wasting my time. The noises were probably a rockfall. I should climb down, get some sleep, then fill the hours with more exercise.
On the point of quitting when the noises come again—three resounding thumps, a pause, then three more, just like earlier. In a fit of excitement I raise the log—then drop it! Reacting swiftly, I grab for it, catch it and arc it upwards, slamming it hard into the roof of the cave, once, twice, three times. A short pause, then I hammer the roof again. Then, heart beating hard, I lower it and listen.
Nothing.
For several minutes I hang there, hopeful, awaiting an answer. But as the silence stretches I realise there’s not going to be one. Either the thuds are the result of an especially large animal or the rock overhead is too thick for the noises I make to carry to the other side. Perhaps they’re using magic to penetrate the rock sheet or maybe they have an especially large hammer.
Dejected, I descend, then make for bed and the escape of sleep. Even my nightmares are more welcome than the monotony of the cave.
More empty hours follow, the only distraction—apart from exercise—coming in the form of the thumping noises at regular intervals. I’m sure it’s a person—no animal could make the same sounds over and over—but with no way of contacting them, I lose interest and soon stop wondering who it might be. After a while I even start to ignore the thumps and barely notice them when they come.
Then, one day—or night—as I’m halfway through a four-minute sprint, a green window forms close to the remains of the fire and Kernel steps through. I come to a halt almost directly in front of him. He stares at me icily, casts a curious eye over my bare chest and legs, then goes to the fire and starts it with a single word.
As I’m pulling my clothes on, Beranabus appears. His beard is badly burnt and his hands are red, but otherwise he’s unharmed. “Been keeping the cave warm for us?” he says sneeringly.
“He didn’t even manage to get the fire going,” Kernel snorts.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Did you… the demon… is it…” I mutter.
“All taken care of,” Beranabus says. “Quenched forever, its universe now a cold, lifeless expanse of space. Human saved, order restored, tragedy averted.”
“No thanks to
I ignore the insult. “How long were you in there?”
“No idea,” Beranabus says as the window behind him vanishes. “It felt like a day. What about here?”
“A couple of weeks. Maybe three.”
“That must have been boring.”
“Serves him right,” Kernel snaps, shooting me a disgusted look. “Running out like that… leaving us to deal with it ourselves…”
“It’s not like we had to struggle,” Beranabus murmurs, no idea that his kindness makes me feel worse than ever.
“He wasn’t to know that,” Kernel hisses. “He left us to fight alone. Didn’t stop to think if we might need him. Didn’t care.”
“That’s not true,” I say sullenly. “Yes, I ran. But I did care. I just couldn’t… it was too… I told you!” I cry. “I didn’t want to go. You made me.”
“Listen to him,” Kernel jeers. “He sounds like a five-year-old. I wouldn’t have thought someone his age and size could be so gutless. Maybe he—”
“Enough!” Beranabus barks. Sighing, he heads to his table and motions me to follow. He sits on an old wooden chair, stretches his legs out, cracks his knuckles above his head and yawns. Lowering his hands, he fiddles with some of the flowers, shuffles papers around, then takes a drawing out of one of the drawers and stares at it.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
“No,” he sighs. “It was my fault. I thought you were made of stronger stuff. I could see the fear in you and your reluctance to get involved. But given your background, I thought you’d shrug it off once faced with a demon, that you’d rise to the occasion like you did before.”
“It was different then,” I tell him. “I didn’t know what I was getting into the first time, and in Slawter I was trapped. I had no choice but to fight. I’ve had so many horrible nights since then, so many nightmares. I’m not just scared of demons now—I’m bloody terrified.”
“I understand,” Beranabus says. “I didn’t before, but I do now.” He studies the drawing again, then lays it aside. “I’m a poor judge of character. I’ve made mistakes before, taken children into the universe of the Demonata when they weren’t ready, lost them cheaply. But they’ve always been fighters. This is the first time I’ve taken someone who lacked the stomach for battle. It was a grave error on my part. I should have known better.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“No. I’m sad. You have such ability, it’s a shame to see it go to waste. But if the fighting instinct isn’t there, there’s no point moping. I thought you were a warrior. I was wrong. You don’t criticise a pony for not being a horse.”
He falls silent and looks around at the flowers on the table. I’m not sure I like his comparison. Never thought of myself as Grubbs Grady—pony! But I guess it’s appropriate. I might lack the guts to be a hero, but at least I’ve pride enough not to whinge when the truth is pointed out.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“I can’t fight. So what happens? Will you take me back? Set me loose in the desert? What?”
Beranabus frowns. “I can’t spare much time. You wouldn’t survive outside and it would be cruel to make you wait here indefinitely. I’ll take you to the nearest human outpost. You’ll have to make your own way from there. Once you get home, tell Dervish what happened. Ask him to help you work on your magic. Even if you can’t fight, you can watch for demons. Become a Disciple. I know you’d rather keep out of this completely, but you might make a difference. Do you think you could do that?”
“Sure,” I gush, delighted to be told I’m not entirely worthless. “I avoided magic because I thought if I learnt it, I’d have to fight demons. But if I just have to be a watchdog…”
“Good choice of words,” Kernel snorts.
“Now, now,” Beranabus tuts. “Let’s not be ungracious.”
Kernel spits into the fire. His spit sizzles, revealing more about his opinion of me than he could ever say with words.
“When do we leave?” I ask, eager to be out of here, free of this confining cave and Kernel’s scorn.
“Soon,” Beranabus promises. “I need to get some sleep, and eat when I wake, but after that we’ll depart.”
“Great,” I grin, turning away to let the elderly magician go to bed. Then I remember the noises and turn to tell him. “I forgot, somebody’s been…”
I come to a halt. Beranabus is leaning over, stroking the leaves of one of the flowers, smiling fondly at it. I can see the drawing he was looking at earlier. It’s a pencil sketch of a girl’s face. And though the paper is yellow and wrinkled with age, the face is shockingly familiar.
“Who’s that?” I croak. Beranabus looks up questioningly. I point a trembling finger at the drawing. “The girl—who is she?”
“Someone who died a very long time ago,” Beranabus says, touching the paper. “She sacrificed her life fighting the Demonata, to keep the world safe. An example to us all. Not that I’m trying to make you feel small. I didn’t mean—”
“There was a voice,” I interrupt, eyes fixed on the drawing. “At the cave in Carcery Vale. I didn’t mention it before—it didn’t seem to matter and there was so much else to tell you. But when I went to the cave, I heard a voice and saw a face in the rocks. It was alive. Even though it was in the rock, it could open its eyes and move its lips. It spoke to me.”
I pick up the drawing and study the girl’s face, the curve of her jaw, the eyes and mouth. “This is the girl from the cave. She called to me… warned me, I think, but I don’t know what of. She spoke in a different lan —”
“It can’t be!” Beranabus snaps, snatching the drawing back. “This girl has been dead for almost sixteen
