The Malice

The sounds of pursuit have stopped.

Girl, Harmonised and goat freeze, wondering who else listens in the darkness.

Then, sudden and decisive comes the sound of armoured limbs, battering the tunnel, supernaturally fast, gaining.

With a muttered curse, Duet lets her sword fall back into its sheath and lowers herself into the hole. The descent is controlled and quick, her landing soft. Fractionally, the cylinder dips, high sides untroubled by lapping water.

The kid appears at the top of the ladder, afraid to jump, afraid to stay.

‘Come on,’ encourages Vesper.

‘Leave it.’

‘No!’ She reaches up, smiles encouragingly. ‘Come on, you can do it. Jump. I’ll catch you.’

The kid bleats, extends a hoof into space, then retracts it hurriedly.

‘Don’t be scared.’

Duet speaks quickly, forcing words where she would naturally pause. ‘There’s no time, we have to go, forget the animal or we’ll all die.’

Vesper stands her ground. ‘You can do it. Jump.’ The sword begins to tremble against her back. ‘Come on,’ she calls, voice fake and positive. ‘Jump!’

The kid closes his eyes and with a final bleat, throws himself into space.

Hooves flail.

Duet swears.

Vesper’s smile falls away.

There is a collision. Cries of alarm and pain mingle together. Water sloshes.

Vesper finds the kid in her arms, finds herself pitching backwards. Then Duet’s hand finds her collar, pulls her upright.

‘Thank you.’

The cylinder is built for comfort, for one. Vesper and Duet wriggle together, making what space they can. Fortunately, one is not full grown and the other’s armour is streamlined, built for speed. Even so, the sword is hard on Vesper’s back and the bag is crushed between them and contents press outward, sharp edges digging into hips and stomachs.

The kid turns round three times, then sits in the space beneath Vesper’s feet.

Without being asked, the cylinder begins to close. Hands and heads are tucked inside, hasty. With a sigh, the split sides of the cylinder meet, sealing instantly.

Tiny holes appear on the outer layer of the metal, greedily sucking in water, taking on weight and, with a sudden lurch, the cylinder drops beneath the surface.

The First reaches the end of the tunnel, stopping by the hole. It peers down, not needing a torch to penetrate the darkness.

There is nothing but water slapping the sides of the chamber below.

Others come from behind, hurrying through the network, their growing proximity comforting.

The First does not wait for them. It plunges into the water, head first, a black shape welcomed into inky depths.

Down it goes, down and down, a silent missile that finds new tunnels branching away. It reads the eddies and currents, quickly narrowing options until only one remains.

The First does not swim. Instead, feet and hands push against the bottom of its chosen tunnel, propelling it forward in bursts.

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