The glow in Drust’s hands has changed from blue to a pinkish red. The bones—especially the skulls—look as though they’re aflame. I try to keep my eyes off them as I crawl to where Drust is kneeling, hands stretched out on either side of the lodestone, ready to clasp it when the moment’s right.
As Drust casts spells, I move slightly to one side of him, so I have a clear view of the tunnel to the Demonata’s universe—I want plenty of warning if a demon comes through. But the monsters on the other side don’t seem to be aware of the threat, or else they can’t cross quickly. Nothing stirs. No shadows or sounds.
I find myself thinking about the bones and lodestone. Who set them here? The stone was put in place by the Old Creatures, but did Brude stick the bones underneath it? Have they been left by demons? Or are they the work of the Old Creatures too? Did they sacrifice people to create this place of magic, as Drust plans to sacrifice me?
Despite my unease, I can’t help studying the skulls, wondering if these people were killed on the surface or if they died down here. Were they volunteers? What were they thinking in their final moments? Did they go bravely to their deaths, as I hope to, or did they crumble at the end and scream for mercy?
Drust’s voice rises, disturbing my thoughts. His hands close upon the lodestone, drawing gradually closer as he slips deeper inside the intricate web of spells. I listen to his words, and though they’re hard to decipher—he’s speaking so quickly!—after a while I catch a few of them. He’s on one of the final spells. It won’t be much longer. If I want to offer up any last prayers for myself, I’d better do so now, before—
Drust cries out. His hands fly wide apart, then dart to the small of his back. My eyes shoot down and I spot a dagger sticking out of his flesh, handle quivering, buried to the hilt. I whirl, summoning magic, expecting Connla or a demon.
But it’s neither.
It’s Bran!
The boy stands at the edge of the pool, arm extended—he threw the knife. His face is curiously blank.
My heart leaps. Has Bran’s innocence been an act all along? A spy in our midst, playing us for fools, waiting for the ultimate moment to strike? Impossible! Nobody could have been that convincing an actor. But there he stands, hand outstretched, dagger buried in Drust’s back.
Drust topples aside and sees Bran. He yells with astonishment, then groans with pain. I falter. I want to unleash a spell, drive the boy—the killer—back, destroy him if I can. But it’s Bran! I can’t hurt him, not until I’m sure, not unless—
“Why?” Drust gasps.
Bran blinks. He frowns at Drust, then looks at me—and bursts into tears. “Flower!” he cries. Starting forward, he wades sluggishly through the water, arms flailing, displaying none of his customary lightness of movement.
“Bec!” Drust croaks. “Stop him!”
“No,” I sigh, letting the spell die on my lips, understanding by his tears what has happened. “It’s all right. He won’t do any more damage.”
Bran makes it to the island of bones, wailing and sobbing. He throws himself at me, yelling “Flower!” again and again. I catch him, let him bury his face in my chest, and hold him as he weeps, stroking the back of his head, murmuring quieting words.
After a few seconds I look over his head at the wounded druid. “He heard us on the cliff,” I whisper. “He knew you planned to kill me. He couldn’t let that happen. In his own crazy way he loves me. He hasn’t done this to sabotage your plans—he did it to save me.”
Drust grits his teeth with desperate anger. “The idiot! Doesn’t he know what will happen if—”
“No,” I interrupt calmly. “He doesn’t. I’m his friend, maybe the one person in the world he feels close to. He only knew that he didn’t want me to die. Don’t blame him. He couldn’t control himself.”
Drust’s expression softens. “Aye,” he chuckles. “I think you’re right. It’s not much comfort to us, but…” His eyes flick to the lodestone. He reaches for it, then winces and remains lying on his side. “I can’t do it, Bec.”
I go cold. “You must!”
He shakes his head. “It’s not too late—the spells will work if resumed quickly—but Bran has wounded me deeply. I haven’t the strength to continue.”
“You must!” I shout again. “You have to try! Don’t just lie there and give up!”
“I’m not talking about giving up,” he smiles sadly. “I can’t complete the spells—but you can.”
“And sacrifice Bran?” I ask quietly, dreading the answer.
“No, you fool,” the druid snaps, more like the Drust of old. “Why kill two when one’s already half dead? I’m finished. Even if I could cast the rest of the spells, I’d never make my way back to the surface. You need to take over, complete the spells, then slit my throat and let my blood flow over the lodestone.”
I stare at him stupidly.
“There’s no time for gawping,” he growls. “I’ll last a few more minutes with luck, but not much longer. Do it, Bec. Say the spells. Kill me. Spare your people the wrath of the Demonata. Then save yourself and Bran.”
That final word jars me into action. Bran’s risked all to rescue me. I can’t repay him by stranding him here, to perish at the hands of the demon masters when they come. Unwrapping his arms from around my shivering frame, I push him back, smile to show everything’s all right, then shuffle up beside Drust.
“What do I have to do?”
“Do you know where I stopped?” he asks.
“No.”
“You must,” he insists. “You have a perfect memory. Cast your thoughts back.”
It’s not easy but I force myself to focus. I pick at the strings of my always reliable memory with nimble fingers. Recall the spell Drust was chanting, the place where Bran interrupted him. “Got it,” I mutter.
“Continue from there,” the dying druid says. “Spread your arms. Embrace the lodestone as you finish, then launch into the next spell. It should be a clear run from there.”
“And the sacrifice?” I ask. “When…?”
“You’ll know,” he vows.
One deep breath. A quick glance at the tunnel to the Demonata’s universe to make sure nothing’s barging towards us. I begin.
The words come easily. There’s great power in this cave. I sensed it as soon as I came here—even before, when I was on the surface—but it’s only when I open myself up to the magic that I feel the full extent of it. This stone has been filled with some of the most potent magical power imaginable. I believe I could do anything I set my mind to if I tapped into the lodestone long enough.
I finish the spell, then grab the stone with both hands. I mean to start the next spell immediately, but the rush of power from the lodestone catches me by surprise and the words stick in my throat. It’s incredible, as if all the magic of the stars was rushing into me. I can see the universe, the entire night sky. I could reach out if I wanted, leave this world, go and explore the stars with the Old Creatures. This land suddenly seems insignificant, hardly worth bothering about. With this much power I could create my own worlds and people to inhabit them. Not a priestess, not a queen—a goddess.
Fate whispers to me. Asks me to accept a new destiny, travel a fresh path, blaze a godly trail. I don’t ever have to know fear again, pain, want. I don’t even have to die. All I need is to reach out and…
“Rainbow,” Bran whispers, touching my left forearm, gazing at me seriously.
I feel the power rush into Bran through my flesh, then out of him again. It’s not that he can’t hold it—he just doesn’t want it. The promise of the stars doesn’t interest the boy. He cares only for me. If he could express himself with words, I think he’d say something like, “All the power in the universe means nothing if you can’t be with the one you love.” And he’s right. What’s the point of becoming a goddess if it costs the lives of all those I care about? I don’t want a world of worshipful slaves, just a village of welcoming friends.
I smile at Bran, nodding sl
owly. He smiles back and releases my arm. I focus, close my eyes, shut out the seductive temptation of the stars and cast the next spell.
A wind develops as I progress, a hot, biting, swirling wind. It gusts in a circle around the island of bones, gathering speed and power. Drust and Bran huddle up to the lodestone, not touching it, but wriggling in as close as they can, sheltering from the unearthly wind.
Screams. At first I think it’s the sound of the wind. Then I realise they’re coming from the tunnel which links this cave to the realm of the demons. The Demonata know what’s happening. They can sense their gateway to this world collapsing. But all they can do in response is shriek hatefully at the herald of their ill fortune.
The spells race off my tongue. I’m barely aware of what I’m saying. I was foolish to worry about making a mistake. The spells are almost chanting themselves. I don’t think I could stop even I wanted. I’m not in control now. The magic is.
I draw to the end of another spell, lick my lips, open them wide to start on the next… and stop. It’s time. Only one spell left. And that comes after the sacrifice.
Drust knows too. He hauls himself up without having to be told. Smiles crookedly at me. “Live long, Bec. Live well.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My next words can only be words of magic. I can’t break the sequence of spells.
Drust limps around to the other side of the lodestone. He leans forward, so his chin is directly over the rock. Then he tilts his head back, offering his throat. I let go of the lodestone with my right hand and press the nail of my index finger to the flesh of his throat. I smile at him, a tear trickling from my left eye. Then I swipe the magically hardened and sharpened nail across.
Blood gushes. The lodestone is soaked. It absorbs, then thirstily gulps the blood. Drust trembles but doesn’t fall away. I can’t see his eyes, only his throat. I’m glad of that. He remains upright, feeding his blood to the stone, held up by magic or sheer willpower—I’m not sure which.
And then, as the stone flashes with a blinding yellow light, Drust slumps.
No time to grieve. With a bellow of triumph, I roar the words of the final spell. The lodestone quivers. The cave shakes. The wind howls to a climax, ripping the outer layers of bones off the island, threatening to pick loose Bran and me and dash us to death against the walls. But before it can…
Release.
The wind roars up the tunnel—Brude’s tunnel—increasing in strength as it tears through the druid’s form. It fills the cave beyond, then explodes up the shaft and billows outwards at an unnatural speed, in all directions, scraping every demon and undead spirit free of the earth. It’s like a giant wave, washing away all things demonic in its path, carrying them tumbling and screaming to the very edge of the land, not stopping until it reaches the sea, where it pauses for one long, dreadful moment… then sweeps back, drawn to its source, this point. After that it will drag its demonic prisoners back to their own world and crudely dump them there.
I don’t wait for that. Magic has brought understanding. I know that when the last of the demons has been blown back to its own land by the final gust of wind, Brude’s rock-infused bones will follow, then the tunnel will close, the rip between worlds will heal—and anyone still here will be crushed by rock or trapped underground to die slowly and horribly in the darkness.
ESCAPE
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 which 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 further 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 further 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.
Onwards 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 screams of the demons. I raise my head and realise 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, 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.
[Demonata 04] - Bec Page 18
