by Paul Stewart
The vertical rockface smudged past them, slate-brown and sparkling, as the wyrme’s wingtips grazed the sheer sides of the crevasse. Moments later, they emerged into sunlight on the other side of the sheer wall of rock and continued to soar high above the mountains beyond, now spread out beneath them in a jagged chaos of skyscratch summits and shadow-dark gullies.
With a hand against the whitewyrme’s neck, she surveyed the land below with a practised eye, noting the long chains of ragged ridges, together with the solitary peaks. Black needle, broken back, white pillar and speckled stack …
There, high up on the black speckled rockstack, just below its jagged pinnacle and wreathed in swirling smoke, was a point of red light, like a jewel glinting from a bed of velvet. They swooped down in a low looping curve, circling the pinnacle. Embedded in a nest of warm ash at the top of the speckled stack was the whitewyrme wyve they’d been watching over. Glowing intensely, the egg was close to hatching, the wyrmeling within already testing out its festerbreath on the inside of the shell.
Whitewyrmes had laid their wyves in the high stacks for untold centuries, safe in the knowledge that they would remain there undisturbed until the time of their hatching. But that had changed with the coming of the two-hides.
A charge, like a stray tendril of lightning, seemed to pass through them both. The whitewyrme switched his tail in agitation. The girl’s face clouded over.
Far down in the dark shadows at the bottom of the peak, were two men, their heads down and shoulders sloped. They were making their way up the speckled stack with steady determination, slowly approaching the pinnacle. Each was dressed in a hood, heavy wyrmehide boots and leggings, and capacious jackets, every pocket bulging with the various tools of their trade.
The whitewyrme let out a long low groan. The kingirl gripped her lance fiercely and raised the soulskin hood that mantled her shoulders, cowling her face in impenetrable blackness.
‘Wyrmekith,’ she breathed.
Seven
With a howl of terror, Micah jerked back as the wyrme lunged, striking his head hard on the rock wall behind him. A shower of stars filled his vision. Saliva spattered his face, and the stench of dead meat filled his nostrils, warm and vile and churning his stomach …
He raised his arms, hackdagger in one hand, the other balled into a fist. Before him the creature seemed frozen in mid air in defiance of all natural laws. The scales at its neck constricted and buckled, and it let out a high strangulated cry. Its outstretched tongue flexed as its hideous chalk-white eyes bulged. The next moment it came crashing to the ground.
As the wyrme jerked backwards, Micah noticed the thin metal choke-collar that encircled its neck, biting into the tarnished scales. And the slender, thread-like golden chain that stretched out taut behind it.
Wild with rage and frustration, the creature thrashed violently at his feet. Micah lashed out with his boot, kicking the creature hard in its snarling, slavering mouth. The wyrme yowled and scuttled backwards out of harm’s way. The chain slackened, then went taut again and tugged hard.
With a choked shriek, the stunted wyrme scrabbled to its feet and shook its head from side to side to loosen the constricting fetter at its neck. Smoke dribbled from its nostrils as it teetered backwards. Again the chain tugged, and as the creature was dragged backwards, legs braced and claws scoring the soft rock, its fight seemed to ebb away.
Turning its back on Micah, it retreated, meek now, head down and stuntwings drooping. It headed for a black tunnel opening on the far side of the lake into which the thin thread of chain, barely discernible in the dim cavern light, seemed to disappear. Micah caught sight of something white and gleaming lying before him on the ground. He stooped down and picked it up.
It was one of the creature’s fangs, smooth and pitted. He traced the needle point across his forearm, and winced. It was deadly sharp. There was dark blood and tags of tissue around the root.
He swallowed, but there was no moisture to lubricate his throat. He sheathed his hackdagger and reached for the leather gourd. On the other side of the lake, the wyrme melted into the darkness of the tunnel.
The cavern fell still. Only the sound of the water trickling down into the ink-black pool broke the silence.
Micah scurried forwards, all haste and urgency. He glanced round the dim-lit cavern twitchily as his boots crunched over the whitesplash gravel. At the water’s edge, he hunkered down and cupped his hands. He plunged them into the cool clear water, then raised them trembling to his parched lips. He sipped – then spat it out and retched emptily.
The water tasted bad. Real bad. Stale, stagnant, rotten; as though dead decaying things had been steeped in it.
Micah straightened up and stared about him, miserable and bewildered. He had to get some water inside him – but not this water; this water that had lain motionless for who knew how long, turning brackish and undrinkable.
His gaze fell upon the huge stalactite, and the thread of water coiling down its length and trickling into the fetid lake below. He waded in, trying hard not to gag. Water gushed over the top of his boots till his feet were sloshing. The lake bed was slimy and, by the time he hit knee deep, Micah was bracing his legs for balance with every step as the soles of his boots squelched and skidded through the sludge. The water was up to his thighs by the time he reached the stalactite.
He looked up. The point of the rock stopped six feet or so above the surface of the lake. The water glinted as it twisted down through the air. He reached out, his bony fingers crushed together so hard the skin went waxen white. He collected up the water as best he could, then raised it tentatively to his face and sniffed.
The water was slipping through his fingers. He pushed his lips into his bandaged palms and sipped at what remained before it all drained away.
It tasted good.
He raised his hands a second time, and watched impatiently as the water collected slowly in his cupped palms. The fact was, more seemed to be trickling through his fingers than ever was collecting. Dropping his arms to his side, he tilted his head backwards and shuffled forward till the thin line of water was pouring directly into his open mouth. He swallowed, then he swallowed again. The water sluiced down his throat, cooling his burning insides. He swallowed some more, and kept on swallowing, only stopping when fear began to replace his quenching thirst.
He hesitated, his ears pricked and eyes peering into the shadows.
The water trickled down into the pool before him. Ripples fanned out and away. He couldn’t leave; leastways, not yet. He eased himself back a tad, taking care not to slip. Then he shifted the leather gourd round, pulled the stopper and held the neck out. He braced his arms. The water began trickling inside.
Come on, Micah urged, and glanced nervously over his shoulders.
He felt the water splash onto his wrists and returned his attention to the gourd, realigning it beneath the dribble of water. He tilted it from side to side, and was disappointed to note how modest was the amount of water that sloshed about inside.
Come on, come on …
The water was mule stubborn. It would not be hurried. Eyes darting this way, that way, Micah held rigid. The air was brittle. The darkness heaved. Shadows seemed to swell and contract, and as he stared into them, he was unable to persuade himself that the glittering shards of schist and mica were not the eyes of bloodcrazed predators sizing him up.
Come on …
He shifted the swelling gourd around, supporting its weight in the crook of his arm, and cradled it like a babe in arms. He was hot and cold. His body was trembling; his legs were numb.
It seemed like an eternity and a day had passed before the gourd was full. Micah rammed the stopper back into place, splashed to the shoreline and, draining the stinking water from his boots, made a dash for the tunnel. The gourd was heavy and the leather strap dug sharply into his shoulder. Not that he was complaining, for Mic
ah now had the water he’d sought, and was grateful for it.
He entered the tunnel and the light was abruptly extinguished. He smelled the fetid odour rising from his boots and breeches. Soon the rock started pressing in on both sides once again, and Micah turned sideways, taking care to protect the precious bulging gourd.
The water would last several days if he was careful. Special careful. He’d taken a terrible risk venturing inside the rock, and he had struck lucky. But the next time his gourd was empty, he would take no chances. He would seek out a waterfall or a tarn, even a fly-flecked rainpuddle – anything rather than enter the darkness again.
As he scrambled out of the fissure, the sky crackled and flashed with tendrils of white lightning. He resumed his climb. The image of the hideous runty wyrme filled his head; its swivelling white eyes, its outsized claws, its drooldrip fangs, and the chain …
Micah swallowed as the thought struck him. If there was a chain, then who or what was at the other end?
Eight
Let one of the others be taken, Heppy prayed. Any of the others. Just not me …
She could not rightly remember how many there were just now. So many had come and gone. Why, she hadn’t even learned their names.
She peered round anxiously, trying to put faces to the soft moans and muted whimpers that sounded in the shadows. But it was too dark to see clearly. Three, she reckoned there were. Maybe four.
All at once, there came the scratching of claws and click-click of metal on stone.
She raised her legs and lowered her head, closed her eyes and clamped her arms about her ears. She didn’t want to see anything. She didn’t want to hear anything neither.
She kept her head bowed as the sound of curdled snarling and shrill yelps mixed with muffled screams and whimpers. And, as she felt the hot stinking breath on her face, she flinched and clamped her arms even tighter round her head. The next moment, she cried out as the top of her arm was pinched with plier force.
‘Skin and bone …’
She shuddered. Not me. Someone else, just not me.
Nine
Micah picked his way along the sharp ridge of naked rock, the mountain falling away as steep shattered cliffs on both sides. He was stooped forward, hat tipped and crowtattered cloak flapping. His empty leather gourd hung limp at his side. The cave water had lasted him for three days, but he’d had the last gulp of it that morning and in this arid dustblown landscape, Micah couldn’t see where he might come by more.
He thrust his arms out shakily at his side and flailed for balance as, the higher he climbed, the more unsteady he became. His boots skeetered on the slippery windbuffed rock.
‘Godammit to hell!’ he cussed as he missed his footing and lurched perilous close to the edge.
The words echoed in the air. Feeling like a fool for exclaiming out loud, he scrambled back to the apex of the ridge on hands and feet.
He pulled himself up to a cautious stoop, then continued, the cloak tatters fluttering as his arms dipped and swayed. The sun rose above a distant line of mountains. Two raggedy winged creatures tumbled across the sky, one after the other, rawking loudly. He noticed neither, his gaze fixed instead on the perching rock up ahead. It marked the end of the ridge and the beginning of a plateau.
His face looked old, the grime ingrained in the wince and grimace lines like scars. His hair was spiked rigid with grey-white mud and his clothes were mired with the evidence of hard climbing and dry grit-laden winds.
Since he’d fled the cavern, Micah had spent one night curled up in a rock hollow while the sky had raged and splintered with tumultuous thunder and blinding forks of lightning. He’d remained there the whole of the following day, holed up until the storm had passed, and then walked through the next night by the silver light of a full moon. On the afternoon of the third day, with his food and water running low, the distant sky had turned chestnut red, and he’d watched it billow closer, intrigued by the accompanying roar, which sounded like a stampede. Then the duststorm had struck, thick and impenetrable, and caused him to hole up again till it had blown over. Then he’d found the ridge and followed it up to the plateau in the distance.
Micah stumbled over the high flat ground, the rock beneath his feet as hot as forge coals, until he came to a gulch in the flat landscape, a deep fissure, invisible at a distance. He lurched to a standstill and peered over the side.
Some way off, a slender yet vigorous torrent of water erupted from a chasm in the cliff wall and cascaded into a pale-green lake that nestled in the vastness of the rock basin below. He slipped and slithered his way down the steep sides of the gulch to the water’s edge.
Close to, the mountain-clasped lake was enormous, with the waterfall so far away at its distant end that Micah could barely hear its rushing sigh. There were angular trees dotted around among the toppled boulders, and grass and weeds fringed the lakeshore. A flat apron of white rock jutted into the lake before him.
Micah stumbled to its end, dropped to his knees and cupped water gratefully to his mouth till his thirst was satisfied. Then, dropping his backpack, he pulled off his hat, cloak, jacket and boots and stepped down into the lake. The gravel jabbed the soles of his feet as he waded deeper.
He crouched down and his gaze fell upon his hands, smooth and sallow-white where the water had washed away the disintegrating dust-caked bandages. He thrust his arms down into the lake and wiped the skin clean. Fine golden hairs glistened on his forearms. He removed his calico shirt and undersmock, rolled them into a ball and tossed them onto the rock. Then, releasing his braces and standing first on one leg, then the other, he pulled off his fieldpants, and they joined the rest.
He knelt down slowly. The water rose up his body, cool and delicious. It came up to his neck. Dipping forward, he splashed it over his head. Grime dissolved. He ducked his head completely, and a milky-white cloud haloed his hair as he massaged his scalp with his fingertips and rubbed the back of his neck. He resurfaced, probed his earholes and wiped away the dust that had gathered in the corners of his eyes, then dunked his head a second time.
Little by little, like sloughed skin, the layer of filth and grime washed away. The dust melted and his hair turned from grey to dark blond.
Micah climbed to his feet and splashed across to the rock. His clothes buzzed with flies, and his nose crinkled up at their sour odour. He couldn’t bring himself to put them back on, not now his body was clean, so he washed them as best he could; cloak, shirt, vest, breeches and all, and laid them out to dry. Then he crouched down and, reaching into his pack, took out the last of his supplies.
It wasn’t much – some precious chunks of dry fungus, and a handful of black salsify roots.
He placed them on the flat rock. He fetched fallen branches from the stunted lakeside trees, then made a circle of small rocks and constructed a nest of the twigs. He pulled a wad of bollcotton from a side pocket of his jacket and teased away a small twist, which he settled down among the kindling. Then, taking two flintstones from another pocket, he struck them together to create sparks that showered down on the dry fibres.
Pink and yellow flames lapped across the crackling twigs as he blew, head down and hands cupped. He broke a bleached branch across his knee and placed it over the fire. It caught with welcome spits and sputters. He added more wood, and satisfied that the fire was not about to die on him, he returned to the pack for the copper pot that he kept stowed at the very bottom. He filled it with water and set it over the flames. Then, having cleaned the fungus and sliced up the black salsify, he dropped the meagre handful into the water.
Sharp pangs of hunger writhed in the pit of his stomach, but the dish could not be hurried. The roots had to be boiled to rid them of their harsh bitterness and render the thin gruel that resulted at least half edible. It wasn’t enough, but it was all he had. As Micah caught his reflection in the still lakewater, gaunt and stick-thin, ribs pai
nfully visible beneath stretched skin, he realized he was beginning to starve.
A chill breath of air fluttered across the lake. The sun was losing its heat. Below, in the green depths, shadows glinted like old gold as large fat lakefish darted to and fro. Micah’s stomach constricted painfully, and he cursed aloud his lack of a fishing net or spear. Here he was, weak with hunger, standing beside a lake full of abundant food just beyond his grasp.
Behind him, he could hear the water coming to the boil and caught the first whiff of the softening salsify roots as their fragrance was slowly released. He would have to nourish himself with this thin soup, and hope that he’d have the strength to forage round the lakeshore the next day.
Micah picked up a small stone and tossed it bitterly into the lake. He was watching the ripples spread out across the still water when the lake changed. It swirled and heaved, and a great dome-like bulge rose up at its centre, then burst into a cascade of crashing white water as a monstrous head broke the surface.
Micah stumbled backwards.
The great head was broad and low-browed, with skin like rough bark and two ridges of jagged bone edging its skull like turret castellations. A long thin snout descended from two enormous heavy-lidded eyes before spreading out into a vast flat plate, like the bill of a monstrous duck.
As the lakewyrme rose higher out of the water, its scaly neck came into view, thick as the trunk of an ancient pinetree yet as sinuous as buckreeds. Its back broke the surface, snail encrusted and wide as a barn, and upon its flexing shoulders were affixed the stubby vestiges of wings. The water waked and welled as the creature swayed to and fro.