Chaos Descends

by Shane Hegarty

  As he took his first small, faltering steps on to the bridge, Broonie couldn’t help but gulp. The freezing wind whipped at him, buffeted him, tried to force him over the edge. It took many terrifying minutes to reach the other side, and even in his desperation Broonie felt a large measure of relief that he hadn’t died. Yet.

  They had reached a long ridge that swept along at the base of a sheer wall of rugged, deep brown stone. They were so tight against it that even looking up, it was impossible to get a sense of how far up it jutted, only that there was wall, and there was cloud, and they met at a sharp angle somewhere high above.

  They waited for the Fomorian soldiers to haul the catapult carefully across the narrow bridge, the stone of the structure crumbling under its wheels as it occasionally teetered dramatically close to disaster.

  Broonie heard a deep rumbling. It took him a few moments to realise it wasn’t coming from the catapult, but from deep within the stone facing them.

  He listened carefully, felt a thud that shook the loose tooth in his head.

  Sweat ran down his brow, through his wild eyebrows, tickling the edge of his eyes. He pulled at his manacles to try and swipe it away, but couldn’t.

  The catapult finally joined them on the ridge, pulled by four clearly relieved Fomorians who were roped to it. They were all squeezed on to the ledge now, with little room to move except for the space carved out by the jolting of Gantrua’s Sleipnir.

  “You think we brought the catapult to attack something?” Gantrua called down to Broonie. “No. It is to defend ourselves against what lies within.”

  Gantrua stroked the neck of the Sleipnir, calming its clear agitation. “It took us many, many years to cross to the far side of the Chasm of Bewilderness. And when we arrived we realised why this chasm was here in the first place. It was dug with bare claws millennia ago, to keep the rest of the world safe.”

  “Safe from what?” asked Broonie.

  “Something beautiful,” said Gantrua, a wry smile apparent even within the ranks of teeth at his grille.

  Trom and Cryf hurriedly moved to opposite sides of the wall, and began to push at slabs almost indistinguishable from the filthy rock surrounding it. With a sound not unlike a mountain being torn in two, the great stone wall began to part. It was no wall, Broonie realised, but a pair of mammoth doors, creaking as they opened, so tall their tops seemed to drag at the clouds above.

  As they slowly parted, the doors forced aside rubble that danced away down the edge of the mountain and into the chasm below, until eventually they were opened fully. It revealed something that greatly surprised Broonie.

  More doors.

  These were equally as formidable as the stone ones that had just opened, but were made instead of iron beams bracing tight ranks of the widest tree trunks Broonie had ever seen.

  Gantrua nodded a signal, and the Fomorian ranks stepped forward to pull at thick ropes hanging from the handles. The soldiers heaved and hauled and grunted and strained as these doors commenced their slow grind open, revealing a space beyond, a great square of dim daylight and more cliff ledge. And, beyond that, something that made Broonie’s heart sink.

  “Oh look, more doors,” he remarked, long ago having lost his fear of showing such cheek to Gantrua. “Is it doors all the way down? Any chance of a window or two?”

  He earned a clap on the back of the head for that comment, and was perversely pleased to get it because he felt it a reward of sorts for his continued bravado in the face of mounting disaster.

  Gantrua stepped towards the door. “Don’t worry, Hogboon, in a few moments you will be wishing that doors were all you would ever see for the rest of your life.” While still looking at Broonie, he landed three mighty thumps on this latest door.

  The crunching response from the other side was so sudden, so deep, that every Fomorian except Gantrua recoiled. Broonie’s fright was evident in the rattle of his manacles and inwardly he felt every organ of his body almost leap back of its own accord. His heart beat heavier. His lungs heaved harder. His blood pumped faster. His brain made a greater effort to shut itself down and leap from his ears and run away to safety.

  “What,” he asked through a dry mouth. “Is. That?”

  A figure appeared beside him, emerging from the throng. Broonie had not seen him before, had no recollection of his presence during this arduous journey. He was not Fomorian. He did not have their face. Nor their head. He did not have a head at all.

  Instead, he had a brass plate across his chest, a gouge across it, and burrowed within it were two eyes. Broonie knew this fellow was a Blemmyes, a member of a tribe few had seen, but who had a reputation for doing the dangerous jobs no one else liked to do.

  The rest of his leathery skin featured an impressive array of scars and scratches, some old, some new enough to still glisten with congealed blood.

  The Blemmyes pulled a slat across the chest plate, roughly where his ribs might normally have ended. It revealed a mouth. “He’ll have to do, suppose,” he said. “Bit chewy. Smells of …” he sniffed at Broonie, “… stupid.”

  “And who are you, judging me with a nose where your belly button should be?” asked the insulted Hogboon.

  “Wrangler.”

  “Funny name,” said Broonie.

  “No. Wrangler. My job.” He slapped his chest plate. “Wrangler.”

  “Wrangler of what?” said Broonie, only now fully appreciating that this odd fellow was also missing a chunk from his right forearm.

  The Blemmyes pointed to the door. “That.”

  Thunk.

  The sound vibrated through the floor and walls, sending tiny rocks dropping from the ceiling far above. It was followed by what appeared to be a growl. Or a snort. Or a grort. Several of them. Broonie began to wonder if there wasn’t more than one creature in there.

  Those manning the catapult began to get busy about it, pulling boulders from the rear and lifting the largest awkwardly into its cup.

  Gantrua waved the rest of the Fomorians away, and they retreated, pulling the wood and stone doors closed behind them so those left in the high, narrow corridor in the rock were only Broonie, Gantrua, the Wrangler and an emergency catapult primed for launch.

  “She quite nice when you get to know her,” said the Wrangler.

  “Who?” asked Broonie.

  Ahead of them the doors were already opening, revealing a huge cavern carved into the mountain, lit by the meek daylight trickling in through a small hole in the roof far above. In the darkness beyond there was the sound of deep, growling breaths. Several of them.

  From a terrifying height, a head snapped into the light, a fang-lined snout on a long crimson head. Broonie jumped back.

  “Careful,” said the Wrangler. “It bites.”

  Another two heads appeared from the darkness, snapped at the Hogboon.

  “They all do,” said the Wrangler. He slammed shut the slot over his mouth.

  Into the light lurched a creature so big Broonie couldn’t take it all in. A Legend he’d heard of but never seen. One he’d never wanted to ever come near. He stared at it, his jaw hanging open in shock.

  With all fourteen eyes of its seven heads, the Hydra stared right back.

  One by one, they dropped into the hole after Gerald. Hugo, then Clara, and finally Emmie and Finn.

  A metal ladder brought them down a narrow tube and, before they had reached the bottom, the suit of armour above slid over again leaving them clinging on in complete darkness until, slowly, soft yellow light began to rise.

  “Tunnels,” said Finn, making out the shape of the corridor curving away from them.

  “Very old tunnels,” said Hugo. “Two hundred years old in fact. There was an incident before that when lots of Legends invaded Darkmouth, and the entire population tried to hide in one farmer’s cowshed, but there wasn’t room for everyone, even after they kicked both the cow and the farmer out. So they built these. The idea was that the population of Darkmouth could hide in here until a batt
le was over and the all-clear was given.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about them?” Finn asked.

  “It could be dangerous down here after so much time. I didn’t want you running around, treating it like a playground.”

  Gerald’s frame almost filled the tunnel in front of them. “While we would all love to stand around chatting, this town has very little time until it is invaded by beings from between worlds. We need to move.”

  He walked off.

  Clara shook her head. “You know, Finn, now I’ve met this man, at least a few things about your dad are beginning to make sense.”

  “I heard that,” said Hugo.

  They followed Gerald deep into the tunnels. Above them, they could hear the footsteps, voices, vehicles of Darkmouth. But at this depth it was warm, the sound muted by curved brick walls with stone seats cut into them and the occasional sign on faded wooden boards pointing towards exits or telling people not to smoke.

  Finn pushed at a loose door, and inspected the chamber inside. Emmie followed and they examined the cupboard filled with shelves of tinned food and old sheets and coats. Finn picked up a can that bore the words Industrial Tomato Sauce in big black letters on a plain white label.

  “My stomach churns just thinking about how this tastes after whatever amount of time all this has been down here,” said Finn.

  “Three weeks actually,” said Hugo, putting his head round the door. “The local supermarket was getting rid of these tins and the owner thought, rather than waste them, they could come in handy if, you know, the world was ending or whatever.”

  Emmie held up a can of Auntie Maisy’s Just-Like-Celery Soup. “I think I’d rather take my chances with the Legends up there.”

  Back in the corridor, they passed beneath more hatches. “Each one leads into a part of Darkmouth,” explained Hugo. “A phone box covers one. A bin another. You know the big plastic ice-cream cone outside the ice-cream kiosk? It’s right above us. Pull the chocolate flake on it and it’ll slide directly across.”

  Next to most of these hatches, Finn noticed, were signs with unusually worded warnings.

  “Delightful,” said Clara. “But they do make me wonder: if the tunnels are meant to be a place to hide when Legends invade, then what’s the plan if the Legends get in here with you?”

  “They won’t,” said Gerald, affronted. “We’ll keep them out. That’s our job. Legend Hunters built the tunnels, but they were never meant for us. Civilians hide. We fight. That’s the natural order of the world. Which is why I have brought you here. To show you something that could come in very useful. And here we are …”

  Gerald had led them to a narrow corridor off the main tunnel, at the end of which was a metal door with a sign saying

  Ignoring the warning, he pushed down hard on the rusted handle, yanked open the door and led them into a dark room lit only by the low blue glow of the liquid contained in a giant steel-rimmed vat at the centre.

  Hugo looked as surprised as anyone, his mouth hanging open. “Desiccator fluid? Why didn’t you mention this before?” he asked.

  “Because I’ve been dead,” Gerald answered with immeasurable gruffness. “And if it was ever necessary to bring me back—”

  “It wasn’t,” said Hugo, but Finn didn’t think he sounded as convinced now as he did before.

  “—then I needed a fail-safe, something that would help us in what would clearly be a very serious crisis.”

  “But what use is all this against Mr Glad?” asked Clara, her face lit by the low glimmer of blue. “If he’s a ghost or whatever, how can you desiccate something that’s not really there?”

  “Because in order to do anything here, in the real world,” explained Gerald, “the Trapped must become real themselves. And if they’re real they can be desiccated. We have a Desiccannon. We have Desiccator fluid.” He placed his hand on a large tap sticking from the vat, slapped it with satisfaction. “And, once the Trapped appear, we will have them.”

  “And my dad,” said Emmie, hope-fuelled excitement filling her now.

  “Yes, well …” said Gerald, half-hearted.

  Finn noticed a few things. He noticed how his father looked at the floor at that moment, as if something wasn’t quite right. He noticed how mightily pleased Gerald was with himself, the lines of his face stretched flat with puffed-up pride. And he noticed that the vat of fluid went through the ceiling, as if going up into the street above. But it couldn’t be. Finn would have noticed a tank of Desiccator fluid in the middle of town.

  “Where’s the rest of the vat?” he asked.

  “Follow me and I’ll show you,” said Gerald, walking back into the main tunnel, where he stood at a choice of two corridors. “We’ll go up this one over there.” He led them to a ladder leading to another hatch.

  “You sure you want to go up that way?” Hugo said. “She won’t be happy.”

  “Who won’t be happy?” asked Clara.

  But Gerald didn’t hear – he’d already gone up the ladder, followed by Clara, Emmie and Hugo. Finn was last. Eventually clambering back above ground, he found himself facing a shabby shopfront dummy in the window of the local fashion store. The dummy, with a straw-like wig askew on its bald head and a long lime dress hanging loosely from its frame, looked somewhat nonplussed to have been shoved aside.

  Finn turned around to find the shop’s owner staring at them all.

  “I am not happy with this,” said the owner.

  As he tried to shuffle aside, Finn almost lost his balance, but righted himself by grabbing the dummy’s arm. It came off in his hand. Clara roughly pulled the dummy back into position.

  “I am not happy at all,” added the shop owner.

  “Sorry,” said Clara.

  “Me too,” said Finn, making a brief and vain attempt to push the dummy’s arm back into its socket, but giving up and instead handing it to the very unimpressed owner as the five of them climbed from the window display and left through the shop door. “Very sorry.”

  The owner slammed the door so hard behind them the little bell fell off its hinge and tinkled to the ground. In the window display, the mannequin’s head toppled off.

  On the street, Gerald pointed at the grey obelisk tapering skywards. “You think that was built just to make the town look pretty?” he asked and walked over to it, stepping through the flowers around its base.

  “The fluid’s inside the obelisk?” said Finn.

  “Actually, it’s filled with raspberry jelly,” said Gerald. “Yes, it’s full of fluid.”

  Finn stared at the monument. He’d passed it day after day, treated it as little more than a colourful roundabout. And inside it, all this time, a great vat of Desiccator fluid.

  “To desiccate all four of the Trapped, we will need to flood the sky with fluid. The bombs will do that, and still leave us a bit to spare,” Hugo said.

  Gerald grunted. Maybe.

  “So that’s the plan?” asked Clara. “You’re going to bomb the sky. And what if that doesn’t work?”

  “It will,” insisted Gerald.

  “We do need a Plan B,” admitted Hugo. “Do you remember that time when we were attacked by those wolf-like Grendels and you thought a dog whistle would distract them, but it only drove them mad?”

  “I don’t remember you having a better plan.”

  “I was six years old.”

  “Pfft,” said Gerald. “You always had an excuse. Why couldn’t you be more like these young ones? They’ve been to the Infested Side and survived.”

  “So have I,” said Hugo. “Twice.”

  “But not when you were eight years old like Finn.”

  “I’m thirteen tomorrow!”

  “So tell me, Hugo,” Gerald said, ploughing on, “do you have a better plan?”

  “I do,” said Clara.

  “With all due respect, Clara—” started Gerald.

  “Don’t,” said Clara, holding up her hand. “Because the words ‘with all due respect’ are inevi
tably followed by words showing no respect whatsoever. Your problem, or rather one of your growing number of problems, is that you look at me and think I’m just a civilian. Regardless of how much time I’ve lived with a Legend Hunter. Longer, as it happens, than any of you have. But you’re ignoring the one special skill I have, which is that I’m not a Legend Hunter. I don’t think like a Legend Hunter. I don’t act like a Legend Hunter. And I am not always looking for a fight like a Legend Hunter. And I can see the plan you’re not seeing.”

  Finn felt the warmth of pride flood him. His mother had faced bigger monsters than this. He stepped beside her, almost without realising it, because it made him feel stronger under Gerald’s glare.

  “What’s your plan?” Hugo asked.

  “Mr Glad is coming in …” She looked at Finn.

  He checked his watch. “… less than ninety minutes.”

  “And he has the power to trap anyone he touches. But you have these tunnels, built to evacuate the townspeople,” she said. “So use them.”

  Broonie had reached a point in his life where he would use the wildest edges of his imagination to think of the absolute worst, most insane, most unlikely things that could possibly happen to him. And then, when he’d thought of them, he tried to imagine something worse.

  Even in his most fevered, most beaten-up, most desperate moments, he had never imagined himself in a large cavern on the far side of the Chasm of Bewilderness. Strapped to the bucking back of a Hydra.

  He had been forced to climb up on to this great beast and strap himself into the harness on its back, his feet locked into the stirrups, his hands manacled to reins that were so small they clearly did nothing to control the Hydra, but simply offered Broonie something to hold on to so he didn’t fall to his death.

  “Hydras have some very particular traits,” Gantrua had explained as the Wrangler used a very large pronged stick to keep the beast in relative stability in the corner while Broonie climbed up to it. “When they are born, they attach themselves to the very first creature they see, and they will always protect its kind from there on in. It just so happens that the very first creature this Hydra saw was a Hogboon. A snivelling, knock-kneed Hogboon just like you.”