Chaos Descends
Copyright
First published in hardback in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2016
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins website address is: www.harpercollins.co.uk
Copyright © Shane Hegarty 2016
Jacket illustration © James de la Rue 2016
Jacket Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016
Design by HarperCollinsPublishers © 2017
Character illustration © James de la Rue; claw mark illustration © Peter Crowther
Shane Hegarty asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.
James de la Rue asserts the moral right to be identified as the illustrator of the work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007545636
Ebook Edition © 2017 ISBN: 9780007545698
Version: 2017-02-14
For Caoimhe
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Maps
Previously in Darkmouth
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Liechtenstein: Two Months Earlier
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Liechtenstein: Seven Weeks Earlier
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Liechtenstein: Five Weeks Earlier
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Liechtenstein: Two Weeks Earlier
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Liechtenstein: Twelve Hours Earlier
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Liechtenstein: Six Hours Earlier
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Liechtenstein: The Very Same Moment
Chapter 59
Thank Yous
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Shane Hegarty
About the Publisher
Maps
Ten months after returning from the Infested Side, Finn still had to be careful where he sneezed.
If he sneezed in the kitchen, the microwave went ting.
If he coughed too hard, the television changed channels.
One night he snored so loudly it woke him with a terrible start and the sound of thunder in his ears. He sat upright, calming his breath, convinced he had caused something, somewhere to explode.
Things had, after all, exploded before. Everything had exploded. Gateways. Caves. Worlds. People. Finn.
While trying to find his father, Hugo, he had accidentally thrown himself, Emmie and Estravon the Assessor into the Infested Side. There Finn had discovered that he had the ability to ignite – to explode with devastating power, sending out a wave of energy that laid waste to everything around him. Although he had found this out only once he had exploded.
He had been further astonished to find it left him in one piece. More or less. A scar across his chest reminded him of what had happened. As did the occasionally problematic sneezing fit.
So much else had happened on the Infested Side. He had walked with the enemy, blown a giant hole between worlds, found his long-missing grandfather, Niall Blacktongue, become involved in a Legend rebellion and, to the loudest complaints of all, ruined Estravon’s best trousers.
He’d done all of this having landed in the right world, but three decades too early to find his father. It meant he could add time travel to the list of things he hadn’t meant to do.
Yet, despite this, his father had been rescued and the Legends had been defeated at Darkmouth’s Cave at the Beginning of the World.
Ten months on, and that same energy occasionally welled inside him, unexpected, uncontrolled, but otherwise all was quiet in Darkmouth.
Finn sat in his classroom, paying little attention to the teacher, looking instead at the empty chair where Emmie used to sit. With her father, Steve, she had been sent to spy on Finn, but had ended up sharing these adventures with him. When all that was done, she’d had to return to the city with her dad.
Life was quieter without Emmie. He missed her. Not that he’d admit that to her.
Finn stared out of the school window for a while. There wasn’t much to see. No Legends. No gateways. Darkmouth had not been attacked by a single Legend since and was becoming just like any other town. His family was in danger of becoming just like every other. And even the Savage twins sitting here in his class, two bad attitudes and one chewed ear between them, had stopped bothering him and instead treated him with as little interest as they did the rest of the kids.
The collapsed section of the cliffs, where the gateway to the Infested Side had been opened and then dramatically closed, was covered now with tall green grass, bringing a sense of new growth following destruction. The people of Darkmouth wondered if their town might join those others around the world that used to be plagued by Legends, but which were now free from that blight for the first time in a thousand years.
Finn’s birthday was approaching. His thirteenth. A big one, especially for an apprentice Legend Hunter like him: it was the age at which he could finally become Complete. That was something Finn had always dreaded. But, as he gazed out of the school window, he let his mind dwell on dangerous questions. Would he now live an ordinary life, free of the responsibility of being a Legend Hunter? Was the war actually over? Was it this from now on in? No destiny. No prophecies. Just life. Ordinary, everyday, Legend-free, unexciting life.
He might have dwelled on these questions some more except he had to sneeze.
“Bless you, Finn,” said his teacher.
Finn quietly blew through his cheeks, relieved he hadn’t set off the school bell.
What he didn’t realise was that three rooms away the sprinkler system had burst into life, drenching twenty-five panicked kids, one surprised teacher and two very twitchy class hamsters.
The hotel room was quiet and still, untouched for years by anything but the light that sliced through the torn curtain. Its sheets bleached of colour, a bed stood in the corner. It had not been slept in for a very long time. Over the sink, a thin green line of slime hung from the tap. A chair sat at an awkward angle by the wall; a snuffling silverfish carved a track across its layer of dust.
A thump rattled the room, shook the dust, sent the silverfish scurrying for safety.
There was another louder thud, from the other side of the closed door. With one final crunch, and an accompanying grunt, the door swung inwards, crashing against the corner of a small writing table. In the darkness stood the silhouette of a very large man, his green eyes lit by the strip of daylight, a kilt settling about his knees.
Once he had assessed the room for a few seconds, the man bent and entered. Beneath a cracked brown leather jacket, the hem of his kilt danced about hairy legs and his metal sporran clanked under the weight of the seven knives slotted along the top of it. He drew a whistling breath through his whiskers, ran his finger along the writing table’s dust.
A tiny spider pushed through the grime on his fingertip and leaped towards the carpet.
“This room is perfect,” said the man.
He was Douglas, from the Scottish Isle of Teeth. He came from an ancient family of Legend Hunters, whose deeds still echoed through the annals. But Douglas’s deeds did not echo. He was unlucky enough to have been born into an age when Legends bothered only one town and one Legend Hunter family. It meant that he was a Half-Hunter, with the blood of a Legend Hunter, but no Legends to fight.
Instead, Douglas was a pastry chef. This way, he at least got to use knives at work.
Every day, Douglas longed to spill the blood of the Infested Side’s Legends, to prove himself in battle and earn his place in a line of great warriors. But right now, in this room, he had only one very important question.
“What time is breakfast served?”
A stooped woman shuffled in from the dimly lit hallway, carrying an extremely fluffy yellow towel and some shampoo in tiny plastic bottles. She pushed past Douglas and placed them roughly on the bed. This was Mrs Cross, the hotel’s owner, and her name was an appropriate one.
“We haven’t had guests in this place for thirty years,” she complained, “and as soon as I open again you lot demand a slap-up feed served to you as soon as you wake. Isn’t it enough that I brought shower caps?”
She dropped a crumpled plastic hairnet onto the towel.
The Half-Hunter glared at her, decades of pent-up frustration simmering behind his eyes.
“Breakfast is from seven until eight thirty every morning,” Mrs Cross sighed. She shuffled back out of the room, grumbling as she went. “If you’re even a minute late, you can suck on the towel for all I care.”
She pulled the creaking door behind her, until it stopped ajar on the rucked carpet.
Alone in the room, Douglas stood at the bed and, one by one, pulled the knives from his sporran. A short blade. A fat one. Bone-handled. Wooden-handled. Serrated. Smooth. A delicate one that was very useful for cutting apple pies.
He lined them up in a neat row next to the towel, then rummaged further in his sporran and placed a toothbrush alongside the knives.
Behind him, he heard the creak of a floorboard.
“Ah, porter,” Douglas said, not looking around, but fishing in his sporran for something else. “You must ha’ brought m’bag. You can put it in the corner there.”
Douglas pulled a comb from his sporran and added it to the bed’s line-up. Behind him, the unseen porter didn’t move.
“I said to put it over in the corner. Oh, you’ll be wanting a tip, I suppose?” Douglas turned while searching for change. “I coulda just carried the bag up m’self—”
In the shadows of the room, a figure was taking shape, pouring from a floating mouth as if formed by a scream. It filled out between feet and head. What might once have been hair was now a writhing mass of oozing tar. What might once have been a face was now a shifting landscape of scars in which sat eyes fiery with blood. What might once have been human was something even more horrible.
“Is that you?” asked Douglas, pushing up his leather sleeves in anticipation of trouble.
In the shadows, the figure remained. Silent. Watchful. Eyes ablaze.
“They said you were dead,” said Douglas, the edge of his mouth curling in anticipation of a fight. “But ne’er mind, because it’s gonna be a pleasure to send you back to whatever hell you’ve come from.”
The figure held out charred hands, as if in a show of peace. Beneath the depthless black of its hair, those pupils were fixed islands on coursing rivers of blood.
Douglas ducked and grabbed a carving knife, spun while swinging the blade at the figure before him.
The weapon passed uselessly through the phantom.
The horrifying apparition waited until it could see the realisation cross Douglas’s face, a look that said: All the pastry knives in the world wouldnae be enough for this fight.
Then the phantom struck.
In a brief, desperate bid for safety, Douglas gripped the curtain, tore it from the window, so that a burst of light shocked the room.
The curtain did not help.
Douglas was gone.
Outside, ignorant of the terrible events in the hotel room, Darkmouth was busy with shoppers, giddy kids and the source of their excitement: Half-Hunters pulling suitcases behind them, pushing large boxes ahead of them, arriving in steady numbers, trying not to poke passers-by with the ceremonial swords that hung from their waists.
Coming down the centre of the road, ignoring the oncoming traffic, the honking of horns and shouts of protest, were two Half-Hunters in grey leather trousers and red padded jackets. They carried a huge banner, sagging along the ground between them. On it, between two dancing Minotaurs, was large lettering that read:
Finn could hear his own breath. Worse, he could smell it. Stale. Hot. Filling the helmet so that it made his nose twitch and his eyes water.
“My visor’s steaming up and—” A long wooden sword hit him hard on the side of the head. “Ah, come on!” Finn protested, through a ringing ear and murky vision.
The sword clattered him on the other side of the skull.
Through the fogged-up visor, Finn saw his father thrust forward from the long white space of the training room, his feet light on the soft mats that covered the floor. Finn dodged quickly and spun away.
“You can’t keep running,” said Hugo, turning to face him. In the sleek reflection of his dad’s helmet, Finn saw his own visor-covered face, the sides of his helmet daubed with red streaks of paint meant to imitate blood.
His father moved in with a skilful swish of a blade aimed at Finn’s nose. Finn just about reacted in time to block it, but his father loomed over him, pressing down slowly, surely, so that Finn’s knees began to buckle beneath him. “Sooner or later,” said Hugo sternly, “you’re going to have to fight back.”
“I hate to admit this,” said Finn, sinking under the pressure of the sword, his back beginning to bend precariously over his legs, “but you’re right.”
He dropped suddenly, almost limboing away from his father as Hugo stumbled forward at the sudden removal of the body that had been holding him up.
Finn hit his father in the hinge of one leg. Hugo dropped to one knee and Finn released a tiny laugh of satisfaction. He immediately regretted this celebration for two reasons.
First, the smell of this morning’s boiled egg filled his helmet.
Second, his father hit back.
The tremor from Hugo’s blow worked its way through Finn’s armour, a rattle that reached his shoulders and shook the golden ropes of the epaulettes that hung on his shoulders.
To catch his breath, Finn pulled the helmet from his head. Gathering himself, Finn glared at the mirror that ran the length of the wall, saw himself in the new fighting suit he’d spent recent months working on. Making your own fighting suit was the Legend Hunter tradition. It was also necessary in Finn’s case, since the last one had been destroyed on the Infested Side.
This new one was made of dull steel, shiny leather, overlapping straps. The fat buckle on his belt was moulded into a wide biting mouth. There was a somewhat unconvincing painting of a Minotaur’s horns and gaping mouth across his chest. And the quivering epaulettes had been added because this was a fighting suit he’d made not just for future battles he hoped to avoid, but also a graduation ceremony he knew he couldn’t. Unfortunately.
“Do we really have to have such a big ceremony?” he hissed.
“Of course,” his father responded, low. “People have come from all over the world to see this.”
“No pressure at all,” said Finn. “It’ll be good to become a Legend Hunter after everything, I suppose. But maybe it could have been just a family occasion.”
“Serves you right for surviving the Infested Side, battling legends, rescuing me, saving Darkmouth and being generally heroic,” said his father.
“I’ll know better next time,” said Finn, a grin curling the edge of his mouth.
Hugo jabbed his weapon forward, and Finn realised too late that it was simply a diversion, something to push him off balance. He made to parry the blow, but his father was already behind him, and before Finn could even react, had wrapped his arms round his chest, hauling him up so that his legs kicked at the air.
Finn felt the breath forced from his lungs, yet remained as calm as he could, refusing to let the crush panic him. He knew this was a test.
“I’m nearly thirteen,” he spluttered, arms jammed down his sides, but his right hand flicking a clasp on his fighting suit. “I’m too old for tickles.”
The whole outfit peeled open like a banana, and Finn slid down through it, free from his father’s grip.
Jumping away, he again saw himself in the mirror, and this time regretted wearing a vest and old sports shorts. His boots were still on his feet, and his legs disappeared into them like bamboo in a plant pot.
Hugo threw the empty fighting suit in a heap on the floor, a smile creeping across his face. “The Goodman Manoeuvre,” he said. “Excellent.”
Finn glanced at the mirror again. “Um … I need to take a break,” he said suddenly, panic and embarrassment flushing through him.
“We’re only just getting started,” responded his father, coiling himself into a highly intimidating pose, a mass of metal over muscle ready to bear down on Finn.
“No, Dad, we need to stop now,” insisted Finn.
“In two days you’ll become a teenager,” his father pressed, his voice low, as if someone was listening.
“I know, but—”
“Tomorrow you have your Completion Ceremony and become a true Legend Hunter.”
“I haven’t forgotten—”
“The first new Legend Hunter in many years,” continued his father. “We need to have these manoeuvres nailed down for the event or they mightn’t let you go through with it.”
“But—”
“And they will cancel it. Trust me. That’s the reason Billy the Loser got his name.” He wound up to attack again. “Well, one of the reasons anyway.”
“No, that’s not the problem,” Finn said, leaning forward while whispering. “It’s my shorts. I’ve torn them.”
His father relaxed from his cobra pose, lifted the visor on his helmet and peered round Finn’s back where, sure enough, the top layer of his shorts was splitting and threatening to reveal the stripy boxers beneath.
Hugo stood tall, seemed to think about it for a moment, before turning to the mirror. Finn looked at it too and again got a glimpse of how weak he appeared beside his father. Then his father flipped the visor down, and immediately resumed his attack stance. “Come on,” he said. “No one can see it.”
In despair, Finn’s eyes opened wider than the split in his shorts. “What? Of course they can see it!”
“They can’t,” Hugo insisted.
Petulant, Finn stepped to a switch on the wall.
“Don’t,” said his father.
Finn pressed the switch anyway.
From a point at the mirror’s dead centre, the reflection cleared, like condensation evaporating from a window, until the full length of the wall became completely see-through. On the other side, two rows of seats were revealed, packed with a couple of dozen people. Some in a variety of fighting suits. Some in just ordinary suits. One wore an all-in-one bodysuit of shimmering blue scales. There was even a family there, a mother and father watching in wide-eyed delight, while their teenage son gazed on with a look of such boredom it would be a wonder if his face ever found the muscles to smile again.
“Half the Half-Hunter population is watching me,” said Finn, pointing at the audience behind the glass. They had won tickets in a raffle: the chance to see the apprentice train before the Completion Ceremony.
“It’s tradition,” Hugo said. “They get to see you.”
“Yes, but I don’t want them to see everything,” said Finn, jabbing his thumb at the tear in the back of his shorts before heading for the door.
Hugo pulled the helmet from his head. “Should we take a break at this point?”
On the other side of the mirror, the Half-Hunter in blue scales shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
“Yes,” sighed Hugo. “Let’s take a break.”
With a shake of his head, humiliation complete, Finn marched up the corridor, past the paintings of all those Legend Hunters who had gone before him, ignoring the judgemental glare of his famously unhappy great-grandfather, Gerald the Disappointed. The further up the corridor he went, the older the portraits became, until the earliest paintings had faded into faces made unrecognisable by peeling paint. It was a constant reminder of how long Finn’s family had been Darkmouth’s Legend Hunters.