Lord Loss td-1

by Darren Shan

  Lord Loss throws everything into smashing the three white irritants. He abandons attack completely and chases my knight, bishop and rook as though they were responsible for some personal insult. After several frenzied twists and cutbacks, he traps my bishop and chuckles fiercely. “Next move—it’s mine!”

  “I reckon you’re right,” I sigh, then grin impishly and push a pawn forward. I’m not quite sure how it got there, but it’s now only one space away from the end of the board, where I can exchange it for any piece I like. “But on the move after that, my pawn becomes a queen—much preferable to a bishop, don’t you think?”

  Lord Loss stares at the pawn, then the knight, then back at the pawn.

  Two of his spare arms unfold around him. He covers his eyes. And moans.

  “Checkmate.”

  I mutter the word emotionlessly and scratch my left elbow. “Can I make your king melt?” I ask curiously.

  Lord Loss doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on the trapped king on the board to my left, as though he can spot a way out if he looks at it long enough.

  “I asked if I could make your—”

  The black king explodes into tiny shards. I duck to avoid the flying bits of crystal. When I look again, Lord Loss’s face is peppered with shiny splinters. Blood trickles from the cuts.

  “You should take more pride in your appearance,” I tell him. “You’ll never attract girls with an ugly mug like that.”

  “I’ll see you suffer for this,” he says hoarsely, red eyes bulging. “Win or lose, I’ll find a way to pay you back for the insults you’ve dealt me tonight.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I smile. “It surely can’t be an insult to show no interest in a game in which I have no interest.”

  “Later,” Lord Loss hisses, head shaking violently. “Later!”

  He turns to the board on my right—the one with the Incan pieces—and broods over it in menacing silence, collecting his thoughts.

  He pushes me hard on the Incan board. Slow but steady advances. Cutting off my avenues of attack. Forcing me back. Pegging me to my own half.

  I take no notice of the mounting threat. When I can’t move forward, I slide sideways, dancing out of the path of his soldiers, shrugging it off when he captures one of my rooks, laughing as my knights leap clear of the closing net.

  Lord Loss’s breath thickens the closer he gets to victory. Bloody sweat seeps from his pores. He twitches on his chair.

  I ignore the danger I’m in. Keep one eye on Dervish as I shift a pawn forward. He’s locked in close-quarters combat with the familiars, holding Artery away from his throat at arm’s length, while Vein chews on his left leg. It looks serious, but I observe with cool disinterest.

  Lord Loss grunts contentedly and takes my pawn. A path is opening up to my king. Another few moves and I’ll have to sacrifice my queen.

  “You’re not laughing now,” Lord Loss notes sadistically.

  “Only because my laughter seems to disturb you,” I smile sweetly, sending one of my knights to the right of the board, to cover my queen.

  Lord Loss brings up a rook, blocking my queen’s path of retreat. I move my knight again, lodging it between my queen and his rook. Grinning wickedly, he swiftly takes my knight with a pawn.

  I wince—then wink. “I can’t believe you fell for that one,” I chortle.

  Picking up my queen, I slide her diagonally far up the board, through the gap left by the pawn he moved when capturing my knight—and knock Lord Loss’s black queen clean off the table.

  His breath stops. His mouth closes. His stomach rumbles.

  “Checkmate in four moves,” I note drily. “Or is it three?”

  In response, Lord Loss picks up his king and crushes it softly between his mangled fingers.

  “Two-two,” he croaks, and turns to the board on my far left—the final board—the decider.

  Lord Loss moves his pieces sluggishly. He plays with sad remoteness, face cast in dull misery, flinching every time I capture one of his pieces, handing the game to me without a real fight.

  I feel a bubble of joy rising in my chest—and swiftly move to burst it. If I show any emotion now, he might seize upon it and revive with a flourish. Although it’s difficult, I remain detached, moving my pieces instinctively, automatically, not dwelling upon thoughts of victory.

  Gradually I rip his defences to shreds. I check his king and he beats a sad retreat. For a couple of moves he threatens my queen, but then I drag her out of the way and check him again, with a rook. For a second time his king is forced to flee.

  A short while later I trap him on the left side of the board. He’s caught between my queen, two knights and a bishop. He starts to move his king. Pauses. Does a double-take. Sighs deeply and slowly tips the king over.

  “Checkmate,” he intones morosely.

  I blink—I hadn’t seen it. “Are you sure?” I ask, frowning.

  In response he pushes himself away from the table and floats out of his chair, face impassive.

  Real time crashes over me. I’m hit by a wave of hot air. Sounds—Bill-E’s howls, the snapping of Vein and Artery’s teeth, Dervish’s grunts. I spin. My uncle’s on the floor, furiously wrestling with the demons. Blood everywhere. His left leg cut to ribbons. His right hand chewed off.

  “Stop them!” I scream, darting to Dervish’s aid.

  Artery hears me, turns and snarls. Spreads his hands wide—morsels of Dervish’s flesh caught between his teeth. Rises to meet me.

  “Peace, Artery,” Lord Loss says, and the demon stops. “Cease, Vein,” he commands, and the crocodile-headed monster quits chewing on Dervish’s arm and looks questioningly at her master. “I have been beaten. We must respect the rules of the game.”

  The demons chatter and gibber madly. The flames in Artery’s eyes flare and he hisses at his lord, shaking his head negatively. Vein snaps her jaws open and shut, then turns again on Dervish.

  “You will obey me,” Lord Loss says softly, “or I shall have your heads.”

  The demons pause. Then Vein clamps her teeth around Dervish’s arm. Dervish screams. A blinding red light fills the cellar. I shut my eyes and cover my face with my arms.

  When I dare look again, Vein’s lying in scraps of bloody flesh around my uncle. Artery has backed up to one of the webs and is whimpering fearfully.

  Lord Loss floats over to Dervish and studies him blankly as he sits up and sets to work on his injuries, using magic to patch himself back together.

  “I won,” I remark, carefully approaching my preoccupied uncle, wary of Lord Loss—he might have killed the rebellious Vein, but I still don’t trust him.

  “So I see,” Dervish says, not glancing up from his wounds.

  I’m bitterly disappointed by his reaction. I expected cheers and tears, hugging and back-slapping—not this.

  “You needn’t sound so excited about it,” I sniff.

  Dervish looks up at me. A thin smile crosses his lips, then vanishes. “I’m delighted, Grubbs,” he sighs. “Truly. But this isn’t over for me. I have to fight Lord Loss now, and it’s a fight I probably won’t win. So while I’m ecstatic for you and Billy, I’m a little too worried about myself to celebrate.”

  “What are you talking about? We won. I beat him. We can…

  I stop, recalling the full rules of the challenge. Lord Loss is under oath to cure the person affected by lycanthropy if he loses at chess—but the one who beats him has to travel to the Demonata’s universe and fight him there.

  “But I beat him!” I cry, stooping to catch Dervish’s eye. “I’m the one who has to go with him and—”

  “No,” Dervish interrupts. “The player always goes, while the one who fought the familiars remains. But since we swapped roles, we can choose who goes and stays. Isn’t that right?” he asks Lord Loss.

  Lord Loss nods slightly. “It is an ambiguous point, but I have had enough of the boy. I shall seek him out some other time. As I vowed, he will pay for his humil
iation of me, but for now I wish only to wash my hands of him.”

  “But you’re wounded!” I protest. “You’re not fit to fight any more. Let me. I know how to beat him. I can do it. I’ll—”

  “This isn’t a debate,” Dervish says gruffly. He grips both my hands in his and squeezes tightly. “You performed brilliantly on the boards, Grubbs, but this is a different matter. He’s far stronger in his own universe than he is here. Leave it to me, OK?”

  Tears roll down my cheeks unchecked. “I don’t want to lose you,” I sob.

  “But you must,” he smiles. “At least for a while.” He finishes healing himself and stands, groaning loudly. Turns to Lord Loss. “The cure?”

  Lord Loss sneers. “I had not forgotten.” He floats across the room to the cage. Bill-E backs away, snarling fitfully, but at a gesture from the demon master he flies across the cage and thrusts his arms through the bars.

  Lord Loss wraps two of his own arms around Bill-E’s and slides the other six through the bars of the cage, encompassing the struggling werewolf. He exerts pressure, until Bill-E goes stiff, then presses his face forward, places his lips over Bill-E’s and exhales heavily, as though giving the kiss of life.

  Bill-E’s fingers fly out rigidly, then curl up into tight fists. His legs shake fitfully, then go slack. After ten or twelve seconds, Lord Loss breaks contact and releases Bill-E. He floats backwards, coughing and spitting. Bill-E teeters on his feet a moment, then crumples to the floor.

  I start towards my brother, concerned. Dervish stops me. “Wait. He’ll be OK. There are things I must tell you before we say goodbye.” I face my uncle, who speaks quickly. “You know where the forms, credit cards and contact numbers are. Use them. Act swiftly. Don’t be ashamed to ask for help. And don’t let the authorities take you away from here. They might interfere when they discover the condition I’m in, seek to separate you from me. Don’t let them.” His face is grim. “Lord Loss has threatened you—that’s serious. He can’t harm you in Carcery Vale—as long as you stay out of this cellar—but you’re vulnerable elsewhere. In time you’ll learn spells to protect yourself—friends of mine will help—but for now you mustn’t leave the Vale.”

  “What can I do to stop them?” I ask.

  “Stand up to them. Sic my lawyers—your lawyers—on them. Be brave. Prove you’re fit to live independently. Don’t give them any excuse to take you away. Meera will help—if she recovers—but you’ll have to do a lot of it yourself.”

  Lord Loss has drifted to the edge of the cellar while we’ve been talking. He’s floating in front of a thick bank of webs, gesturing at them with all eight arms, muttering something inhuman. Artery has crept up beside his master and squats sullenly next to him.

  As I watch, the webs shimmer, then twist in a clockwise direction, winding and wrapping together. The centre of the web pulses outwards a couple of times, then stretches backwards at lightning speed, cutting a path through the layers of webs behind it, creating an impossibly long, rotating funnel from the cellar to some indefinite point beyond.

  “Take care of Billy,” Dervish says. “He won’t remember any of this. It’s up to you how much you tell him. I won’t advise you one way or the other on that point. If you start to change…” He hesitates, then presses on. “Meera and one of my other friends might challenge Lord Loss on your behalf. If you want to make a fight of it, ask Meera, and she can—”

  “No,” I interrupt softly. “I won’t put anybody else through this. It wouldn’t be fair. If the curse hits me, I’ll abandon myself to it, or call in the Lambs. But I won’t ask anyone to face Lord Loss for me.”

  Dervish smiles wanly. “You might lose some of those noble ideals when you get a bit older.” His smile softens. “But I hope not.”

  “It is time, Dervish Grady,” Lord Loss says. The spiralling funnel he’s created glows redly, the webs revolving rapidly. Artery leaps on to the web at the rim of the funnel. He’s sucked into it instantly. Spins around several times, head over heels, then vanishes down the funnel’s maw, never to be seen in these parts again—I hope.

  “Must you go?” I sob, clutching Dervish’s hands.

  “Yes,” he answers simply. “If I refused, he could bring his hordes of familiars through and destroy us all.”

  “How will I know… if you’re… successful?” I gulp.

  “As long as I’m fighting, I’ll be an emotionless shell here,” he says. “If I lose, that won’t change, and you’ll never know—I’ll simply die of old age. But if I win…” He winks. “Don’t worry—you’ll soon find out!”

  Dervish faces Lord Loss and the funnel. Takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out nervously. “Remember, Grubbs,” he mutters. “Don’t give up on me. No matter how much time passes—even if it’s decades—there’s always hope.”

  “I’ll look after you,” I promise, weeping uncontrollably.

  “Your mum and dad would have been proud of you tonight,” Dervish says. “Gret too.”

  With that, he turns his back on me and marches to the funnel. Lord Loss bows politely as he approaches, then unfolds all eight of his arms and strikes for Dervish’s throat. Dervish ducks swiftly, avoiding the demon master’s lunge. “Uh-uh!” he laughs. “You won’t make that quick a finish of me!”

  Leaping over the demon, he grabs hold of a thick strand of web, spins around, hollering wildly, then disappears down the funnel, becoming a speck, then nothing.

  Lord Loss floats towards the opening. Glances back at me, eyes cold and hateful. “In the past, I’ve respected those who bested me,” he snarls. “But you belittled both the game and me. I will be keeping a close watch on you, Grubitsch Grady, and if you ever—”

  “My name’s Grubbs,” I grunt, cutting him short. I step forward, wiping tears from my face. “Now sod off back to your own world, you motherless scum, and save your threats for those who care.”

  For a moment it looks like he’s going to abandon protocol and rip me to shreds. But then he snarls, whirls away from me and hurls himself into the funnel of webs. There’s a flash. The world turns red, then black. The webs fade. The funnel blinks out of existence. Walls and ceiling slowly return.

  It ends.

  THE CHANGE

  Working numbly. A quick trip to the house to fetch new candles. Then I sweep debris—broken chess boards and pieces—out of the way. Methodical. Chasing every last splinter and shard. Stacking them neatly against the walls. Need to keep active. Not dwelling on the game or the fight—or Dervish.

  His body rematerialised as reality returned. But only his body—not his mind. He stands by the wall to my left, vacant, unresponsive, eyes glazed over.

  Bill-E regains consciousness—and humanity—as I’m coming towards the end of my big clean-up. “Where am I?” he mutters. “What’s happening?” He stands shakily and stares at the bars of the cage. His voice rises fearfully. “What am I doing here? Where’s Dervish? What’s—”

  “It’s OK,” I shush him, fetching the key and unlocking the door. “Dervish is over by that wall. There’s no need to be afraid.”

  Bill-E stumbles out of the cage and glances nervously at the eerily motionless man in the candle-lit shadows.

  “What’s the story?” he asks. “The last thing I remember is following Dervish—then nothing.”

  I haven’t thought about what I’m going to tell Bill-E. So I say the first thing that comes into my head.

  “We were right—Dervish was a werewolf. He knocked you out and brought you here. I tracked him and fought with him. He recovered. He was grief-stricken when he realised what he’d done—the change had never affected him this way before. He gave me a book with a spell in it and told me to cast it.”

  “What sort of a spell?” Bill-E asks, edging closer to Dervish.

  “A calming spell,” I improvise. “He’d been saving it for an emergency. It stops him from turning into a werewolf—but it also robs him of his personality. He’s like a zombie now. He can’t speak or respond. I don’t kno
w how long he’ll stay that way—maybe forever. But if he recovers, he’ll be safe. He won’t change again.”

  Bill-E waves a hand in front of his uncle’s eyes—Dervish doesn’t blink. He’s crying when he looks at me. “I didn’t want this!” he sobs. “I wanted to stop him harming people, but not this way!”

  “There was no other solution, short of killing him,” I answer quietly. “Dervish had controlled the beast all these years, but it had grown stronger and was close to overwhelming him.”

  “And you don’t know how long he’ll be like this?” Bill-E asks.

  I shake my head. “A week. A year. A decade. There’s no telling.”

  Bill-E smiles weakly. “He must have really loved me to do this to himself,” he notes proudly. “Only a father would act this selflessly.”

  I start to tell Bill-E the truth—that Dervish is his uncle, my dad was his dad, I’m his brother—then stop. What would it achieve? If I told him, he’d have to come to terms with his real dad’s death and being an orphan. This way, he believes he’s not alone. I think it’s better to have a zombie for a father than no father at all.

  “Yeah,” I nod tiredly. “He was your dad. No doubt about it.” Stepping forward, I take hold of one of Dervish’s hands and press the other into Bill-E’s. “Now let’s get the hell out of here—this place gives me the creeps.”

  Days.

  Meera recovers the following afternoon. No memory loss or serious injury. I tell her the whole story while Bill-E’s at home with Ma and Pa Spleen. She weeps when she sees Dervish. Cradles his face. Calls his name. Scours his eyes for a trace of who he was.

  Nothing.