by Unknown
‘Ready?’ he asked Rip.
‘One moment,’ said Tu. He waved one of his followers forward and Mark was surprised to see that the little man carried a sword in a scabbard. He had no idea where the weapon had come from: it certainly hadn’t been in evidence when the Tuatha had first converged on him, as he’d come out the great conduit room.
‘You must save the death powder for when you face Skathalos,’ Tu said, referring to the rock salt in the shotgun cartridges. ‘But take this. It was my father’s sword. It will serve you well.’
The only sword fighting Mark had ever engaged in was during play fights when he was a small child, and his only weapons then were a tree branch or a plastic toy, but he thanked Tu anyway. He belted the scabbard round his waist, then pulled out the sword. It was slightly curved with a basket hilt. ‘Is it a magic sword?’
‘No, it’s just a lump of metal,’ Tu said. ‘The magic is in the hand of the one that wields it.’
‘I’ll probably end up stabbing myself,’ Mark said, trying for a laugh.
‘The pointed end goes first,’ Tu said, deadpan as ever.
Mark grinned. ‘Wish me luck, then.’
‘Our prayers and best wishes go with you deliverer.’
Emboldened by that, Mark hopped over the low wall and moved along the tunnel. Beside him, silently, came Rip. The dog was on full alert, ears twitching, tail held straight out behind him.
Round the bend he went, scaled the next wall, and then headed directly for the next corner. Beside the wall Rip stood and he was quivering in anticipation. Mark listened but couldn’t hear anything. Noticing that Rip’s nostrils were flaring he sniffed, trying to determine the dog’s concern. He could smell something that was a bit like wet leather that had gone musty. There was also a coppery tang that he didn’t immediately identify.
‘Is it them? Is it the Firbolg?’
For answer Rip shuddered. For the briefest of moments Mark thought that the dog was about to undergo another magical metamorphism into the Nile god, Ammut, but he discarded that idea. The dog was merely shaking loose the kinks in its muscles; readying itself for action.
Slowly Mark leaned around the corner, peering with one eye along the next branch of the tunnel. The way ahead was dark, but in the distance a single light burned. Shadows moved in front of the lamp, though from this distance Mark could not make out the forms that cast the shadows. Behind him he could hear the subtle scuffing of bare feet as the Tuatha moved to follow their route round the Firbolg. Mark wished that he were as small and as supple as the tiny men: anything to avoid sneaking past Sreng Strongshield and his friends.
‘Is it safe to go on, Rip?’
Rip quickly slinked around the corner.
‘I guess it is then.’
Stealthily, staying in the shadows along the tunnel wall, Mark moved forward. He tried to keep one eye on the dog and one on the shadows up ahead but found it almost impossible. In the end he concentrated on the source of light. If he were going to meet anything it would be near to that light.
Glad of his soft-soled trainers, he crept forward. Just in front of him Rip moved as silently as a spring breeze. Closing on the light source, the shadows moving in front of it now began to take on some kind of recognisable form. Mark came to a standstill and, sensing that his friend had halted, Rip did too and took a glance back over his shoulder. Mark caught a flash of his eyes, which in the deep gloom looked like polished bronze. Mark lifted his chin, directing Rip’s gaze back toward the two figures hunkering in front of a brazier heaped with smouldering coals.
Well, Mark thought with not a little relief, at least the Firbolg aren’t horrible slug-like monstrosities.
What he was looking at were two figures that had more in common with him than they did a creature that crawled on its belly and secreted slime. They were both too tall and slim to be human, their heads long and pointed, and their skin seamed and wrinkled like the bark of a tree. Their eyes were large and had a luminous quality behind their drooping lids. Their teeth were like the tusks of a boar. They wore armour of sorts, like over-lapping scales of tough leather that were spotted with fungus and Mark finally understood where the musty smell originated. He looked for weapons but couldn’t see anything evident.
Mark had lost all concept of time. He did not know if a day here was measured in the same number of hours as in the real world. It could still be daytime or night might have descended by now. Whatever, both Firbolg looked incredibly tired and were nodding in a doze as they warmed themselves in front of the brazier. Mark realised he’d just been offered a stroke of luck that he couldn’t have wished for more. All he had to do now was trust to his stealth, get by these otherworldly monsters without disturbing their slumber and he would be high and dry.
Then he went and dropped his sword.
Mark would have been as well firing the shotgun into the ceiling the racket his falling sword made. The metal clashing on the stone at his feet was like someone slamming together an almighty set of cymbals.
The Firbolgs’ reaction was instantaneous. Both shot upright, eyes snapping Mark’s way, mouths dropping open in shock. They looked tall when hunkered down, but now Mark saw that even then he’d totally underestimated their height. Both creatures topped nine feet tall. Their spindly arms lifted toward him, fingers pointing, and Mark thought of a spider’s legs the way in which they moved. Then he saw why weapons weren’t evident: they didn’t need them. Bark-like skin split open along their forearms and long, hooked spines erupted outward. Standing proud from each of their arms was something that looked like a scythe blade.
The Firbolg sentries shared a glance, then Mark saw their faces contort into something he could only describe as an expression of overwhelming joy. They’d just realised that dinner was served.
18
Mark could only see one option: RUN.
But what he did was the totally unexpected. He stooped down, picked up his sword and then ran full-tilt toward the two Firbolg. It was important that he got past these two monstrosities and he wasn’t going to achieve that by running back the way he had come. He had noticed in the last second that the two monsters were cumbersome in their movement, not as quick as their arachnid-type legs would suggest. Both Firbolg teetered forward, their scythe blades scraping along the floor as they advanced in a scuttling fashion.
Rip ran also, and he headed as quickly as a black and white spear aimed at the Firbolg on the right. Realising that the dog was going to keep that one busy, Mark also angled himself at that one. As Rip dashed in the Firbolg swiped at him with its scythes, but Rip was way too quick. He went under the blades and leapt, his front feet jabbing into the Firbolg’s middle. The tall creature was knocked off balance and began to fall backwards. Rip helped by clenching a strip of armour between his teeth and forcing the creature down. Mark quickly leapt over the sweep of its arms, cutting down with his sword at the same time. The sword blade clattered off one of the scythe blades, knocking the Firbolg’s arm aside. Then Mark was on the far side and kept on running.
The second Firbolg tried to slash at Mark but he was already well out of range. Then Rip ran at it and bit at one of its legs. The Firbolg tried to cut down at Rip but the dog merely danced around its feet and the Firbolg ended up jabbing the tip of its blade through its own foot. The Firbolg screeched in a voice so high-pitched it hurt Mark’s ears. Immediately, Rip snatched at the Firbolg’s backside and caught a wedge of skin between his teeth. Now the Firbolg screeched even more.
Rip came racing towards Mark who had paused beside the brazier full of burning coals. The dog was grinning so much that his teeth looked bright in the dim light. Mark thought again that the dog was enjoying the entire adventure, almost as if he craved for the action.
The two Firbolg were over the initial confusion of their downfall and were already preparing to come after them. Mark glanced at them, then at the brazier.
‘Stand back, Rip,’ he whispered.
Then he shoved with the sole of
one foot against the brazier, knocking it over and scattering burning coals in a wide swathe toward the advancing Firbolg. The beasts were so insane with fury that they didn’t at first realise the danger they were in.
The effect was almost instantaneous.
Not only did the creatures have skin like dry wood bark, it was equally as combustible. Sparks popped and crackled on their dancing feet, then ignited into shrieking blue flame that engulfed them in less than a heartbeat.
They roared and howled, going down on the floor to beat at the flames, but all that did was place them among the scattered coals, igniting them even more.
Mark was horrified at what he’d done. He’d only intended holding them back with the flames, not kill them. Once – many generations before - these things had been human. Had he just become a murderer?
The Firbolgs rolled and thrashed within the flames, emitting high-pitched shrieks, but still they crawled towards him.
Hold the thought, Mark told himself, there was nothing of humanity in these flesh-eating beasts. They were the servants of Skathalos and given the opportunity they would have killed him and thrown him on the coals to cook. What goes around comes around, he decided.
He stepped back, watching as the flames reduced them to glowing embers. The smell was absolutely awful, but Mark found himself smiling faintly. He wiped the smile off his lips. He heard the scuttle of tiny feet and watched as Tu and the band of little men crept towards him. They surrounded the heaps of softly burning twigs that was all that was left of the Firbolg, as though they were gathered round a camp-out bonfire. Made Mark think that all that was missing was the baked potatoes and marshmallows.
‘You are proving more resourceful than I ever thought,’ Tu congratulated in his usual dry way.
‘Thanks,’ Mark said. ‘I think.’
‘Just don’t let this tiny success go to your head. There are far greater dangers ahead of you.’
Mark shrugged. ‘Whichever one of those two was Strongshield, he wasn’t that bad.’
Tu looked up above Mark’s head. So did the group of little men. ‘Neither of those were Strongshield. Here he comes now...’
Mark heard the rumble in the corridor behind him and was almost too afraid to look.
Tu waved his hand, a little wiggle of his fingers. ‘If you make it through, we’ll meet you at the great chamber. Good luck, deliverer.’
The little men scattered, disappearing into pipes and cracks in the walls and floor and Mark couldn’t really make out where else. He didn’t have time to look. Slowly he turned round, and his eyes were drawn up towards the ceiling.
If he made it through...
He blinked behind his glasses.
‘Oh!’
19
In comparison to those that Mark’s quick thinking had already defeated, Sreng Strongshield didn’t look like he’d be as easy a pushover.
He was half as large again than his two companions, bulkier. It was easy enough to see who ate more flesh than the others. If the first two had been willow trees, Strongshield was a sturdy oak. An oak tree with massive scythe-blades and clashing teeth...if ever there was such a thing.
He charged along the passageway, his huge pointed head scraping along the ceiling as he came. His scythes were held out from his body and they touched each wall, squealing and sending off sparks.
Mark was a city kid. Foul language he’d heard plenty of times, but he wasn’t one to use it. Not normally, but he couldn’t help swearing now. The words were harsh, but they did nothing to halt the behemoth charging at him.
I wish I knew where I was going to die.
I wouldn’t have come here.
Mark let out a yelp, turned and started to run.
Rip’s excited yipping kept him company.
So did the lumbering tread of Strongshield.
The giant Firbolg roared and Mark could feel the heat of its breath wash over him.
Mark jumped over the two dead creatures, hoping Strongshield would be afraid to follow him through the flames. He glanced back, hoping to see the lumbering giant come to a halt. But it didn’t: it just stamped through the bodies of its friends, crushing the coals to ineffectual ash beneath its feet.
The beast came on, and there was no way that Mark could think of to stop the behemoth.
Sorry, Shax!
Mark couldn’t get the idea out of his head that he’d failed his friend.
Sorry, Amy!
Or his new friend.
Strongshield swept one of its huge scythes at him.
Mark ducked, feeling the blade slice through air where his head had been a moment earlier.
He tried to run even faster, except all that did was made him overstretch and he went down on his stomach on the floor. He slid along the ground, but that only gave him a couple more seconds before the beast caught him. Strongshield loomed over him and he could have sworn that the guttural noise coming from its wide-open mouth was mocking laughter. He was like a massive, ugly cat toying with a mouse. In a panic Mark swung round, trying to bring up Tu’s sword as protection. Strongshield flicked the sword out of his grasp, then jammed the tip of a scythe in the floor next to Mark’s head. The monster made that same bubbling laugh as it peered down at Mark like he was a choice morsel.
‘Get away from me!’
Mark had tried harsh language, then commanding. Now all he had left was to plead.
‘Please...’
The Firbolg licked its lips with a tongue dripping saliva.
Then it twisted the scythe so the sharp edge lowered towards Mark’s throat. It took pleasure in taking its time. Just like any other bully.
Mark squeezed his eyes closed. At first all he could see was an image of himself. Headless, just like he’d always thought of when picturing his dead brother. Just as Shax and Amy would end up. Then the image became Jake and his friends walking towards him, shambling in their blindness, their eyes missing along with their heads. Jake came close, leaned down, and even though he had no lips to speak with, Mark heard his words. ‘Get with it, Mark.’
His big brother’s words, usually intended as sarcasm worked differently this time. It was a rallying call from one soldier to another.
He unscrewed his lids, looked up again and grabbed at the edge of the scythe. It was like a sharp-edged elephant tusk in his hands and the creature behind it was as strong as an elephant too. It was futile trying to hold back the blade, but Mark decided he was going to try. At least that way he hadn’t given up and Jake and his friends would be proud of him, wherever they next met.
The giant laughed at his straining face, twisted its own features in a mockery of his, allowing Mark to heave the blade up a little way. But it was only toying with him. It just brought the opposite scythe across, crossing both tips over Mark’s throat. Mark remembered the shears that Skathalos had placed around Shax’s neck, and thought that the beast was mimicking its master. The monster leaned down, its massive peapod-shaped head bobbing over his. It opened its mouth and allowed a string of drool to drip on Mark’s face. Lubricating him so he’d go down easier!
Mark kicked out with both feet.
Little good that did him.
It was like kicking a house.
But it distracted Strongshield long enough that he missed Rip when he came streaking in and launched himself onto his back. Rip’s fur stood on end as he tore at the nape of the Firbolg’s neck with its teeth and claws.
Strongshield reared up, the blades freeing Mark’s neck and he scurried backwards and came up to his feet. He looked for his sword, but it was between the Firbolg’s feet. He looked for Rip. The dog tore at the monster furiously, but his attack was ineffectual.
‘Why don’t you turn into Ammut?’
Mark’s yell was meant to encourage the dog to transform into the fearsome beast that lurked within him, but all it served to do was enrage Strongshield. He reached back and clutched Rip between its clawed hands, pulled him off his back and slung him away like he was a bundle of bla
ck and white rags. Rip crashed against a wall and slid down and lay still.
‘Noooo...’
Mark rushed towards his friend.
Before he could get to the dog, to check if he was alive or dead – definitely injured: how could he withstand that in his doggie form? – the Firbolg slammed one of its scythes into the ground in front of him. Then it flicked up the point catching in the front of Mark’s shirt and he plucked the wriggling boy off his feet and directly into the air.
Mark had often dreamed of flying, but never like this.
He yelled.
Surprisingly, even to him, it wasn’t in fear. It was in anger.
The Firbolg drew him close, lifting him teasingly close to its mouth. The glistening maw opened, showing Mark rows of tusk-like teeth.
Mark struggled to pull the shotgun off his back. Not to fire it, he had the crazy idea that he could jam it between the monster’s jaws and stop it from chewing him in half. Strongshield just laughed, shook him and the gun went clattering to the floor. Then it lifted Mark up and dangled him over his wide mouth as if he’d swallow him whole.
Mark looked down, saw the pulsing lining of the creatures throat, like a tunnel leading all the way to Hell. Mark shook his head in denial. Yelling again.
His glasses slipped off his ears, wobbling on the end of his nose.
Just as Strongshield laughed at him again his glasses dropped directly into the creature’s mouth.
Mark had always hated those darn glasses. But not now.
The glasses wedged in the puckered opening in the monster’s throat. Not the gullet, but the entrance to its windpipe. Lubricated by the saliva they slipped inside.
Strongshield gagged.
Its eyes widened in disbelief and it dropped Mark like its next meal wasn’t important any longer.
Mark thumped to the floor, but he scurried away as above him Strongshield’s hands went to his throat. The monster made another gagging sound. Then it coughed. Mark felt the blast of air and was spattered with stinking saliva. But no glasses came out. The Firbolg reared back, clutching again at its throat, then quickly bent forward and let out another magnificent bark. The cough petered out to a series of choking noises. It tried to inhale, but apparently the glasses had jammed somewhere very important indeed. The colour in its bark-like face went darker. It thrashed its head side to side, retching noises accompanying each shake.