Darren Shan - Bec

Blood gushes. The lodestone is soaked. It absorbs, then thirstily gulps the blood. Drust trembles but doesn’t fall away. I can’t see his eyes, only his throat. I’m glad of that. He remains upright, feeding his blood to the stone, held up by magic or sheer willpower—I’m not sure which.

And then, as the stone flashes with a blinding yellow light, Drust slumps.

No time to grieve. With a bellow of triumph, I roar the words of the final spell. The lodestone quivers. The cave shakes. The wind howls to a climax, ripping the outer layers of bones off the island, threatening to pick loose Bran and me and dash us to death against the walls. But before it can…

Release.

The wind roars up the tunnel—Brude’s tunnel—increasing in strength as it tears through the druid’s form. It fills the cave beyond, then explodes up the shaft and billows outwards at an unnatural speed, in all directions, scraping every demon and undead spirit free of the earth. It’s like a giant wave, washing away all things demonic in its path, carrying them tumbling and screaming to the very edge of the land, not stopping until it reaches the sea, where it pauses for one long, dreadful moment… then sweeps back, drawn to its source, this point. After that it will drag its demonic prisoners back to their own world and crudely dump them there.

I don’t wait for that. Magic has brought understanding. I know that when the last of the demons has been blown back to its own land by the final gust of wind, Brude’s rock-infused bones will follow, then the tunnel will close, the rip between worlds will heal—and anyone still here will be crushed by rock or trapped underground to die slowly and horribly in the darkness.

Trying to race to safety. Hindered by the wind, which is returning to its source, blowing fiercely against us, a gale in the tunnel. And not just the wind—it contains all the demons and undead which it’s captured. They swirl and tumble through the air, smash into us, knock us over, send us sprawling, threaten to drag us back to their world with them.

Abandoning our efforts to stand, we lie on our stomachs and crawl, side by side. But even this would be impossible if we were normal, since the wind—and its captive demons—fills the tunnel.

But we’re not normal. We’re beings of magic and I use that power to protect us. I draw from deep down and around me, using the magic in my body and the walls of the tunnel, creating a barrier around us. It doesn’t keep out the wind, but most of the demons bounce off it without harming us. Most, not all. Sometimes a limb, claw or fang breaks through and bundles us over, bruising or cutting us.

Bran was laughing when we started up the tunnel—he thought it was great fun. He’s not laughing now. Blood coats his face—I can see him in the glow of the light I created to guide us—and his right arm hangs uselessly by his side, snapped in two or three places.

I’m in no better shape. I have to pause frequently to wipe blood from my eyes. A few of the toes on my left foot have been ripped off—I don’t stop for a close examination. The tunic on my back has been torn to tattered shreds and much of the flesh underneath too.

I ignore the terrible pain. Battle against the savage wind. Shrug off the blows of the beastly demons. And drag myself ever further up the tunnel, towards the promise of escape and life.

Crawling. Panting. The demons hitting us more often as my power dwindles. The closing spells took a lot out of me. I was all-powerful clutching the lodestone, but now I’m the weakest I’ve been in a long time. It’s a struggle to move, never mind cast spells. I want to abandon the shield and divert all of my strength to my flesh and bones, but I’d be swept away within seconds if I did that, and Bran beside me.

Part of me thinks about letting Bran go. It’s hard enough protecting myself. If I halved the problem, I’d stand a better chance of getting out alive.

I turn a deaf ear to the treacherous thoughts, gasp as nails dig along the length of my spine, then strengthen the shield around us. At the same time I let the light die—it didn’t require much power, but every last bit of magic might count in the end. I don’t want to fall just short of the exit because of some unnecessary ball of light.

Impossible to tell in the darkness how much further there is to go. Forcing our way on, the wind deafening, demons striking freely. I can’t maintain the shield. I now use magic to root us to the floor when we’re struck and on the point of being blown away. Quick bursts instead of extended spells. Dangerous—if I’m knocked unconscious, we’re doomed—but I don’t have the strength for anything else.

How long is this damn tunnel! We came down so quickly—or was that a trick of my mind? What if it has somehow extended, if Brude caused it to double or triple in length to spite us? Is that possible? I don’t know. I choose to believe it isn’t. Otherwise despair will consume me and I’ll certainly fail.

Onwards by slow, painful, bloody, hard-fought-for patches. So sore and weak. Struggling to breathe. Every spell dug up from the deepest depths of my spirit. Thinking each time I cast one,

“This is it. The last spell. I can’t do any more.” But constantly surprising myself, finding a smattering of power here, a glimmer there.

Barely aware of Bran, sticking by me doggedly, patting my arm every few seconds to reassure himself that I’m here. Poor Bran. He didn’t ask for this. The rest of us understood the risks. Did he? No way of knowing. He can comprehend some things, but how much did he really know of what he was letting himself in for? I listen to him panting, heavy and fast, and…

The thought dies unfinished.

I can hear him panting. But I haven’t been able to hear anything since we started crawling, because of the roar of the wind and screams of the demons. I raise my head and realise the wind has died away. It’s over. Which means…

Panicking, I find another burst of magic and create light again. It flares around us, blinding after the darkness. I shut my eyes against it, then force them open and stare ahead desperately, expecting to find nothing but rock, the pair of us buried alive, to die beneath the earth in a ready-made tomb.

For a moment I think we’re lost, that we’ve won the battle but surrendered our lives in the process. My heart sinks. I ready myself to sob with terror.

But then—a gap! The exit still exists and we’re close to it. The walls are just walls now, no traces of Brude’s veins or guts. But they’re grinding together, the mouth of the tunnel tightening and closing. There’s enough space for us to get out but there won’t be for much longer. We have to move! — fast! — now!

“Bran!” I gasp, struggling to my feet. So weak, near the end of my resources. But one last surge. One final effort. Then we’ll be safe. We can sleep. Recover. No demons. We’ll have all the time we need.

“Bran!” I shout, dragging his head up. He looks around, dazed, defeated. Then he spots the opening and cries out with fresh hope. He leaps up beside me, stumbles, then finds his feet and lurches forward, taking my hand, gurgling happily.

We reel towards the exit, a pair of barely living, impossibly weary spirits. The hole in the rock continues to close, but at the same regular pace. If we keep moving as we are… if we don’t collapse… if we don’t give up…

We’ll make it! I don’t want to let myself hope too strongly—that might tempt the gods to act against us—but if we can maintain our slow, steady stagger, I’m sure we’ll—

Something clatters into my back. I fall, crying out with pain and surprise. Teeth lock around my right leg and bite through to the bone. I scream and try to shake my attacker loose, but can’t.