him, but his mind was still a jumbled mess and he occasionally forgot.
After a time, as he was resting in a village on a tiny island at the centre of a lake, Bran came in contact with a druid called Drust. Bran sensed that Drust was also on a mission to find the tunnel. So, instead of moving on, he remained in the village and even let Drust send him to find others to assist him on his quest. Bran didn’t know that the druid planned to close the tunnel, and he wouldn’t have cared if he did. As long as he could race through before it shut, back to the universe of the demons, he would be content.
Finding people to help Drust wasn’t easy. The druid was very precise in his request, demanding not just warriors, but a being of magic. Ideally he needed a fellow druid or priestess, but failing that, he’d settle for someone who had a healthy magical talent, even if it was undeveloped.
Bran didn’t understand all that, but Drust meddled with the boy’s mind, magically implanting his requirements. Bran had the power to counter the druid’s influence, to break the spell Drust had woven around him. But he needed Drust to find the tunnel, so he accepted the druid’s orders.
He tried in his befuddled way to recruit a band for Drust at several villages without success. At most there were no people of sufficient magic, and at two where there were, the people dismissed him as a mad child.
Finally, late one evening, he came to a ringed fort. He could sense a person of magic within—a young woman—but had no great hope of attracting her to his cause. Squatting outside the village wall, he waited for the curious warriors to come and examine him, as they had everywhere else. But when the door opened, the magician accompanied the warriors, and for Bran everything altered.
The woman—little more than a girl—looked no prettier than any other her age. Her power was unremarkable. The land was littered with hundreds like her. In his time Bran had sniffed with disinterest at beautiful princesses and powerful priestesses.
But something about this girl struck him hard. He showed no outward sign of it, and couldn’t even express his feelings clearly to himself. But the moment he saw the girl—Bec—he fell madly and completely in love. It was love he had not known since his early years with the Minotaur, love he would never know again until she returned to him after many centuries of captivity. And although he couldn’t voice his feelings, he knew on some deep level that he would do anything for this girl, kill if needed, give his own life for hers if he must.
So it was that Beranabus at last, without intention or knowledge of what it would mean, put his demonic interests behind him and became a real human.
A MAN’S GOTTA DO
Dervish is hooked up to all manner of machines. He’s wealthy, so he gets his own room and the best possible care and attention. The machines are incredible, so intricately designed, capable of detecting tiny flaws that Banba and I never could have, no matter how strong our magic. When the doctors and nurses aren’t busy, I ask about the various consoles and monitors, memorising their answers. If I was ever granted the freedom to pursue a normal career, I’d work day and night to master these machines and become a modern-day healer.
It’s been four days since Dervish’s heart attack, three since we brought him to the hospital. The doctor who first examined him was furious that we waited so long to admit him. But she was soon replaced by a surgeon who knew of the Disciples and Sharmila was able to explain the reasons for our delay.
Dervish’s room is on the fifth floor, two floors down from the top of the hospital. It’s close to an elevator shaft. There are armed guards stationed outside, but they keep their weapons hidden discreetly. Sharmila arranged for them to be here. The Disciples have many useful contacts.
Most of the guards are cold and distant, focused on their watch. But a couple chat with me during the quieter moments and one—Kealan—is outright friendly. Kealan’s one of two trained medics who alternate shifts. They’re more closely involved with us than the other guards—if we have to move Dervish in an emergency, Kealan or the other medic will handle any medical complications.
Sharmila or I have been with Dervish the whole time, except when his doctors are examining him. A cot has been set up in a corner of the room and we take turns sleeping there.
Dervish has flickered into consciousness a couple of times, but never for long, and he hasn’t said anything or showed signs of recognition. His doctors aren’t sure what state his brain is in. They don’t think he suffered serious mental damage, but they can’t say for certain until he recovers. If he recovers.
Sharmila has discussed the situation with her fellow Disciples. She considered going straight after the Lambs, but we’re still not absolutely certain they were behind the attack. And even if they are directly involved, we don’t know who they’re working with or what we might walk into if we go after them. Better to wait for Beranabus.
I don’t mind waiting. This is the calm before the storm. I’m sure the peace won’t last. We’ll soon have all the action we could wish for, and more. I’m enjoying the lull. In my previous life I was eager to leave the confines of my village and explore the world. If I could do it all again, having seen the terrors of the wide blue yonder, I’d probably stay at home and keep my head down. Not the most heroic of responses, but I never wanted to be a hero. I’d much rather lead an ordinary life. Normal people don’t know how lucky—how blessed—they are.
Sharmila is talking to Dervish, chatting away as if he’s listening to her every word. You’re supposed to do that with people who are comatose. Doctors say it can help, and even if it doesn’t, it can’t do any harm.
I’ve tried speaking to Dervish, but what can I say? I don’t want to tell him about Bill-E—that period of our relationship is over—but we don’t have much else in common. I’ve shared some of my previous life, described the rath where I lived, my people, our customs. But I don’t know how interested Dervish is in ancient history. I worry, if he can hear, that I’m boring him.
Sharmila’s reminding Dervish of their adventures in the demon universe when they were younger. She recalls their encounter with Lord Loss, Kernel surprising them all with his knack of opening windows, the loss of Nadia Moore—who would later resurface as the treacherous Juni Swan. I’ve heard most of it before and I’m feeling restless.
“Not at all,” Sharmila says. “I will call if I need you.” She gave me a walkie-talkie a couple of days ago, so we could keep in touch. Mobile phones aren’t allowed inside the hospital.
Kealan is on duty with three other guards outside the room. They don’t ever seem to get bored, even though they just stand and stare at the corridor all the time. Kealan asks how Dervish is, then if I want to play a game of cards.
“Maybe later,” I smile, “if you’re still here.”
“Where else would I be?” he chuckles wryly. Kealan’s the only guard who looks unsuited to his job. I’m not sure why he got into this military business. I think he’d be much happier just being a medic. Maybe the army trained him and he has to serve a number of years with them before moving on.
I stroll through the various levels and wards of the hospital. I know the building well by this stage and many of the doctors and nurses have got to know me. They give me treats and make small talk if they’re not busy. It’s been quiet here since I came and some of the staff consider me a good luck omen. I’m even allowed into areas which would normally be off-limits, like the maternity ward on the second floor. It’s my favourite part of the hospital. I love watching cute, wrinkled babies, gazing into their innocent eyes, most the colour of a clear blue sky.
But I head in a different direction on this foray, winding my way up to the roof. I’ve been stuck inside all day. I need fresh air. I’m also hoping to see a helicopter. It’s exciting when one lands. I’d love to go up in one, but I suspect even good luck omens don’t get to hitch rides in hospital helicopters.
It’s evening. An overcast, patchy sky. I spend a long time watching the sun vanish and reappear from behind drifting clouds. My old teacher, Banba, thought you could read signs of the future in the movements of clouds, but I’ve never been able to predict anything from them. Still, when I’ve nothing else to do, I like to try.
“Where are you, Beranabus?” I whisper, hoping the clouds will answer. “How long will it take you to come?”
I’m not sure what we’ll do if he doesn’t find us soon. We can’t wait forever. Where will we go when Dervish recovers or dies? Back to Carcery Vale? To stay at Sharmila’s home or with other members of the Disciples? Into the universe of the Demonata to search for Beranabus?
I feel guilty when I think about Shark and Meera, and the mission I sent them on. It was necessary to summon Beranabus. If the attack happened because I’m part of the Kah-Gash, he needs to know. But how likely is that? Maybe I secretly sent them to get him because I was missing my old friend.
A breeze blows in from behind me, tickling the hairs on the back of my neck. I shiver with delight and snuggle into the wind as if it was a giant cushion. Then I pause. This is a warm breeze, not like the cold blasts which whipped across the roof the other times I’ve been up here. And it’s coming from a different direction. It feels unnatural.
I focus, senses locking on the currents of air, mentally tracing the breeze back to its origins. I wasn’t good at this in the past, but my talent has blossomed since I died. My mind bounds off the roof like a magical hound and hurtles towards the ground. As it draws level with the first floor, it veers through a broken window, one that’s been shattered from the inside out.
It comes to a halt in the centre of the room and my eyes snap open. There’s a mage, a man of weak magic, but strong, evil intent. And in front of him stands a panel of light—a window into the universe of the Demonata. As I probe it with mental tendrils, I sense figures hurtling through. As much as I wish otherwise, it’s not Beranabus or his Disciples. I’m a long way removed, but even from up here I’m able to tell that the creatures setting foot on our world aren’t human. They’re demons!
I’m on the walkie-talkie before I take my first step. “Sharmila! Answer! It’s an emergency! Over.”
She replies as I’m taking my third step. “What is happening? Over.”
“Demons. On the first floor. Move Dervish.”
“Damn!”
Racing down the stairs, I feel the air fill with magic, flooding up through the building from the open window. That’s good for me—more power to tap into—but it’s also good for the Demonata. I try keeping track of the window, to get an idea of how many demons we’ll have to deal with, but it’s hard when I’m running. I’d have to stop and concentrate, but there’s no time for that.
“Hey,” a nurse shouts as I hit the fifth floor and race towards the elevator shaft, where I spot Sharmila, the four guards and Dervish. “No running!”
I don’t stop. I reach Sharmila a few seconds later. The elevator has arrived. The guards are rolling Dervish in on a hospital trolley. I’m relieved Kealan was able to unhook Dervish from his banks of machines so quickly.
“Where are they?” Sharmila asks.
“I’m not sure. They entered on the first floor, but I don’t know—”
“How many?”
“Give me a moment.” I step into the elevator after the guards and Dervish. I focus as the doors close… my senses seep down through the building, searching for demonic targets…
With a gasp I jam a hand between the doors just before they close. The panels slide apart automatically.
“What are you doing?” Sharmila snaps.
“They’re in the shaft,” I hiss. “Three of them. Climbing the cables.”
“Out!” Sharmila barks at the guards. As they roll Dervish back into the corridor, the nurse who shouted at me hits the scene.
“Where are you going with that patient? You can’t move him without a doctor’s orders. I’m calling the—”
Sharmila waves a hand at her. The nurse’s eyes flicker, then she turns and walks away.
“The stairs?” Sharmila asks.
“More of them there. Eight or nine.”
Her face pales. “Can we fight them?”
“If we have to. They’re not strong. But there are so many of them…”
Balazs—the smallest of the guards—is on his walkie-talkie, talking softly but quickly. He finishes and clips it to his belt. “The roof,” he says calmly. “A helicopter will be with us in five minutes.”
“Bec?” Sharmila asks. “The elevator or stairs?”
I concentrate. The demons in the shaft are making fast progress. Those on the stairs are moving slower, pausing to pick off a few unfortunate nurses who get in their way.
“The stairs,” I decide, hurrying ahead of the guards to open the door.
Gabor and Bence—the other two guards—push the trolley to the foot of the stairs, then each takes an end. They raise the wheels off the floor and start up the steps. Kealan moves alongside them, monitoring Dervish.
“You two go ahead,” Balazs says to Sharmila and me, taking out a pair of pistols. “I’ll hold off the demons.”
“You cannot kill them with bullets,” Sharmila says.
“I know,” Balazs says softly. “But I can slow them down.”
Sharmila starts to object, then nods curtly and flees up the stairs, no longer limping, using magic to move freely and swiftly.
“Do you want me to stay and help?” I ask Balazs.
“No,” he says. “You’ll serve more good if you stay with Dervish.”
“You’ll die,” I note sadly.
“Dying’s my job.” He grins bleakly. “Now get the hell out of here and let me do what I’m trained for.”
I stand on my toes and give him a quick hug. I get flashes of his mother’s face. She was mauled by a demon. It took her several hours to die. A slow, painful death. Balazs is determined not to suffer as she did.
Releasing the doomed guard, I chase after the others, feeling the demons close on us from beneath.
We’ve just passed the seventh floor, heading for the exit to the roof, when the gunfire starts. We pause, even the guards who are used to situations like this. Then we press on. By the time we crash through the doors at the top of the stairs, the hail of
bullets has stopped.
Bence and Gabor check their watches. Their frantic eyes reveal how desperate the situation is. Unholstering their weapons, they silently head down the stairs.
“Where is the helicopter coming from?” Sharmila asks as Kealan wheels Dervish towards the landing pad.
“Nearby,” Kealan says. “We’d have kept it here, but there wasn’t space. The hospital helicopters took priority.”
“Nobody said anything to me about that,” Sharmila huffs.
“We make our own plans,” Kealan says. “We don’t discuss them with civilians, even Disciples. No offence meant.”
“None taken.”
Guns blare on the staircase.
“How much longer?” I shout.
Kealan checks his watch. “A minute. Maybe two.”
I dart back towards the stairs. “Bec!” Sharmila screams.
“Don’t worry,” I pant. “I’m not going to fight them.”
I didn’t absorb any of Beranabus’s magic when we touched, but I learnt a lot of his spells. There are many I can’t use—there’s more to magic than knowing the right words—but some I can. Reaching the doors at the top of the stairs, I draw upon the ancient magician’s years of experience and prepare a holding spell.
Bullets are still being fired on the stairs. “Gabor! Bence!” I yell. “Come back!”
There’s no response. A few seconds later the guns stop. There’s the sound of scurrying footsteps—but not human feet. Grimacing, I unleash the spell and block the doorway with a shield of magical energy.
The first demon appears. It has a square, bloodstained head. Dozens of eyes. Three mouths. A tiny body. It leaps at me, wild with bloodlust, but crashes back off the shield. It snaps at the web of energy, trying to tear it apart with its teeth, but the barrier holds.
