As Zyra reached out for a flower, the scene dissolved into a no-man's-land of mud, razor wire and dead bodies. Rats gnawed on the corpses. Rats flooded out from the trenches, engulfing the landscape. And then Tark and Zyra were in the sewer again, facing the rat-mage.
‘The tunnels are my domain,’ said the rat-mage. ‘In the world above, I am vermin. But here below, I am master. I can give you anything your hearts desire. So long as you stay within the boundaries of my domain.’
The rat-mage waved a paw, and silver platters laden with food, were brought before them on the backs of scurrying rats. Fruit, cakes, puddings, even ice-cream.
Tark's eyes widened.
‘Wot's this all abouts,’ demanded Zyra, barely even looking at the food. ‘Who in the name of the Designers are ya?’
‘I am the discarded child of the Designers,’ said the rat-mage, voice harsh with hatred, eyes blazing. It spat another glob of phlegm at the very thought of the Designers. ‘A mistake. A failed experiment. Banished down here, away from those who quest for Paradise.’ It drew a long, deep breath and calmed itself. ‘But down here, I am in control, away from the prying eyes of the Designers.’ It spat again. ‘Down here you may do as you will. Without them knowing. Without repercussion. The only rules that matter down here are mine.’
‘But the Designers see all,’ said Tark, as if reciting a well-known passage from a much-read book.
‘Not down here,’ assured the rat-mage. ‘And I know what it is that you want. Your heart's most intimate desire.’
The rat-mage waved a paw, and the sea of rats parted to reveal a bed. A luxurious, four-poster bed with sheets of silk, posts of carved mahogany and drapes of the finest embroidered fabric trimmed in gold.
‘Oh yes,’ intoned the rat-mage, its irritatingly squeaky voice becoming silky and smooth and seductive. ‘I know about the rules. Those unfair rules that prevent people of your station from acting on your feelings.’
The fingertips of Tark's hand brushed Zyra's.
‘Oh yes. Those with higher station may do as they will. May even pay for the likes of you, if they so desire. But you may not.’
Tark and Zyra gazed at each other. Their surroundings melted away. The rats were gone. The sludge and the tunnels were gone. Only the bed and the food remained. All else was an indistinct blur. And then there were flowers.
Zyra picked a flower and held it out to Tark. He smiled. His hand found hers and clasped it tightly. His heart quickened. His eyes closed. He breathed deeply as he leaned towards her. He felt exhilarated. He felt foggy. He felt as if he were about to be lost in a dream.
The flower Zyra held out brushed against his cheek.
Tark's eyes snapped open.
‘It has no smell,’ he said. ‘The flower.’
Zyra looked confused.
‘The fire,’ he remembered. ‘No heat. It ain't real. It's all fake.’
He snatched the flower from Zyra's hand and held it up for her to see. It was a brittle, dead twig. He scooped up a handful of ice-cream.
‘Smell it,’ he demanded, holding it up under Zyra's nose.
Zyra took a sniff and gagged at the stench. Tark had a handful of green sludge.
All around them, the food was revealed as rotting and decayed scraps on discarded pieces of wood. The bed turned into a cage. And then the rats were back.
‘Oh dear,’ said the rat-mage, its voice an irritating squeak again. ‘You could have stayed here and been oh-so happy. But now you will stay and be oh-so miserable.’
The rats parted to form a path to the cage.
‘In you get,’ said the rat-mage, conjuring up a ball of fire in its outstretched paw.
Zyra drew her knives and struck a fighting pose.
‘I could force you in,’ said the rat-mage.
‘No ya can'ts,’ said Tark. Then he added to Zyra: ‘It's illusion. Just like the princelings use, to fools the thievers. None of it's real. He ain't gots no real power. His fire ain't gots no heat.’
The rats all started squeaking and scurrying about.
‘My powers may be that of illusion,’ said the rat-mage. ‘But my rats are very real and they have sharp, sharp teeth, eager to tear flesh from bone.’
The rats began to slowly advance towards them.
‘Give up now,’ said the rat-mage, smiling, ‘and they won't hurt you.’
Tark drew his sword and skewered the nearest rat. The rat-mage screamed in pain and staggered back. The rats stopped advancing.
‘How dare you?’ screeched the rat-mage, recovering from the shock.
The rats regained their purpose and again started to advance on Tark and Zyra. The two closest leapt at Zyra. She slashed both with her knives.
Again the rat-mage screamed in pain, this time doubling over, and the swarm of rats lost their sense of purpose.
‘They is nuthin’ without him controllin’ ’em,’ shouted Zyra triumphantly.
Then with a quick nod to each other, Tark and Zyra went on the attack, slashing, stabbing and skewering rodents.
‘Stop,’ screamed the rat-mage. ‘You're killing me.’
‘That's fine by us,’ said Tark, as he slashed three rats with one downward sweep of his sword.
‘Let's get out of ’ere,’ said Zyra.
Tark nodded. He grabbed the cart and pulled it behind himself as he cut a path through the rats with the sword. Zyra followed, stabbing and slashing as many rats as she could.
Without the rat-mage's control, the rodents scattered, disoriented, offering little resistance to Tark and Zyra as they hacked and cleaved, rat innards splattering everywhere. The tunnels echoed with the dying squeals of rats, and the green sludge was soon tainted red. The rat-mage collapsed into the sludge, flailing about helplessly.
‘Which way?’ asked Tark.
Zyra indicated a tunnel that was free from rats. With a cacophony of squealing ringing in their ears, she led the way at a jog. Even though they saw no sign of the rat-mage or its minions, the thought that they might be in pursuit was enough to speed them on. Although Zyra did insist on a brief stop when they came across a pipe gushing relatively clean water. She washed her face and hands, and did her best to clean the muck off her travelling coat. Tark considered cleaning his boots, but since they were still ankle-deep in sludge, it seemed pointless to him.
They made good time on the rest of their journey through the sewers, until finally they reached a dead end — a seamless wall of stone.
Zyra put her hand onto the stone surface. Nothing happened. She nodded to Tark, who placed his hand on the stone as well, one of his fingertips gently touching hers. The stone wall immediately lit up. They pulled back their hands and watched as the wall shimmered and then dissolved to reveal a large metal door. It was twice their height and wide enough for them and their cart to enter side by side. Despite being in a sewage tunnel, it gleamed with untarnished beauty. In its surface they saw all their hopes and dreams as untouchable reflections.
Zyra dug the keys from her coat. She handed one to Tark, and held on to the other. Then in perfect unison, they held up their keys and chanted.
‘Praise be to the Designers.’
The door swung open.
12: Confrontations
Tark and Zyra stepped into a vast, disorienting whiteness. The door slammed shut behind them. There was no discernable floor, ceiling or walls, but it was solid underfoot. The metal door through which they had stepped, and pulled their cart through, was now just one of hundreds that dotted the blank landscape in a vague pattern of expanding circles. The doors were freestanding, with simple frames but no walls supporting them. They seemed pointless. They couldn't possibly lead anywhere. And yet they did. Each door was an entry point into this white limbo. Tark circled the now closed door through which they had entered.
‘There!’ Zyra pointed to a pedestal in the distance. It protruded from the nonexistent floor in the centre of all the doors.