‘What now?’ Flint whispers.
I shrug. ‘Trial and error, I suppose. You choose.’
We walk in silence, Flint continuing to score the walls. Twice we’re required to double back on ourselves when we hit a dead end. After a while, I lose track of how many left and right turns we’ve taken.
Hours pass. I wonder privately if we’ll ever manage to find our way out on the other side of the Ridge, or if we’ll be forced to give up and retrace our steps back to Isolla.
Flint stays close, nervously plucking the string of his bow like a harp.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask over my shoulder.
‘Oh yes, Blaze. I’m having a brilliant time. And yourself?’
I choose to ignore his sarcasm. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting that yes, maybe we should have stayed the night in Isolla. Because in truth, I’m bone-tired. If it weren’t for the thought of whatever flesh-eating creatures are said to roam these tunnels, I’d be tempted to find some quiet corner and curl up.
Time stretches on. It must be almost dawn by now.
All of a sudden, and despite the fact I haven’t uttered a word, Flint shushes me and moves to stand at my side. He sniffs once, sharply, then grimaces.
‘What is it?’ I whisper, holding the nightlight a little higher.
He doesn’t respond, only beckons for me to follow him. My answer is waiting for us at the next bend. A man – or what’s left of one, anyway – sitting slumped against the wall, more bone than flesh. His clothes hang in tatters, stained the deep black of old blood. His nose is missing, as well as most of his fingers, and his chest is ripped open from abdomento throat. The stench of rotting meat hangs heavy in the air, and I can’t help but gag.
‘Poor bastard,’ Flint mutters.
‘What do you suppose did this to him?’ I ask weakly.
‘I don’t know,’ says Flint darkly. ‘But I’d rather not stick around to find out.’ He takes my arm and hauls me away from the bloodied corpse.
It isn’t long before the passageway opens out before us, becoming a wide, cavernous chamber. A single drop of water lands on my forehead. I’m so busy looking up at the ceiling that I don’t notice what lies at my feet until a crunch echoes through the air.
Bones.
They litter the stone floor – some large, some small, some grey and crumbling, others white and gleaming and undoubtedly human.
‘Flint,’ I whisper, but he’s already moved past me, bending down to examine something lying atop the sea of carcasses, papery and translucent, like … skin.
Then I hear it – a blood-curdling hiss.
Flint is on his feet in an instant, bow in hand, shoving me behind him.
The sheer size of the snake steals what breath I have left, and when it opens its mouth I see a forked tongue and a pair of curved fangs as long as my forearm.
The first arrow bounces off the dark scales as easily as a skimming stone. The snake blinks its huge slit-pupilled eyes and angles its head, sizing us up. Snapping fills my ears as it slithers towards us. I try to summon my water gifts, but I’m too frightened to think clearly.
Flint takes a step backwards and fires another arrow. ‘Bullseye,’ he mutters.
The snake rears back, jerking its head from side to side and releasing a deafening hiss as blood begins to pour in rivulets from its right eye socket.
Triumph temporarily swamps fear, and I manage to shoot a flurry of ice shards at its head. Flint darts to the left, aiming for the snake’s other eye, but the creature is writhing so wildly he can’t get a clear shot. I send another burst of ice, trying to slow its movements.
A scaled monster, a stone arena – it’s like the first trial all over again. Except this time I have so much more to fight for. So much more to lose.
There’s a dull crack, and I glance round to where my brother stands clutching his bow, which has been split clean in half. The snake stops and turns towards Flint, who drops the useless splinters, backing away into the wall.
Why doesn’t he use his fire?
As far as I know, my brother hasn’t so much as lit a candle since the incident. I tried to coax a fire out of him on several occasions during our journey to Isolla, but there was always some excuse – it would draw too much attention, he was saving his strength, he preferred cold stew. Yet I’m going to need Flint to take his flames out of retirement, and soon.
