Darren Shan - Bec

I’m not as accomplished in other areas. I learn how to create fire and hold it in my hands, either as a torch or to use as a weapon. But my flames are pitiful flickerings, nothing like Drust’s solid columns, and they singe my fingers.

I develop protective spells, like the one we use to mask ourselves at night. But these are more complicated, designed to shield me from physical assault. If they work correctly, a demon won’t be able to harm me with its claws or teeth, only with magic.

There are spells to protect me from magic too, but they’re even harder to learn. I make a small amount of headway with both sets of spells. Drust is pleased with my progress, but it’s tough work and leaves me feeling drained and grumpy.

“What about spells of attack?” I ask in the afternoon, thinking of the night ahead, worrying about the dangers we’ll face.

“Survival is our only concern right now,” Drust says, then looks around. We’re not close to any of the others, except Bran, who walks behind me like a faithful hound. Drust lowers his voice. “You must think only of your own well being if we’re attacked. Don’t put yourself in danger, even to save another. I need you, Bec. Your people need you too. Don’t waste your life trying to save someone who isn’t important.”

“You don’t want me to fight?” I ask archly. “You want me to stand by and let my friends die?”

“If you have to,” he says.

“I can’t. I won’t. Not unless you tell me what you want me for.”

Drust shrugs. “I’m offering you good advice. Ignore it if you wish. Now, let’s work on a different type of spell. This one gives you the appearance of a giant. It will frighten off certain demons.”

And he says no more about why I’m so important to him or why he wants to keep me alive when he’s happy to stand by and accept the slaughter of everybody else.

Lessons cease a couple of hours before sunset, to give myself and Drust time to recharge and prepare for any battles we might find ourselves involved in. I spend the time until dark wondering what Lord Loss will throw at us.

Hordes of demons? An army of the undead? Maybe they’ll burrow at us from beneath the earth or drop on us from the sky. How powerful is the demon master? Drust doesn’t know. There’s no way of telling, not until we’ve studied the heartless beast in action.

The others are nervous too, even Ronan and Lorcan now that night is almost upon us. They’re not afraid of death but of being taken by surprise and dying in disgrace. Oddly enough, Connla seems the most assured. He was edgy earlier but now walks cockily, urging us on, telling us not to worry. He’s acting like a king, which isn’t unusual, but he’s doing it in the face of danger, which is strange. Maybe he’s finally growing into the leader his father always wanted him to be.

Half an hour before sunset, Drust halts on top of a hill and says, “Here.”

Goll looks around. “Are you sure? We can be seen from all directions.”

“If Lord Loss plans to guide demons to us, he’ll find us no matter where we are,” Drust responds. “At least up here we can see them coming. And the exposure is good for Bec and me. We can draw strength from the stars easier at this height.”

As the others make camp I ask Drust if that was true or if he was just saying it to give Goll confidence. “It’s true,” he says. “High places, with no trees, are ideal for magicians who absorb power from the heavens.”

“But won’t this place favour the demons too?” I ask.

Drust shrugs. “Best not to think about that.”

When everyone’s ready, Drust and I cast masking spells. The spells won’t count for much if Lord Loss reveals our position to other demons, but they’ll protect us if strays wander by.

Time passes. It rains heavily, then eases, though the sky remains clogged with clouds. Nobody speaks. I realise after a few hours how hungry I am. We were so concerned with finding a good spot for the night that we never thought to hunt or pick berries. Oh well, too late now. I’ll just have to wait for morning—and hope I’m not eaten before then.

Midnight. You can always tell, even when the moon and stars are blocked out. I want nothing more than to curl up and sleep. It’s been a long day, coming on the back of a sleepless night. Hunger adds to my tiredness. But I dare not shut my eyes. There’s no telling how swift the demons will be if—when—they attack. Seconds of grogginess could spell the difference between life and death.

Later. A few hours shy of dawn. I’ve been dozing, despite my desire to remain awake. Halfway between the worlds of dreams and flesh. A dangerous state, open to the threat of both realms. Banba always told me to sleep or stay awake, never hover betwixt the two.

A cry in the darkness jolts me out of my half-sleep. It sounds like a child but it can’t be—we passed no villages earlier, and no child would dare wander the world by night, not in these troubled times.

I look around. Everyone’s awake. All eyes are focused on the spot from where the sound came. Ronan’s bow is aimed, an arrow ready to fly at its target the moment he sights one.

“Don’t move,” Drust whispers, just loud enough for all to hear. “The spells are still intact. This might be nothing to do with—”

“Motherrrrrr…” comes a cry, clearer this time. A girl’s voice. Full of pain and grief.

“Help us… motherrrr…” A different voice, this time a boy.

“So cold… motherrrr…” A third child, also a boy. He sounds younger than the other two.

“What is that?” Lorcan asks, nervously tugging at his earrings.

“I’m not sure,” Drust answers. “Only demon masters can mimic human voices. And the undead don’t retain the power of speech. Perhaps Lord Loss is manipulating a lesser demon.”

“Motherrrr… hold ussssssss…” The girl again. Her voice sends shivers down the back of my neck. I want to run to her and wrap my arms around her, even knowing she can’t be human. She sounds young, scared, lost.

“I don’t like this,” Goll mutters, his eye darting left and right, trying to pick out figures in the darkness.

“They might be real children,” Fiachna says. “The demon could be using them to trap us.”

“No,” Orna says, and there’s a tremble to her voice. “They… I…”

“Motherrrr!” the elder boy cries, as if in response to Orna’s voice.

Orna stands. “No!” Drust barks, but she ignores him and takes a step forward, hands clasped over her breasts, face torn between terror and delight.

Something moves in the shadows. Three shapes advance. Drust curses, then creates a ball of fire and sends it floating down the hill, to illuminate the creatures. Three children are revealed, stumbling forward. Undead. Their bodies are in good condition, most of the limbs are attached, the flesh isn’t ripped to pieces, heads on necks. But they’re definitely not living children. They move sluggishly and one boy’s missing an eye, the other both its ears, the girl some fingers.

“My children,” Orna croaks, and although I was cold with fear already, now I turn to ice.

Orna takes a second step down the hill.

“Orna!” Goll hisses. “Stop! They’re not your children! It’s a trick!”

“But they are,” Orna says. Tears are flowing down her cheeks, a warrior no longer, all woman now—all mother.

“It’s a glamour,” Drust says softly. “They’re probably the bodies of other children disguised to look like yours.”

“No,” Orna says. “I’d know my young loves anywhere.”

“Cold… motherrrr…” the youngest boy moans.

“Lonely… motherrrr…” the girl wails.