Page 77 of The Neverfear

It was not easy to sail the Neverfear alone, though he knew it well now; the way the tiller resisted the pull of the water, the sound of wind in the sails.

Twice he looked back, down into the water. There was a dark stain, following some distance behind them under the waves.

As he sailed towards Morax’s boat he saw something coming from over the horizon. Two ships, moving unnaturally fast. For a moment Christopher’s heart leaped and his legs went numb with relief: help was on its way! He snatched up the binoculars, and looked again – and then he spat into the water.

Each ship flew a black flag stitched with a white circle: a snake with its tail in its mouth. More bandits. Well, let them come. There was nothing he could do now but follow his plan through to its end.

In the boat, Morax rose to his feet. Even from a distance, Christopher could see the triumph of his smile.

‘Halt!’ called Morax. ‘I will come.’

Astor Morax tipped a handful of powdered wind into his palm. A squall suddenly swirled around them, and Morax rose and was carried on it across the water. He landed on the stern of the Neverfear.

‘Stay back!’ cried Christopher. He snatched up the small boy and held him in his arms.

‘Christopher,’ said Morax. For the first time, Christopher could see the man who had caused so much death and pain. He was tall, and his skin was pale, unwrinkled and almost translucent in its clarity.

‘You have made the right choice,’ said Astor Morax.

‘I have a bargain to strike! Don’t come any closer!’

Sweat was beading on Christopher’s brow. He looked down at the shape in the water behind them. Come on, he breathed, but the stain was still a distance from him: too far.

‘I make no bargains,’ said Morax. ‘Hand the child to me, and I will leave you and your island and your precious creatures. That is my only offer.’

‘I said stay back!’ said Christopher. ‘I have conditions.’

‘You have no conditions.’ He walked towards Christopher, his feet light on the deck of the boat. ‘I can kill you where you stand, and take the child from your dead arms.’

Something moved under Astor Morax’s skin. It was a bulge, long and thin, moving along his collarbone. As Christopher stared in horror the bulge moved up the man’s neck beneath the skin, curling and uncurling, slithering under the blue veins. It came up Morax’s cheek and writhed across his brow.

‘The Snake Beneath the Skin,’ said Morax. ‘I control the snakes, for I know them, I understand them. I share my mind with them.’ He stepped closer. ‘Give me the Immortal.’ He looked hungrily at Teren’s sweet face. He reached out.

‘Stop!’ Christopher drew his sword and held it, not towards Morax, but at Teren’s side. ‘If you so much as move your hand, I will kill Teren. And he’ll be reborn, and you will have to find the Immortal all over again. I’ll do it – Teren means nothing to me.’

He hoped it did not show on his face how bold a lie that was. Teren was not just the Immortal: he was at once Mal Arvorian and his own dear self, beloved for his own soul.

Morax halted, his eyes on Christopher. The snake surged down, and writhed round and round his neck like a moving choker.

‘Tell me your conditions,’ said Morax.

‘My first demand is you tell me why you’re doing this. All of it – the killing, the burning of the villages, all over Glimouria.’

Morax kept his eyes fixed on Teren. ‘The other towns and villages were nothing: they were cover. I only wished to kill Senan’s father, to find the child. But it could not be obvious. Where do you hide a drop of water? In an ocean. Where do you hide a murder? In a sea of murders.’

His eyes flickered for a moment to Christopher’s face. ‘Then I discovered I had to break through your fendthorn. I sent you to perform the most dangerous of the Labours. But for the others, my men had to kill, to seize the materials. So those deaths – at the Augean stables, in the woods of Nemea – are your responsibility. They would not have been necessary had the fendthorn not existed. Now give me the boy.’

‘Why do you want Teren? Tell me that.’

‘Only two living souls in the world know that,’ said Morax. For the first time he smiled. ‘But when it is done, you will acknowledge its power. In time, you will see.’

The snake worked round Morax’s neck, rippling under the skin, under the veins.

‘Enough now.’ The snake vanished. Morax opened his mouth, and the snake emerged. Up out of his throat it came: grey in colour, iridescent.

Morax flicked a finger towards Christopher. The snake coiled and launched itself across the air between them. It landed on Christopher’s shoulder, darting around the nape of his neck. Christopher yelled in horror and stumbled backwards. With the child in one hand and his sword in the other, he had no way to reach out and grab it.

‘Don’t touch it. Don’t move,’ said Morax. ‘It does my bidding, and it does not like to be touched. Stay still, or you die instantly.’