by Paul Stewart
At his call, all eyes turned to the cragclimber.
The rain had stopped falling and the wind had eased off, leaving the blue-green grass limp and diamond-dropped. The first blush of dawn was giving way to a drab grey of overcast skies, and dense air that was warm and clinging and smelled of bruised leaves.
As he took a step forward, his arms raised and jacket unbuttoned to show he carried no weapons, Eli saw a couple of the wyrmes exchange glances, then look back at him. Three of the kin raised their lances. One of them, wiry and angular with red hair plastered to his forehead, stepped forward, his mouth set in a grim line of hatred. Behind him, his wyrme growled softly, a thin coil of grey smoke twisting up from her nostrils.
‘Eli,’ Ethan murmured.
The look on the boy’s face mirrored the sound of his voice, which was filled with relief and gratitude and hope. And dread. He struggled to move, but the bindings at his arms and legs held him fast. The dark-haired youth pushed him back down.
‘Eli?’ Ethan said again, quieter, faltering.
Eli did not reply. Instead, he looked over the heads of the kin who had turned to confront him, and into the eyes of their whitewyrmes beyond, each in turn. Inside his chest, he could feel his heart hammering, fit to burst. The wiry kin with the red hair and hate-filled eyes blocked his path, his lips twisted into a malevolent sneer.
Eli did not meet his gaze, but focused rather on the ancient whitewyrme who stood behind the youth. Forcing himself to breathe deeply, evenly, the cragclimber cleared his throat, opened his mouth and spoke in the language of the great whitewyrmes.
Wyrmetongue.
‘I am Eli Halfwinter,’ he said, ‘friend to Jura of the green haven, and her wyrme, Asra.’ His voice was harsh and guttural, like meltwater coursing over a gravel bed. ‘And as friend of the kin I come to plead for the life of the boy . . .’
The red-haired youth, lance in hand, thrust his face into Eli’s. ‘Kith filth,’ he snarled.
Behind him, the whitewyrme’s eyes flickered. ‘You speak the tongue of the wyrmes,’ she breathed, momentarily impressed before her voice hardened. ‘Yet I do not know of this Asra or his kin of whom you speak . . .’
The red-haired youth dropped down and scythed Eli’s legs from under him with a swing of his lance, before leaping onto the cragclimber’s chest.
‘I rip your heart out!’ he screeched in words Eli had no difficulty understanding as he raised the black lance above his head. ‘And feed it to the boy!’
The kin with the curly dark hair sprang up from beside Ethan and punched the red-headed youth squarely in the jaw, following the blow with a kick to the ribs that sent him sprawling. Behind the two kin, their respective wyrmes squared up to each other, their eyes blazing red and plumes of smoke rising from their flared nostrils.
‘Ramilles and I know of Asra and Jura of the green haven,’ the dark-haired kin’s whitewyrme hissed at the other. ‘And we would like to hear more from this kith before your kin ends his life.’
‘As would I,’ came a clear voice from beyond the circle of wyrmes and kin.
Winded, Eli propped himself up on his elbows and squinted into the early morning light.
‘Thrace!’ he gasped.
Fourteen
‘Eli Halfwinter?’ the kingirl said softly. She raised a slender hand and pushed her corn-silver hair back behind her ears.
She was seated astride her great whitewyrme, Aseel, her long legs wrapped around the base of his magnificent arched neck. Behind them, coming into land, was a young whitewyrme with a second kingirl on its back.
Eli got slowly to his feet, aware that the kin around him had their eyes on Thrace, and were backing away. ‘You have the girl, Hepzibar, with you,’ he said. ‘And her wyrmeling.’
The kingirl nodded. ‘It’s Zar now,’ she told him, and her whitewyrme trilled softly. ‘And Asa is no longer the wyrmeling he once was.’
‘Zar,’ Eli repeated,
From behind them, there came a snort of disgust.
‘You know this kith filth?’ said the kinyouth with the red hair as he rose to his feet. His lip was split from where Ramilles had punched him, and blood had spilled down onto his soulskin, dark red against the sulphur yellow. He bent down and picked up his kinlance, then spat blood onto the ground.
‘Do not harm them, Kesh,’ Thrace said, her grip tightening on her own lance.
Azura growled, only to be silenced by Aseel’s blood-red glare.
‘But they brought the taint here,’ Kesh said defiantly, backing towards his wyrme, Azura, his eyes fixed on Thrace. ‘These friends of yours,’ he sneered. ‘And anyway, it was us who found them. Their lives are ours!’
He reached up and placed a hand on his wyrme’s back for reassurance. Azura looked down at him, the colour in her eyes changing from deep red to soft amber as she inclined her neck.
Ramilles was standing with his wyrme, Aluris, his face flushed with a mixture of shame and indignation. ‘I’m sorry, Thrace,’ he said. ‘We wanted to be the first to the kill, to show what the yellow peaks kin could do . . .’
‘You apologize to her!’ Kesh half shouted, half screamed at the dark-haired youth. ‘For hunting down kith! Who is she? She’s just kin. Like us. No better, no worse. Her wyrme called and we came, and now they deny us our kill! Are we going to stand for this?’ He turned to the others, who stood, heads bowed, leaning back against their wyrmes. ‘We’re the yellow peaks kin. And we kill kith our own way. No one tells us what to do . . .’ His voice became pleading, almost tearful. ‘Finn, Timon, Baal . . . ?’
No one spoke.
Ramilles turned his back on Kesh, and his wyrme, Aluris, arched her neck and breathed white smoke over him. The other kin stepped back to their own wyrmes. Kesh looked over and saw Zar watching him, her expression a mixture of pity and contempt. The blood drained from his face.
‘Then to hell with you!’ Kesh screeched. ‘To hell with you all!’
He braced his arm and sprang up onto Azura’s back. He gripped on with his legs, his kinlance held tight in one hand while with the other he raised his hood. Azura’s eyes blazed red as she looked at Aseel and Thrace.
‘You show my kin no respect,’ she hissed.
Azura raised her wings and beat them back and forth, kicking off with her feet as she did so, and the whitewyrme and her rider rose up into the mist-choked air. Kesh twisted round, his eyes glinting from the shadows inside his hood.
‘I shall have my kill,’ he snarled.
Azura’s long serpentine tail switched to and fro behind her as she soared higher. Kesh gripped her dorsal ridge, then leaned to one side. The two of them wheeled round in the sky, and flew off towards the clearing mist on the far horizon.
Their long shadows fell before them. They were heading away from the wyrme galleries.
‘Let them go,’ said Ramilles wearily. ‘It’s like last fullwinter when Kesh quarrelled over our quarters, and stormed off. Azura will bring him back when the fire has left his blood.’
‘Kesh has an unusual taste for cruelty,’ said Aluris. ‘And Azura indulges him.’
Around her, the other female whitewyrmes nuzzled their kin, enveloping them in wreaths of wyrmesmoke – but said nothing.
Aseel surveyed the four kith and their wyrmes, his eyes dark and barbels trembling at the sides of his mouth. ‘If we’re going to resist the coming kith we must all act as one,’ he said in a voice as soft and gentle as a sigh. ‘You do understand that, don’t you?’
The wyrmes met his gaze; their kin stared down at the ground.
‘We understand,’ said Aluris.
‘Kesh has gone,’ said Thrace, ‘but perhaps the rest of you should return to the wyrme galleries.’ She nodded towards Eli and the youth. ‘I will deal with these two.’
Ramilles followed her gaze. He nodded skeptically, but made no objections
. ‘As you wish,’ he said.
With that, he jumped onto Aluris’s back. Beside him, Finn, Timon and Baal climbed up onto the shoulders of their own whitewyrmes, Avaar, Aakhen and Amir. Together, the four whitewyrmes and their riders took to the air and soared back across the sky with slow steady wingbeats toward the distant wyrme galleries.
Thrace swung her leg over Aseel’s neck and jumped lightly to the ground. Beside her, Zar did the same. Meanwhile, Eli had waded back through the long grass to the scorched patch where Ethan had been pegged out. He crouched down and began tugging at the knots that bound the boy’s ankles and wrists.
‘There’s a knife at my belt,’ Ethan told him.
Eli nodded, shifted Ethan’s jacket across and, gripping the handle, pulled it free. He sliced through the tethers one by one. Ethan sat up and rubbed at the chafed skin.
‘Thank you, Eli,’ he said, and he swallowed uncomfortably. ‘For everything. I . . . I sure am sorry I got lost like I did . . .’
The cragclimber shrugged. ‘It happens,’ he said brusquely.
He looked up to see that Thrace and Zar were standing there looking down at him. He handed Ethan back his knife and climbed to his feet.
‘This here is Ethan,’ he said, nodding at the boy, who was staring open-mouthed at Thrace. ‘We’ve been sharing the trail. We came west over the jagged ridges, following the blackwing trails.’ He frowned. ‘We stopped when we saw the whitewyrme galleries. I figured we would not be welcome there.’
Thrace nodded thoughtfully. ‘I owe you my life, Eli Halfwinter,’ she said. ‘So do Zar and Asa. But that means little to my fellow kin. They have come from every corner of the weald to the galleries,’ she went on. ‘Wyrmes and their kin.’ Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. ‘We have gathered to put a stop to the encroachment of the kith once and for all – and you must be far from here when that happens.’
She paused, and looked deep into Eli’s eyes, then reached out and rested a hand on his arm. Eli held her gaze.
‘You are a good man, Eli Halfwinter,’ she said. ‘But I cannot protect you if you do not leave this place.’
‘I understand,’ Eli told her. He nodded earnestly. ‘You have just saved my life, Thrace,’ he told her. ‘And Ethan’s. And I consider that a debt repaid. We shall leave now – and may the Maker protect you, and little Zar here.’
‘We will protect our kin,’ said Aseel in a voice like distant thunder. And Asa nodded. ‘Whatever is to come,’ he added, looking at Thrace with his bright yellow eyes.
Thrace made no reply. It was like she was staring right through the cragclimber. Eli turned, and he and Ethan followed Thrace’s gaze.
The others were approaching from their hiding places in the long plains grass. Cody, Cara and Micah. They had seen the sulphur peaks’ kin and their wyrmes flying overhead. And from the looks on their faces, and the loaded spitbolts clutched to their chests, it seemed they were fearing the worst.
Eli glanced back at Thrace. She was standing motionless, her dark eyes pit-black and intense against the deathly pallor of her skin and the wind rippling the ash-gold strands of her hair. Behind her, a shudder rippled through Aseel’s great body and his eyes gleamed a darkening red.
As they approached, shielding their eyes from the low sun, Micah, Cara and Cody saw the wyrmes and stopped. Eli waved for them to approach, and both Cara and Cody quickened their pace, but Micah stopped dead in his tracks.
He was not looking at Ethan or Eli. Nor at Zar. Nor at the two wyrmes who stood beside them, smoke billowing from their mouths. Instead, he was staring at the beautiful kingirl in the shimmering white soulskin, statue-still and open-mouthed.
‘You,’ he murmured.
Fifteen
‘When we left, Aseel and I flew to the high lakes. And when they froze over, we headed for the wyrme galleries that the great whitewyrmes had deserted . . .’ Thrace paused. ‘We wintered there, with Zar and Asa,’ she said, her eyes scanning the rolling plains around them.
Aseel was standing a little way off with Zar and Asa, out of earshot, but with his yellow eyes fixed on his kin.
‘You left me,’ said Micah, aware of how choked his voice sounded. He stole a glance at Thrace, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
She looked so beautiful, her body toned and sleek in the white soulskin and her eyes dark and impossible to read behind the tresses of golden-white hair. It seemed a lifetime ago that they had lain together in the winter den; that they had fought and defeated the winter caller on the snowy cliffside – and Thrace and Aseel had flown off into the marbled grey sky. Yet how long was it since the bite of fullwinter? Three months? Four at most . . .
Micah felt the old familiar pain deep in his chest. The pain he had felt as he watched Thrace leave. The pain he felt whenever he allowed himself to think about this beautiful kingirl.
He turned away from her and stared out across the flat plain of jumbled rocks and swaying grass. In the middle distance, some way to the left of Zar and the two wyrmes, were the others. They were at the makeshift camp where they’d rested up, concealing themselves in the long grass while Eli had gone to beg for Ethan’s life. Now they were gathering their kit together.
The lanky fair-haired youth was stooped over his rucksack. Cody was down on his haunches beside him, and the pair of them were exchanging items, making their two packs equal in weight. Eli had just returned from a nearby spring, three watergourds slung from one shoulder and four leather bottles gripped in his hands. Cara was sitting crosslegged, her kit packed and on her back, pretending not to watch Micah and Thrace, but finding it impossible not to.
‘I had to go,’ said Thrace, and Micah trembled at the sadness in her voice. ‘I am kinned with Aseel, and that cannot be broken . . . But it was hard to leave you, Micah.’ She fell still, then said, ‘What did you do after I left? Where did you go?’
Micah swallowed hard and forced himself not to look at the kingirl. He was painfully aware how conspicuous they both looked, standing out here, away from the others, talking in whispers. Yet he couldn’t tear himself away.
‘Eli and I tried to get to Jura’s cave in the green haven,’ he said, his voice low, ‘but fullwinter defeated us. We ended up stumbling across a valley haven called Deephome.’ He paused. ‘The winter caller wasn’t dead. He followed us there. Almost killed us . . .’
The winter caller. A killer, enslaved and trained by the valley keld. Ever since Micah, Eli and Thrace had taken the life of one of their gang – Redmyrtle, a cavern-dwelling cannibal hag – these keld had been out for revenge. The winter caller was dead now but, as Micah knew, the threat of the keld would never die. They inhabited the deep dark places underground, ensnaring the unwary, corrupting the innocent and feeding off the basest instincts of those kith who traded with them. Micah loved the weald, but he hated this evil that lurked beneath its surface . . .
‘But you survived,’ said Thrace. ‘You are here now.’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Micah, looking up and meeting Thrace’s gaze. The pain in his chest grew like a bruise.
‘I hurt you,’ Thrace said softly, reaching out and touching his hand. ‘I did not mean to hurt you.’
Despite himself, Micah thrilled at her touch. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Micah broke the silence.
‘I understand,’ he said, and swallowed down the lump that was forming in his throat.
And he did understand. It was true. Thrace and Aseel were kinned, and there was nothing and no one that could ever come between the two of them. Eli had told him that at the outset, and Micah had learned the truth of it for himself.
He looked up. The great whitewyrme was still watching his kin – watching the pair of them – with those keen yellow eyes of his.
Thrace stepped back and hugged herself, her arms crossed and shoulders hunched. ‘The wyrmekin are gathering to resist the kith,’ she to
ld Micah. She glanced up at him, her long straight ash-gold hair falling down over her face as she did so. She tossed it back. ‘These plains are where we shall make our stand,’ she said. ‘Soon.’
Micah looked into her eyes. They were tender and full of pain. A tear brimmed and rolled down her smooth flawless cheek.
‘Thrace?’ he said gently.
The kingirl did not reply.
‘Thrace, are y’all right?’ He reached out and brushed the tear from her cheek.
Thrace took a step towards him, until they were face to face, almost touching, their breath on each other’s skin.
‘You remember the hot springs?’ she said. ‘When you bathed me; when you washed away the blood . . . ?’
‘I do,’ said Micah. Of course he did. How could he ever forget? Afterwards they had lain together, beside the steaming lake, in each other’s arms . . .
‘I had come from the gutting tarn,’ she said.
‘I know that . . .’ Micah began, but Thrace silenced him, pressing a finger to his lips.
‘We killed many kith that day, Aseel and I. We slaughtered everyone we found in that place.’
Micah nodded. He had seen the carnage with his own eyes. Bodies of kith, burned, broken, butchered . . . A chill tickled at the nape of his neck, making the hairs stand on end.
‘It was the bloodfrenzy,’ she said. ‘It came upon me – and when it took hold, I couldn’t stop killing. Men and women. Children . . .’
She faltered, and Micah saw fresh tears welling up in the corners of her dark eyes.
‘It’s going to happen again, Micah. The bloodfrenzy. I will kill again . . .’ She lowered her eyes. ‘And when I do, you must be far away from here. You understand?’