Читать книгу The Demonata 1-5 - Darren Shan - Страница 25

→ 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, reality-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.

From one of the strands hang the severed heads of Mum, Dad and Gret.

I can’t hold back the scream, but Dervish anticipates this. He slides behind me and clamps both hands over my mouth. I howl into the flesh of his palms, wild, sobbing, reaching for the heads, while at the same time trying to back away from them.

“They aren’t real, Grubbs,” Dervish grunts, struggling to contain me. “They’re illusions. Let your fear go and they’ll vanish.”

I thrash more wildly in response. Can’t think straight. The heads seem to be growing. Eyes huge, filled with sadness and pain. Mum’s lips move silently. Gret sticks her tongue out at me — it’s alive with maggots.

“They’re testing you!” Dervish growls, fingers tightening over my lips. My neck’s strained almost to snapping point. “If they can drive you insane, I’ll have nobody to protect me from Artery and Vein!”

The names of the demons penetrate. Fighting the terror, I stare at the faces of my parents and sister, and spot minor mistakes — Dad’s nose bends to the wrong side, Gret’s hair shouldn’t be that long, Mum’s eyebrows are too thick.

I stop shaking. Lower my hands. Dervish releases me, but stays close, ready to gag me if I start screaming again.

“How do I make them go away?” I moan.

“Show you’re not afraid,” Dervish says. “Look at them without flinching.”

“It’s hard.”

“I know. For me too. But you can do it, Grubbs. You have to.”

Deep breaths. Exerting control. I lift my eyes and train them on the three heads dangling in front of me. Their features twist. Mum and Gret hiss at me hatefully. I don’t look away.

Under the strength of my gaze, the heads disintegrate, melting like the candles. The web vibrates. The air bubbles. The molten, waxy flesh of the heads rises, twisting, forming itself into three new shapes. A crocodile-headed dog. A murderous baby. And their master — Lord Loss.

“It begins,” Dervish sighs, and steps forward to confront the demons.