Darren Shan - Bec

Connla hesitates, then takes a step back. “What do you suggest? Go in together or send a scout first?”

“Together,” Goll says after a second of thought. “To separate is to weaken. But everybody draw your weapons and tread carefully.”

When we’re all prepared, we advance cautiously, scanning the branches of the trees overhead and roots at our feet—sometimes worm-like demons disguise themselves as roots and snag unsuspecting passers-by.

A couple of minutes later we come to a clearing and find ourselves at the edge of a lake. A crannog has been built on an island in the middle of the water. A small, fenced fort, containing half a dozen huts. There’s a sentry post built above the gate, and from the marks beneath it and here on the shore, I think there was once a bridge connecting the island to the mainland. But that’s been demolished, probably because of the threat posed by demons. Now you can only get to it by swimming or in one of the curraghs tied up close to the fort’s gate.

“Hello!” Goll yells. Echoes, then silence.

Run Fast is hopping up and down, his face alight, reaching out to the crannog as though he can stretch across the lake and stroke the walls of the fence.

“Anybody there?” Goll shouts. When the silence holds, he adds, “We’ve come to help. Your boy told us you were in trouble. We’re here to…”

He draws to a halt, since it’s obvious nobody’s going to answer.

“It’s a ghost village,” Ronan says.

“We’re too late,” Connla sniffs.

“Maybe not,” Fiachna disagrees. “They might be sheltering underground, in a souterrain, where they can’t hear us.”

“You two seem to think people do nothing but cower underground,” Connla snorts, nodding at Fiachna and Orna. “Why don’t you just accept the simple truth that when nobody answers a call, it means they’re all dead?”

“I prefer to hope for the best,” Orna says stiffly, “even when I can see just as clearly as you that it’s unlikely.”

“Smoke bread,” Run Fast says bafflingly, leaning over so far that he almost topples into the lake.

“Right,” Goll says. “We haven’t come all this way to turn back now. If nothing else, the crannog offers a place to rest tonight.”

“Unless it’s been taken over by demons,” Connla says.

“Unless it’s been taken over by demons,” Goll agrees. “But we have to check. Lorcan, will you swim across and come back in a curragh for the rest of us?”

Lorcan’s the best swimmer in our tuath. Even when he was twelve years old, he could beat most grown men in a race. He steps forward now and studies the water, looking for demons. He can’t see any but that doesn’t mean it’s safe—they often hide down deep during the day, to avoid the rays of the sun.

Without saying anything, Lorcan undresses quickly, then dives in and strikes powerfully for the crannog. We watch nervously, Ronan having notched an arrow to his bow, ready to fire instantly if his brother comes under attack.

Lorcan makes it to the crannog unhindered and pulls himself out, pausing only to offer up a quick prayer of thanks to the gods. He brushes water from his stubbly hair—it comes off in rusty red drops, coloured by the blood caked into his scalp. Then he unties a leather-framed curragh and rows across to where we’re waiting, hard strokes, one eye on the setting sun.

Lorcan, Goll, Run Fast and Orna cross first. Then Lorcan rows back to pick up Ronan, Fiachna, Connla and me. At the gate I test the air for the scent of demons. It’s clear. I don’t think there are monsters in the village but I can’t be certain.

“Will we try the gate or go over the fence?” Goll asks.

“The gate’s open,” Fiachna says.

Goll squints, then chuckles. “I was never the sharpest with two eyes, but with only one…” He looks around. “We’ll go in fast. Any sign of trouble, retreat to the gate. Based on what we’re facing, we’ll decide then whether to fight or flee.”

Deep breath. Weapons drawn. A signal from Goll. In.

No demons. No people either. Just a few chickens and lots of blood. While we stand a few paces inside the gate, Run Fast chases after the chickens, laughing. They squawk and flap away from him. With his speed he could catch them easily, but he’s only playing with them.

“Do you think they’re all dead?” Orna asks, eyes narrow, nose wrinkled against the stench of fresh blood.

“Unless they’re hiding,” Goll grunts.

“We should check the huts,” Fiachna says.

“Aye.” Goll points at Ronan, Fiachna, Connla and me. “You four go right. The rest of us will go left. We’ll meet in the middle if all’s clear.”

“What about Run Fast?” I ask.

Goll looks at the boy chasing the chickens. “I don’t think he’d be much help.”

We set off quickly, each of us aware of the rapidly setting sun. It’s almost the time of the Fomorii.

The first hut. Holes have been torn in the walls, so it’s easy to peer in. Floor caked in drying blood but otherwise empty. No trapdoor or hiding place. We push on.

The second hut’s smaller than the first. A tiny entrance. No holes in the walls. Dark pools of shadows. We stick our heads through the doorway, allowing our eyes to adjust to the gloom. Objects gradually swim into sight. Pots, a small table, a broken chair. Rugs on the floor—there could be a souterrain beneath. We slide in, Ronan first, me last, looking up for winged demons hanging from the thatch. The men search beneath the rugs—nothing. They file out. I’m bringing up the rear, almost through the door, when something breathes behind me.

“Beccccccc…”

I stop… turn… eyes wide… heart beating fast. I stare into the shadows. I can’t see anything but I know I’m not alone. I want to duck out of the door or call for help but I can’t. My tongue is frozen, not with fear, but magic.

Long, terrifying seconds pass. Then, in a blur, claws dart out of the darkness… a twisted face… fiery eyes… a savage mouth filled with rows of teeth… the demon grabs me!

Instant reaction—magic. I don’t waste time screaming. I bark a spell, my lips moving quicker than ever before. My hands heat up. Then, instead of wrenching my arms away, which is what the demon expects, I grab its claws tightly and try to scorch them to scraps.

It doesn’t work. As my hands glow, the claws grasping me glow too. Brighter and brighter, the pair of us, a contest. For several seconds we are locked together, no words, my gaze fixed on my hands and the claws. Then I start noticing details—not claws but hands. Smooth flesh, eight fingers, two thumbs. Dark flesh but not demon dark— human dark.

I bring my eyes up but I can’t see my attacker’s face because of the magical glow. A swift inner debate. Then I let the power drain from me. The light dies away. Shadows reform. It takes my eyes a while to adjust but when they do I see that I was right—it’s a man, not a monster. And he’s smiling.

“Good,” the man says. “You have magic—a bit anyway—and common sense. You’ll do.” Then he brushes past me, out of the hut, and summons the others with a far-reaching call.

“You can stop searching. It’s safe. There are no demons here. Now come and find out why I sent the boy to fetch you.”

The stranger’s name is Drust and—as we immediately see by his long blue tunic and shaved, tattooed head—he’s a druid. After calling us together and telling us his name, Drust doesn’t speak for a long time. Instead, he builds a fire and casts a spell to prevent smoke and contain the glow within the crannog, so as not to attract demons. After a while he takes hot rocks from the fire—with his bare fingers—and places them in a pit filled with water. When the water is the right heat, he drops in chunks of meat wrapped in straw.