LITMIR.BIZ

      “That was my granddad, my dad’s father.”

      “Niall Blacktongue! Excellent name.”

      “Not really,” said Finn, downbeat.

      Emmie read the entry aloud. “Niall Blacktongue was the first Legend Hunter to try and talk to the Legends, to reason with them and attempt to understand why they wanted to come into this world. He died. No one likes to talk about it.”

      That was it. Nothing else.

      “I don’t get it. What happened to him?” asked Emmie.

      “He died,” Finn responded haltingly. “No one likes to talk about it.”

      There were two empty frames at the end of the row, with nameplates ready and waiting, but nothing engraved on them just yet.

      “Who are those for?” asked Emmie.

      “They are to remind us of our responsibilities to all of the Hunters who have gone before, all of these people along the wall. You only get a portrait when you’ve passed the role of Legend Hunter to someone else or if you, eh, well, die.”

      “Wow, that must be pretty scary.”

      “Well, you know, it’s our way of life, I suppose. That first empty frame’s for my dad.”

      “What’s your dad’s nickname then?”

      Finn paused before answering. “Hugo the, erm, Great.”

      “The Great?”

      “Yeah,” Finn mumbled. “He did a couple of things when he was younger. Kind of great sorts of things.”

      “What, like fighting Legends?”

      “That. And more. He never shuts up about it.”

      “So, when will you get your nickname?” asked Emmie.

      Finn’s hands were rammed into his pockets, his shoulders tight. “I have to do a thing called a Completion first. It’s a big ceremony.”

      “When?”

      Finn didn’t respond, but instead walked on towards the very end of the long corridor, the wall now empty of portraits on one side, but with doors still lining the other (T1, A4). Emmie tried one, but it was locked. At the end of the corridor was a large steel door with a wooden sign that read ‘Library’. Finn hesitated for a moment and turned to head back the way they’d come. “And this concludes our tour,” he said, with forced jauntiness.

      “What’s in there?” asked Emmie, still standing at the library door.

      “Nothing much,” said Finn unconvincingly. “Let’s go and see what food’s in the kitchen. I’m starving.”

      Emmie hovered there a couple of moments longer. Finn watched her, listening to the noises from inside. The faint sounds of feet moving around, the squeak of a chair. She moved a little closer. From deep within came what sounded like a shriek.

      “Come on. Race you to the kitchen,” said Finn.

      Emmie hurried after him.

      

      “Hit me.”

      Finn punched his father in the face.

      “Hit me again.”

      He hit him again.

      “Put some anger into it.”

      Finn had anger in reserve, but he had to drill deep below his exhaustion to get to it. He concentrated hard, summoning it from the depths, and swung again. His father hardly flinched. Instead, he pulled off his soft padded headgear.

      “Come on, Finn, this is only training. When I was your age, I was—”

      “—already fighting Legends five times my size,” Finn panted. “You’ve mentioned it once or twice before.”

      He dropped his tired arms. His father gave him a dig to the chest.

      “Hey!” Finn protested.

      “Don’t drop your guard. Now kick me. Aim for the crotch.”

      Every Friday night, one of the rooms off the long corridor would host Finn’s often futile attempts to learn how to roll over and get up again; or to shoot at a target; or to leap; or to dodge; or to leap while dodging. This room was T2, a training room bare but for the soft mats on its floor, a mirror running the length of one wall and a box of simple gym equipment containing various items of padded gear that allowed Finn to hit his father wherever he was ordered to.

      He stretched out and kicked. His father grabbed his leg and wouldn’t let go, so that Finn was left hopping on one foot, completely at his father’s mercy.

      “I’ve seen ducks kick harder than that,” said his dad.

      Finn had been training since he was very young, so it wasn’t that he couldn’t do any of these things. It was worse: he could almost do most of them. He could half roll, and just about jump to his feet. He could kind of shoot, nearly leap, more or less punch and semi-dodge. He had strengths; it just happened that they were usually closely followed by his weaknesses.

      “Let’s try the Wrigley Manoeuvre, Finn. It’s a simple way of not just avoiding an onrushing Legend, but of turning defence into offence.”

      “That’s the same guy who ended up being known as Wrigley the Headless, right?”

      “Yes, and that’s why we have to make sure to do it right. Now take this seriously, Finn. It might save your life.”

      His father demonstrated the move, darting across the room, then sliding and returning to his feet, facing Finn, with his hands raised in an attack position. “Now you try it.”

      Finn followed his dad’s lead, but compared to him he had the dexterity of a giraffe on ice. “I see what you’re doing. I get it,” he protested, breathing hard. “I’m just tired now.”

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