by Darren Shan
“Four of them are currently out of contact.”
He reaches the door to the cellar and stops talking while he opens it with his elbows. Silence as we descend. I wait until we’re at the wine rack which hides the entrance to the secret passageway before asking, “And the sixth?”
“You’re the sixth,” he says, stepping forward into darkness.
The secret cellar. Five chess sets lie in place on the three tables, which we’ve shoved together, piling the books and other odds and ends on the floor. Dervish is lining up the pieces, making sure they’re in the right places. Bill-E’s still chewing on the deer carcass. He spits and snarls at us every so often.
Dervish hasn’t said anything since our trip down with the first two boards. We’ve worked silently, carting in the boards and pieces, clearing the tables and rearranging them. It’s only now, while I watch him adjust the pieces, that I work up the courage to broach the subject again.
“I still don’t understand why you want me to help. Why not wait for Meera to recover? You don’t have to stage the contest tonight, do you?”
“No,” Dervish says. “But waiting’s dangerous. Lord Loss can reverse the change, even in one who’s been a werewolf for several years. But often the mind can’t be restored. Every day we wait drives Bill-E closer to the point from which it’s not worth bringing him back.
“Besides,” he adds, “how would we explain his absence to his grandparents, teachers, the police? We’re in the middle of an unreal adventure, but we’re still part of the real world. Try telling a cop you’ve got a boy locked up in a cage because he’s a werewolf—see where it lands you!”
“I didn’t think of that.” I manage a sick smile, which quickly fades. “I’m just a kid,” I say quietly. “I wouldn’t be any good to you.”
Dervish wipes a spot of dust from the head of a king. “You’ve fought demons and lived to tell the tale. You’ve tapped into your magic potential. You can fight them on their own terms—even if you are just a kid,” he adds with a grin.
“I want to help,” I groan. “I’d do almost anything to get Bill-E out of the hell he’s in. But I saw Artery work Gret like a puppet, and—”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Dervish interrupts kindly. “You’re under no obligation. You came here to recover, not get dragged deeper into a nightmare. I shouldn’t have asked. And I wouldn’t have, except…”
He doesn’t finish, so I say it for him. “…except you need me.”
He shrugs. “Like I said, there’s a friend I can call. But I’d rather have you. If I told you anything else, I’d be a liar.”
Studying Bill-E as Dervish fetches weapons. His face and hands red with the deer’s blood. Patting his stomach. Smiling jaggedly. Gazing at me through unnatural yellow eyes.
Thinking about Lord Loss. Recalling the ferocious power and speed of Artery and Vein. Fearing for my uncle’s and brother’s lives.
Dervish enters with a small axe, a mace and a sword. Lays them on the floor with the others he’s already installed. Part of the rules—he can use as many weapons as he pleases.
“Would you want me to play chess or fight?” I ask, wishing I could keep my mouth shut.
“I’ve seen you play,” Dervish says. “No offence, but you’d have to fight—Lord Loss would crush you on the chess boards.”
“But you’d stand a better chance against Vein and Artery than me,” I counter. “You’re stronger and experienced. I know nothing about weapons or magic.”
“You don’t have to,” Dervish says. “The magic knows you. That’s what matters. You tapped into your potential when you faced the demons before. You’d tap into it again. Instinct.”
“But you’re the logical choice,” I insist. “You’d be better than me.”
Dervish nods sombrely. “Probably.”
“And your friend’s better at chess than me. So you fighting and him playing is the ideal partnership. Right?”
Dervish looks at me curiously. “You don’t have to talk yourself out of this,” he says. “You’ve said you don’t want to do it and I’ve accepted your decision.”
“But I feel lousy!” I cry. “Like I’m letting you down!”
“You’re not,” Dervish says. “Ability and potential mean nothing if the will to compete isn’t there.”
“But even if I had the will, you’d still be better off with the other guy, wouldn’t you?” I press, hoping he’ll agree.
Dervish shakes his head and doesn’t answer.
The room where Meera lies unconscious. Dervish tries again to wake her. Again he fails. He returns to his study, rubbing the back of his neck. Sitting behind his desk, he runs his fingers over a phone book. “Time to call my friend,” he says, glancing up at me. “Final chance to change your mind, Grubbs.”
I don’t say a word.
Dervish opens the book and searches for a number. “Pablo should be here within a few hours. You can go stay in the Vale if you want, but you don’t need to. You’ll be safe here. The demons won’t be able to leave the cellar.”
I don’t reply. Thinking of the battle to come. Filled with shame.
“If Pablo and I defeat Lord Loss and his familiars, but I lose the one-on-one fight later,” Dervish continues, “you’ll have to take care of me.”
“What?” I mumble.
“My body will survive if I lose the battle after the chess match,” he explains, “but my soul and mind won’t. I’ll be able to move about, but I won’t be capable of thought or speech. I won’t be able to shop, pay bills, cook, clean the house, etc. You’ll have to babysit me, or hire somebody to do it.”
Dervish taps a drawer in his desk. “The necessary forms and information sheets are here. Names and numbers of lawyers and bankers, details of various credit accounts. You have my permission—written as well as verbal—to manage my estate as you see fit, though a large portion will remain in the hands of your legal guardians until you come of age.”
“I don’t want your money,” I sniff.
“You won’t feel that way always,” he smiles. Picks up the phone. Hesitates. Lays it down. “One last thing. If things pan out bad, I’ll appear no better than a mindless robot. You might feel sorry for me, be tempted to put me out of my misery.”
“I wouldn’t do that!” I shout. “I’m not a killer! I couldn’t—”
“You could,” Dervish cuts me short. “Most people are capable of extreme actions when pushed.” He licks his lips nervously. “You mustn’t. Time is different in the Demonata’s universe. There’s no telling how long our fight could last. The few who’ve fought him and returned have been absent for months… years… on one occasion, decades.
“No matter how much time passes, there’s always hope,” he says. “Don’t give up on me, Grubbs. Look after my body. I might have need of it again some day.”
He finds the number in the book, picks up the phone and starts dialing.
“Wait,” I stop him. He looks up expectantly. I lick my lips nervously. “What happens if you don’t win and I turn into a werewolf later?”
Dervish’s features soften. “And the wolf shall lie down with the lamb.”
“Come again?” I frown.
“It’s a biblical quote. Isaiah. It’s where the Lambs got their name from.” He jerks his head at the desk. “There’s a black folder in the second drawer down on the left. Names and numbers for the Lambs. Contact them if the need arises. But only do it if you’re sure that you’re changing. The Lambs don’t mess around. Once you set them in motion, they won’t stop, even if you change your mind and try to call them off.”
“How will I know?” I ask. “Bill-E didn’t know he was changing.”
Dervish chews on his lower lip in thoughtful silence, then says, “Nobody turns without warning. If the lycanthropy strikes, there’ll be at least two or three full moons during which you won’t physically alter, but run wild like Bill-E did. You won’t be able to recall such episodes, but if you find blood under your finger
nails, animal hairs between your teeth…” Dervish stiffens and speaks roughly “…that’s when you need to think about calling in the Lambs.”
As I stare at him miserably, Dervish returns his attention to the phone and hits the buttons. The phone at the other end is picked up almost instantly. I hear a man say, “Yes?”
Dervish starts to reply.
“Tell him it’s OK,” I interrupt softly. “Tell him you rang his number by accident.”
“Grubbs, you don’t have to—”
“I won’t live with the threat of the change hanging over me. Or with the guilt of not fighting for Bill-E.” Deep breath. Thinking—crazy for doing this. But also—it’s what Dad would have wanted.
“I’ll do it,” I wheeze. “I’ll fight Vein and Artery.” The thinnest, most fleeting of smiles. Mock bravado. Grubbs Grady—demon killer! “I’m your man.”
THE SUMMONING
The cellar. Bill-E beating at the bars of his cage with a bloody leg he’s torn from the deer, howling madly. Dervish checking the chess boards and weapons, ignoring Bill-E. I want him to talk me out of it, tell me it’s madness, reject my offer.
But he says nothing. In the study, he didn’t even ask if I was sure, just nodded once and told Pablo he’d call him some other time. Then it was straight back here. No “Thank you,” or “Well done, Grubbs,” or “I’m proud of you.”
I examine the chess boards with forced interest, desperate to keep my mind off the weapons. Five boards laid in a line across the three tables. The Lord of the Rings set in the centre, flanked by a board of crystal pieces on one side and Incan-fashioned pieces on the other. The sets at either end are ordinary.
“Did you lay the boards out that way for a reason?” I ask Dervish.
“No,” he replies, testing a sword’s handle, wiping it clean. “The sets don’t matter, as long as there are five.”
“Explain how the contest works,” I urge him.
“The games are played simultaneously,” Dervish says without looking over. “When it’s my turn, I can move any piece I like, on any board. Lord Loss can then reply to the piece I’ve moved, or move a piece on a different board.”
“That must be confusing.”
“Yes. But it’s confusing for him too.” Dervish holds an axe up to the light of a thick candle and squints, judging the sharpness of its blade. “Lord Loss is an accomplished player, and he’s had centuries to work on his game, but he has no supernatural advantage. If I keep my head, focus on the moves and don’t lose my nerve, I’ll stand a fair chance.”
“What sort of chance do I stand against Artery and Vein?” I ask.
Dervish looks at me coldly—then whips his arm forward and sends the axe flying straight at me!
Instant reaction—I spin—my left hand flies out—my fingers close around the axe handle mid-air—I arc it down, taking the speed out of it—then raise it high to defend myself, heart racing, confused and afraid.
Then I see my uncle’s grin.
Breathing hard, I stare at Dervish, then at the axe in my hand.
“That sort,” he says.
* * * * *
“I still don’t know how I caught it,” I grumble, as Dervish searches among his books for a particular volume.
“You don’t have to know,” Dervish says. “It’s magic.” He pauses and looks up at me. “Your instincts have been sharpened by your previous encounter with the demons. Obey those instincts. Let Vein and Artery set the tone and pace of the battle. React. Don’t think. Suspend the laws of reality completely.”
Dervish returns his attention to the books, finds the one he’s after, flicks it open and stands. “Make your inexperience work for you,” he says. “You can’t out-plan or out-think the demons. So don’t try. Just go with the flow.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It certainly won’t be easy! But if you switch your brain off, you’ll be amazed by what your body can do.”
Dervish lays the book on the floor, bends over it and reads a passage, running a finger over the words, muttering softly.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Several spells must be cast to open a window between Lord Loss’s world and ours,” Dervish says. “I have to make sure it’s a small gateway—we don’t want other demons following him through.”
“That can happen?”
“Sure. The Demonata are always eager to cross the divide and wreak havoc. They’ll seize any opening which presents itself.”
“But don’t you know the spells already?” I frown. “I thought you summoned him before.”
“I did,” Dervish nods. “Several times. But some spells are best not memorised.”
He finishes the paragraph and closes the book. Walks to the wall to his left and lays both hands on it. “I’m starting now,” he says, “but it’ll be twenty minutes, maybe half an hour before the window opens. Stay close to the tables. Relax. Don’t distract me.”
While I lean against a table, nervously tapping and scratching at the wood, Dervish mutters arcane words at the wall, drawing signs upon it with his fingers. After a few minutes, steam seeps from the rough stone. Dervish leans into the steam, inhales, turns and breathes out.
A shadowy bat flies from his mouth and flits across the cellar. I duck instinctively, even though it’s nowhere near me. When I look again, the bat has vanished and Dervish has moved on to another patch of wall.
Fifteen minutes into the summoning. All the walls are steaming. The air of the cellar is moist and hot, like in a sauna. Bill-E makes deep choking noises and flaps at the air with blood-red hands. Dervish has been breathing out a variety of smoky creatures—bats, snakes, dogs, insects. As I watch, he turns and exhales his largest yet—a full-sized wolf.
Bill-E gibbers wildly at the sight. Hisses at it, then ducks to the rear of his cage and crouches low, whimpering, as the spirit wolf floats towards him, evaporating before it touches the bars.
At any other time I’d feel pity for the poor beast Bill-E has become, but right now there’s only room in my heart for terror.
Dervish steps away from the walls at last, eyes closed, face contorted. Walks directly to the folder containing the Lord Loss drawings. Picks it up and clutches it to his chest.
“This is where things get weird,” he mutters, as steam pours from the walls and transparent worms drift in and out of his mouth.
“I can’t wait,” I half-laugh, almost hysterical.
“Whatever happens, don’t scream,” Dervish says. “We’re at our most vulnerable while I’m searching the various portals for the one which connects with Lord Loss’s realm. A scream could attract the interest of other demons—and that might be the end of us.”
“We’ll probably end on a grisly note anyway,” I say gloomily.
“Perhaps,” Dervish agrees. “But there are worse demons than Lord Loss.”
My thoughts threaten to spin out of control as I try to imagine anything worse than Lord Loss. Then Dervish spreads his arms and barks a loud command, and the world dissolves around me.
Walls and ceiling fading. Infinite space… a scattering of stars…meteors streak across the sky. But this space isn’t black—it’s red. An unending sky of redness, encircling the cellar like the drapes of hell.
The temperature escalates off the scale. Some of Dervish’s books burst into flame and incinerate instantly. The bars of Bill-E’s cage glow from the heat. All the candles in the cellar melt to the wick.
I check my clothes and hair, expecting flames, but although I can feel the terrible heat, it isn’t burning me. Dervish and Bill-E aren’t harmed either. Nor are the chess sets.
“Why aren’t we toast?” I cry. The words come out as a croak—my mouth and throat are unbelievably dry.
“Protected,” Dervish wheezes in reply, then lays a finger to his lips and shakes his head—no more speaking. He points to a meteor screaming across the sky overhead. As I gaze up, I realise it isn’t a meteor—it’s some enormous, incomprehensible, re
ality-defying monster!
Dervish squats and places both palms on the floor, which ripples beneath his touch, as if made of water.
Muttering some spell—or prayer—he turns in a circle. His eyes are yellow when I next catch sight of his face, his teeth sharp and grey.
I open my mouth to scream—remember his warning—shut my lips quickly.
Dervish continues turning, and when he faces me again he looks normal. Standing, he picks up one of the unburnt books, flicks it open and starts singing. Long, complicated words. His voice unnaturally clear and beautiful.
The red sky shimmers, then darkens, as Dervish sings. I lose sight of the stars and meteor-monsters. The room slips into a hot, fearful blackness—no candles to shed any light. The last thing I see—Dervish, eyes closed, singing as though his life depended on it.
I feel alone in the darkness, though I know by Dervish’s singing and Bill-E’s grunts and whines that I’m not. Whistling sounds around me. Something long and silky brushes against my cheeks. I swipe at it, terrified—nothing there.
Dervish stops singing. The sudden silence is as disorienting as the lack of light.
“Dervish?” I whisper, not wishing to distract him, but needing to know he’s still there.
“It’s OK, Grubbs,” comes his voice. “Don’t move.”
“It’s dark,” I note redundantly.
“We’ll have all the light we care for soon enough,” he promises.
An object brushes my left ear. I flinch. “There’s something in the room with us!” I hiss.
“Yes,” Dervish says. “Take no notice. Stand your ground.”
It isn’t easy, but I obey my uncle’s order. The whistling sounds increase in volume, and I’m struck in various places by what feels like thick strands of rope. I wince and rub at my flesh, but otherwise don’t react.
Gradually I notice a dull grey glow all around me, which grows in strength, illuminating the distorted cellar. The walls have been replaced by thick strands of cobwebs, which stretch away, layer after layer, apparently endless. Many of the strands are stained with blood. Some are as thick as a tree trunk, while others are as thin as a line of thread.