David Gilman - The Devil's breath

Whatever happened when Max experienced this supernatural energy, he did not understand it. BaKoko , the shapeshifter, had released this ability within him, but Max thought, incongruously, that it was like learning to ride a motorbike. There was a power which was scary and exhilarating and, if not controlled properly, could kill. And there was no one to tell him how to control these immense feelings. When a shapeshifter gained sufficient experience and the energy was harnessed, the actual physical shape would change. The thought of being able to become another creature was far removed from his own sense of practicality-a load of tosh, was what he would have said-until he’d had that first experience. And now he was being drawn into that power again.

Max felt he was sitting inside his own body looking out. And when!Koga teased the camouflage net across the nose of the plane, being careful that the web did not snag the propeller, everything closed down for Max. No sound, no sight; all that remained was what now seemed to be the dim light at the mouth of a cave.!Koga settled the dead branches back across the netting, deepening shade settled on the plane and arrows of light pinioned Max in the darkness of the cockpit.

He waited in silence, trying to focus his mind into a place that lay as still and as remote as a pool of water. His head nodded forward, tiredness enfolding him, a sleeplike surrender easing him away.

A shuddering wrench made him gasp. Jolted, he felt as if he’d been snatched and thrown by a mighty hand. An ice-hot force seared up his spine. It was worse than he had feared. A huge rush of energy powered him through the sky, and then he hovered silently in the air. He was higher than a skyscraper, and part of him felt quivering terror, as if he hung over the edge of such a high building. His whole body shook. His cry of alarm shrieked across the sky; shadows moved on the ground and his eyes zoomed in to where a low circular mist hugged the ground. He looked over his shoulder, which was covered in overlapping layers of dense brown and gray feathers. A long way away-beyond the horizon, scrubland and low trees nestled alongside the scar that was the elephant track-was the tiny figure of his friend.

“!KOGA!” he yelled, but the cry that came from the back of his throat was not a sound he recognized. He gasped; he was unable to hover. He was a bird all right, but this time he was no hawk or eagle or whichever raptor form he had taken before; now he was a dove, swooping through the air and beginning to panic; a roller-coaster ride without anything to hang on to. But he saw the direction he had to take on the ground. Beyond the elephant grass, through the small forest and across the broken plain, small plateaus rose and dipped and animal paths gave a sense of direction for a few kilometers. Beyond the ravines and increasing tangles of scrubland lay a ragged-edged black hole, punched into the earth’s surface. The shape of its snarling face would not be visible from the ground; only a pilot or a bird would see how the land had been scrunched and twisted from a meteor’s impact, millions of years ago. The shattered remnants of rock formed eyebrow scars, and the slab of stone below, a broken nose. The gaping, broken-toothed chasm exhaled a sour mist that fed the vegetation. It was the entrance to hell and the place most feared by the Bushmen.

The place held his attention, but when he looked beyond the smashed earth he saw the distant glint of water. A river, like a fat Gaboon viper, settled lazily; reeds and sandbanks where creatures lay, unmoving. Crocodiles. Big ones. He was learning to see things now, his head twisting, giving himself different viewpoints, and the most obvious formation of rocks now made itself clear. Square blocks formed a structure, figures moved, dust rose from a moving vehicle. It was a fort. Skeleton Rock.

Max tried to turn; somehow he had to get back to!Koga, but flying was not easily mastered. He fluttered helplessly, as if caught in a storm, and his panic sent shock waves through the air. Another cry filled the desert sky; cruel and piercing, it instinctively terrified him. A dark shape circled high above him, the ragged edges of its wings dipping and controlling its flight. A memory flashed into his mind-baboons shrieking with fear at the shadow of a martial eagle. Now one had sighted him as its prey. Wings folded, it plummeted through the sky in perfect attack mode. Moments later, ripping talons would make short, vicious work of him. Max tried to escape; he could see the tiny figure of!Koga squatting in a tree’s shade, hundreds of meters below him.!KOGA! But of course the boy heard nothing. Ripping talons slashed, a feather’s breadth from Max’s face, but no sooner had the eagle missed its attack than it pulled off an incredible midair maneuver and struck again. Its heel talon stabbed backwards, cutting into feather and down.

Max was falling. The stomach-churning ride was now an out-of-control tumble. But how many times had he been told he was a natural sportsman? What Max could see, Max could do. Show him the position to take on a white-water kayak, demonstrate the body angle for a downhill off-piste ski run, and Max could hold that picture in his head, and his muscle memory repeated it. Eagles went bullet-shaped in their attack dive; so too could Max. Concentration forced his panic further back into his consciousness. He felt everything change. A subtle shift of control, a tightening of his arms-or were they wings? — against his sides; the velocity buffeting his face, the ground swooping upwards and then, like air brakes, the arm-tearing tension to slow the descent and glide into the trees. Not enough control! Branches and twigs like long-thorned fingers snatched at him.

And then blackness.

He awoke in the back of the cockpit.

Max hauled his aching body out of the plane and stood for a moment in the warm shade. He scooped a handful of earth and put it to his nose; the earthy smell of Africa gave him a reassuring sense of being grounded.

!Koga waited nervously at the edge of the track, a look of relief on his face when Max pushed through the trees.!Koga touched the slash across Max’s shoulders, as long as a hand’s length. It was superficial but it stung. “I think I fell backwards in the cockpit,” Max answered the questioning look. The truth frightened him as much as the experience; if he was mentally able to take on the form of an animal, then it was fairly certain that he could be attacked and injured or killed.

Maybe it was all in his imagination. Maybe that cut did come from falling inside the plane. At least that was one way of fooling himself.

They jogged steadily for a couple of hours, the layout of the ground imprinting itself like a three-dimensional image in Max’s mind. As the sun rose higher and the heat became intolerable, they rested in the lee of a rock overhang. Max spread the maps out. The crease marks on his own map were frayed; his father’s Ordnance Survey map was more serviceable. The hydrology chart was what interested him now. By comparing his father’s two maps and his own aerial memory view of the Devil’s Breath, he realized that one of the blue veins formed an underground circuit from the gaping hole and traveled directly under Skeleton Rock. He wasn’t sure about the hair-thin line that looped off, but it seemed the river system could also be a feed from, or was a result of, this underground water system. Max mentally chastised himself. What an idiot. He had literally had a bird’s-eye view of the fort. He could have seen everything he needed to know. The river and those crocodiles acted as a natural defense, but he could have flown into the fort itself. He could have observed everything. They had to be bringing in supplies. Were they using the river for drinking water? If they were, was there a filtration plant? If so, where did they generate electricity to run it? Answers to these questions might have given him a way into Skeleton Rock.