Deaths Shadow

by Darren Shan

  “Beranabus,” I answer quietly. “The Bran we never saw. The demon side that he kept shackled. This is what he would have looked like if he’d let his father’s genes run free, if he’d chosen the way of the Demonata.”

  Beranabus lashes the Shadow with his tail. The spikes rip through the shadowy wisps of its body, the teeth snapping at it, tearing open holes. The Shadow shrieks angrily but the holes quickly close and the beast fights without pause, smothering Beranabus with its tentacles.

  Dervish, Sharmila, and I are by the doorway. We should take advantage of the situation and race up the stairs. But we’re mesmerized. We can’t flee without knowing the outcome. Sharmila clears the stairs of zombies to keep the route out of the hold open, but she doesn’t take her eyes off the battling pair.

  “Can he control himself like that?” she asks quietly as the behemoths wrestle.

  “Not for long,” I whisper. “This is the first time he’s completely unchained his beastly half. If he maintains that shape and lets the monster run free too long, it will take over.”

  “How much time does he have?” Dervish asks.

  “He doesn’t know. He’s not even sure he can turn back again. Maybe he’s given it too much freedom. The Beranabus we knew could be gone forever. He might turn against us and work with the Shadow to destroy mankind.”

  Dervish and Sharmila stare at me as if I’m the one who’s changed shape.

  “Why would he take such a risk?” Sharmila gasps.

  “He had to. I’ll explain later. If we survive.”

  The beast that was Beranabus shrugs free of the Shadow’s tentacles and staggers away. For an awful moment I think that he’s about to attack us. But then he bellows at the Shadow and darts past it, making for the lodestone.

  “Ah!” Sharmila exclaims with sudden hope. “If he breaks the stone . . .”

  “. . . the Shadow will be sucked back to its own universe,” I finish.

  “We hope,” Dervish adds gloomily.

  Finding its path to me unexpectedly clear, the Shadow lunges forward, eager to finish me off. Then it pauses. It doesn’t glance back — as I noted earlier, it doesn’t have a face — but it’s somehow analyzing Beranabus. There’s a brief moment of consideration — can it kill me and steal the power of the Kah-Gash before Beranabus breaks the stone?

  The Shadow decides the odds are against it and reverses direction, launching itself at the transformed magician. It catches him just before he reaches the lodestone. The pair spin past. Beranabus roars with frustration as he shoots beyond his target. The Shadow whips him with its tentacles. Deep cuts open across his arms and legs, and many of the protective scales on his chest and back shatter under the force of the blows.

  Just before they fly out of striking distance of the lodestone, Beranabus’s tail twitches. The tip catches a notch in the stone and Beranabus jerks to a halt. The Shadow loses its grip and ends up in a heap. It’s back on its tentacles within seconds, but Beranabus has already jerked himself within reach of the lodestone.

  He grabs the stone with his massive hands and exerts great pressure, trying to snap it in half. There’s a cracking sound, and a split forms in the uppermost tip of the rock. But then it holds and although Beranabus strains harder, it doesn’t divide any further.

  The Shadow hurls itself at Beranabus and lands on his back. Tendrils jab at him from all directions, destroying his scaly armor, penetrating the flesh beneath. One of his grey eyes pops. Several of his fangs are ripped from his jaw. Blood flies from him in jets and fountains.

  Beranabus howls with agony, but otherwise ignores the assault and focuses on the lodestone. He’s still trying to tear it in two. The stone is pulsing. The split at the top increases a few inches. The gap’s just wide enough for Beranabus to jam his unnaturally large fingers into it. Snapping at the Shadow with the remains of his fangs, he transfers his grip to the crack, gets the tips of all his fingers inside, and tugs.

  There’s a creaking sound, then a snapping noise, and the stone splits down the middle to about a third of the way from the top. Beranabus yells with triumph, wraps both arms around the severed chunk of rock and rips it free of the lodestone, tossing it to the floor like an oversized ball of waste.

  The Shadow screeches and scuttles after the rock, perhaps hoping to reattach it. I quickly unleash my power and send the piece of stone shooting across the hold. It smashes into the side of the ship and explodes in a cascade of pebbly splinters.

  Beranabus roars with ghastly, demonic laughter and bites into one of the Shadow’s tentacles. As he rips it off, another tendril strikes the side of his head and slices through to his brain. The triumph that had blossomed within me vanishes instantly.

  “Bran!” I scream, and dart towards him. Dervish holds me back.

  The Shadow strikes repeatedly at Beranabus in a tempestuous rage. It gouges great chunks of flesh from his chest and stomach. Scraps of lung, slivers of a heart and other internal organs splatter the broken lodestone. Then, in a childish sulk, the Shadow tosses him aside like an old doll it’s finished playing with.

  The demonic beast that Beranabus has become rolls over several times before coming to a rest near the side of the hull. Again I try to race to his aid, but Dervish has a firm hold and doesn’t let go even when I bite him.

  Beranabus raises his huge, transformed, scaly head. He glances at the Shadow and the lodestone with his one bulbous grey eye and grins. Then his head swivels and he looks for me. When he finds me struggling with Dervish, his grin softens, and I see a trace of the Beranabus I knew in the expression. I also see the boy he once was — scatterbrained Bran. He smiles at me foolishly, the way Bran used to, and gurgles something. I think he’s trying to say “Flower.”

  Then the grey light in his eye dims and extinguishes. The smile turns into a tired sneer. He coughs up yellow blood and tries to drag himself forward. But the strength drains from his arms. His body sags. A jagged breath dances from his lips, and his head drops. By the time his forehead connects with the cold steel floor of the hold, the three-thousand-year-old legend is part of this world no more.

  GOING DOWN

  IN desperation the Shadow clambers after me, but a funnel has formed in the water beneath the broken lodestone. It stretches far down and whirls violently, creating a magical vacuum that drags at the mass of shadows. The beast’s rear tentacles are stiff behind it, drawn towards the vortex, and its body begins to lengthen and narrow. The creature strains against it, but the vacuum is too strong. There are laws that even the Shadow has to obey, at least for the time being.

  In a rush, and with a hateful shriek, the Shadow’s ripped away. It smashes through the lodestone, shattering the remains of the rock, and disappears down the funnel, howling all the way. Moments later the funnel collapses in on itself as swiftly as it formed.

  I want to rush to Beranabus’s corpse and bid him farewell. I’m weeping, and all I want is to be by my dead friend’s side. But that’s not possible. Because now that the lodestone’s magic has evaporated, the shield keeping the sea at bay has started to give way.

  The fragments of the lodestone fall first, trickling through cracks in the invisible barrier. Water seeps up through the cracks, spreading neatly across the surface of the shield. Then one of the living dead stumbles and drops out of sight, as if crashing through a thin layer of ice.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!” Dervish shouts, hauling me through the door.

  “Beranabus!” I cry.

  “We can’t help him now,” Dervish pants. As he says it, the shield flickers out of existence and water floods the hold.

  The ship lurches. A wave of foaming water surges towards us, washing away the helpless bodies of the zombies. We should be washed away too, but Sharmila acts swiftly to avert catastrophe, establishing a barrier around us and the doorway. The wave breaks and seethes away, the sea temporarily cheated of its victims.

  “Quick,” Sharmila gasps, hopping up the stairs. “The magic is fading. The barrie
r will not hold.”

  She’s right. I can feel the energy ebbing away at a frightening rate. I look one last time for the body of Beranabus, but the ocean has already claimed it. Wiping tears from my cheeks, I hurry after Dervish and Sharmila, knowing that if we don’t climb sharply, we’ll soon be joining Beranabus in his watery grave.

  We move a lot slower going up than we did coming down. It’s not just the fact that we’re climbing. We’re tired and drained. We were fine when the air was thick with magic, but the unnatural energy is fading fast.

  We’re halfway up the second flight of stairs when I hear the sea gush up the corridors behind us. I’ve no idea how long we have. I imagine it would usually take a ship this size at least a couple of hours to sink, but the hole in the hull was extremely large.

  The zombies are still going strong. The strange magic of the Shadow that reanimated them is fading slower than the energy we were tapping into. While we’re rapidly weakening, the zombies haven’t been significantly affected.

  We don’t use bolts of magic anymore or arrogantly dismiss them with a wave of a hand. We’re reduced to close-quarters fighting. We can still repel them with our charged fists and feet — the magic hasn’t disappeared entirely — but there are thousands of zombies. If we’re still here when the last of the energy fades, they’ll swamp us. Unless the sea claims us first.

  Sharmila’s second leg fragments. She pumps magic into it to hold the bones and scraps of flesh together.

  “Don’t bother,” Dervish grunts, lifting her. “Save your energy. Get on my back. I’ll be your legs. You keep the zombies off.”

  “What about your heart?” Sharmila shouts.

  “It’ll hold for a while.”

  I can move much quicker than Dervish now that he’s burdened with Sharmila. I’m tempted to race ahead of them, up through the ship, away from the encroaching water. But they’re my friends, and they wouldn’t desert me if I was in their position. If it becomes necessary to flee, I will. But as long as there’s a chance we might all make it out alive, I’ll stick with them.

  I take the lead, knocking flailing, snarling zombies out of our way, pushing ahead, the undead humans crowding the staircase behind and in front. I should feel fear in the face of such warped, nightmarish foes, but my emotions are focused on Beranabus — there’s only room within me for mourning.

  I can’t believe he’s dead. It’s hard to imagine a world without the ancient magician. He’s been mankind’s savior for longer than anyone should have to serve. What will we do without him? I doubt the Disciples can repel the waves of Demonata attacks by themselves. Beranabus believed our universe created heroes in times of need. If that’s true, perhaps someone will replace him. But it’s hard to picture anybody taking the magician’s place. He was one of a kind.

  We hit another level. I’m about to lurch up the next set of stairs when I spot Kirilli Kovacs tussling with a gaggle of zombies. He’s in bad shape, bitten and scratched all over. A dozen of the living dead surround him.

  I should leave him. He doesn’t really deserve to be rescued, and I can’t afford to waste any of my dwindling power. But I can’t turn my back on a man just because he’s a coward. Kirilli didn’t betray or undermine us — he simply gave in to fear, as many people would have.

  Drawing on my reserves, I mutter a spell and gesture at the zombies packed around Kirilli. They fly apart, and a path opens. “Run!” I yell. Kirilli doesn’t need to be told twice. He stumbles clear of the zombies and is by my side moments later. Blood cakes his face, but his eyes are alert behind the red veil. He starts to say something.

  “No time for talking,” I snap. “Get up those stairs quick, and if you fall, I’ll leave you.”

  Kirilli flinches, draws a breath, then darts ahead of me, taking pole position, staggering up the seemingly endless flights of steps towards the upper deck and its promise of escape.

  As we’re forcing our way up another staircase clogged with zombies, Dervish gasps and collapses to his knees. One hand darts to his chest. I think it’s the end of him, but Sharmila presses her hands over his and channels magic into his heart. She pulls a stricken face as she helps — the magic she’s directing into his flesh means she has less to ward off the pain in her legs. But she has no real choice. Without Dervish to carry her, she’s doomed.

  Kirilli is struggling with the zombies. He’s weak and afraid. He lashes out at them wildly, not preserving his energy or channeling it wisely. I’ve tried warning him, but he either doesn’t hear me or can’t respond. He knows only one thing — he has to go up. That’s tattooed on his brain, driving him on.

  Thankfully the walking corpses are moving more like regular zombies now. Their magic is fading. The attacks are clumsier, less coordinated. But they’re still on their feet, our scent thick in their nostrils, licking their lips at the thought of biting into our soft, juicy brains.

  As we hit the last step of another flight, Kirilli screams something unintelligible. I’m exhausted, but I push forward in reply to his cry, fearing the worst. But when I clear the step, I realize it was a yell of exhilaration, not dismay. We’re back at the upper deck.

  The ship is lurching at a worrysome angle, and the deck is littered with hordes of zombies. But we get a fresh burst of hope when we breathe the fresh, salty air.

  Dervish lays Sharmila down and squats beside her. “I need . . . a minute,” he wheezes, face ashen, rubbing his chest.

  “We can’t stop,” Kirilli shrieks, knocking over a zombie in uniform who’s either the ship’s captain or a highly placed mate.

  “Shut up,” I growl, and crouch next to Dervish. “Let me help.”

  “No,” he mutters. “Save your magic . . . for yourself.”

  “Don’t be a fool.” I shove his hands away and rest my left palm on his chest. I pump magic into him, enough to keep him from keeling over.

  “Do you know the way back to Kernel?” Sharmila asks, wincing from the pain in her thighs. They’re bleeding at the stumps, the flesh we knotted together in the demon universe coming undone.

  “Yes.” I grin at her. “Perfect memory, remember?”

  She returns the smile, but shakily. “Perhaps you should leave me here.”

  “We’re not leaving anyone behind,” I say firmly. “Except maybe Kirilli.”

  He stares at me with a wounded expression. “I hope you don’t —” he starts.

  “Not now,” I stop him. My cheeks are dry. I must have stopped weeping at some point coming up the stairs. The ship is slipping farther into the water. The angle of the deck to the sea is increasing steadily. Kernel’s at the end of the ship that is rising. If we don’t act quickly, we won’t make it.

  “Come on,” I command. “One last push. We can rest once we slip through the window.”

  Dervish sighs wearily but staggers to his feet. He reaches for Sharmila. “Wait,” I tell him, and glance fiercely at Kirilli. “It’s time you proved yourself worthy of rescue. Carry her.”

  “But I have a bad back,” he protests. “I never lift anything heavier than —”

  “Carry her,” I repeat myself, “or I’ll cut your legs off, glue them to Sharmila, and let her walk out of here on your feet.”

  Kirilli gives a little cry of horror. He suspects I’m bluffing, but he’s uncertain.

  “I am not that heavy,” Sharmila chuckles. “Especially without my legs.”

  “We’re nearly there,” I tell the stage magician. “You won’t have to carry her far.”

  “Very well,” Kirilli snaps. “But if I throw my back out of joint, I’ll sue.” He flashes me a feeble grin and picks up Sharmila. I help settle her on his back, then push through the zombies converging on us, lashing out with both my small fists, praying for the strength to stay on my feet long enough to guide us all to safety.

  I’m almost fully drained. Only a sheer stubborn streak keeps me going. I refuse to fall this close to the end. It happened before, in the cave all those centuries ago. I almost made it out. I coul
d see the exit as the rock ground shut around it. It was horrible to come up short with freedom in sight. I won’t taste that defeat again.

  Deck chairs and unbolted fixtures slide down the deck. Some of the zombies topple and slide too. Extra obstacles for us to dodge. The end of the ship continues to rise out of the water. A few more minutes and the angle will be too steep to climb. We’ll slip backwards to perish with the zombies when the ship’s dragged under.

  We catch sight of the swimming pool. The window’s still open, and Kernel’s in front of it. But he’s struggling with a zombie. There are dozens around him and the window, separated from them by a circle of magic. But one has pierced his defenses and is wrestling with him.

  “Kernel!” I cry. “Hold on. We’re almost with you. We —”

  Kernel shouts something in response. He tries to tear himself away from the zombie, then reaches for its head to rip it loose — it’s only attached by jagged strips of flesh to the neck. There’s a flash of blinding light and we all cover our eyes, Kirilli dropping Sharmila out of necessity.

  When I open my eyes a few seconds later, it’s like looking at a bright light through several layers of plastic. I blink furiously to clear my vision. When I can see properly, I look for Kernel. The circle where he was is still in place. The zombies around it are all momentarily sightless, stumbling into each other, rubbing their eyes.

  But the window is gone. And where it stood — where Kernel and the zombie were battling — is an ugly swill of tattered flesh, clumps of guts, fragments of bones, and several pints of wasted human blood.

  THE ONLY WAY

  STUNNED , I stare at the spot where Kernel and the window were. I’m not sure what happened. Where did the explosion of light come from? Are those the remains of Kernel and the zombie, or just one of them? Did Kernel slip through the window before it closed or did he perish here, the window blinking out of existence along with its creator?

  “Is he dead?” Dervish roars, smashing the nose of a zombie that was about to sink its teeth into my skull.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sharmila?”

  She shakes her head uncertainly.

  Dervish doesn’t bother to ask Kirilli. He glances around, desperation lending a wild look to his already strained features. “The lifeboats,” he mutters. “We have to get away from here or we’ll be sucked under.”