by Jen Williams
‘Right.’ Chenlo blew some sharp notes on the whistles, taking turns on each. One of the bats, a great grey creature with delicate pink folds in his ears, shuffled over to the wall that was open to the sky and was gone, into the night. Two more followed. Vintage lifted the bow and fired another bolt, remembering to brace herself this time, and then Chenlo was in the harness of the final bat. ‘Ready to go!’
Vintage abandoned her post and headed to the open wall.
‘This is a very dangerous plan,’ said Chenlo as she passed. ‘I’m not sure you can even call it a plan. It is more like bare-faced cheek.’
‘My darling,’ Vintage shuffled to the edge; the drop beyond the ledge was dizzying, ‘I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.’
To her surprise, Chenlo grinned. ‘I did not say it wasn’t fun.’
Below her, Helcate appeared, his leathery wings keeping him just below the ledge. It wasn’t a big drop at all, but the thought of making that small jump was turning Vintage’s knees to water. She turned and steadied herself, sparing a quick wave to the guards who had belatedly stormed into the chamber.
‘Cheerio!’ She leapt, landing solidly on Helcate’s back, and he immediately peeled away from the tower, followed by Chenlo and the bats. As quickly as she could, Vintage swung herself round in the harness and began to strap herself in. A shower of arrows flew from the tower, but they were already out of range and they fell harmlessly into space.
As they flew out across the packed rooftops of Tygrish, Vintage spared a quick glance back towards the palace. There were lights on in the central tower, the one that she knew to be the roosting place of Windfall, yet no giant bat emerged to chase after them. Chenlo had torn away the life energy of both the fell-witches who had been in the chirot tower at the time, and she imagined the others would be off duty, asleep even. Finding them and rousing them would take time, and perhaps Windfall herself was out hunting for the night. It seemed that, finally, they had found themselves a piece of luck.
Eventually, Tygrish dropped behind them, and it was still the middle of the night when they arrived on the outskirts of Jarlsbad. Okaar met them outside a vast warehouse, where Helcate and the bats quickly hid themselves. He was wearing the deep hood again, and half bowed to them in greeting.
‘I would not have thought it possible to steal from the queen of Tygrish so openly, but here you are. She won’t be happy about this.’
‘What a tragedy,’ remarked Vintage. Despite the long flight her nerves were still thrumming with adrenalin. ‘Have you got what we agreed, Okaar?’
He took them to a series of crates, which were filled with rows and rows of glass vials, all filled with the black and orange liquid. Next to them were several hessian sacks with sturdy leather straps.
‘You will have to be careful,’ he said, indicating the crates. ‘The substance isn’t explosive, but the glass isn’t as strong as I would like it to be, and it is unpleasant if you get it on your skin. It can cause scarring.’ He grimaced a little, as if remembering the scarring on his own face. ‘Don’t knock the packages around.’
‘We will have to be careful, you mean,’ said Vintage. At his look of surprise, Vintage raised her eyebrows. ‘If you want sanctuary in Ebora, you’ll have to come with us now. There’s no guarantee we’ll ever come back this way, after all.’
‘Are things really so bad? I had hoped that perhaps I could win my sister over eventually.’
‘The Jure’lia are being organised, methodical. It’s only so long before they work their way up to tackling a city the size of Jarlsbad.’ Vintage shrugged. ‘I cannot even promise you that Ebora will be safe, but it is at least a long way from Tyranny. Your sister, my friend, will have to make her own decisions. Leave a message for her, if you feel it’s safe, but you must come with us now if you wish to leave Jarlsbad.’
Okaar pushed his hood back and ran his hands quickly through his hair, causing it to stand up in wild black corkscrews. Chenlo was already loading up the sacks, carefully packing the vials in straw as she did so. Vintage suspected this wasn’t the first time the Winnowry agent had needed to transport drugs on the backs of the giant bats.
‘I will do as you suggest,’ Okaar said eventually. ‘Give me a moment to arrange for a message to be sent to Jhef, and I will be with you.’
He left the warehouse for a time, and Vintage and Chenlo got the bats and Helcate loaded up with the heartbright and their own supplies. Once it was all packed away, Vintage couldn’t help feeling like it was all just a desperate shot in the dark. Would this be enough to make up for her own mistakes? Would the fell-witches at Ebora even consent to use such a thing? Some of her doubts must have shown on her face, as Chenlo briefly touched her arm, then turned away, her cheeks flushed.
‘It is worth a try,’ she said, not quite looking at Vintage. ‘You were right about that.’
When Okaar returned, he was carrying a small pack of his own and had changed into dark travelling clothes. He no longer concealed his face behind a hood and bandages, and Vintage thought that some of his old grace had returned to his frame.
‘I’ve done what I can for my sister,’ he said, his face set and solemn. ‘Now, we should leave before Tyranny finds out where we are.’
The woman was so tall she almost looked Eboran to Aldasair’s eyes, and she certainly had the regal bearing he associated with dim memories of the palace when it rang with music and his people had yet to succumb to the crimson flux. Yet she shot him a very human expression of impatience as he poured another cup of tea.
‘Lord Aldasair, I feel we have been chasing this same point in circles for days. Why should my people give you anything, when you have done little but take from us?’
Aldasair nodded, although he did not completely agree. He was learning that diplomacy was often the art of recognising the small places where you did not agree, and then very politely ignoring them.
‘And when I say take,’ she continued, ‘I mean, murder our people.’
‘The Carrion Wars,’ said Aldasair. ‘Commander Morota, please do not feel that you cannot name them here. I am very, painfully aware of our history, and where we have failed.’
‘Well –’ the commander sniffed. She glanced at the cup of tea, and scowled faintly before continuing. ‘I am sure that Reidn is more painfully aware than you are. People forget that it wasn’t just the plains folk who suffered when you experienced your blood lust and swept down from the mountains. Our small colonies to the north were largely wiped out. We do not forget that.’
‘And you shouldn’t. And, I might suggest, you would do well to cast your mind back further too – to previous Rains, when it wasn’t us but the Jure’lia who crept up to your doors.’
The point hovered between them, unspoken. Ebora had saved Reidn, just as it had saved the rest of Sarn, over and over. Commander Morota took a sharp breath, preparing to speak, and Aldasair spoke over her smoothly.
‘We could, as you say, spend days carefully adding up old scores, commander, but with all due respect, I don’t think either of us has the time. You have at your disposal one of the largest armies to grace Sarn. What I am proposing—’
‘What you are proposing is ludicrous,’ she cut in, ‘and I think you know that, Lord Aldasair. The worm people are in the skies again, and the city state of Reidn is preparing itself for war, yet you suggest I merrily march half our forces from the northernmost territories across the mountains to sit on your front lawn.’
‘Not half.’ Aldasair took a sip of his tea. In truth, he was heartily sick of tea, but he found the ritual of it useful; it seemed to calm humans, or distract them. Or, at least, it gave them the impression that he had the time to drink cups of tea. ‘A small portion to help defend Ygseril, should the Jure’lia arrive here.’
‘Because your own people are all dead.’
Aldasair paused, surprised by the anger he felt flare up within his own chest. This woman was a leader of armies, he reminded himself, who likely
had no time for tact. What did it matter to her that Aldasair had watched everyone he ever knew die slowly, raving and coughing to the last, years before she had even been born? What did Commander Morota care if he had lost his mind in this palace, listening to the dust settle and his future wind down along with the clocks? Even so, he found his own patience was in shorter supply than he expected.
‘As you so kindly point out, yes, because my people are almost all dead. You might think this is hearty justice for a race of murderers, commander, but the death of Ebora will have dire consequences for Sarn. If the Jure’lia destroy our tree-father, the war-beasts will all die, and then our best hope of defeating them will be gone. Your army will fight on alone, and history suggests they will not win.’
Commander Morota sat back in her chair, conceding the point. She was alone; the one manservant she had brought with her from Reidn was back in her room. Despite everything, Aldasair found he liked the woman, with her smooth, shaved head and her stern face. There were scars on her muscled arms and her sword belt had the look of an item that had been well-used and well cared for. This was a leader who led from the front lines. And ultimately he understood her stance all too well.
‘You must admit though, Lord Aldasair, the situation is not as clear-cut as it has been in previous Rains. You have a mere handful of war-beasts, and no standing army of your own. It may not be enough to defeat the worm people this time. It may be that this time Sarn must stand alone. And if that is the case, can I afford to give you part of my own forces? Forgive me, but defending your tree-god may be a waste of our lives. Lives that are precious to us.’
Aldasair nodded. This was what it came down to. Indeed, it had been the sticking point from every leader he had spoken to. Were the war-beasts even worth saving? Was Ebora’s time over before the war had even started? The truth was, they desperately needed Reidn’s help. They needed everyone’s help.
‘You are right, commander. I will not sit here and lie to you. The situation is dire. But this is exactly why we must take full advantage of everything we have. You know what Ebora is capable of. Would you really throw . . . really throw away –’
He got to his feet abruptly, the chair dropping to the floor behind him. Startled, Commander Morota sat back.
‘What is it?’
Aldasair shook his head. A wave of panic and despair had flooded through him, knocking all other concerns away. He could sense nothing specific, only that something terrible had happened. He reached out for Jessen, even as he turned to bow briskly to the Reidn commander.
‘I . . . forgive me, I must leave you for a moment.’
He left the woman spluttering at the table and stumbled into the corridor. Over everything else he could feel the panic of Sharrik, the griffin’s anger and fright battering at him from all angles. Somehow he found himself outside, standing in the grounds of the palace gardens, and then Jessen was there, her black fur comforting under his hands.
‘What has happened?’
‘Bern.’ Jessen hooked her head over Aldasair’s shoulder, pulling him to her. ‘It’s Bern, he—’
‘No.’ The world seemed to spin sickly underneath him, as though time had suddenly begun to turn faster. He felt himself being pulled away from his own carefully rooted anchors. ‘Please don’t tell me that. Anyone but him.’
‘He’s been captured, the worm people have him. I don’t know any more than that. Sharrik is frantic, broken . . .’
Aldasair leaned against the great wolf. He did not trust his legs to hold him.
‘They are coming back here now, coming back to get help, but I can barely feel Kirune through Sharrik’s distress.’
In desperation, Aldasair opened himself fully to the connection they all shared, hoping to get a hint of what had happened to Bern, but he was met with the cacophony of Sharrik’s mind. The griffin was angry and frightened, a terrible combination, and any shred of Bern was drowned out.
‘He’s not dead, then?’
‘Not dead,’ said Jessen quickly.
‘Then we must go to him, now, meet them before they get here and go back.’
Jessen was shaking her head. ‘I don’t know where they are, and I don’t know where they lost Bern. We have to wait, brother, and then we must all go together. At our strongest.’
Aldasair stepped away, pressing his hands to his face. Waiting was something he had wasted enough of his life on. To sit by while his people died once was bad enough – to wait while Bern suffered an unknowable fate was intolerable.
‘I told them not to go,’ he said. ‘I told them, but Tor would not listen.’
Chapter Thirty-one
Something had changed within the Jure’lia web. Hestillion felt it as she came back on board the corpse moon, peeling her leather gloves from her hands with a distracted expression. When she flew with her circle, it was becoming easier and easier to put the rest of the Jure’lia aside, so that they were an insistent buzz in the back of her mind, while her carefully crafted team were close and vital. Whatever this new thing was, it was not unknown to them, and it was being held close by the queen herself. Not a fly caught in their web, but some other part of it, perhaps.
‘Celaphon? Do you feel that?’
The dragon lowered his head, his jaws hanging open slightly. His foul breath seemed to fill the chamber, vast as it was.
‘Yes,’ he said, although he sounded uncertain. ‘Does she hide something from us?’
‘Never mind,’ said Hestillion. ‘You stay here while I go and see what is happening. You did fine work today, my sweet.’
Celaphon rumbled his appreciation, while Hestillion left the chamber, flicking aside walls with barely a thought. The queen was tucked away somewhere deep inside the ship, and Hestillion made her way there automatically, moving towards her as though seeking out a single voice singing in the forest. Her head was still full of their last battle, images like bright flags flittering across her mind’s eye; the town as it was before they took it, a prosperous place built with handsome blue stone, the windows all bright with glass; her circle moving to her each command, the Behemoths rising and falling through the sky with her every thought; fields full of well-tended crops, turned upside down and fed into the elastic mouths of the maggots. When they had left, the place was an unrecognisable mess of rubble and varnish. One more part of the map that belonged to her.
She paused, images of war breaking apart as she realised she was deep in the heart of Behemoth, in a place she had never ventured before. It was quieter here, the ever-present hum of the worm people oddly restrained. She flexed apart the final wall to find herself in a small chamber lit with several large frond-lights growing from the ceiling. The gently sloping walls were covered in long shards of cloudy white glass, or crystal, all different sizes and shapes. Slumped on the floor with his back against the wall was the human man Bern, and the queen was crouched over him, her long hands cupped carefully around his head. He didn’t appear to be conscious.
‘What is this?’ snapped Hestillion. ‘What are you doing? Where did he come from?’
The queen turned her white mask-face to her. Eyes of pond-scum blinked owlishly, as though she were waking from a long sleep.
‘We had visitors,’ she said. ‘Your blood, here. Tormalin Eskt the Oathless, and their loud beasts.’
‘My brother was here?’ Hestillion took a step forward. ‘In this cavern? You swore this place was a secret.’
The queen tipped her head to one side, a movement Hestillion was starting to recognise as a sort of shrug.
‘We have been here a long time, in human terms. And this is a small world.’
‘And where is he now?’
The queen turned back to Bern, her hands tightening around his head. ‘Gone. But we caught this one, this one who broke us. Now we have his mind here, we can find out how. There will be something here, in his mind.’
The milky crystal shards around Bern’s head flickered with reflections, and Hestillion found herself peering at
them more closely. There were images there, pictures moving and changing all the time, like smaller versions of the giant memory crystal at the heart of every Behemoth.
‘What are you doing to him?’
‘Peeling it all back,’ said the queen, absently. She reached up with one hand and laid a single finger against one of the crystal shards. It filled with hectic colour, and Hestillion saw a green land, filled with gently rolling hills and thick swatches of dark forest. Here and there it was punctuated with standing stones carved into the shapes of smiling women. ‘Each piece of his mind. We will lay it all open, and then we will understand why the memory he gave to the web broke it so efficiently.’
‘This, again?’ Hestillion glanced uneasily at the other shards. They were all filling up with images – she saw a large man rather like Bern himself, his beard darker and braided in places, and a short human woman riding a bear, of all things. A ship cut through rough waves, and huge fish rose up to taste the air, Wild-touched things with horns growing out of their backs. ‘You must let it go. It’s done, there’s nothing you can do –’ She stopped as an image of Ebora filled another of the crystal shards. ‘You said my brother was here, and you let him escape? We are not safe. We’ll have to go elsewhere, take the Behemoths and all your creatures, and the eggs.’ She disliked saying that word. ‘Take it all and go elsewhere. Are you listening? It isn’t safe here anymore, not if Tormalin knows where we are.’
On the ground, the man called Bern groaned, trying to turn his head away from the queen’s touch, but she moved it back as easily as a child tormenting a baby bird.
‘What can he do?’ the queen said dismissively. ‘They are weak, no real threat. And I have you, my warrior queen. You are so strong now, with your own creatures and your power. You command the smaller minds as easily as we do.’
Hestillion looked away, uncertain what to do with this unasked-for praise. ‘I have only taken this role because you have stepped away from it.’