by Jen Williams
‘A Runningseed fishing party!’ she called across to Chenlo. The woman looked up, her face blank – she clearly hadn’t made sense of what she had said – so Vintage leaned down to speak into Helcate’s long foxy ear. ‘Take us down by the river, darling. I’m sure our friend will follow.’
They landed by the water, which was rushing quick and bright under the sunlight, and after a handful of moments Agent Chenlo followed.
‘What have we stopped for?’ She peeled off her leather gloves. Her long black hair was tied back in a neat bun, but the wind had tugged much of it free. ‘Are you quite well?’
‘Well? I’m spectacular, darling.’ Vintage untied the last of the harness straps and stepped down just in time to see the first of the plains people arriving. ‘I just thought we could have a quick chat with these lovely people.’
Chenlo’s brow creased. ‘Is there really time for such?’
‘Time to say hello? To gather information? Always. I suppose you might not have seen the need when you were running errands for the Winnowry, but believe me, this is the best way to travel.’ Vintage was already in the grass, beaming at the scattering of children who had run up to greet them. Their eyes were bright and shining, but they all halted a good ten feet from Helcate, none of them quite brave enough to go any closer. A handful of adults were approaching, men and women with long colourful poles over their shoulders. ‘Go on.’ Vintage waved at the children. ‘Go and see him. His name’s Helcate, he’s very friendly. He’s a fiend for being scratched behind the ears.’
‘You are not Eboran?’ This was one of the adults. She was tall and athletic, with wiry, muscled limbs. There was a scattering of fish scales rubbed across her cheek, winking like heated metal under the sun.
‘I’m afraid not, my dear, but these are strange days, aren’t they? I’m Lady Vincenza de Grazon, but please, call me Vintage. This is my associate, Agent Chenlo.’ She held out her hand, and the woman grasped it briefly, before adjusting the position of her fishing pole.
‘We know what she is,’ said one of the men. He also had fish scales stuck to his face. All of them did, Vintage realised. ‘But why are the Winnowry travelling with a war-beast?’
‘It’s a long bloody story, darling, one I’d be glad to share with you. Perhaps we could exchange stories? A bit of lunch, a chat, some time spent with my feet on the ground. How’s the fishing?’
Eventually, Vintage and Chenlo sat on the banks of the river with two of the Runningseed people while the others went back to their fishing. The woman had introduced herself as Silverbank, and her partner, a short man with startling blue eyes, as Starfault. They had cooked up some of that morning’s catch with butter and salt, and despite having stuffed herself with a small pile of the little crispy fish, Vintage found herself eyeing up the rest of the haul in the hope that someone would take the hint.
‘That is quite a story,’ said Starfault. His plains speech was melodic, with different inflections and cadences; Vintage guessed he was not originally from this end of the plains. ‘But it fits with all else we’ve heard. The worm people in the skies, the corpse moon over the mountains.’
‘Gone now, though,’ said Silverbank. ‘No one has seen them for some moons. But you say they are not dead?’
Vintage grimaced. Chenlo had said virtually nothing during their talk, and had mostly fidgeted, eager to be gone again.
‘It’s not likely, I’m afraid.’ She sipped a little of the milky drink they had given her. She wasn’t as keen on it as the fish. ‘We crawled up their asses and gave them a fright – a big one – but they always come back. The history of Sarn attests to that. And this time I don’t think we’ll have long to wait.’
‘This is poor news.’ Starfault and Silverbank exchanged a look. ‘The plains need peace.’
‘And what news do you have of your home?’ Vintage glanced up the bank to see Helcate, surrounded by children. They had invented a game of throwing the war-beast morsels of fish, which he would snap between his jaws. Vintage doubted that Vostok would approve of such an undignified game, but Helcate was clearly having the time of his life. ‘I imagine you hear quite a lot, travelling back and forth as you do.’
Silverbank nodded. She took a handful of the little silver fish and threw them into the hot pan. For a time the air was filled with the good sound of fish frying. ‘Last year, a lot of the news was bad. People travelling through the plains were fleeing their homes, looking for somewhere with bigger walls. Although what help that is when the worms infest the skies . . .’ She cast a hand upwards, her eyes still on the cooking fish. ‘They all brought stories of people being eaten from the inside out, of giant white worms that consume the land, of abominations with too many legs.’
‘All of the old nightmares,’ added Starfault quietly.
‘Some said that they were broken, the worm people. That their ships had holes, that they seemed confused. But who can say if that was new?’ Silverbank shrugged. ‘It has been so long. We only have stories of the worm people. They have always seemed like a story.’
Vintage nodded. ‘It’s easier to believe that, I know. Who wants to find out that the nightmare was real all along? But I have spent my whole life studying them – the Jure’lia, the parasite spirits, the Eboran resistance. It’s all an important part of Sarn’s history, and its future.’
Starfault smiled a little, raising his eyebrows. ‘We have books and histories too, Lady de Grazon. You are not talking to ignorant people here.’
Vintage raised her hands. ‘Of course, forgive me. I get carried away when it comes to this subject.’
‘It was a bad time,’ continued Silverbank. ‘We had hoped that we had started to move out of that shadow. The plains have been a dangerous place.’
‘The worm people have been here?’
Silverbank and her partner exchanged another look.
‘We think our groups are too small and too mobile for them to take any notice of, so we only saw them in the skies. Ugly, monstrous things. But it’s war time,’ said Starfault, shrugging a little. ‘And people behave badly when they’re afraid.’
‘There have been bandits,’ said Silverbank. ‘Some plains people, some from the cities. At least two big groups have been roaming the grasslands, preying on hunting parties, or just smaller tribes. Taking what they want, leaving people dead, or without what they need to survive. This is why our fishing troop is so large this summer.’ She gestured to the strange vehicles with their spindly wooden wheels. ‘Half our group are warriors, just in case.’
‘You should be careful, if you’re following the Trick,’ said Starfault. ‘There is a gang who seem to stay close to it, looking out for anyone using the river to replenish their supplies. They are a particularly vicious lot.’
‘We will be in the sky,’ said Chenlo. At the unexpected sound of her voice, they all paused. Vintage half thought they had forgotten she was there at all. After a moment, Silverbank picked up the pan and shook the newly golden fish into a bowl. ‘We will not be in danger from bandits there.’
‘Even so,’ said Vintage quickly, ‘it’s very useful to know. Thank you.’
Later, when they had prised the children from Helcate and said their goodbyes to the people of Runningseed, Chenlo squinted up at the sun, edging already towards the horizon.
‘We have wasted quite a few hours here, Lady de Grazon.’
‘Wasted? Did you taste that fish?’ Vintage hauled herself up into Helcate’s harness and began yanking on straps. Sensing a tension in the other woman’s silence, she cleared her throat. ‘You might turn your nose up at it, but we’ve gathered useful information here. The mood on the plains is, in my experience, a good way to gauge the mood of Sarn at large. The people here are frightened, suspicious, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And there are dangers outside of the worm people.’
Chenlo sniffed. She was feeding something to her bat from her hand, and it made happy snuffling noises as it chewed. ‘Our mission lies in Jarlsbad, which is so
me way from here. Every moment we dally, Tyranny causes more damage to your cause, and the worm people edge closer.’
‘Which is all the more reason to show people that the war-beasts – and Ebora – are on their side. Those children won’t forget today, not for a long time, and word travels fast across these grasslands. That might do a little to alleviate Tyranny’s damage, and it certainly can’t hurt.’
The bat fed, Chenlo climbed into her own harness. Vintage couldn’t help noticing how gracefully the woman moved. This was someone, she reminded herself, who was used to travelling alone, to doing as she pleased. Within reason.
‘We’ll have to rest tonight, and that will likely be within spitting distance of the Trick.’ Vintage leaned forward and stroked Helcate’s neck. For some reason, she wanted Chenlo to admit that this break had been a good idea. ‘It’s useful to know that we need to keep an eye out for bandits, isn’t it?’
Chenlo was busily plying her hair back into its bun. ‘When I travel across Sarn, I am always careful. Always cautious. That is the life of a fell-witch – endless vigilance.’
Unless you happen to be one locked up in the Winnowry, thought Vintage. Then your life is about staring at the same four walls forever. But she said no more, and when they left the banks of the river, it was in a stony silence.
A teeming darkness. A deafening storm.
Tor looked down at his own body, trying to reassert a sense of himself. Dream-walking into Bern’s sleeping mind had seemed simple at first; the usual journey into the netherdark, finding the source of warmth that was the human man, then pushing through into that presence. However, once he was through that barrier, everything had changed. Bern was certainly experiencing a nightmare, but it was unlike anything Tor had ever known. He stood at the centre of an enormous echoing chaos. Pieces of darkness peeled away to rush at him, flickering lights crawled across his flesh, and the noise – a thousand voices that were one voice, screaming, shouting, whispering. Tor brought his hands up to his eyes, automatically trying to shield them, but it did very little.
‘Bern? Are you here?’
The quality of the darkness changed, just a touch, and Tor caught sight of a slice of light cutting through the shadows. With little else to go on, he moved towards it with his head down. Something with claws grabbed at his boot, but he shook it off.
‘Bern?’
Through the slice of shifting light he saw soft grey walls, pale glowing nodules; the inside of a Behemoth. Yet it was pulsing and throbbing, as though blood moved rapidly just under its skin. There was no sign of Bern yet, and Tor reminded himself that the human man was lying in his bed, Aldasair at his side. The more he concentrated on the Behemoth chamber, the more the chaotic darkness retreated; although it remained hovering, a presence at the corners of his eyes, pressing at the back of his neck.
He looked around the chamber. There was a pool of steaming white water in the ground, and moving slowly within it, one of the queen’s creatures. A shining black mandible slid from the water, grasping at the air, followed by a slim white human hand. It shivered in mid-air, then returned to rest against a wide human chest. The fingers of the creature began to pluck viciously at its own flesh, peeling away ragged chunks to reveal shiny black struts beneath. Tor grimaced.
‘What is this place?’
The darkness rushed in, and in the way of dreams Tor found that he was in another space, and standing opposite him was his sister. Hestillion looked thinner than he’d ever seen her, and paler too, her blond hair oddly colourless. Her cheekbones stood out like the pommels of daggers, and her red eyes glittered as though she were in the grip of a fever. She wore a dark leather vest and trousers, her white arms bare, and she was standing next to . . .
Tor looked down at his own body again, struggling to keep a grip on himself. The teeming darkness at his back was threatening to tear him away at any second, and his own horror only seemed to increase its power.
She stood next to one of the grey men, its wings neatly folded at its back, except that that was not what it was at all, not really. The creature had been moulded, crafted into something else, a tall male figure with a slim face and a narrow waist. Its jaw was smooth and there was no hair on its white scalp, but Tor found he could recognise the face anyway, even with those eyes. In the midst of the chaos, Tor felt a cold hand walk down his back. Where had this thing come from? Bern had said before that he had seen Tor’s face in his nightmares, but this was something else, some terrible hybrid. The man that looked like him was wearing a curious set of armour that appeared to be constructed from pieces of burrower and spider-mother.
He tore his eyes away from the thing. Hestillion was talking, too low for Tor to make out – especially against the general cacophony of the Jure’lia – and another figure lurched into view. This one was smaller than the male, but similarly fitted with spiky black and grey armour. It looked vaguely female, from the curved bodice and the jut of its hips, but half its head was lost in a tightly fitting helmet. Curiously, there was a yellow leaf shape painted directly onto the skin of its chest. The grey wall behind them flexed unpleasantly, revealing a transparent membrane that appeared to show the view outside, such as it was; all Tor could see was darkness, and something that could almost have been rock.
‘What are you doing, Hestillion? What have you done?’
His sister, of course, took no notice, and pressed her hand to the protruding lump of crystal nestled in her chest. There was an odd sensation of both movement and noise, and the skittering black shapes threatened to overwhelm Tor’s awareness again. The images in front of him broke up and he saw, instead, two more of the strange Jure’lia women, apparently in separate chambers. They each stood with their backs pressed to the soft walls, and long cords of oozing black fluid flowed to them across the floor, curling up legs and swirling around arms. One had a green bird on its chest; the other, a red moth.
Another shudder, and Tor nearly fell to his knees. Once more he was in the chamber with his sister, and he could clearly see a layer of sweat glistening on her forehead. The Jure’lia warrior was still by her side, unmoving. The yellow-leaf woman had gone, but before Tor had a chance to wonder at that, the view beyond the transparent panel suddenly filled with daylight, shocking in the gloom of the chamber. Without thinking, Tor moved over to it, and got a confused glimpse of the ground falling away – thick green vegetation, a steaming swamp?
‘I can make no sense of this at all.’ Worse still, his head was throbbing and there was a growing heat in his chest. ‘Bern, if you’re here, if you can hear me, I’m getting out. I need to rest.’
He took a breath, preparing to pull his consciousness away from that of the dreamer, when the skittering black shapes swarmed him again. He gave a wordless cry, putting his arms up to shield his face, and then he was back on his knees in the chamber. Something had changed. The light outside the window was different, and Hestillion wore different clothes. She was standing by the window with a long length of parchment stretched between her two hands, while the yellow-leaf woman was back. Hestillion was showing her something, pointing to a place on a map.
Feeling his stomach turn over, Tor looked back to the window. Spread out below them was a long, rambling coast line, caught in the orange light of late afternoon. It matched that depicted on Hestillion’s map, although it was missing a few key things; namely the large crosses marked in red ink over each settlement.
‘What is this?’ Tor turned to his sister, as if demanding an answer, but she continued to murmur in a low voice to her minion. ‘Is this happening now? A memory, or a dream? Are we too late?’
Back at the window, it was possible to see the Behemoth’s shadow spread out below, a dark shroud moving across white sand. Tor glared at it, and then caught his breath; there was another shadow, and above it, another Behemoth, flying in formation with this one. For the first time since walking into his dream, he felt Bern near him; the humanity of him was like suddenly finding a breath of fresh air in a room
filled with rotting meat.
The queen’s not here, he said. Not anywhere close.
‘Is this real, Bern?’
It’s real. It’s happening now.
Tor stepped back and with as much strength as he was able, tore himself free of the vision and its grasping, skittering presence. There was a sense of light and falling, and he found himself on the floor of Bern’s and Aldasair’s chamber, hair covering his face. A hand grasped his and yanked him to his feet.
‘Cousin, are you all right?’
Aldasair looked gaunt, and somehow older than he had earlier that day. On the bed next to them, Bern was just waking up, his blond eyelashes flickering fitfully. They had given the big man over a week to recover before Tor attempted this invasion of his mind, but he still looked exhausted.
‘Hestillion has two Behemoths at her command and is using them to attack a number of settlements.’ Tor took a breath. The presence of the Jure’lia lingered, like an oily sweat on his skin. ‘We have to get the war-beasts and go now, while there’s still some chance of saving anyone.’
Chapter Ten
Noon felt Tor’s alarm through her link to Vostok, her link to all of them, and half fell, half sprang out of bed. Around her she was aware of the others via a strange combination of real, physical impressions – a lamp flaring into life down the corridor, someone shouting – and the thrum of their shared connection.
An attack, bright weapon. Vostok was both outraged and eager. We must hurry.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Noon hopped around her room, wriggling into a pair of trousers, yanking on her jacket, a sword belt, soft leather boots. When she arrived at the courtyard everyone was there already. Tor’s face was grim and thin-lipped in the moonlight, Bern looked like a newly risen corpse. The war-beasts were scrambling into their armour, assisted by a small team of Finneral guards. Aldasair was busily strapping a helmet onto Jessen himself.