The Demonata 6-10. Darren Shan
He shakes his head. “I’m powerful, boy, and so are you, but Lord Loss is a demon master. We wouldn’t last long in a battle with him.”
“We have to try,” I whisper, thinking of all those men, women and children. Picturing the Demonata and Juni Swan at savage work. “If we abandon them…”
“We’ve already abandoned them,” the tramp grunts. “The choice was taken when I pulled you out. Everyone on that aeroplane is dead and it has crashed – or will shortly – destroying the evidence.”
“You let them die,” I gasp.
The tramp shrugs. “I would have saved them if I could. I’ve devoted my life to protecting humanity from the Demonata. But some battles you can’t win. Some you can’t even fight.”
Flying in silence. Thinking about what happened and what the tramp said. Cold inside and scared. Unable to get the faces of the people – the dead – out of my mind. Yet a big part of me is secretly glad we didn’t go back, that the tramp spared me another run-in with the demons.
“This is insane,” I mutter, looking at the world beneath. “Who are you? What were you doing on the plane? Why have you been following me? I thought you were one of the Lambs. I know nothing about you. I need–”
“Soon,” the tramp hushes me. “I’ll answer all your questions once we’re safe on the ground. For now, just fly.”
And since there’s no point arguing, I tuck my arms in tighter, pick up speed, trail the tramp through the air and try – unsuccessfully – to push the faces of the dead from my thoughts.
→ We fly for hours, mostly above the clouds where people on the ground can’t see us. I spot the occasional plane, but the tramp always steers us clear. A shame — I love the thought of gliding up to one and tapping on the windows, scaring the living daylights out of the passengers and crew.
I’ve no idea where we are. I didn’t ask Juni where we were going when we set off and I don’t know how long I was asleep, so I can’t judge how far from home we might have been when the demons attacked.
Juni…
Rage seethes up inside me every time I think about her. I trusted her. I thought she was on my side, that she loved me like a mother. And all the time she was playing me for a fool, setting me up for Lord Loss, cutting me off from Dervish.
I want to quiz the tramp about her. Find out where she comes from, how she operates, where I can find her — so I can track her down and burn her for the evil witch she is. But this isn’t the right time. I have loads of questions for the tramp. So much I want to know, that I need to find out. Hell, I haven’t even asked his name yet!
→ Finally, five or six hours after I bailed out of the plane, the tramp guides me down. The land is barren desert, more rocky than sandy. No signs of human life — it’s been the better part of an hour since I saw any kind of house.
“This is the complicated part,” the tramp says as we come in to land. “The easiest way is to hover a bit above the ground, then stop thinking about birds. After a few seconds you’ll fall.”
“Can’t we touch down?” I ask.
“I can, but I’ve had a lot of practice. If you try it, you’ll probably hit hard and break a leg or arm.”
He spreads his arms and drifts down, landing lightly on his feet. I’m tempted to copy him, to prove I’m nimbler than he gives me credit for. But it’s been a long day and the last thing I want is to break any bones. So I float to within a metre of the rocky floor, then empty my head of images of birds. For a couple of seconds nothing happens. Then I drop suddenly, stomach lurching.
I hit the ground awkwardly, landing face first in the dust. Sitting up, I splutter and wipe dirt and grit from my cheeks, then get to my feet and look around. We’re in the middle of nowhere. Some rocky outcrops and hills, a few rustling cacti, nothing else. “Where are we?”
“Home,” the tramp says and starts walking towards one of the hills.
“Whose home?” I ask, hurrying after him.
“Mine.”
“And you are…?”
He stops and looks back, surprised. “You don’t know?”
“Should I?”
“Surely Dervish told…” He trails off into silence, then laughs. “All that time in the air, you didn’t know who you were with?”
“I was going to ask, but it didn’t seem like the right moment,” I huff.
The tramp shakes his head. “I’m Beranabus.” The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.
“Beranabus what?” I ask.
“Just Beranabus,” he says, then starts walking again. “Come. We have much to discuss, but it will hold. I never feel safe in the open.”
With a nervous glance around, I hasten after the shabbily dressed man. Several minutes later we come to the mouth of a cave. Not having had the best experience of caves recently, I pause and peer suspiciously into the shadows.
“It’s fine,” Beranabus assures me. “This is a safe place, protected by its natural position and the strongest spells I could muster. You have nothing to fear.”
“That’s easily said,” I grunt, unconvinced.
Beranabus smiles. He has crooked, stained teeth. This close I can see that his small eyes are grey and his skin is pale beneath a covering of grime and dirt. He’s wearing an old, dusty suit. The only fresh thing about him is a small posy of flowers jutting out of one of his buttonholes.
“If I wanted to harm you,” he says, “I could have done so already, with far less effort than it would take on the ground. That should be self-evident.”
“I know,” I mutter. “It’s just… I don’t like caves.”
“With good reason,” he says understandingly. “But this isn’t like the cave in Carcery Vale. You’ll be safe here. I promise.”
I hesitate a moment longer, then shrug. “What the hell,” I grunt and push ahead of Beranabus, acting like I couldn’t care less.
The cave only runs back four or five metres, then stops. I look for a way out, studying the walls and floor, but I can’t see any. “Are you like a monk who doesn’t believe in material possessions?” I ask.
“No,” Beranabus says, squeezing past me. He touches the ground and mutters a few words of magic. A hole appears. There’s a rope ladder attached to the wall at one side, leading down into the dark.
I move to the edge of the hole and look down nervously. There are torches set in the walls, so it’s not as dark as it seemed at first. But it runs a long way down and I can only vaguely see the bottom.
“I thought you said a magician didn’t need to cast spells,” I say, delaying the moment when I have to descend.
“Most of the time,” Beranabus reminds me. “There are occasions when even the strongest of us must focus our magical energy with words.” He sits and swings his legs into the hole. Turns, grabs the ladder and starts down. Looks up at me before his head bobs beneath my feet. “This will close in a few minutes. If you’re coming, get a move on.”
“Just waiting for you to get out of my way,” I retort. Then, when his head’s clear, I ignore the butterflies in my stomach, sit, turn and climb down the swaying ladder after him.
The hole closes with a small grinding noise before I hit the ground. I try not to think about the fact that I’m shut off from the world. At the base I step clear of the ladder and find myself in a large, bright cave. There are chairs, a sofa, a long table at one end with a vase of flowers on it, a few statues, books, chests of drawers, other bits and pieces. There’s also a fire in the