Below them, the Beast bellowed in rage, and leaped. For Fernie, clutching the horse’s mane for dear life, that leap looked like a roiling cloud of darkness, billowing upward like a thunderstorm somebody had seen fit to fire from a cannon. She caught a whiff of the thing’s terrible breath, which smelled like what comes from the mouth of any dog that’s eaten recently. She was certain that she and the horse were about to be snatched from the sky. But the horse’s ability to fly was, in the end, just slightly better than the Beast’s ability to leap, and the next thing she knew the Beast’s great mouth receded again as the monster fell.
“That was close,” the winged horse remarked.
“It has to be that close again,” Fernie said. “If we can’t keep that thing occupied, Lemuel’s shadow won’t have the time he needs to get the carousel running.”
The winged horse shook its colorfully painted head. “Everybody’s a critic,” it remarked, as it dove again.
The bad news was that the Beast was faster than Fernie remembered it being from the couple of occasions in Gustav’s house when she’d needed to run from it. Certainly, in the house she’d been able to stay just ahead of it with her own fastest run, but here in the Dark Country it was more than capable of keeping up with the full speed of a flying horse. Maybe it was angrier now. Or maybe whatever it used for food, whatever gave it strength and speed and unstoppable fury, was in greater supply in the Dark Country, and it really was more formidable now than it ever had been before. Whatever the explanation, it put on a burst of speed and managed to pull a metal feather or two from the horse’s great flapping wings. It grabbed for Fernie, coming close to getting her until she ducked low in the saddle and let its great shapeless arm pass through the space where she had been. She was almost pulled out of the saddle by the breeze alone, but she held on, faced the prospects ahead, and saw a narrow canyon, one that promised only enough room for the horse itself. “There!” she cried. “Go there! There’s not enough room for it to run alongside us in there!”
The flying horse warned her, “It’ll just follow us! I’m not sure there’s a way out once we’re in!”
Fernie had to hug the saddle again to avoid another grab from one of the Beast’s gigantic, shape-shifting arms. “I don’t care!” she cried. “I’m too busy to worry about it right now! Just go! Our only chance is trying to lose it in there!”
The winged horse obeyed . . .
On the ravaged statue’s head, Lord Obsidian could not seem to remove the shadow who had called himself Caliban from his face, no matter how hard he thrashed. The shadow raged with a voice exhausted by the effort. “All those years I watched as you turned away every chance at happiness! All those years I suffered as I watched you betray all those who tried to be your friends! All those years I agonized as you became a monster! I could take no more!”
Lord Obsidian screamed the same way he had when the Beast had attacked him back in his throne room, a terrible yell that carried so far over the Dark Country that an answering cry came back in return, the cry of all those whom he had imprisoned and hurt and driven from their homes and worse, louder and angrier and ready to fight.
As Lord Obsidian stumbled around blindly, Hans Gloom evaded his stumbling and swung his borrowed sword at the backs of the villain’s legs. This blow didn’t do the villain any serious damage, but he seemed to feel it more than he’d felt any of the blows that came before it, because he roared and fell to his knees.
One of Lord Obsidian’s guards suddenly realized his lord and master was actually losing. In a panic that might have been born of a last-minute attempt to impress the boss, he let out a cry and ran at Hans Gloom’s back, readying his sword for a killing blow.
Gustav ran faster, scrambled up the man’s back to his shoulder blades, and grabbed him by the ears, steering him away from the fight. The guard dropped the sword and fell flat on his belly only a few steps later.
“I surrender,” the man said. “Force of habit.”
Lord Obsidian, grasping for anything that would win him the battle, swung his arms again, his deadly fingertips passing within inches of Hans Gloom. Hans parried with a quick thrash of his sword, but stumbled back, crying out as his ankle twisted underneath him. Then Obsidian’s fingertips found Gnulbotz. The guard screamed as his substance flowed into Obsidian’s, giving the conqueror of the Dark Country the burst of strength he needed to seize the advantage in the fight.
Caliban, who had been growing larger and stronger and more powerful the more Lord Obsidian’s substance drained into his, suddenly shrank to near-nothingness as Lord Obsidian claimed most of his substance for himself.
Lord Obsidian ripped Caliban away from his face.
All but emptied, Caliban fluttered to the ground, as weightless as an empty paper sack.
Lord Obsidian straightened. Everybody gaped at him, stunned by how suddenly he now seemed to be winning again. He reached out with one of his terrible arms and seized Scrofulous by the throat.
“No!” Scrofulous cried. “No, master! I’ve been loyal! Don’t—”
Lord Obsidian shushed him. “Do not worry, my faithful servant. I’ll make this painless.”
Scrofulous faded into nothingness as his substance drained into Obsidian’s body. None of the speeches he’d written, none of the words he’d spoken, had been enough to save him from being sacrificed the moment his master needed him. In seconds he was gone.
Obsidian plumped some more, like a dry sponge placed in water. There were still parts of him that looked weakened, almost emaciated, but he was still as big as a house, and still the most dangerous being in sight.
He stood all the way up, teetering on legs not quite strong enough to hold him.
“More!” he cried, gesturing at Krawg and Ravager. “Come to me. Give me everything you are so I can claim my victory!”
The two shadow guards, showing more intelligence than loyalty, fled, becoming just noisy gray blurs rocketing into the distance.
Nor were they alone. All around Lord Obsidian, shadow guards backed away, unwilling to flee, but also unwilling to be taken. Now that they’d seen their lord in a moment of weakness, whatever unshakeable loyalty they’d had was replaced by common sense—the practicality of vermin, waiting to see who came out on top.
Lord Obsidian swayed. “You will all be punished once this battle is done.” His gaze fell on Gustav. “My greatest enemy was not enough to stop me. The conscience of my own traitorous shadow was not enough to stop me. Only the boy still stands, and he will not stand for long.”
“You’re one to talk,” said Gustav. “I’ll defeat you in less than one second.”
Lord Obsidian took a single, staggering step toward him. “You’re bluffing.”
“If you say so,” said Gustav. He picked up one of the battlefield’s many abandoned swords. It was one of the largest swords lying around and was really too large for any boy to wield comfortably, even if that boy was as strong and as formidable as Gustav. Weight alone made it unsteady in his hands as he brandished it at the advancing Lord Obsidian, point foremost.
Were it only strength that determined the outcome of the battle about to conclude, Gustav would have been lost. But he had more than strength, and made that clear with what he shouted now: “Shadows! Those of you who fought with us and those of you who fought against us! Stay away from Howie! You don’t want him to take you!”
All around, the shadows that had a choice retreated. Even those who had been working for Lord Obsidian before kept their distance, unwilling to give up what life shadows had in order to add to their master’s fading glory. The shadows who had been Gustav’s allies retreated with significantly greater reluctance, because they would have preferred to stay close and help him. But even they saw that as long as they stayed within Lord Obsidian’s reach, they could be used to replenish his strength in his battle against Gustav, and so they retreated, too, all of them: Pearlie
’s shadow and Penny’s, Mr. What’s shadow and Not-Roger’s shadow, and even Great-Aunt Mellifluous herself, all forming gray blurs as they fled to leave Gustav alone in a battlefield that offered no further food for Lord Obsidian’s strength.
“You too,” Gustav said. “All the humans.”
Most of the human beings also retreated, those that were able. The ones in Obsidian’s employ backed away, unwilling to get further involved in the battle between the tyrant and the boy, now that it looked like the tyrant could be beaten. The allies among them, Pearlie and Not-Roger and Mr. What, backed off a few steps as well, though not as many. They were unwilling to abandon their friend, and moved only because they sensed the importance of the moment. The carousel animals retreated with them, waiting.
Only Hans Gloom, immobilized by a twisted ankle and gazing at his son with the fearful eyes of a man who feared losing what he had just found, stayed where he was, his lips moving in fervent prayer.
Lord Obsidian stopped, swayed on his feet as if too weak to continue his advance, and then glanced away from the boy and toward the man.
“Uh-uh,” Gustav warned. “He’s hurt. I let him fight you first because he’s been dealing with your nonsense longer than I have, and he had the right to go first if he wanted, but he’s hurt now and can’t fight you anymore. If you ever want to be seen as anything but a coward, you’ll go for the one who can still fight. You’ll go for me, and I’ll defeat you in less than one second.”
Lord Obsidian’s gaze flickered back toward Gustav.
He marveled. “You really did come all the way to the Dark Country without a plan.”
Gustav shrugged. “Plans are boring.”
Lord Obsidian charged him.
Gustav thrust his stolen sword at what would have been Lord Obsidian’s heart, had Lord Obsidian been human enough to still possess one.
It was a stronger and more assured attack than any that had been managed by Mr. What (who, for all his own courage, really hadn’t known what he was doing) or Hans Gloom (who was many years out of practice). It pierced the gray darkness of Lord Obsidian’s chest and likely would have killed a being of flesh and blood. But the weapon was just a sword, and the creature pierced by its point was not one that could have been slain by a sword. Lord Obsidian merely laughed and grabbed the blade between his long and serpentine fingers. The polished metal turned yellow and then rusted and then blackened and pitted, rotting into nothingness in no time at all.
All this happened in less than a second. Lord Obsidian had been toying with Mr. What, before. He had been enjoying Mr. What’s helplessness. He was in no mood, right now, to take that much time with Gustav.
It was a good thing that by the end of that second, Gustav was no longer holding the sword.
Fully aware that the sword was useless, Gustav had let go of it the instant Lord Obsidian grabbed hold.
By the time the blade turned yellow, he was already darting between Lord Obsidian’s planted feet.
By the time the blade rusted, he had already leaped, rolled, and grabbed the one thing lying on this battlefield that had proven capable of hurting Lord Obsidian at all.
By the time the blade blackened and pitted, he had already risen to his feet, holding Caliban, who was so drained by then he looked like nothing as much as a gray silk sheet drawn taut between Gustav’s fists.
By the time the blade disintegrated into powder and dissolved in Lord Obsidian’s hands, Gustav had returned at a dead run, raced up Lord Obsidian’s back at a gallop, and slammed Caliban onto Lord Obsidian’s pointed head, impaling him there.
By the time Lord Obsidian noticed that there was no boy at the other end of the sword he’d just destroyed, and realized that the weight on his head was Gustav on his hands and knees holding Caliban in place, Obsidian’s strength was once again flowing back into Caliban’s body.
By the time Lord Obsidian started to resist, Caliban was winning.
Lord Obsidian roared and reached for the top of his head, intent on freeing himself from the boy at least, but his terrible fingers passed through empty air. Gustav had moved faster than any not-half-shadow boy ever would have been able to, and ducked away from that awful grasping hand, popping his head back up as soon as he could be certain that the fingers had passed by without harm.
Lord Obsidian spun in place and reached for him again, but by now Caliban had grown so large on Obsidian’s head that blindly reaching for Gustav was like groping for a bird perched on top of a giant wide-brimmed hat. At the same time, Obsidian had grown smaller. He screamed, aware that terrible defeat was coming for him.
Gustav saw that Caliban no longer needed his help holding on, and that staying in place any longer might even interfere with what needed to happen. He rose unsteadily, planted his feet against the spongy swirling mass of shadow beneath him, and leaped.
It was, of course, difficult even for a boy who could leap as far as Gustav to jump out of the reach of Obsidian’s elongated arms. Lord Obsidian tried to pluck him from the air and came within inches of succeeding. But he was just a fraction slower than he had been only a few seconds ago, and Gustav flew beyond his reach.
Given the height of Obsidian’s shoulders, Gustav should have suffered a bone-shattering impact with the ground . . . but Not-Roger caught him in cradling arms.
Gustav blinked up at his face. “Thank you.”
Not-Roger looked dazed. “I think . . . I played football.”
Gustav rolled out of his arms and landed on his feet, just as Lord Obsidian’s screams became most despairing.
Caliban grew dark and full. Lord Obsidian withered further. He screamed and clutched at the black mass on his head, and shrieked and fell to his knees and tried to crawl forward to replenish himself with a shadow from the onlookers, but even the few allies that remained were backing away from him now, most of them wearing expressions of relief or disgust or disbelief that they’d ever bothered to follow a thing like him.
His terrible fingers clutched at Gustav, intent on aging him to dust.
Gustav backed away just a step, to avoid them, but by now it was easy. What had been Lord Obsidian could no longer move, and what had been Howard Philip October’s shadow pinned him, growing thick as a tick on everything Lord Obsidian had been made of.
The battle was over.
The only question, for all who witnessed it, was this:
Was October’s shadow, Caliban, any more trustworthy than the man?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“What’s a Valkyrie?”
The creature who had started life as a man named Howard Philip October, and then gone on for several years as Lord Obsidian, now lay motionless, resembling a stick figure constructed from black pipe cleaners. He gave off a few wisps of sooty gray vapor, as some of what he was made of continued to bleed into the open air, but otherwise he lay unmoving, inert.
Unwilling to believe the nightmare was over, Pearlie said, “Is he dead?”
The now-towering shadow standing a safe distance from him, who they had all known as Caliban, shook his head. He bore all the features of the man October had been, and—now that he’d taken so much of Lord Obsidian’s substance—was the same towering size, but where the face of the man had been marked with cold superiority and disdain for everything that lived, his was warm and filled with regret and sadness. He said, “You should know better than that by now. Shadows don’t live and die the way people do. But drained the way he is, it will be some time before he regains enough substance to rise again.”
“How long? An hour? A day?”
“Long enough,” Caliban said, “that you should be able to find some safe place to dispose of him, if you don’t waste too much time gathering all your friends and family together for your long journey home.”
He looked like he wanted to say something else, but then his gaze faltered and he started to walk away.
&n
bsp; Behind him, Gustav cried, “Wait a minute! That’s it? You help us defeat the big bad guy and then you walk away? That’s all?”
The melancholy shadow turned around and peered at Gustav with something very much like affection. “First, I have not defeated him. You all defeated him. You all stood up and refused to let him bully you into submission. I was just one of the tools you used.
“Second, I haven’t finished him off. I never had that power. I have merely . . . stopped him for a while, so you can finish the job you began.
“Third, what else would you have me do? Change my appearance and pretend that I’m not who I am? Take Obsidian’s place in the castle he built and rule in his stead? Go back to the world of light as your guest, and wander the halls of your house among shadows who remember the vile deeds of the man whose shape I still wear? Please, dear Gustav. Give me a suggestion I have not imagined. I am more than willing to entertain it.”
Gustav’s neighbors back on Sunnyside Terrace considered him to be the saddest little boy in all the world, but now he found himself facing what may have been the all-time saddest being: a creature of instinctive goodness who had no place in any world a shadow might walk.
But Pearlie had another question. “Where will you go, then? What will you do?”
October’s shadow appeared not to have considered this at all, until the question was asked. Something impish tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Do you know the colorless lands surrounding the Dark Country?”
Pearlie had been to the place Gustav called the Dim Land, with some of the refugees fleeing Obsidian’s wars. “Yes.”
“I hear tell that awful nothingness extends far beyond any realms ever explored by either flesh or shadow, farther than anyone should ever go, or want to go. I believe I will start at the Dark Country’s borders and start walking. I may walk for years, or even what your kind would consider lifetimes, through that empty place. But when I have either found a place that is better than ‘nothing,’ or traveled far enough to have left the evils committed here behind, I will stop.”
Gustav Gloom and the Castle of Fear Page 13
