Mikhail was trapped.
He’d come to a dead end. Breathing harshly, he turned around, placing his back flat against the wall. His dark, sweat-plastered hair squished against the cold grey walls of the Orphanage. As the pounding of his blood lessened, the pitter-patter of running footsteps became louder. Moments later, Mikhail knew, Grouchy Gracchus and his cronies would come charging around the corner and his life would be over.
Just as he feared, the scouts came first. They were sweating and puffing.
‘You’re dead now,’ Ratter huffed. Thin, gangly and red-haired, he was Gracchus’ right hand man. Obviously, he wasn’t happy about being forced to run so far. Flea, as small and quick as Mikhail, couldn’t look him in the eye – in another life they might have been friends. More and more of the other kids arrived, called on by those already in front of them. Until, last of all, the menacing, titanic shadow of Gracchus was seen approaching. Mikhail gulped, feeling a bolt of adrenaline shoot through him – pupils dilated, his senses expanded and for a moment, he has the distinct sensation of hearing a soft chiming; a quivering susurrus.
He was so intent on the sound he almost didn’t notice Gracchus’ imminent approach. Fat, with mean little piggy eyes glaring from under rolls of flab, he gasped desperately for air. For a moment that was all he could do and an awkward silence descended. A few of the boys cough and shuffle uneasily; the air was thick with anticipation and fear.
‘You… are… dead,’ Gracchus gasped, clutching his heaving stomach. ‘When…I catch…my…breath.’
‘Want me to rough him a bit for you, Grouch?’ Ratter said. The words were cold, almost emotionless.
Gracchus nodded, leaning heavily against the wall.
Mikhail swallowed soundlessly, trying to eat his terror. All he had to do was submit to a beating until someone found them. That could be a while, he knew, given the sprawling, cavernous size of the orphanage. Ratter approached slowly, expression flat: its just business, it said. Mikhail resolved to take the beating, it would be worse on him if he struggled further. Just as Ratter was rolling his shoulders, something happened that threw Mikhail’s plans right out the door. A surge of electricity hit his back, travelling up his arm – he jumped straight from the wall, arm snapping out and forward, connecting squarely with Ratter’s chin.
Caught by surprise, Ratter’s head snapped back, taking the full force of Mikhail’s momentum and all the strength his wiry frame could muster. There was a collective gasp as Ratter’s body hit the ground, cracking limply against the stone. A dozen pair of eyes flew to meet Mikhail’s stunned blue ones and whatever mercy once rested in the boys was gone. As one, they rushed him.
*
Mikhail opened sore, puffy eyes.
Every inch of him, it seemed, was swollen black and blue. He was lying in the now familiar confines of the infirmary. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, but any time away from the others was time well spent in his opinion. Mikhail hated the orphanage and spent every waking moment, when he wasn’t being chased, dreaming of escaping and getting away. Time disregarded his wishes and the days rolled on. He got older, they got meaner and the beatings got worse. Mikhail wasn’t sure why they picked on him, but at some point he became the target of their angst and had been ever since.
‘Wow, they really did a number on you, eh?’ Ratter’s chirpy voice said, intruding on Mikhail’s thoughts.
Mikhail’s head snapped to the side and he winced, tears coming to his eyes from the sharp pain. Ratter sat on the opposite bed, red hair swaddled in bandages. Mikhail could only stare in horror – how could they put Ratter in here with him? He was dead for sure. Ratter must have read the thought on his face as he swiftly reassured, ‘Oh, don’t worry about me. On strict orders to obey myself – the old dragon really took a beating to Grouchy and the others this time.’
Somewhat relieved, but still unhappy, Mikhail turned away. The ‘old dragon’ as the boys referred to her, was the Headmaster who ruled the orphanage with an iron hand. Usually, she let it go, saying things like, ‘boys will be boys,’ or ‘man up!’ Seemed she might actually care if he died or not, after all. He tried to block it all out, retreat into the normal fantasies of escaping, but his mind refused to obey him. There was too much pain, too many thoughts swirling around his cracked skull. Where did that jolt come from? What were those whispers? What had made those odd, enchanting chiming sounds?
He snuck a glance at Ratter. He hadn’t actually thought he had such strength; lying against the wall, he smiled as darkness claimed him once more. The next couple of days passed in a blur of pain. Moments stayed with him; the sun bathing the room; the stars gleaming down; twilight and candle-lit darkness. At some point, Ratter vanished and Mikhail was alone, suffocating in shadows. He thrashed at them, but they got heavier and darker until he couldn’t struggle anymore. His whimpers were gently shushed, drowned by a familiar crooning voice. Nurse? Mikhail couldn’t be sure. It was so hot he could barely focus. Occasionally, he would be able to string a sentence or two together, but there would be a surge of black and he would flounder one more.
And throughout, he heard the chiming susurrus that had started all this and brought him here. It bewitched him, dragging him ever downward. The tone got louder and more urgent but try as he might Mikhail couldn’t make out any words. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone and the darkness lifted. Immediately, he was aware that others were in the room with him. Mikhail wasn’t sure why, but he stayed still, listening. Fractionally lifting one eyelid, he peeked at them. His eyes snapped shut, but the brief image he’d seen burned itself into his mind. Magisters! There could be no mistaking those cloaked figures, shining crystals embedded in their heads. One – tall, brooding and hook nosed was speaking furiously to a shorter, bald man.
‘Are you absolutely sure the surge came from this building?’ he hissed. ‘Could it not have come from a nearby area?’
The bald one gave the other a menacing look. ‘I’m not a novice, Mallo. Don’t treat me as such.’ There was affront and frustration laden in his voice.
Mikhail stayed very still.
‘Could not the surge have muddled you’re findings? It scrambled most of the watch towers within half a mile and left fully as many Magisters with blinding headaches. Whatever caused it is anathema to the crystals.’
‘You don’t think…’
‘Why not? Ever since Alistair began his damn crusade, we have been expecting just such a counter-attack.’
‘But they haven’t the power, surely…’
‘We can’t be sure of anything, nothing is certain anymore. We must be on our guard.’
A pause followed.
‘Is this the last of them?’
Mikhail felt their regard turn upon him, twin gazes that heated his very skin until he had to fight not to squirm.
‘Yes, but he is too feverish to get an accurate reading of and likely of little import.’ There was a disdainful sniff and just like that, they were done. It was a very long time before Mikhail was able to breathe freely and the terror remained with him all through the night.
**
It took a full two weeks before Mikhail was healed sufficiently to walk about, covered though he was in mildly yellowing bruises. He wasn’t required to attend classes just yet, so mercifully he hadn’t had much contact with the other boys. He slept alone; unlike the rest of the boys who slept in a dormitory, Mikhail had been segregated when the boys complained about his night terrors. Many thought he was merely a cunning liar, using it as an excuse to be separated from the others. For a time after that, the persecution was much fiercer than ever before. His dreams were real, though. They hadn’t abated either, although some of them weren’t terrifying, just strange. He shuddered, even thinking about them made him uneasy.
Mikhail was walking through the mouldy, shadowy halls of the orphanage. He couldn’t go very quickly, still ginger from his touch up earlier. He halted in front of large double windows, covered with heavy drapes. Taking the moment to catch his breath, Mikhail shifted the drapes slightly to peek outside. The sky was overcast and grey, but that was no surprise. Beneath him, the City spread out right to the horizon, monstrous and sprawling. Dimly, he could make out the massive shape of the Wall. The Wall was often the target of his daydreams and fantasies, but he wasn’t quite high enough to see it properly. Disappointed, he turned to walk away. Before he could do so, a commotion broke out on the street below.
A large party was rounding the bend, onto the thoroughfare. A squadron of guards were trotting ahead of two Magisters. Mikhail froze at the sight of them, immediately flattening himself against the wall. He didn’t know why, but the mere sight of them sent terror racing through his blood. These two were higher ranked than any he’d seen before, rubies burning with a fierce light. Their bald heads gleamed with power. Between the two, a thrashing creature was suspended within tangled nets. A monster! Mikhail couldn’t believe his eyes. All through his miserable education, he and the others had been taught of the war between humans and monsters, those demonic creatures that dwelt below ground. Mikhail had often imagined himself as one of the Bonded, those special guards who stood atop the Wall to keep guard. Just what they were guarding had never been clear, so steeped were they in mystique and awe.
Now, before him, history came to life. The creature's screams rent the air. The Magisters were hurting it, he realised. People were beginning to look out windows, open doors and pour onto the streets. They were parading their capture. The net began to pulse red and with each flare of light, the creature screamed and thrashed. It almost looked like a man; it retained that vague shape, but with each burst of pain, the shadow of a dozen tentacles sprouted from its body.
Mikhail felt sick. Citizens were jeering, pelting the creature with rotten fruits. This activity was swiftly put to a stop by the guards, as stray rubbish began to hit the Magisters as well. The procession quickly vanished from view and Mikhail dropped the drape back in place. The screams, however, continued to haunt him. What was different between those Magisters and Gracchus? Well, Mikhail was no monster, but didn’t that make Gracchus even worse? He didn’t know, these thoughts and feelings were strange and confusing.
‘Here now, that’s some mighty frowning your doing.’
Mikhail jumped back, a strangled yelp leaping from his throat. He’d been so engrossed he hadn’t even heard the old janitor approach. Reynold laughed at his terrified expression. ‘What’s got you so nervy, lad?’
Mikhail relaxed some. Reynold was just about the only person he liked here and though they weren’t able to speak often, Mikhail always enjoyed his company. He quickly explained what he’d just seen and how it had made him feel. Reynold’s expression sobered at the recount. Grunting, he flipped his battered mop bucket over, gingerly lowering himself on it.
‘That’s a terrible thing you’ve seen, make no mistake. It’s no shame on you for feeling bad about it,’ he said. He rubbed his rough white whiskers.
‘They reminded me of Gracchus,’ Mikhail said softly. Thinking about it made him imagine Gracchus as a Magister. It was a horrifying thought and he shuddered at it. Reynold nodded.
‘There are plenty of monsters in this world, lad, and not all of them have scales for skin. Some of the most horrible things I’ve seen have been done by people unto others, for reasons I’ve yet to fathom.’
‘But how come they can get away with it?’
‘They don’t, not always.’ Reynolds shifted uncomfortably. ‘These are dangerous thoughts to be having right now,’ he said with concern. ‘Be careful with them.’
Mikhail nodded, solemn. He’d heard of the recent string of attacks and strikes on the Underground. It was hard not to when they were broadcast over the whole city. He hadn’t minded them, the other boys crowed enough about it without his help.
‘They’re evil,’ he said, sudden and fierce.
Something flickered in Reynold’s gaze. ‘Not always. But that’s what the Magisters are there for, lad. To protect us.’ The words were wooden and stiff, and as he said them he rose from his seat. He walked away, mop and bucket clanging and scraping.
Mikhail’s mouth opened, but he shut it quickly. That’s not what he meant, he wanted to say, but Reynold was right. These were dangerous times.
--
Mikhail watched the rain fall.
He was sitting in the highest point within the Orphanage compound. This proud tower, used as an Observatory once upon a time, was now humbled and decrepit. It was his favourite hideaway. From here, the entirety of the City was laid out in bejewelled splendour, a smoky blanket that sparkled into the horizon. It never failed to instil in him a sense of awe and envy; how he wished to run about in that dark jungle, unfettered by rules or low standing – to just be another boy among many. It was a fire that burned deep within, something he never spoke of, always trying to keep it safe from the wet gloom of this hated place.
Mikhail welcomed the cool breeze that accompanied the rain. It was far preferable to the normally stifling heat. His feet were curled near the ledge and though he wasn’t afraid, he didn’t want to end up like Little Dominick. He scooted back a bit. The landing deck, with its broken rail, told that story well enough and it didn’t bear repeating. His collection of odd stones, pamphlets and little treasures were spread through the rotting interior, wreathed in shadows. Sometimes Mikhail felt Dominick was still here. It was a comforting feeling.
He looked toward the heart of the City, rather than afar as per normal. It was impossible to see the Wall at this point anyway. To the east, the council Dome dominated the view, its burnished gold a gleaming sun in the dark. Around it spiralled dozens of thin towers; half-rotten corpses glowing with trapped fireflies. Mikhail wondered how they still stood and whether he could free those lights and watch them fly away, up to the moon. The low drone of falling drops was constant, drilling into the floor until he felt sure his bones thrummed to the rhythm of it and his eyes became heavy and languid.
He tried to fight it, really, he did. It was useless, in the end. The dreams were becoming impossible to manage and simply not sleeping wasn’t the answer. His shoulders slumped as he gave in.
He is walking through a tunnel, besieged by whispers.
Oh gods, please don’t let it be true. It can’t be…He quashes the thought ruthlessly, wincing with each step. The tunnel glows azure. There is a chiming, a susurrus that is familiar in a vague way; it flows around his feet, up to his chest, constricting and liberating all at once with a thousand thousand whispers that he cannot grasp. His hands are on his side, trying to keep in the warm red tide that creeps between his fingers. His breath is ragged and he tries to keep from sobbing aloud. His enemy is getting closer.
Mikhail slipped down a notch.
From behind closed lids came frantic movement, but he could see nothing beyond the dream. Not the tendrils of mist that were curling about the black iron-wrought gates like the long-fingered hands of ghosts. Not the robed man that stood before it, watching Mikhail intently. Not the drop to the cobblestones below or the droplets that only fell in ones or twos, lost in the banks of white.
He can’t hear the screams anymore.
Without the crackle of sorcery that must still be lighting the sky or the din of battle, he feels almost deaf. It’s a mixed blessing. His muscles are atrophied by his exhausting journey, knees wanting nothing more than to give out. But he can’t stop now. He won’t. The voices urge him on, he’s nearly there, just keep going and reach the end of the tunnel. It swims in the distance, eyes losing focus. The drip, drip, drip of falling water reminds him of something, but he can’t remember what.
In the distance, a creature trumpets its rage. Its cry is answered by a dozen more all around and he shivers with instinctive fear. Not them, anything but them…The tunnel blazes red and the walls begin to shake.
Mikhail shifted, slumping a little further.
The street lights blinked. All around the Orphanage and up the thoroughfare, the crystals began to sputter and crackle. The mist had thickened and just the tips of the black spires atop the gate could be seen. The edge beckoned. Drops splattered on his arm and face; his eyes flickered and he almost stirred.
The stairs groaned as someone stamped up them.
The pulsing red lights screamed danger and though he urged himself to go faster, his body had reached its limit. The halting footsteps of his pursuer were ever closer now and he took pleasure in the obvious pain he’d dealt him. Serves the bastard right. It wasn’t enough, not by a long shot and the shrill cry of approaching creatures – truly behemoth, even within these vast catacombs – became louder and more strident with each step.
Finally, the end was near. He dug deeper than ever before and somehow managed a malformed lope to increase his pace. He reached it, lungs heaving, covered in sweat that dripped down his grey face and stared into an abyss. Disbelieving, he looked into the yawning maw and a thousand green eyes winked back. He turned, in time to see the face of his enemy bared in hate, even as they crashed into one another. He had time for just one yell.
They fell.
‘Steal my cake will you, ya little runt? You’re dead this time and there ain’t nobody what’s gonna save ya.’
These words, accompanied by a fierce yank, ripped Mikhail out of his dream and backward – legs kicking into terrifying, sudden weightlessness – away from the ledge. He landed painfully, skidding across the dusty floorboards. He looked up to see his oppressor towering above him. Gracchus! But how? Fear shrivelled his insides even as he scuttled backward. Mist was rising outside. It climbed the tower walls and it was against this startling canvas that Gracchus was highlighted. His eyes were huge, wild, and unfocused.
‘My cake, I can smell it. Where is it?’ Gracchus tilted his head, the words rasping from his throat. Mikhail almost wanted to laugh at the absurd question, but he couldn’t muster so much as a whimper, his throat was so dry. The dream – fuzzy now, green eyes, strange lights – left him unsettled.
‘Wh…what cake?’ Mikhail coughed.
The ancient timbers moaned their discontent.
‘Where. Is. It?’
Again, a ball of fear pummelled into his gut and Mikhail gasped, trying to force the air back into his lungs. Gracchus sides were heaving, a frantic whine building in his throat. His cheek twitched. That was the final straw for them both. Mikhail turned and bolted, even as Gracchus roared, thundering after him. Feet practically skimming above the boards, Mikhail made for the stairs. Running up and down these stairs for the past year had made him quick and lean; he had no trouble flying down the rickety staircase, carefully placing his weight. Gracchus on the other hand, wasn’t used to anything near this level of exercise, or the stairs in question. He slammed his way down the fragile wooden case, getting slower and slower even as it began to shake more and more.
The stairs screamed under his weight.
The sound grated against Mikhail’s ears. He hunched instinctively, even as he was racing onto the last bend and turned to see Gracchus freeze. The Observatory hadn't seen this much activity in years and it was beginning to tell. Cracks splintered through the boards. Mikhail's eyes widened as he recognised the danger and watched, disbelieving, as the stairs split; a ragged wooden mouth torn between the two.
‘Run!’ he yelled.
Gracchus didn’t move. The mouth yawned, cracks widening.
‘Gracchus, move!’ Still, the big boy didn’t move. A dark patch soaked his pyjama pants, expression warring between anger and fear. There was no time for thought, just action.
‘It’s going to collapse, you idiot, move!’ he shouted.
Silence. The two locked eyes. It seemed everything was shaking; the tower, their legs, hearts, and beads of sweat. The tense moment ended as, slowly, Gracchus placed one foot forward. He tested his weight on it. Nothing; it held. Even slower than before, he brought the other to bear. Mikhail held his breath until it beat against his throat with butterfly wings and he had to let it out. Gracchus looked up, a look of relief dawning on his face even as the whole case buckled and dropped.
He squealed and fell, stopping as the stairs suddenly halted a mere foot lower. Truly bawling now, he looked piteously at Mikhail. ‘Help.’
Mikhail was torn. The stairs were shuddering constantly, the strain becoming unbearable. He had one choice to make and he had to make it fast. His own mind was telling him to beat it and flee as quickly as possible, but he couldn't. What would Reynold think?
He chose.
