by Jen Williams
‘Sharrik, we’ve talked about this.’ Bern patted the griffin fondly on the smooth black curve of his beak. ‘You are too mighty to waste on this part of the mission. You are needed on the battlefield.’
‘You have to help Vostok,’ added Vintage. She shook her head, adopting an expression of deep uncertainty. ‘I don’t think she can defeat this Celaphon by herself.’
Sharrik puffed out his chest. ‘I am mighty!’ he said. ‘I will fight, but I will listen for you, brother.’
‘We’ll call you when we’re ready,’ said Vintage. ‘And take Helcate with you. I’m sure you could use his acid.’
The war-beasts left, and the two humans turned back to the chamber. The walls were an off-white, like parchment, and they appeared to be ringed with huge cords of what looked like muscle. The tunnel was taller than it was wide, the two walls meeting at the top, and there was a sticky residue on the floor.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Vintage. The colour had rushed from the big man’s cheeks, and the strands of blond hair falling across his forehead looked oddly colourless.
‘I have to tell them, all the time, that we belong here,’ he said. ‘And I have to keep picturing the shape they expect. It’s not easy.’
‘Well, my darling, I have every faith in you.’ She took his arm, and began to gently guide him forward. ‘Just between you and me, I’ve never crawled up a monster’s arse before. It’s quite exciting.’
Noon gasped and tucked her head in as Vostok rolled through the sky. For a moment, everything was a spinning confusion – she saw clouds under her boot where it stuck out over the harness, saw the mountain passing lazily under her head – and then they were upright again and pulling an arc of violet fire behind them. The dragon called Celaphon came on behind, his jaws open so wide that Noon had the eerie sensation that they could fall straight down his throat and be swallowed whole. She turned around in the harness and sent a pulse of winnowfire into his cavernous maw – the dragon swallowed it and shook his head as though he had a bee in his mouth.
They were caught within a furious net of action. All around them the minions of the worm people swarmed, but Aldasair and Tor were there, moving constantly to keep them away from her and Vostok. Tor’s sword was a blur, cutting through the bellies of the grey men, or severing the legs of the flying burrowers, while Aldasair wielded one of Bern’s axes. Noon would never have guessed it, but the weapon suited him, and when she caught sight of him – auburn hair blown back from his temples, crimson eyes wild, white armour glittering in the sun – she realised he looked like every picture she’d seen of the Eboran knights of the previous Rains. Jessen and Kirune were fast and lethal, taking their warriors from fight to fight, while their own teeth and claws plucked enemies from the sky like plums.
And she could feel them. The pain and the grief and the anger was never more than a thought away, and when she touched it, the others blazed into her mind, bright and familiar.
We are united.
A surge of feeling from Vostok met that thought: pleasure, hope, ruefulness. And on the back of that, anxiety. We’ve not won yet. We could still die here, bright weapon.
As if he could tell what they were thinking – and perhaps he could, Noon thought with a surge of panic – Celaphon slammed into them, his enormous bulk almost striking Vostok from the sky. The smaller dragon twisted at the last moment, turning her body so that some of the force was dissipated, and Noon threw a sheet of winnowfire at Celaphon’s wings. He dropped back, but only for a moment, and Noon could feel that the blow had winded Vostok.
‘Bastard!’ she yelled. ‘What sort of creature fights its own family?’
There was a shriek from above, and Noon looked up in time to see Sharrik flying towards them with his wings tucked to either side of his body, as fleet as an arrow. Bern was not there, but that was a good sign – he and Vintage should be inside the corpse moon by now. The griffin struck Celaphon in the chest, and the two tumbled together in mid-air as Vostok turned to rejoin them.
‘We take him down together,’ cried Vostok. ‘Yes, this is as it should be. Wait for me, brother!’
‘Are you sure this is the way?’
Bern nodded, and they moved on. So far they had peeled back seven walls, making their way steadily into the heart of the Behemoth. Although Vintage had asked the question, she felt on some level that it was the right direction anyway. She had, after all, made her way to these crystal chambers before – once in the ruins in Esiah Godwort’s compound, and once in the broken Behemoth where Nanthema had been trapped. It was simply that it was so quiet and eerie that she felt she had to speak, as though by speaking she were reminding herself that they were alive, and human.
She thought of Nanthema. The last sight she had had of her long-lost love had been her back as she rode away, her long black hair tied behind her and a bag of stolen goods next to her. Perhaps their relationship could never have worked. Vintage felt older and wearier than she ever had in her life, and from that perspective the idea of rescuing and taking up with a woman she hadn’t seen for decades seemed faintly ludicrous. But even so, the fact that Nanthema had turned her back on her own people, had even conspired to steal from them with a Winnowry agent, was an insult and an outrage. Nanthema should be here, she thought hotly. Sharing in the risk with the rest of us. She thought of Eri, and a wave of sorrow moved through her. Eri, a boy who had grown up in complete isolation, had been willing to risk his life for a people he had never known, and he had died for it. With an almost physical feeling of disgust, Vintage felt the reservoir of affection she had carried with her for Nanthema for much of her life harden and twist into something else.
‘Hold up.’ Bern stopped. They had been moving through a series of small linked rooms, each filled with alcoves studded with faintly glowing fronds. Not for the first time, Vintage marvelled at the utter strangeness of the Jure’lia.
‘What is it?’
‘Something is coming. Be really still, if you can. I will try to shield us.’
A nightmarish shadow grew on the wall, coming from the next chamber, and then a tall, spindly creature scuttled through. It appeared to be constructed of the same greenish black fluid that formed so much of the Jure’lia’s structure, and it had several pairs of insectile arms gathered at its centre, which were busily cleaning a pair of serrated mandibles.
It stopped just in front of them, although whether that was because it had seen them or not, Vintage could not tell; it didn’t have any eyes that she could see.
She held her breath. The Behemoth was silent save for a residual hum that came from everywhere at once. Vintage tried not to think about the toothy mouth on the thing opposite, or how it could probably pull them apart if it decided too. Instead, she thought about her crossbow, and how quickly she could get it off her belt if she needed to.
After an indeterminable period, the spider-like thing moved on, disappearing quickly into the next chamber. Vintage and Bern stood still for a long moment afterwards, in case it should come back, until Bern shook his head.
‘Let’s go.’
‘Take me closer.’
Kirune growled his opinion of that plan, and Tor could hardly blame him. The two dragons were locked in combat, hissing and roaring at each other, while blasts of green and violet flame periodically curled out dangerously towards the rest of them. Thankfully, Celaphon did not seem able to perform his little lightning trick very often, and so far they had only seen short bursts of it. Now they were aware of it, they could move to avoid the attack. But the purple dragon was still a formidable force in its own right, and getting right up next to it was a job best reserved for the biggest war-beasts. Sharrik was harrying the monster, attacking its back end as Vostok shot fire into his face.
‘I think it’s time I had a word with my sister.’ Tor swung his sword back and forth in short, brutal motions, disembowelling a flying burrower that had been attempting to tangle itself in his hair. Jessen flew past, a winged-man between her jaws,
and Helcate was close by too – the little war-beast had rallied well, although his sorrow was still a beacon of pain amongst them all. Impulsively, Tor reached along that connection, seeking out the others. Noon was right, he could feel them. It was sharp and painful, like gripping a blade at the wrong end, but he had a purchase. Whatever happens, we are together.
Tor began loosening the straps on the harness.
‘You are an idiot,’ said Kirune, but even so the big cat broke away from the cloud of minions and slipped into the radius of the main fight, just in time for a green fireball to go floating over their heads.
‘Shit!’ Tor laughed, then patted Kirune on the back of his head in a way he knew he hated. ‘If I fall, you’ll catch me. Quickly!’
Kirune dipped sideways, and the huge dragon loomed into Tor’s line of sight. His sister was there, her attention on Noon and Vostok – she was shouting commands at the dragon, he saw. Murmuring a vague prayer to Ygseril, Tor pulled the last strap away and jumped, the Ninth Rain held in one hand.
There was a sickening second when he was sure he had made the worst mistake of his life, and then he collided heavily with his sister, almost wrenching her from the harness. He very nearly carried on past her into the void below, but with his free hand he grabbed onto her leather vest. She squawked in outrage.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that, sister?’ He pulled himself up so that he was sitting behind her, pushing his boots through several handy loops. With his free hand he placed his sword at her throat. ‘I always thought I was the rebellious one, you see. Do you always have to steal my thunder?’
‘You idiot!’ She struggled against him, so he pressed the blade a little closer. ‘You’ll fall and die, or your idiot allies will kill you by accident!’
‘It almost sounds like you care, Hest!’ He grinned. ‘I just thought I’d give you a chance to explain yourself. Why did you betray Ebora? Why did you betray me?’
‘Ebora! I loved it more than you ever did.’ She turned her head to look at him, and despite all the chaos going on around them and the fact that he could die at any moment, Tor was struck speechless by the change in her. Hestillion had always been coldly beautiful, but all the softness of her beauty had been burned away, chiselled into something hard and alien. She was still striking, but striking in the way a frozen lake was, or a remote mountain. And at her throat there was a jagged shard of blue crystal, pinching the skin around it into hard, pinkish scars.
‘Why, then?’ All of his bravado had vanished. A stream of violet fire lit up the sky to their left, and the bellow of Celaphon’s roar rumbled through them like an earth tremor. ‘Why did you do it, Hest?’
Her eyes widened, and some of the severity seemed to drop from her face. She opened her mouth, and closed it again. When she did speak, he knew it was not to say what she had originally thought.
‘Because Ebora is nothing compared to them. I will not die in obscurity. The glory will be mine for once!’
‘I really wanted you to have a better reason than that.’ Tor shifted his grip, turning the killing edge of the Ninth Rain so that it rested against her skin. With the violence all around them and the continual shifting of Celaphon, it took all his effort to keep the sword steady. He didn’t want to cut her throat accidentally. ‘Can you at least give me a good reason not to kill you, dear sister?’
Hestillion felt frozen. The glory of battle and the power of directing Celaphon was fading, and instead she was unable to look away from the face of her brother. His hair was streaming out around him, wild and black, and the ugly scar across his eye and cheek was only inches away from her. He looked furious, but also hurt. It conjured up so many childhood memories that it was like drowning; the time she had taken one of his wooden practise swords and then broken it falling out of a tree; when their father took her side in every quarrel; when she had cut the throat of the little wine merchant’s boy. Always she had been hurting him, and always he came back, this expression on his face.
In a desperate need to escape the discomfort of this, she reached out to the Jure’lia and found, to her surprise, the queen there waiting for her. She was so close that Hestillion had to believe she had been watching her for some time.
Your blood is here. The queen’s voice was like another mind in the netherdark, noiseless yet clear.
He is, and he’s about to kill me.
He will not do that. And besides, you must fight. Kill those who slipped away from me. This one task I gave you.
Hestillion felt a faint smile twist her lips. Through her Eboran-eyes, she saw Tor frown as he tried to make sense of it.
I will die now, and Celaphon will be lost. The thought was comforting.
That is unacceptable.
Why is it? Why?
There was no answer. Hestillion blinked once, turning away from Tor to look back to the corpse moon.
‘The queen is coming,’ she said.
‘It’s not far now.’
Vintage nodded and lifted her crossbow. The closer they had got to the centre of the Behemoth the more scuttling creatures they had seen. Each time they had stayed very still, waiting for them to pass on by, and each time Bern had stood rigid, veins on his neck and forehead prominent with the effort. His skin looked grey and clammy.
Ahead of them was another of the segmented walls. Bern reached up for it as he had a hundred times before, and then stopped, his hand shaking.
‘I can feel her,’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘She’s very close. I . . . by the stones, this is too much.’
Vintage went to him and took his free hand in hers.
‘Bern, you may be the strongest man I’ve ever known.’ She glanced down the corridor; there were shapes moving at the end of it. ‘I know you can do this.’
‘She has eyes everywhere, always watching.’ He shuddered violently. ‘They are inside me, her eyes.’ He gasped, and a tear spilled down his cheek to soak into the whiskers of his beard. ‘The worm people are an infection and I . . . I’m dying.’
‘Listen to me,’ hissed Vintage. The shadowy shapes were growing closer. ‘Remember Aldasair. Remember Sharrik – those who love you, Bern the Younger. A bit of blue rock in your hand doesn’t change that.’
‘I . . . but . . .’ He swallowed. ‘Her eyes, this place is made of them –’ He paused, and then leaned his hand against the wall. ‘She’s moving away! Something has caught her attention outside.’
Vintage lifted Bern’s big beefy hand and kissed it. ‘I knew you could do it. Come on, my dear, let’s get this business done and get out of this shit pot.’
The wall ahead of them split open to Bern’s touch, and ahead of them was a smaller chamber, lined with greyish blocks and the peculiar light nodules. And in the centre of it was the crystal – tall and blue and shining like a nightmare.
‘This is a bloody nightmare!’
Noon sat back in the harness, her hand covered in a glove of green fire she wasn’t sure what to do with. In a display of poor decision making that was impressive even for Tor, he had jumped from Kirune’s back onto the giant dragon, and now appeared to be having a terse argument with his sister – which meant that neither she nor Vostok could use their fire without potentially striking him.
‘You will just have to be precise!’ Vostok had backed off a little while Sharrik attacked Celaphon’s head, his giant claws causing a terrible screeching racket as he dragged them across the dragon’s scales. ‘Remember what I have taught you!’
‘I’ve already burnt Tor once—’
‘Then he’ll be used to it! There’s no time to be hesitant, bright weapon!’
Noon raised her hands, forming the winnowfire into a series of flat discs, which she threw, one by one, towards Celaphon’s wings. Several were batted away, but at least two landed, sinking into the thin skin stretched between the bones there, and Celaphon hollered his displeasure.
‘Yes!’ cried Vostok. She turned in the air and went after the injure
d wing, sinking her teeth into the leathery covering. Pulling away, she left a tattered edge to the giant’s wing – not much, perhaps, but a start.
‘Let’s do the other!’ Noon sat up, preparing more discs as Vostok circled the bigger dragon. She caught sight of Helcate, gamely spraying a horde of flying men with acid, and Aldasair below them, he and Jessen moving together like they had been fighting monsters for years. It was Aldasair she was looking at when she saw him glance above them, his eyes widening in alarm. The warning seemed to shoot through them all, travelling along the link between them like a flash flood.
‘The queen!’ he called. ‘The queen is coming!’
Noon turned back to the corpse moon. A thin black thread was spooling out of it, moving faster and faster as it came towards them. The thing shifted and changed as it came, sometimes appearing to be almost humanoid, at others something more akin to the burrowers, a scuttling thing of legs and mandibles. It was coming straight for them.
Vostok swept up and breathed a stream of fire across it, but the path of fluid melted away from them, twisting out of range. Noon threw her own flames at it, pelting it with hot discs of flame that burned white in their ferocity, but while it curled away from them, another section of it suddenly grew, reaching directly for Celaphon. Reaching for Tor, Noon realised with horror.
‘Tor, watch out!’
It was too late. The black fluid reached down, becoming at the last minute like a great claw, and it ripped Tor away from the dragon. His sword span through the air, a silver bird, and then it was lost to sight. The shifting form of the Jure’lia queen carried him up and away, her white mask-like face appearing at last. She was smiling.
‘Tor!’
Noon watched, her skin crawling, as the black fluid rippled over Tor, covering his arms, his chest, curling around his neck like mud. It slid up into his hair, and fingers of it moved over his cheeks. She saw him shout something, but swiftly the queen closed up his mouth, swarming over his nose and his eyes.
‘It’s not going well.’