© All content copyright Mike Wilks 2019. All rights reserved.
Prologue
It
should
have
been
darker
than
the
darkest
night,
as
black
as
Indian
ink.
But
it
was
not.
He
held
his
hand
in
front
of
his
face
and
could
clearly
distinguish
its
outline
in
the
feeble
light.
It
was
both
a
blessing
and
a
curse.
If
he
could
see,
then
he
could
also
be
seen.
He
quickened
his
pace.
There
was
little
risk
of
stumbling
now
with
the
increasing
light,
but
where
it
was
coming
from
he
could
not
yet
tell.
The
echo
of
his
footfall
and
the
even
floor
told
him
that
he
was
indoors,
and
the
darkness
that
he
was
deep
underground.
Then
there
was
the
smell.
A
smell
of
damp
and
decay
laced with something sour and feral.
And
sounds
too.
Sounds
that
could
only
be
footsteps
somewhere
behind
him,
getting
closer.
Periodically
they
stopped,
and he was sure he heard sniffing.
There
was
a
sudden
movement
to
his
left
and
the
man
froze,
his
heart
pounding.
Had
it
found
him
so
soon?
He
turned
his
head
slowly
and
so
did
his
watcher.
With
an
audible
sigh
of
relief,
he
saw
it
was
his
own
reflection.
He
approached
the
mirror.
Its
ornate
frame
was
cracked
and
festooned
with
cobwebs,
its
glass
scabby
with
age.
But
the
shadowy
reflection
was
his
sure
enough,
even
if
his
own
mother
would
not
have
recognised
him.
The
gaunt
features
and
the
malachite
green
skin
of
the
fugitive
stared
back
at
him.
Escaping
from
the
island
of
Kig
had
been
the
easy
part.
It
had
only
taken
him
a
matter
of
hours
to
travel
the
hundreds
of
miles
from
the
horror
of
the
mines
to
here
–
wherever
here
was.
But
when
he
finally
emerged,
fumbling,
into
the
pitch
darkness
he
found
a
new
peril.
It
soon
became
clear
he
was
being
stalked
by
something
every
bit
as
cunning
and
murderous
as
his
former captors, the Fifth Mystery.
As
the
man
hurried
on,
water
splashed
underfoot.
The
light
gradually
increased
until
he
discovered
its
source.
A
forgotten
gallery
stretched
before
him,
one
long
wall
hung
with
many
paintings.
But
these
were
unlike
any
paintings
he
had
ever
seen
before.
These
paintings
had
been
there
so
long
that
they
seemed
to
have
become
bored
of
being
confined
within
their
meagre
two
dimensions.
Weird
vines
and
plants
had
become
real
and
spilled
out
of
the
images
and
on
to
the
gallery
floor.
The
branches
of
gnarled
trees,
originally
crafted
in
oil
paint,
had
left
the
paintings
to
snake
and
intertwine
overhead.
Streams
that
once
were
formed
by
deft
brushwork
and
pigment
now
splashed
their
way
out
of
their
pictures
and
meandered
along
the
gallery
floor.
In
the
distance
they
could
be
heard
as
they
erupted
into
cataracts
when
they
encountered
unseen
stairwells.
The
light
was
leaking
from
these
pictures
and
illuminating
the
space
at
regular
intervals,
casting
rectangular
pools
on
the
bare,
stone
floor.
It
reminded
him
of
a
deserted
city
street
at
night,
lit
by
the
windows
of
many
shops.
The
green
man
walked
down
the
long
gallery,
staring
at
the
canvases
open-mouthed.
He
stopped
before
one.
In
a
clearing
in
the
heart
of
a
nocturnal
forest
overflowing
with
extravagant
plants,
slept
a
band
of
travelling
players.
They
were
dressed
in
gaudy
costumes
and
masks.
The
scene
was
illuminated
by
thousands
of
candles
that
littered
the
floor
of
the
forest
and
the
branches
of
the
trees.
It
was
as
if
the
troupe
were
dreaming
a
collective
dream
that
materialised
into
the
forest
around
them
as
they
slept.
Dark
spaces
between
the
trees
suggested
shadowy
forms
that
lurked
beyond
the
light
of
the
candles,
only
waiting
for
them
to
burn
out
before
they
became
substantial.
In
the
foreground
of
the
picture
were
strange,
nocturnal
creatures
the
size
of
small
marmosets
and
covered
with
piebald
fur.
They
had
wrinkled,
pink
faces
peppered
with
minute
tattoos
depicting
signs
of
the
zodiac.
One
had
left
the
picture
and
was
scampering
around
in
its
pool
of
light
on
the
gallery
floor.
The
man
knelt
and
picked
it up.
Then
the
smell
was
suddenly
stronger.
Behind
him
he
heard
a
sound
and
without
looking
he
knew
what
it
was.
His
stalker
had
finally
found
him.
Its
nightmare
form
slowly
emerged
from
the
darkness
beyond
the
gallery
and
into
the
light.
It
stood
erect
on
immensely
muscular
hind
limbs
that
could
clearly
propel
it
faster
than
he
could
ever
hope
to
outrun.
In
front
of
its
spine-
covered
body
was
its
huge
head,
which
was
mostly
comprised
of
enormous
jaws
filled
with
needle-sharp
teeth
as
long
and
transparent
as
icicles.
It
had
huge,
pale
eyes
as
big
as
tea
trays.
From
between
them
extended
a
long,
curved
barbel
with
a
luminous
tip
like
that
of
a
deep
sea
fish.
For
a
long
moment
they
stood
staring
at
each
other.
Then
it
flexed
and
folded
its
long
wings
and
charged.
As
it
hurtled
towards
the
man,
it
uttered
a
blood-curdling
roar
and
the
glowing
barbel
thrashed
from
side
to
side.
The
green
man
thrust
the
small
creature
into
his
rags,
turned
and
sprinted
down
the
gallery,
his
feet
splashing
in
the
watercourse.
He
knew
from
his
pursuer’s
composition
and
fine
detail
that
it
was
the
work
of
Lucas
Flink,
and
therefore
exceedingly
dangerous.
But
this
was
not
the
moment
for
the
finer
points of art appreciation.
Ahead,
an
interruption
in
the
receding
patches
of
light
betrayed
the
presence
of
a
painting
with
its
surface
still
intact.
There
was
no
time
to
examine
the
dark
canvas
closely;
he
had
to
trust
that
the
seal
remained
unbroken.
He
came
to
a
halt
and
rapidly
made
a
complicated
gesture
with
his
hand.
With
a
faint
smile
of
satisfaction,
he
saw
the
surface
ripple
as
if
it
were
a
vertical wall of water kissed by a soft breeze.
Then he vanished!
Flink’s
creature
let
out
a
howl
of
frustration
and
skidded
to
a
halt
in
front
of
the
canvas,
its
wicked
jaws
closing
on
thin
air
and
its
claws
tearing
great
gashes
in
the
floor.
It
sniffed
the
air
but
its
quarry
had
gone.
It
approached
the
painting
and
sniffed
again
but
inhaled
only
dust
and
sneezed
loudly,
spraying
pellets
of
foul,
black
mucus
on
to
the
canvas.
As
these
slid
slowly
down
the
picture
they
reflected
back
dozens
of
tiny,
distorted
images
of
the
creature
as
it
searched
back
and
forth
over
the
canvas
for
its
lost
prey.
The
pale
light
from
its
barbel
illuminated
first
one
small
section
of
the
painting
and
then
another.
If
its
uncomprehending
eyes
could
have
understood
what
it
was
looking
at,
it
would
have
perceived
a
snowy
landscape
with
bare
trees
leading
down
to
a
group
of
lamp-lit
dwellings
nestling
in
a
hollow,
their
strange
forms
softened
by
the
snow.
Misty,
blue
mountains
graced
the
skyline
silhouetted
against
the
setting
sun.
If
it
had
been
able
to
examine
the
picture
more
closely
it
would
have
seen
a
trail
of
footprints
leading
from
the
foreground
down
towards
the
village.
And
if
it
had
followed
that
trail
to
its
end
it
would
have
seen
the
beautifully
painted
form
of
a
ragged
man
with
a
skin
of
malachite
green cradling a tiny, piebald creature in his arms.
He was looking back out of the canvas and smiling.