Darren Shan - The Demonata 1-5

Two of his spare arms unfold around him. He covers his eyes. And moans.

→ “Checkmate.”

I mutter the word emotionlessly and scratch my left elbow. “Can I make your king melt?” I ask curiously.

Lord Loss doesn’t respond. His eyes are fixed on the trapped king on the board to my left, as though he can spot a way out if he looks at it long enough.

“I asked if I could make your–”

The black king explodes into tiny shards. I duck to avoid the flying bits of crystal. When I look again, Lord Loss’s face is peppered with shiny splinters. Blood trickles from the cuts.

“You should take more pride in your appearance,” I tell him. “You’ll never attract girls with an ugly mug like that.”

“I’ll see you suffer for this,” he says hoarsely, red eyes bulging. “Win or lose, I’ll find a way to pay you back for the insults you’ve dealt me tonight.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I smile. “It surely can’t be an insult to show no interest in a game in which I have no interest.”

“Later,” Lord Loss hisses, head shaking violently. “Later!”

He turns to the board on my right — the one with the Incan pieces — and broods over it in menacing silence, collecting his thoughts.

→ He pushes me hard on the Incan board. Slow but steady advances. Cutting off my avenues of attack. Forcing me back. Pegging me to my own half.

I take no notice of the mounting threat. When I can’t move forward, I slide sideways, dancing out of the path of his soldiers, shrugging it off when he captures one of my rooks, laughing as my knights leap clear of the closing net.

Lord Loss’s breath thickens the closer he gets to victory. Bloody sweat seeps from his pores. He twitches on his chair.

I ignore the danger I’m in. Keep one eye on Dervish as I shift a pawn forward. He’s locked in close-quarters combat with the familiars, holding Artery away from his throat at arm’s length, while Vein chews on his left leg. It looks serious, but I observe with cool disinterest.

Lord Loss grunts contentedly and takes my pawn. A path is opening up to my king. Another few moves and I’ll have to sacrifice my queen.

“You’re not laughing now,” Lord Loss notes sadistically.

“Only because my laughter seems to disturb you,” I smile sweetly, sending one of my knights to the right of the board, to cover my queen.

Lord Loss brings up a rook, blocking my queen’s path of retreat. I move my knight again, lodging it between my queen and his rook. Grinning wickedly, he swiftly takes my knight with a pawn.

I wince — then wink. “I can’t believe you fell for that one,” I chortle.

Picking up my queen, I slide her diagonally far up the board, through the gap left by the pawn he moved when capturing my knight — and knock Lord Loss’s black queen clean off the table.

His breath stops. His mouth closes. His stomach rumbles.

“Checkmate in four moves,” I note drily. “Or is it three?”

In response, Lord Loss picks up his king and crushes it softly between his mangled fingers.

“Two-two,” he croaks, and turns to the board on my far left — the final board — the decider.

→ Lord Loss moves his pieces sluggishly. He plays with sad remoteness, face cast in dull misery, flinching every time I capture one of his pieces, handing the game to me without a real fight.

I feel a bubble of joy rising in my chest — and swiftly move to burst it. If I show any emotion now, he might seize upon it and revive with a flourish. Although it’s difficult, I remain detached, moving my pieces instinctively, automatically, not dwelling upon thoughts of victory.

Gradually I rip his defences to shreds. I check his king and he beats a sad retreat. For a couple of moves he threatens my queen, but then I drag her out of the way and check him again, with a rook. For a second time his king is forced to flee.

A short while later I trap him on the left side of the board. He’s caught between my queen, two knights and a bishop. He starts to move his king. Pauses. Does a double-take. Sighs deeply and slowly tips the king over.

“Checkmate,” he intones morosely.

I blink — I hadn’t seen it. “Are you sure?” I ask, frowning.

In response he pushes himself away from the table and floats out of his chair, face impassive.

Real time crashes over me. I’m hit by a wave of hot air. Sounds — Bill-E’s howls, the snapping of Vein and Artery’s teeth, Dervish’s grunts. I spin. My uncle’s on the floor, furiously wrestling with the demons. Blood everywhere. His left leg cut to ribbons. His right hand chewed off.

“Stop them!” I scream, darting to Dervish’s aid.

Artery hears me, turns and snarls. Spreads his hands wide — morsels of Dervish’s flesh caught between his teeth. Rises to meet me.

“Peace, Artery,” Lord Loss says, and the demon stops. “Cease, Vein,” he commands, and the crocodile-headed monster quits chewing on Dervish’s arm and looks questioningly at her master. “I have been beaten. We must respect the rules of the game.”

The demons chatter and gibber madly. The flames in Artery’s eyes flare and he hisses at his lord, shaking his head negatively. Vein snaps her jaws open and shut, then turns again on Dervish.

“You will obey me,” Lord Loss says softly, “or I shall have your heads.”

The demons pause. Then Vein clamps her teeth around Dervish’s arm. Dervish screams. A blinding red light fills the cellar. I shut my eyes and cover my face with my arms. When I dare look again, Vein’s lying in scraps of bloody flesh around my uncle. Artery has backed up to one of the webs and is whimpering fearfully.

Lord Loss floats over to Dervish and studies him blankly as he sits up and sets to work on his injuries, using magic to patch himself back together.

“I won,” I remark, carefully approaching my preoccupied uncle, wary of Lord Loss — he might have killed the rebellious Vein, but I still don’t trust him.

“So I see,” Dervish says, not glancing up from his wounds.

I’m bitterly disappointed by his reaction. I expected cheers and tears, hugging and back-slapping — not this.

“You needn’t sound so excited about it,” I sniff.

Dervish looks up at me. A thin smile crosses his lips, then vanishes. “I’m delighted, Grubbs,” he sighs. “Truly. But this isn’t over for me. I have to fight Lord Loss now, and it’s a fight I probably won’t win. So while I’m ecstatic for you and Billy, I’m a little too worried about myself to celebrate.”

“What are you talking about? We won. I beat him. We can…”

I stop, recalling the full rules of the challenge. Lord Loss is under oath to cure the person affected by lycanthropy if he loses at chess — but the one who beats him has to travel to the Demonata’s universe and fight him there.

“But I beat him!” I cry, stooping to catch Dervish’s eye. “I’m the one who has to go with him and–”

“No,” Dervish interrupts. “The player always goes, while the one who fought the familiars remains. But since we swapped roles, we can choose who goes and stays. Isn’t that right?” he asks Lord Loss.

Lord Loss nods slightly. “It is an ambiguous point, but I have had enough of the boy. I shall seek him out some other time. As I vowed, he will pay for his humiliation of me, but for now I wish only to wash my hands of him.”

“But you’re wounded!” I protest. “You’re not fit to fight any more. Let me. I know how to beat him. I can do it. I’ll–”

“This isn’t a debate,” Dervish says gruffly. He grips both my hands in his and squeezes tightly. “You performed brilliantly on the boards, Grubbs, but this is a different matter. He’s far stronger in his own universe than he is here. Leave it to me, OK?”