Shadow - Monsters, Machines and Mad Scientists!: Episode CV

The tunnels were, of course, not really tunnels at all - at least not in the traditional shored-up walls or extended cave stretching on into darkest eternity sense. The tunnels of Riddlepike were, in fact, more city, carved out of the mountain peak, a labyrinth of daylight-forgotten streets and alleys with cobblestones threatening to become un-mortared at every step and, most surprisingly, a cleverly engineered system of sewer gutters, now thankfully dried-up.

"Another abandoned district, then?" Sarah asked Dimsun as they passed the carven facade of shops and houses, many still with glass in their windows and making it look like they'd entered some sort of Georgian Petra.

"Not entirely," the Stoneskin replied, "there are very few completely abandoned districts in Shadow, for there are always people, creatures, things seeking somewhere to live, but Riddlepike is positively cosmopolitan compared to many of those. You'll see soon enough."

Sarah was prepared to be intrigued, but there was something in Dimsun's tone of voice, something darker hidden beneath the gravely surface, that made her wonder if she should be so eager to find out.

They trekked through the tunnel-streets of Riddlepike for several hours and, from the occasional open vistas which Sarah thought must have turned the jagged peak into something resembling Swiss cheese, it was clear that the night sky had grown dark and a violet crescent moon had risen over Ashvault across the valley.

Eventually Frostfire declared that they would make camp. He broke into the ruined remains of a bookseller - Sarah could just make out 'Greenbloode Esq. Purveyor of Fine and Ancient Tomes' on the faded sign - cleared a space on the floor where piles of books had been moments before and then settled down into a nest of friable pages long since torn from their volumes.

Dimsun ushered her inside, but, after lighting the sconce near the door, left the torch outside. A wise decision, Sarah thought, glancing at all the dry paper filling this tomb of books.

She found a space on the floor not far from where Frostfire had settled and whilst the two Stoneskins sorted out some dried meat and grain rations (something which looked suspiciously like cous-cous) from Dimsun’s pack, she began to look around at the old books which lay nearby.

Like the sign above the door they appeared to be in English, which made as much sense as the Stoneskins all speaking it, she supposed, but it was still quite striking that there should be so much in common between the two worlds when so much else was different. This only seemed to be highlighted by the first tome she opened, a dreary volume entitled A Streetsow Named Delilah. She expected it to be some kind of Tennessee Williams parody at first, before remembering that it was unlikely that any workds by that American playwright had ever made it across the infinite divide into Shadow. Instead, it was a sort of journal of a Swineherd liviing an a district called Cobblemire, which seemed to be sinking back into the marsh it had been named for. The entries were repetitive, devoid of humour and, all in all, astonishingly boring. She had no idea why it should have been on sale anywhere.

Dimsun handed her some of their food and she began chewing on the dried, leathery meat whilst thoughtfully examining a second book. This one, Journeys of the Horne Brothers, was much more promising – a sort of romantic picaroon, filled with adventure of the kind where swash was buckled and love was lost and found and lost again. She was transfixed before she knew it, having leapt at the opportunity for some genuine escapism.

When Dimsun tapped her on the shoulder to tell her that he was going to put out the torch so that they could sleep, she realised she had been reading for some hours and that there were tears in her eyes. The Stoneskin didn’t notice, but as she rolled over in the darkness onto a bed of ancient parchment, she found herself trying to work out why.

She was lonely in Shadow, of course and she had plenty else to be sad about. As she’d read about the heroes’ lost princesses and harlots with hearts of gold she’d thought of Ellis and of Thomas. It was ironic, really. One love lost to a kind of emotional attrition long before he was ever lost to Shadow, the other lost on Earth because she insisted on trying to find the first!

Days had passed since then. Was Thomas trying to find her? Had he tried to follow her through the wormhole and, if so, where was he now and was he safe there? What about Jen and Marria? What about her friends, her mother?

Christmas would have passed by now. Just how had her mother spent the last couple of days after her only child failed to return from an afternoon’s excursion? Sarah imagined the police scouring the ditches of Derbyshire whilst her mother made an impassioned plea on the ITV news. It was so incongruous as to almost be amusing if only it weren’t so tragically real.

She found herself praying - to the God she didn’t quite believe in, but which she knew Thomas trusted - that everyone would be okay and that they wouldn’t worry too much. The silent words were still running through her head as she let her damp eyes soften into sleep.

Bang! Sarah jolted awake to the shock of a bright red light and a gang of fierce-looking Spiketails standing in the doorway of the bookshop. There were all dressed in crude, mismatched armour made from rusty piece of scavenged metal, their stone scales painted red and black. She could just make out a Grinder behind them, blocking the street ‘outside’.

The lead Spiketail, taller than the others and with eyes which flickered platinum and gold, took a step forward, his flare-like red torch guttering loudly.

“Did ya mind we wouldn’ twig ya comin’ here, Frostfire?” he asked with an oddly accented growl, “Did ya mind we wouldn’ sniff the Fleshy ya was leashin’?”

Frostfire was rising slowly to his feet, Dimsun stirring to onoe side, but the Spiketail’s goony friends were filling the room now, standing guard over each of them. Sarah scrambled backwards until she hit a pile of books, the top few tomes thudding to the floor like so many useless words.

“Thundervein,” Frostfire said, “I was wondering when you would show.”

“Oh?” Thundervein replied, feigning surprise, “So ya ‘member me, do ya? I minded that after all ya hobbin’ with Fleshy ph’losophers ya’d’ve fo’g’en ‘bout the likes of me and ma kin.” He took another step forward, moving with an affectation not unlike a swagger, and he let his torch drop to the papery floor, freeing his talons. The red fire did not spread, but lit the tall Spiketail from below like a vision of Hell. “Why else would ol’ Frostfire march the streets ‘n’ back-alleys of Riddlepike, unless he din’ ‘member Thundervein’s crew still cribbed here, eh?”

“I remembered. That why I came.”

“Oh, so it’s bein’ a r’union, is it? A spin to natt’ ‘bout the good ol’ spans when we was all striplin’s? Is that it?”

“No,” Frostfire replied, his voice flat.

“Then what hooks ya here, ma bro’er of bygone spans? What would hook a Fleshy-lovin’ turner like ya to Riddlespike?”

Thundervein turned towards Sarah then, his toothy maw affecting a drunken grin.

“Was it reconcillin’, I wonder? Did ya leash us a gift, after all?”

Thundervein took another step forwards and Sarah found herself pushing back further into her pile of books.

“‘Cos if ya did-” another step, slightly cautious, slightly menacing, excited, “-that might fact’ry up a start to repayin’ what ya debt us, eh?”

The lanky Spiketail glanced back towards Frostfire, almost as if checking for permission.

“Are ya sure ya don’ want to be keepin’ her?”

He was only a couple of feet away now and Sarah was scrabbling up the pile of books, letting ancient leather covers and fragile pages sc atter across the floor in an avalanche of forgotten ideas and fictions.

“Frosfire…” Dimsun began, sounding anxious, “can this really be part of the plan?”

But Frostfire stayed silent, watching from where he lay, looking quite disinterested. Sarah knew he didn’t owe her anything, but she started getting angry at him anyway: anger at being taken from her world, anger at being dragged up this mountain, anger at the lack of answers and anger at this… betrayal, from her guides and captors.

She was suddenly so angry that she realised she wasn’t really scared anymore, despite the wiry Spiketail before her, baring his teeth and his talons. She stopped climbing, stood tall for the first time since waking up and stared straight into Thundervein’s flickering eyes.

“I didn’t travel across worlds just to become a snack for some lizard-faced rock jockey who thinks himself the mountain king. Underworld scum are underworld scum no matter how high the dung heap they call home and I’m not fooled by your neon plates and rusted bling. I know you’re just another attention-seeking runt like all the puffed-up bully’s I faced in Larksborough High. I showed them when I was fourteen and I’ll show you now.”

“Ha!” Thundervein barked, “She’s feistin’!”

And then Sarah punched him – and it was only as the Stoneskin flew across the old shop floor to collide with his gang that she realised that her skin was glowing.

“That’s why I brought her here, Dunderbrain,” Frostfire said dryly – and Sarah could have sworn he was smiling – “Target practice.”