by V M Jones
‘Yeah,’ I croaked. ‘More than.’ I could taste the shroud in my mouth, thick as treacle, tinny and metallic as blood.
There was a sharp tug on the rope. If it hadn’t been for the double loop, it would have jerked loose for sure. Jamie, getting impatient — or worried. Then the rope went totally slack, and my heart stopped. What was he playing at? But then the pressure was there again, steady and strong, pulling me backwards out of the shroud like a fish on a line. I grinned, dizzy with relief. Good old Jamie! I was more than ready to breathe fresh air again.
We turned and took the few shuffling steps back to where the others were waiting for us. In moments the shroud gave way to the greyness of dusk … and with a numbing surge of terror I saw what had been reeling us in.
Not Jamie.
A hooded figure lurched out of the gloom, its cloak flapping like broken wings as it clutched for me. My mind took a split-second snapshot of the motionless bodies of the others on the ground, faces white as death, dark shapes hunched over them like vultures at the kill. I gasped out one strangled cry of warning — too late.
The rope jerked and I stumbled helplessly forward into the suffocating embrace of the Faceless. The empty cowl of the hood bore down on me; a gust of fetid breath and the stench of carrion engulfed me. Something soft and smothering clamped over my face … and I was falling into a darkness deeper than the darkness of the shroud.
Awareness floated towards the surface of my mind, then drifted down again, rocking gently like a coin sinking into a deep pond. With the rocking came a hollow, pea-green queasiness that was part memory, part dread. I lay still, breathing shallowly, my heart thudding like a hammer in my chest. Where was I? Where were the others? And where were … they?
I opened my eyelids a chink. Utter blackness. My ears strained for a sound, but it was as if I’d gone deaf — they had a weird, tightly-packed feeling as if they were stuffed with cotton wool, and I could taste shroud on my tongue.
I was sprawled half on my front, half on my side, with one arm bent painfully under me. Warily, I shifted my weight … felt metal grate on metal, and a sharp edge of cold steel dig into my wrist. Rough, splintery wood was bumping under my cheek with a familiar, regular vibration. I was moving. Being driven, in a cart, or a wagon … travelling through the shroud. Towards Shakesh. The Faceless were gone. I could feel it — knew it as surely as if it was broad daylight. The weight of another body was pressed against my back. It felt loose, floppy, boneless — either unconscious, or asleep. Let it be one of the others — please. Let them be OK.
Something brushed my face — the faintest breath. I breathed it in. Peppermint chewing gum. My hand groped over rough wood; felt the softness of wool, and the smooth warmth of skin. I felt my chains shift and clank; then slender fingers tightened on mine, and the peppermint breath gusted out again in a soft sigh. I lay holding Kenta’s hand, waiting.
Gradually the feel of the darkness began to change. The metallic stink of the shroud gave way to a heavier, dank reek. The vibrations changed from the jarring trundle of wheels over hard ground to a soggier, squishing resistance, as if we were travelling through sticky mud.
The dead weight lying against my back stiffened and shifted. Wriggled and squirmed, chains dragging. Suddenly it gave a convulsive heave, and a bullet-hard head smacked me on the nose, making my eyes water. Rich had woken up.
I closed my eyes against the darkness, shifted away from Rich’s bony elbow, and waited. There was nothing else I could do — for the moment at least.
I opened my eyes to the faintest grey beginning of light. Kenta’s face was pale as a ghost beside me; twisting my head, I could see other dark shapes huddled above me and at my feet. Up ahead, the broad back of a driver was silhouetted against the lifting darkness.
With every second it was lighter. Now I could see Kenta’s brave attempt at a smile and the tear-tracks on her cheeks; the path winding away into blackness behind us; a vast, broken expanse of water stretching away like puddles of ink on either side, smudged with paler patches of reed.
Then the last remnants of shroud were behind us. It was early morning, just before dawn. The sky boiled with clouds, red-rimmed and shot with purple and gold. Ahead it was blotted out by the brooding silhouette of a massive, blunt-topped mountain, rearing out of the surrounding swamp.
And on its summit crouched Shakesh — not the bustling city I’d imagined, but a grim fortress surrounded by black walls, as dark and menacing as a giant tarantula about to spring.
A chill shadow fell over my face, and the rumbling vibration of the wheels changed to the jarring rattle of iron rims on rough stone. We lurched to a stop with a final bone-rattling bump. Armoured figures loomed over us. Rough hands grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and threw me to the ground. Fingers twisted cruelly into my hair, almost tearing it out by the roots. My head was turned one way and then the other and the packing that had been rammed in my ears was ripped out.
I couldn’t understand it — a blindfold would have made sense, but why block our ears? What could there have been to overhear? But I was glad to be able to hear again — the grate of hooves on stone; the clank of chains; the snarling orders of the guards. And a strange whoofling sound …
Sprawled on the cobblestones, I stared at the creatures drawing the cart. They were the size of small horses, with antennae like snails, telescoping in and out … long, trunks snuffling and questing … and pleated folds of skin instead of eyes … So this is how they find their way through the shroud.
A boot connected with my ribs. I struggled to my feet, rusty iron manacles weighing down my arms and dragging at my legs. Rich was flung out of the cart beside me onto hands and knees, glaring daggers at the guard; then Kenta. Jamie scrambled awkwardly down, red-eyed and trying hard not to cry. Gen came last, head held high and eyes blazing, yanking her arm away from the guard’s hand with a furious toss of her head. There was no sign of Weevil.
We were in a gloomy, cobbled courtyard. A heavy chill hung in the air, more than just the cold of early morning. Rough stone walls reared skywards, streaked with dark patches of greasy slime. The deep shadow of the corners was stippled with creeping black mildew, edged with early morning frost.
A rattling rumble made me lumber awkwardly round. A massive portcullis was grinding its slow way down. I stared wildly round the claustrophobic space. Every instinct screamed at me to run — but there was nowhere to run to. With a final protesting squeal the portcullis thudded to rest … and a door, deeply recessed in the wall of the curved tower behind us, slowly opened. We wheeled round to face it.
The doorway was almost blocked by a huge figure cloaked in black. For a long moment he stood staring down at us, eyes in deep shadow. At last he spoke. ‘This is Shakesh, Seat of His Eternal Excellency High King Karazeel of Karazan.’ The words were cold and hard as steel. ‘Look your last on the light of day. Take them below!’
Two guards emerged from the dark doorway. Jamie was shoved roughly in the back, stumbling forward into the shadows. Kenta and Gen were seized and thrown after him, stumbling over their heavy iron shackles.
‘Hey — you don’t have to —’ Rich stepped forward with fists clenched, scowling furiously. The chief guard raised one gauntleted hand and smashed it across Rich’s face in a brutal backhander that echoed across the courtyard with a sickening thunk. Richard dropped to the ground like a stone, the livid, mottled imprint of the steel glove on his cheek.
One of the guards hefted Richard’s limp body in a fireman’s lift and disappeared through the doorway. I shuffled after him onto a small, dark landing … then down a corkscrewing stairway lit by burning brands set deep into the walls. The steps were crumbling and slippery with damp, narrowing on the inside to a hand’s-width. The heavy iron chain between my feet clanked along behind me, dragging at my feet and threatening to trip me and send me headlong down the steep stairwell. I groped my way down, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the next, trying not to think about what lay ahead
.
After an eternity the stairway ended and we were shoved down a narrow stone corridor, through one clanking portcullis and then another, iron keys squealing in rusty locks. The passage opened into a wide rectangular chamber dimly lit by flickering torches. It stank of smoke and human waste, overlaying damp stone and the cold tang of fear. Moisture beaded the stone walls, trickling slowly downwards like tears.
We clanked to a halt, the rattle of our chains echoing into silence. Somewhere close by, something squealed and scrabbled away.
Along one long wall a rusty railing of iron bars stretched from the floor to the low stone ceiling, which pressed down on us … we were deep in the belly of the mountain. Beyond the bars, the narrow space was divided into smaller chambers — cells.
All of them were empty. If Hob was right — if Kai and Hannah had been brought here — they weren’t here now. I closed my mind to what that must mean.
A key shrieked in a lock; a barred door creaked open. The guard carrying Richard’s limp body shouldered his way in and dropped him on the floor, his head connecting with the stone with a crack that made me wince. The girls hurried after the guard, flinching away and keeping their faces down. Jamie sidled through the door and backed against the wall, his chin quivering. I stepped in after him. The door clanged shut; the key turned.
And suddenly the helpless despair weighing down on me gave way to red rage, familiar, wild, and welcome as an old friend. Without thinking — hardly knowing I was doing it — I strode to the bars and gripped them in my fists, shaking with all my might. ‘Let us out!’ I yelled. ‘Who do you think you are? At least bring us some food and blankets! We’ll freeze down here!’ I hammered on the bars with my fists, and kicked at them with my feet till my toes were bruised and numb.
There was the last distant rattle of an iron grill falling, and the hollow echo of retreating footsteps, punctuated by an exchange of deep voices and a burst of harsh laughter. ‘You’ve killed Richard! And what about Blue-bum?’ I was almost sobbing with helpless fury. ‘He’s out there somewhere, lost in the dark … and you don’t even care! And the others — where are they? What have you done with them?’ My voice rang out into the shadowy corners of the dungeon, the bleak walls bouncing my words back at me in a mocking echo.
And then my anger faltered and was gone as if it had never existed, leaving a hollow emptiness. It had all gone wrong — everything. Hot tears burned behind my eyes. I sank forward exhausted, hanging from the bars, feeling the cold fingers of the dungeon creep through my tattered clothes, through my skin, into the depths of my heart.
There was a long, long silence. Then a voice spoke behind me. ‘Adam?’
I turned stiffly, not daring to believe what I’d heard. It was Richard, the marks of the gauntlet still raw on his cheek. ‘Hey,’ he croaked with a crooked grin, ‘do you see what I see?’
Rich was pointing at my backpack, which was lying on top of a forlorn heap just inside the door, where the guards had dumped them. It twitched. Tipped. Rocked from side to side. Slowly, the flap of the bag lifted … and a pinky-brown monkey paw patted its way tentatively out. Followed by another … followed — very cautiously — by a single bright button eye.
Rich propped himself up on one elbow, his grin lighting up the gloom. ‘Why not relax and enjoy the free accommodation, Adam?’ he said huskily. ‘After all, we’re in Shakesh, where we wanted to be. We’ve got our sleeping bags, and plenty of chewing-gum … and now it looks like your old mate Blue-bum’s hitched a ride in your backpack.
‘What more could you want?’
The princess
We slept huddled together for comfort like a litter of puppies, as far from the door as we could get, without stirring or dreaming: the sleep of utter exhaustion.
But tired as I was, when I woke it was as abruptly as if someone had turned on a light bulb in my brain. One moment I was in deep sleep, dark and silent as the still water at the bottom of a well; the next, my brain was racing, every sense alert.
Voices — there were voices in the dungeon.
I lay there without so much as twitching, listening.
‘Be sure you understand the order of ceremony for the day.’ I recognised the voice instantly: deep and harsh, with a ring of authority. The chief guard. ‘First, the princess.’ He gave the word a strange, almost sneering emphasis. ‘A private audience — His Excellency is still amusing himself with her, or so it seems.’
‘First, the princess,’ repeated another, younger-sounding voice obediently.
‘She is already in the first holding chamber. Remember: private audience, drapes drawn. Then …’ there was the sound of parchment shuffling … ‘then we have these vermin — you will need to take them up to the second holding chamber.’
‘Should I clean ’em up? They’re awful stinky.’
‘Orders are that His Excellency wishes to see them as they came in.’
‘What will he do with ’em, do you think, Captain?’
‘Who knows? The Faceless found them sniffing about at the edge of the shroud. His Excellency has no mercy for interlopers — especially now, as the time draws nigh.’ He gave a cruel laugh. ‘We will not be guarding these long, I’ll warrant. Once they are done with, only the Mauler remains before mid-morning recess. Grilles closed, drapes open; Their Extreme Elegancies will wish to watch the display, but their safety is paramount. Be prepared to draw the drapes at a moment’s notice should the spectacle become too overwhelming.’
‘So: grilles closed, drapes open, but be ready to close ’em.’ A new note crept into the business-like exchange. ‘Captain … this Mauler. I’ve been up guardin’ the slaves workin’ on Arraz, and I ain’t seen it yet. Is it really all they say?’
‘All … and more. A killing machine. Teeth like sabres; talons of adamantine. Eyes of fire, and a body lithe and sleek as a spring … untameable, and ruthless in the pursuit of its prey. It is a savage beast spawned of your wildest nightmares; a legend sprung to life. Aye, the Mauler is a rare curiosity, a collector’s piece … and at present, His Excellency’s greatest diversion and indulgence.
‘But remember, as your life depends upon it: keep the guard-grilles closed. And now, make haste!’
I opened one eye a slit. There was a heavy wooden table against the wall opposite our cell — a guard-station, I guessed. It held an untidy scatter of parchments, a couple of dirty-looking tankards and platters, and a jumble of rusty-looking chains. A smoky lantern hung from a bracket on the wall above the table, with a grimy slate next to it. Though it was hard to tell in the dim light, it seemed to be divided into boxes I guessed must refer to the cells … or to the long rack of heavy iron keys fastened to the wall beside it.
A burly figure heaved itself up from one of the rough wooden chairs and unhooked the key second from the left. Hefting a thick metal truncheon, he crossed the wide gap between the table and our cell in three long strides and ran the truncheon along the iron bars of our cell with a rattling clang that brought the others leaping to their feet, wide awake in an instant.
In seconds, the door was flung open and we were herded out and down the narrow corridor between the wall and the line of cells — this time, in the opposite direction to which we’d come. We skirted a heavy metal grille set into the floor with a sickening, putrid smell wafting up from it. I noticed a narrow stairway leading steeply downwards to our left, into deep shadow. Instinctively, I shrank away, shuddering at the thought of what desolate depths it must lead to. An echoing chant wound up from the depths — the same few words endlessly repeated, with the hollow desperation of a mind clinging desperately to its last shreds of sanity. We huddled closer and hurried on.
Through one portcullis and another, to a circular tower with a spiral stairway leading upwards. Waiting our turn to join the file clanking its slow, cumbersome way up the steps, Rich and I exchanged a glance. We didn’t need words to know what the other was thinking. There was no way in the world we would ever escape from here. We’d be here for life,
as long as it lasted … if it wasn’t for the secret microcomputer, hidden in the depths of my backpack with Weevil curled on top of it, quiet as a mouse and hoping against hope not to be discovered.
We emerged from the top of the stairway into a curved passage. Our guard — a swarthy, bearded man in the black cloak which seemed to be the universal uniform of Shakesh — held one finger to his lips, indicating we should be silent … and then drew the edge of his hand across his neck to show what would happen if we weren’t. Still in single file, we crept after him as quietly as our clanking chains would allow.
The wall to our right was unbroken, but studded wooden doors led off at regular intervals on the left. We followed the curve till only two doors remained. Our guard opened the first of these and pushed us roughly through, bolting the door behind him.
We were in a small antechamber, about four metres square. On the rear wall was the door we’d come through; the two adjoining walls were bare. The third wall wasn’t stone, as the others were — it was a close-knit mesh of what looked like steel, intricately hinged and bolted … I guessed this was so that it could slide away to open the room to whatever lay beyond. On the far side of the grille was a heavy tapestry, drawn across like a curtain.
One thing was clear — for the time being at least, there was no opportunity to escape. Rich looked at me, raised one eyebrow, and shrugged. I shrugged back, and gave the others what I hoped was a cheerful grin. We were a pretty miserable-looking lot — pale with hunger and apprehension, faces smeared with dirt and dust from sleeping on the dungeon floor, clothes tattered and filthy.
I slid down so I was sitting with my back to the wall, a weirdly familiar feeling fluttering in my gut — and couldn’t help a wry grin when I realised what it was. Here, in the holding chamber awaiting an audience with King Karazeel of Karazan — an audience I had a hunch could only end badly — I had the same feeling of sinking dread I’d had on my many visits to the principal’s office. For some crazy reason, the thought made me feel a whole lot more cheerful.