Darren Shan - Bec

The others are battling, swords and axes flashing, hacking at demon flesh. Drust starts back to help, then pauses and stares inland. I follow the direction of his gaze and spot a figure in the distance, hovering above the earth. There’s no mistaking him, even in this poor light—Lord Loss. Something that looks like a dog is jumping up and down beside him.

Drust hesitates, then races along the cliff, heading for the Jutland where he said we’d be safe, leaving the rest of us to fight and, if we lose, perish.

I curse the druid, then wade in to where Lorcan, Goll and Fiachna are struggling with the demons. The ground around them is slippery with blood, littered with demon limbs, chunks of flesh, even a head or two. But still the demons press on, driving the warriors and smith towards the edge of the cliff, seeking to push them over.

I touch the back of a leathery demon about twice my height. It looks down at me and laughs. I say a word and the nails of my fingers instantly lengthen, digging deep into the monster, piercing its skin, bones, inner organs. The hellish creature chokes, blood gurgling up its throat. My nails burst out the far side of its body. I say another word and jerk my hand away, snapping free of the nails, leaving them buried within. The demon collapses, shudders, then goes still.

Another of the demonic pack sees what I’ve done. It screeches and hurls itself at me. No time for magic. I drop to my back, stick my legs up and halt the demon’s charge with my feet. It swipes at me with a clawed hand. Barely misses my eyes. I point at its face. Words leap from my tongue and its head explodes, splattering me with blood and bits of bone and brain.

Rising, turning to deal with a third demon, I hear a human scream from further away. No time to check it out. A bull-headed demon is on top of Fiachna. It’s bitten a chunk out of his left shoulder and is trying to latch on to his throat. I dive at it, grab its mouth, put my face close to its pink, cracked lips and breathe out.

A mist flies into the demon’s mouth. It coughs, tries to snarl at me but can’t. Because the mist has thickened and clogged its throat. It can’t breathe. Some demons don’t need to breathe but this one does. It falls away, scratching at its neck, eyes bulging as it suffocates.

Goll and Lorcan force the final demon over the cliff, pushing it off, only just avoiding a lashing tendril which threatens to drag them over with it. They glance around, make sure we’ve dealt with all the monsters, then rush off to help Ronan and Connla. Bran and I follow just behind.

When Goll and Lorcan stop short I fear the worst. But running up, readying myself to cast more spells, I see the demons fleeing, Connla standing proudly by the cliff’s edge, sword raised, bellowing colourful curses after the monsters. We approach uncertainly. Connla beams at us, his blade grey and green with demon blood. “Cowards!” he laughs. “They didn’t have the guts to fight! I ran them off! Did you see how fast they—”

“Ronan,” Lorcan interrupts, scanning the area. “Where’s my brother?”

Connla sighs. “They forced him over.”

Lorcan stares at Connla, then walks to the edge of the cliff and looks down. The rest of us hang our heads, the joy of victory already forgotten. There’s a lump in my throat that makes breathing almost as hard as it must have been for the demon I choked to death. I flash on images of Ronan fighting, hunting, laughing, flicking blood from his long, curly hair as he raced from the pack of demons who first pursued us. He would have wanted to die this way, fighting, but that doesn’t make his loss any easier for me to bear.

“He fought bravely,” Connla says. He probably means to comfort Lorcan but he sounds patronising, as though talking to a child.

“Did he fall before or after the demons ran?” Goll asks.

“Before, of course,” Connla frowns. “They forced him over. He was close to the edge. He never stood a chance.”

“Yet they left you alone?” Goll doesn’t phrase it as a challenge but it’s hard not to interpret it as such. “They killed Ronan, then ran?”

“They saw I wasn’t such an easy touch,” Connla snorts. “They got lucky with Ronan, but when they tangled with me and realised they were out of their depth, they ran for their miserable, demonic lives.” Connla’s face hardens and he looks at each of us in turn. “You don’t seem too pleased,” he mutters darkly.

“It’s strange,” Fiachna says uneasily. “Demons don’t fight that way. To catch a person in the open… outnumbering him… night just beginning… then running off…”

“What are you—” Connla starts to roar.

“Enough,” Lorcan stops him—and the rest of us too. He turns from the edge of the cliff, face strained but resigned. “Ronan’s dead. That’s the end of it. I don’t care why the demons ran. There will be no arguments, not at a time like this.”

Goll and Fiachna look down uncomfortably. Connla too.

“He didn’t die through any fault of his own,” Connla says. “They took him by surprise. It was just bad luck that he was so close to the edge. I would have saved him if I could.”

Lorcan nods slowly. “Luck will always turn against a warrior in the end. You have nothing to answer for.” He looks off into the distance, to where Drust is still running, closing in on the Jutland. A light flares in Lorcan’s eyes. “That coward, on the other hand…”

He sets off after Drust at top speed. I share a worried look with the rest of the group, then hurry after him, afraid of what will happen if he catches up with the druid in this dark mood.

Drust has reached the Jutland by the time we get to him. A long stretch of cliff sticking out into the sea, grass growing thickly along the top, blowing ever easterly from the winds coming in from the west. He’s sitting in a spot in the middle of the Jutland, hunched over against the wind, his chess set on the grass in front of him, studying the figures.

“You!” Lorcan shouts, striding up to the druid. Drust doesn’t look up at the furious teenager. “You abandoned us and left us to the demons! What do you have to say in defence of yourself?”

No answer. Drust is fully focused on the chess game.

Lorcan’s axe is in his left hand. He raises it, his youthful face twisted with hatred. I want to stop him but I dare not interfere. And, to be honest, part of me loathes Drust for running out on us and wants to see him punished.

Connla roars a warning and reaches for his knife, to intervene, but before he can, Drust says quietly, “You cannot harm me here. You will suffer if you try.”

“Suffer this!” Lorcan screams and brings his axe down.

The head of the axe melts. The handle turns into a shaft of fire. Lorcan yells with pain and drops it. I blink dumbly—this is the work of magic, but it didn’t come from Drust. It seemed to come from the earth itself.

“Violence is not permitted here,” Drust says and he looks up. “If you try that again, you’ll die.”

Lorcan snatches for his sword with his unharmed right hand. Stops and curses. Kicks the smouldering remains of his axe and turns away, disgusted.

Drust looks around at us, meeting our accusing gazes without any hint of shame. “Lord Loss orchestrated the attack. He set the demons in place, knowing we must pass this way. I thought it was an ambush, so I fled for my life, as I was duty bound to. I see now it was merely a cruel game but I was not to know that at the time. I acted correctly.”

“What are you talking about?” Goll snarls. “Ronan died. It was no game.”

Drust shakes his head. “If it had been a real ambush, they’d have jumped me. Having trailed us this far and listened to our conversations, Lord Loss must know what our plan is. If he truly wished to stop us at this point, he’d have killed me. The rest of you don’t matter. That was why I ran. I couldn’t let myself fall, not this close to the end.”