by Sarah Driver
‘The whales – they answer Sparrow’s song. They’re connected. If he sings too much they’re gonna swim towards him and they’ll get trapped under this ice. We need to go.’
Kes nods. ‘I’ve dreamed of learning with the hearth-healers since I was a small girl. I sketched their village and pinned it to my wall. We need to look for a star-shaped settlement high in the foothills, and wild horses with coats the colour of the hills.’
‘Heart-thanks,’ I tell her, though in my bones I’m shuddering at her mention of horses.
Before we leave Sparrow slurps a dropper filled with the medsin that the sawbones made for him. Wonder spreads through my chest. What if it really will stop him shaking? That’s why the Tribes need unity – cos somewhere there might be folks dying of sicknesses that others can treat.
From our draggle’s back, Sparrow sings and stray whale-song floats up. But some is snagging beneath the ice, making a bloom of blue below the sea.
I watch as the whales flee south, away from the spreading ice, their breath-plumes fogging in the night. It makes me feel too un-hidden. What if Stag can see what the whales are doing and uses them to track us?
Then Sparrow sings again. I hold the map in one hand and Thaw snatches up the strands of whale-song and flings them onto the map. But this time, when he reaches what I thought was the end of the song, the words are different.
. . . You’ll find it at the point high in the air,
Where life breathes strong and fierce,
And gold light graces where the sun does pierce.
I turn to Sparrow, sucking in my lip. ‘Wait – there’s more of the old song?’
He nods sleepily.
‘You can’t have thought the song finished at “high in the air” – that’s stupid!’ Then he tips his head back to gift more song to the sky.
Do you remember?
When the sky
Yawned wide to swallow me.
Don’t you remember?
Breathe and be,
Green lights flicker bright above me.
The iron mountain
Clamps her jaws . . .
‘Ugh,’ Sparrow grumbles. ‘I forgot again.’
‘Sparrow, don’t fret. That’s a flaming good start.’ The new words of the song have painted the map in splashes of gold and silver. Colours of the night sky.
When we stop again to rest I keep first watch so the others can nap. The snow stings my cheeks. I’ve fallen into a half doze when a bright bolt of blue sizzles past my face. I flail awake, cursing myself for keeping such a poor nightwatch, but there’s nothing there – just the ice, and the crash of the sea below, and the sound of the draggles hunting. I must’ve imagined it. I wake Crow after a few hours and take my turn to sleep until the sun staggers up from the sea. As we’re mounting our draggles, I spot a few stray berg owl feathers on the ice near where we slept.
We fly on. We’re further east than I’d thought. In the distance, beyond frozen rivers and marshes, runs the black scar of the Iron Valley. Beyond it, just south of the Bay of Thunder, glints a column of ice. I wrinkle my nose and point. ‘What’s that?’
Crow leans forwards. ‘Reckon that’s your sea-god’s breath,’ he says.
‘But – it looks frozen!’
‘Even the geysers are freezing solid,’ he murmurs.
Gods. Time’s already running out. If the rivers are freezing solid, and the geysers, then how long will it be before the same thing happens to the sea? I remember when we sailed to the Bony Isle aboard Devil’s Hag. The sea was crusted with a thick layer of ice.
The whales need us. My Tribe needs us.
We speed on, three pairs of wings wheeling blurred arcs through the dawn air.
I see them as soon as we drop into the hungry shadows of the Iron Valley, on the horizon – hunting packs of terrodyls circling near the frozen geyser at Whale-Jaw Rock. Smoke coils into the sky. The valley is littered with animal bones and tumbled boulders that look like giants’ armour. ‘I think we’re headed the right way,’ says Kestrel, when the wind drops. ‘I’ve spotted a herd or two of horses that look as though they’ve sprung from the hills themselves.’
Gods. Don’t let the skittish land-beasts tread anywhere near me!
We fly until the mountains have shrunk and the pulsing lighthouse beam of Stonepoint flickers to the east. My draggle quails at the sight of the terrodyls, and I’ve got no strength left to keep her steady. ‘They won’t fly closer,’ Kes shouts. So I beg the draggles to drop us off gently.
Careful, flutter-beasts! No smashing our bones!
Gofleegofleequickquickscurryfly!
When we land we’re still wearing our skates, so we untie them from our boots and leave them in the valley. Then we walk. My skin is snow-stung. Across the tops of the mountains, hot springs gush and terrodyl breath puffs, clouds of white smoke dotted between rock and evergreens.
Crow pinches me beneath the ribs and I clout his arm and we run, yelling, laughing, slipping, Sparrow begging us to wait up and Kestrel lost in her thoughts.
Running with Crow lets out all my trapped frights and grievings, for a heartbeat, so it’s just me and him and running so hard I get an ache in my side. Finally we stop, grinning at each other, waiting for the others to catch up. Thaw circles overhead, keeping lookout.
Watch out for a star-shape of two-leg dwellings, I pant up to her.
Starstarstar! Eyessharpnofrettings!
The moon carves up and up through the dusk, pooling waxy light on the snow-blanketed foothills ahead of us.
Star! calls Thaw. Two-legs star!
She thuds onto my shoulder, almost knocking me into the snow. Then she peers into my face with keen yellow eyes and gives a loud, stinky, excited trill. Two legs’ stewing place of staying still – nest place!
Heart-thanks, my Thaw girl! I look round at the others’ cold-numbed faces. ‘Thaw says the village is close. Hands on weapons, eyes sharp, spines arrow-straight.’
We pass a troop of hollow-eyed mountain dwellers in silver rain-cloaks, herding a half-score of skinny horses. I shrink back from them, gagging on the stink of horse-fright. They sing sad songs for the horses they’ve lost, and their wailing echoes around the rocks.
Then we turn a corner, cut along the edge of a snow-swollen hill and join a dirt track to a village huddled against a jagged overhang of rock. The village hugs the foothills and it’s set out in the shape of a five-pointed star, with huts leading away from a central hall. The wind breathes a stink of smoke, snow, bread and spices into my face.
When we reach the dwellings, only one or two have a flickering flame in their star-shaped windows. Others are dark and shuttered. But some are molten heaps of ash and shattered glass and smouldering wood, doused in thick, hissing black goo – more terrodyl blood. The sound of metal striking metal fills my ears, and when I look for the source, I see groups of women wrapped in shawls, hacking at the frozen ground with spades.
At the centre of the village stands a hall with a thatched roof and a bell tower. Its doors are open. A storm-vane in the shape of two clasped hands moves when the wind shivers through the village. Eagle-cries pierce the silence. My boots slip in the snow-ooze underfoot.
A white, waist-high stone rises from the ground in front of the hall. Runes are chiselled into its side. ‘The great plague of Hearthstone.’
Kestrel runs her fingers around the stone basin in the top. ‘They say that many moons past, the hearth-healers took in plague victims when no one else would,’ she says. ‘They cared for them in their hall.’
Sparrow tries to fight me off but I make him hold my hand as we step inside. I crane back my neck to watch the bell tower as we pass beneath the eaves. Kes and Crow stay close behind.
Inside the hall a few market stalls are guarded by traders with tight jaws. There are bubbling vats of stew, full of teeth and bones and ribbony innards. Tattered boots are stacked in rows next to sky-maps of the stars, and there are moon-lamps overcrowded with weak, blotchy moo
nsprites. We wade through the slush – and everyone in the place stops what they’re doing, falls silent and stares at us.
‘Your pocket!’ whispers Crow in my ear.
I glance down at my pocket and my skin startles when I see the bright green glow coming from it. I shove my hand into my pocket and wrap the Opal in my fingers, to hide the shine. The Opal is growing slick and salt-sticky again.
‘Do you have any bread for sale?’ asks Kestrel.
‘Ground’s freezing shut,’ barks a grizzled woman with stripes of grey in her black hair. ‘Even the earth must be starving, for she won’t surrender the steam to bake our bread. Now hurry your bones, before someone boils them for stock.’
‘We ain’t causing no harm,’ says Crow, pulling himself up to his full height.
The old woman laughs, brittle and heart-sad. ‘No, lad. But plenty might wish harm to you.’ She turns away, but I can see the shakes of sorrow wracking her body. When she turns back again, her face holds lines as hard and deep as the valley. ‘Get out of it!’ she cries.
We move on quick-sharp, but I look back at her as we go.
‘Where’s everyone else?’ murmurs Crow. ‘This ain’t much of a market day!’
An old trader hears him. ‘The younger folk have been off gathering in the horses,’ he says, between swigs from a flask. ‘But lots of ’em have already perished of cold. They sent a bird with the news.’ He wipes his mouth roughly.
The weight of my burden presses harder on my shoulders as I picture the dead horses strewn across the hills. I drift towards his stall, which is crowded with whips made of goats’ hooves, clockwork toys and worn old pipes.
‘Is this where the hearth-healers live?’ I ask.
The man’s mouth opens to reply, but instead of words, a drumbeat fills my ears. I frown, but the drum beats again and I realise it’s coming from outside. The trader’s face crumples in panic as he jostles us out and locks the doors.
I curse under my breath. My heart plunges into my gut. If no one will help us, have we come this far for nothing?
The drumbeat throbs off the rocks, making snow crash to the ground. Kestrel shifts nervously. ‘I think we need to move, now,’ she urges.
Just then, a horse-drawn wagon crunches through the snow into the village, whipped by men with straggling hair and iron eyes.
We dive between two dark houses and hunker down. Slush eats up my legs. I blow into Sparrow’s hands to warm them as the snow falls thicker, settling its sombre hush on everything.
The wagon passes by, a few feet from our faces. If one of the men turns his head we’re doomed. But beats pass, and they keep moving, and I let an inch of breath leave my lungs. Hanging from hooks along the length of the wagon are strange, glassy-eyed dolls. Grim creations, with lax mouths and stiff fingers. But as they move closer, my gut squirms and bile licks into the back of my throat.
The dolls are suspended in long, narrow jars of water. Their eyes are pale, fogged seastones. Fish-roe laces up their arms, the colour of pearls.
No. They can’t be. I tell myself that despite what I saw in my dream-dance. Despite what I already know in my heart.
Thaw shudders on top of my head. I feel her peering out from under my hood, her claws digging into my scalp. Bad-blubber, she hoots softly.
Aye, I gurgle back to her.
Crow must’ve felt my muscles tense, cos he grips my forearm. ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ he breathes. ‘Stay where you are.’
I glare at him and swallow, trying to steady my skittering heart. ‘But . . . they’ve got wraiths. Merwraiths.’
‘There is nothing you can do,’ whispers Kes in my ear.
But what if one of them is Rattlebones? Or – I swallow painfully. What if Grandma managed to turn to wraith, only to be captured? ‘Stay here!’ I hiss to Sparrow. I snatch my arm away from Crow and scurry out into the open. I run after the cart, slush spattering into my face from the wheels.
Two of the traders from the hall walk down the steps to meet the cart. I freeze in the shadows behind it, heart stammering. ‘Just passing through, are you?’ demands a woman bundled in a blubbery wrapping of sealskin.
I slip round the side of the cart and stare up at the faces of the wraiths.
‘You have no sway in this town any more, hearth-woman,’ replies a man with gruesome, yellowed fingernails. ‘Show these dredgers respect.’
‘We don’t want your sort here,’ says the woman, ignoring him.
I don’t know the wraiths, and guilty relief floods my belly.
‘Stag rules here, now. What you want is of no interest to him.’ The cart-driver lashes her face with his whip. She stumbles back with a strangled scream and the cart moves on.
I dig my fingers into the snow as panic bubbles in my chest. Stag’s taken over this village?
Suddenly, a shadow falls, like someone’s thrown a cloak across the land, blotting out the sky. My belly twists. Then a shape sweeps down, and the stalls are smashed to splinters by violent wings, and folk are screaming, scattering, dodging flying things.
A pack of screeching, cackling terrodyls careen around the village. Their tawny wings slice through everything in their path. I can sense their blood sparking for the fun of destruction. Smashscattertearrippluckseverbashsmashcrash!
The others hurry to my side. Kestrel peers fearfully at the sky. ‘I’ve never seen them behave like this before!’ A soft weeping pipes from her bag. Poor Ettler must be frighted witless.
‘They’re being controlled,’ I tell her, flinching as a beast-wail tears the night in two.
Crow tries to pull us away but I tear my arm from his grip. ‘Wait – we need to hunt for the Opal!’
‘Run, you halfwits!’ bellows the old woman who tried to see us off. She takes my elbow and propels me along.
A terrodyl whistles overhead and a dwelling explodes into flying planks of wood, jags of glass, bundles of straw and mud. Then the creature zooms back into the air, stirring a gale that almost knocks me over.
My friends start to run, but I cast around for somewhere to hide. Cos we came here with a purpose – we’ve got to find the Sky-Opal.
‘Mouse, come on!’ yells Crow.
Mountain-folk and what’s left of their wild herd streak past us, making for low ground. But one of the terrodyls gives a sudden grunt, loud and low as thunder, and a healer screams as his horse is plucked from the ground and carried away. Other terrodyls swipe the dwellings from the hills. Mud, straw and timber storm through the air.
I tilt my chin skywards, remembering how Stag controlled the beasts to search for the Storm-Opal Crown, aboard my ship. He did it again to try and stop me getting to Castle Whalesbane to save Sparrow. Is that what’s happening now? What if he’s sent them to tear the place apart, searching for the Sky-Opal? I nibble my lips. And could I do it again, to counter him?
More terrodyls beat through the snow-fog, making for the village. Go, I will them, trying to throw my beast-chatter around the village in a circle of protection. I grip Bear’s amber amulet and chatter again. Turn back, you ent coming in here.
Kestrel and Crow each take one of my hands and try to pull me away but I drop heavily to my knees, keeping my eyes on the sky.
One of the creatures thrashes its head like it’s trying to get rid of my voice. I try again. Turn back! I push my chatter forwards like an arrow, and the terrodyl hovers in the air, then wheels around and throbs away. My heart riots. But more terrodyls beat the air towards the village, and I ball my hands into fists. I need to try and control more than one of them at once.
A cloaked man stalks into the midst of the destruction, carrying a gun. The wind throws his hood back.
My head spins as heavy dread drops into my bones.
Even out in the open, Stag takes up all the space. He sucks all the life and light out of the world. ‘Search the moot-hall for their leader!’ he barks, voice flaying the night raw.
Everything stops. That voice. It’s like a blade slashing
behind my eyes.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Fright wriggles through my blood. I keep Sparrow close by my side. The sight of Stag and the memories of what he did to Grandma, and Battle-Shrieker, and the whales, make my legs shake and my heart knock hollowly in my throat.
The dredgers barge into the hall. Screams ebb from inside. But a door opens in one of the squat huts across the dirt track, and a gentle-faced woman steps out.
‘Stop your search!’ she calls. ‘I am chief hearth-healer.’ She’s garbed in a fur-trimmed shawl, and her dress is stitched with the emblem of the hearth-healers; a pair of brooms crossed above a fire.
‘My spy informs me you possess a precious jewel that that does not belong to you,’ Stag booms. ‘You will surrender it now.’
‘Please, stop the black rain!’ calls the woman, eyes hollow. ‘We wish no harm to anyone.’
‘If you stand in my way, there will be consequences,’ Stag says simply. He lifts the gun – I struggle to breathe as the memories crowd my chest – and then he uses his beast-chatter to command a terrodyl closer.
The woman holds her head high, but her voice wavers. ‘Please!’ In the dim light from the lanterns burning outside the moot-hall, I can see the snowflakes settling on her eyebrows.
Another healer rushes to the woman’s side and tries to pull her away.
But Stag twitches the gun towards the second healer. She turns to run but slips in the slush, the gun cracks, bones-deep, and she falls onto her side. The chief hearth-healer drops into a crouch by the dead woman’s side, finding the wound and pressing swathes of her dress to it to try to stem the bleeding. But the woman’s eyes have already dimmed to blank shiny pools.
‘Will that loosen your tongue?’ Stag drawls to the chief. ‘Or do you require further persuasion?’
The chief climbs shakily to her feet and stares him right in the eyes, her mouth a grim line. She stays silent.
Stag points his gun at the sky, beast-chattering low in his throat.
He’s gonna summon the terrodyl close enough to shoot it down and crush the hearth-healers’ hall. Turn back, beast! I chatter. I find the thread of wildness connecting me to the world of creatures and push into it. Don’t come any closer! The terrodyl hovers in the sky, pulled between mine and Stag’s beast-chatter, thrashing its head wildly in confusion.