Marc Chadbourn - The Devil in green

'I don't hear any sign of him,' Hipgrave hissed. 'He could have fallen into one of the pits… unconscious…'

Mallory wasn't listening for the cleric's cries — he no longer believed they would ever hear them.

At the first pit, they all peered inside in turn. The clustering shadows gave the illusion that it went down for ever, though from the echoes of a displaced pebble Mallory guessed it was no more than fifteen feet deep. A damp, vegetative smell rose from within.

The construction of bramble and spike was complex and deadly, hinting at the arrays of barriers and barbed wire that littered First World War battlefields. It was impossible to tell what kind of intelligence could have established it, how long it had been in place. It was structured to form an impenetrable obstacle in some areas while simultaneously serving to direct them along a prescribed route that wasn't clearly visible from a distance. As they walked the precarious path amongst the pits — some of which were shallower than others, barely trenches — Mallory was struck by the design.

'It's like a ritual pattern you see in some ancient structures,' he said. Hipgrave was clearly suspicious of this show of information. 'It was symbolic, designed to put you in the right frame of mind before the revelation of some secret or mystery.'

'Listen,' Daniels interrupted. 'Can you hear anything?'

They halted, bumping into each other nervously. The wind had picked up again faintly, soughing along the edges of the area so it was difficult to identify any other sounds. But as their ears adjusted, they could just make out another noise, low and rough, rising and falling.

'What is it?' Miller looked like a ghost in the twilight.

Mallory knew what it sounded like, and he could tell that Daniels and Gardener thought the same: breathing.

At their backs, darkness drew close to the horizon.

The path wound amongst the barriers until they were presented with a pit that hadn't been visible before. They knew instantly it was what they had been working towards. It stood alone, large and round where the others had been ragged holes torn from the turf and soil; its sides sloped down, but it was positioned so that the fading light allowed them to see the eighteen or so feet to the bottom where five dark holes indicated branching tunnels. More bleached skulls had been carefully placed around the perimeter, all looking out. Next to it, two tree branches had been strapped together with brambles in the shape of a tilting cross, a marker, and from it hung the tattered remnants of some kind of pelt.

'Oh Lord, I have a horrible feeling about this,' Miller muttered.

'That makes two of us,' Gardener said in a low, gruff voice that didn't draw attention to itself.

'If he's anywhere, he'll be down there,' Hipgrave noted. He peered into the depths, then spied something. 'Here!' He proudly showed them a shiny cuff link.

'There you go again,' Mallory said.

Hipgrave drew himself up in a bid to imbue himself with some gravitas. 'OK, Mallory, you'd better go down, check it out-'

'You can't send him down there!' Miller protested. 'Not alone!'

'We're not going to risk all of us.' Hipgrave's demeanour left no doubt that he had made his mind up; it was pointless Mallory arguing. 'The sooner he gets down there, the sooner we can all get out of here.'

Steeling himself, Mallory stepped over the edge and skidded down the slope in jerks. At the bottom it was cold and there was an unpleasant smell of decomposition drifting from one of the tunnels. He looked around: no footprints anywhere; there was no point mentioning it to Hipgrave — he'd long since given up listening to reason. The knights were all peering over the edge, their faces white. They all looked human, their emotions clear — apprehension, bravery, compassion, contempt — and he couldn't help thinking back to the glimpsed face of the cleric and the gulf between the two.

He moved around the tunnel entrances, trying to decide which one to explore, though he had no intention of venturing in too far. He could no longer hear what he had thought of as breathing. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Or perhaps it was simply holding its breath, waiting for him to draw near. He looked back up. Hipgrave gestured vehemently for him to press on.

'Bastard,' he said under his breath.

He went around the tunnels again, listening, peering into the dark, smelling the air currents that came from them for any clue. Eventually, he chose one at random and edged his way in, his sword held out in front of him. With the fading light, the dark within became impenetrable after a matter of feet. The tunnel was small — his head brushed the ceiling and barely a quarter of an inch of space lay beyond his shoulders on either side — and the claustrophobia was palpable. Caught in there, he wouldn't stand much chance of getting out alive. He brushed the packed earth of the ceiling, afraid of a collapse. If Hipgrave wanted to investigate further, he'd have to do it properly, with a team and lights and supports.

Returning to the foot of the pit, he attempted to convey this information to Hipgrave in sign language, but if the captain understood he wasn't having any of it. He jabbed a finger in the direction of another tunnel. Cursing, louder this time, Mallory turned back.

The shape erupted out of one of the tunnels, hitting him like a wrecking ball. He went flying on to his back, seeing stars. He could hear the others yelling something, urging him to get up, get out, and then there was a tremendous weight on his chest and a sickening blast of hot, foul breath on his face. Slowly, his scrambled thoughts coalesced and he realised he was looking up into something that swirled with brilliant flecks, like a distant galaxy hanging in the cold void. They were eyes, he presumed, though he couldn't be sure, and if there was any human intelligence there he saw no sign of it.

Time locked, sealing him in that moment of connection with a presence he couldn't begin to comprehend; it was his only world, alien and terrifying.

But then the bubble burst and everything rushed in with an unbearable frenzy. The thing on him became a whirlwind; limbs lashed (he couldn't be sure if they were arms or legs or tentacles or something else), their sharpness tearing through his clothes, his skin. Desperately, he kicked and scrambled to free himself. Sickening sounds burst around him, at times high-pitched, then a low bass rumble, moving off the register; hot wetness suffused his clothing.

It lasted for only a few seconds and then the thing was away from him, bounding out of the pit with a single leap. Shattered by the attack, with blood seeping from him and the pain only just making its way to his brain, he was vaguely aware of the others yelling. Someone was shouting, 'Attack! Attack!' over and over again. Someone else was urging them to scatter. A crashing and splintering as the barriers were torn up was followed by a scream of agony, suddenly cut off.

Mallory's consciousness returned with a lurch. However badly wounded he was — and he didn't want to begin to check — he knew he had to get out of there quickly before the thing returned. He threw himself to his feet only to feel his legs turn to jelly, pitching him back down on to the ground. His head spun; nausea turned his stomach upside down. With a tremendous effort, he managed to find enough equilibrium to get him to the side of the pit, where he hauled himself up on his hands and knees.

At the surface it was as unbearably dark as it had been at the bottom. Night had fallen, the thick cloud cover obscuring all moonlight. It made the sounds even worse: cries off in the blackness, panicked, pained, the terrible thrashing of something enormous and unimaginably wild moving too fast for its size.

One thought surfacing above all others: We were led here, to find this.