by Paul Stewart
They dipped for a moment, then rose up, their white bodies melting together as they soared higher and higher. They blurred in the snow, white against white, becoming smaller as they flew off across the sky.
On the snow-covered slope below, Thrace and Micah and Eli stood side by side and watched as the whitewyrme and his kin disappeared into the haze of the horizon. Eli shifted the rucksack on his shoulders and turned to Thrace.
‘Micah and I have torched the keld’s lair,’ he said grimly, ‘and buried Ichabod beneath a cairn of stones in the kith way.’ He glanced back at the sky. ‘And now you’ve taken care of his daughter, Thrace, we can move on …’
Thrace didn’t move. Her gaze was still fixed on the horizon and Micah could see the look of longing in her eyes.
‘Asa will take care of her now, in the kin way,’ she said. ‘He’ll find a methusalah pine and fashion her a kinlance. He’ll find their range, a day’s flight in any direction from the eyrie he’ll choose for them – a fume-cave, or a high festercrag – just like Aseel did with me …’
Micah heard the catch in her voice.
‘Together, they will defend wyrmekind against the two-hides.’
Micah flinched at the unfamiliar term. Two-hides. She meant people. She meant wyrmekith.
She meant him …
‘Just like you and Aseel did,’ said Micah, feeling his chest tighten.
‘That life is over for me now,’ Thrace said, and turned away.
Fifty-Six
‘The winter den is no more than a day away,’ said Eli. ‘And we’ll make it before the blizzards,’ he added with a trace of a smile, ‘or my name’s not Eli Halfwinter.’
The wind howled and whistled. The three of them hugged close to the small fire the cragclimber had made. Despite the blaze, the cold was intense.
‘It’s a time for holing up, fullwinter,’ he went on. ‘A time for reflection, for taking stock of the experiences of the past year …’
Micah glanced across at Thrace. The kingirl returned his gaze, and smiled. It seemed to him that, here in this flickering firelight, she looked more beautiful than he’d ever seen her.
True, her soulskin, once so white and sleek, now showed signs of wear. It was stained with blood from the caverns, and the sloughed skin itself had taken on a greyish hue and seemed looser fitting than before. Her hair no longer had the lustrous pearly shine it had possessed. Now it was windblown and prone to tangle, and tumbled loosely about her shoulders. But her face had softened, her eyes had lost their harshness, her lips seemed fuller, and the marble pallor to her cheeks had warmed to a pinkish bloom.
Eli pulled his blanket around himself and settled down to sleep. Thrace shivered. Micah rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a thick leather jerkin, which he offered to her.
Thrace’s nose twitched at the kith odour it gave off, but she took it anyway, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She smiled again, her eyes soft and tender. And Micah dared, for the first time, to believe that he and this strange kingirl might have a future with one another after all.
He shifted towards her and cradled her in his arms. He held her body tightly to his as they lay down beside the fire, close and warm, and drifted into sleep.
Fifty-Seven
‘Redmyrtle took a risk buying the wyrmeling,’ the eel-mother hissed. Her voice pierced the silence like a rusting skewer. ‘Yet it was a risk any one of us would have taken to possess a great whitewyrme.’
She regarded the other keld in the dimly lit cavern through mean yellow eyes. Around her corpulent shoulders, two sleek limbless crevicewyrmes hung listlessly, their thin tongues tasting the air. Blue Slake the poisoner raised a claw-like hand and turned his ruined face towards the guttering candle beside him. It sat in an elegant holder, a tripod of human thigh bones supporting an upturned skull.
‘She was an excellent renderer,’ he wheezed through the hole in his face where his nose used to be. ‘And her flesh stew was second to none …’
‘Maybe so,’ said Cutter Daniel, the liquor bottles tied to his coat clinking softly as he spoke, ‘but Redmyrtle was careless. She should have realized that wyrmekin would come after the wyrmeling. Kith can be manipulated, exploited, but these kin, they are dangerous.’
The distiller scratched his rat-tail scalp with long needlepoint fingernails. Behind him, his four slaves watched him warily, their eyes heavy-lidded with inebriation.
‘Which is why the wyrmeling was such a prize.’ The black-cowled figure beside the eel-mother spoke for the first time. Her voice was velvet soft and lilting, and the other keld inclined their heads deferentially. ‘It would have been of great use to us. Our dear departed Redmyrtle understood this all too well …’
The eel-mother nodded in agreement, her grease-streaked chins wobbling as she did so.
‘But now her death must be avenged,’ the black-cowled figure continued. ‘And for that we need the winter caller.’
‘He is here,’ said the eel-mother, and the crevicewyrmes around her ample neck hissed and shrank back as a huge figure shuffled forward out of the shadows.
It was clad in a coat of thick lakewyrmeskin, and a bone mask covered its face.
‘You have their scent?’ the black-cowled figure asked, her voice low and honeyed.
The winter caller nodded, dark eyes glinting from the sockets of the mask.
‘Then find their winter den, and dig them out …’
Fifty-Eight
Eli strode ahead, his walking staff crunching into the snow with every step as he probed for concealed rocks or hidden crevices. Micah and Thrace followed, walking hand in hand, keeping as close to his footprints as they could. Eli paused and looked ahead, then turned to the others.
The three of them were making good progress despite the heavy going. Snow had fallen throughout the night and lay thick upon the trail. It creaked and squeaked beneath their boots. More snow was fluttering down, the flakes grey against the icy whiteness.
‘Once we’ve crested this next ridge, the winter den ain’t no more than an hour’s tramp,’ he announced.
Micah smiled and squeezed Thrace’s hand tightly, and they continued up the steep slope, both of them helping the other not to slip. The trail narrowed and curved, the grey ridged rocks crowding in from both sides.
Micah looked down, taking care where he placed his feet, and noticed that the heel of his boot was coming away. Letting go of Thrace’s hand, he stopped to examine the damage.
The boot, once so fine and sturdy, had become sorely worn, he realized. The wyrmegut stitching that attached the sole to the uppers had torn, and the heel was hanging loose.
Micah raised his foot and tugged at the heel, and as it came away, a cluster of bright gemstones tumbled onto the snow. Blue gems and green gems; purple, yellow and black gems, and some so natural clear it was like looking at something that wasn’t properly there.
Micah looked at the boot, dumbfounded. Beside him, Thrace regarded the gemstones impassively.
His fingers agitated with excitement, Micah took his hackdagger from his belt and prised the heel off the other boot.
Two red stones, the size of stipplejay eggs, fell to the ground. They lay upon the snow like drops of blood.
Micah stooped and gathered up the returner’s wealth, scarcely able to believe his eyes. He stared at the gems in his hand. This was the returner’s wealth he had dreamed of, the reason he had come to the wyrmeweald. And to think, it had been in his possession all along.
It had belonged to that kith he’d encountered in the wastes, dead of thirst, but with a fortune hidden in his boots – the very boots Micah had taken from him and worn all this time. He could still see the man’s sunken cheeks and hollowed chest, the staring eyes not yet plucked out by the carrionwyrmes that had circled greedily overhead.
The gemstones sparkled in his hand. What had the man done to g
et them? What hideous depravity did they represent?
And yet, they belonged to him now. He was rich. Back on the plains, he could live like a lord, with a magnificent estate, a stable full of fine horses and an army of servants to do his bidding. He could return and claim Seraphita …
He looked up. Eli was observing him evenly. The cragclimber shrugged and turned away. He had no interest in returner’s wealth.
Micah turned to Thrace. She looked at him inquisitively, her eyes dark beneath soft corn-silver waves of hair. The soulskin that encased her body shimmered in the winter light; gold, magenta, iridescent blue and green, like oil on water. Her lips parted in a half smile.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘The den is close, and you’ll have all winter to mend your boots.’
Micah smiled at the wild beautiful wyrmekin girl and let the gemstones fall from his hand. They punctured the flawless surface of the snow and disappeared. Snowflakes kept falling, filling in the holes, smoothing them away, until all trace was gone.
Thrace held out her hand and Micah took it. Together, they continued up the trail, towards the winter den.
The colony, a thousand strong, took to the wing and spread out across the sky in great rippling skeins. Here and there, hatchlings broke formation and dipped and wheeled with a natural exuberance, while around them, the older wyrmes flew with slow rhythmic wingbeats, pacing themselves for the long journey ahead. The sun disappeared behind gathering clouds as the great whitewyrmes pressed on resolutely towards the ridge of jagged mountain peaks on the distant horizon.
Behind them, the wyrme galleries lay empty. An ice wind whistled through the labyrinth of ancient tunnels, with their fluted columns of soft blue-grey stone, like a lilting lament. The ancient dwelling place of the great whitewyrmes had been abandoned.
The old whitewyrme was the last to leave. Slowly, reluctantly, he launched himself from the high rock, a vantage point from which he’d watched over the colony for most of his long life. With slow deliberate wingbeats, he rose high into the sky and followed the retreating colony.
The taint of the two-hides had become too strong to ignore. It was time to retreat further. Now, only the deep weald could afford them the protection they craved.
With a heavy heart, the old wyrme flew on.
As the colony melted into the distance, Aseel circled high above the abandoned wyrme galleries. Shunned and kinless, he had nowhere else to go. He landed on the high rock, folded his wings and bowed his head. Above him, out of a heavy grey sky, snow began to fall.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Wyrmeweald Trilogy
One
The thud thud of heavy footfalls came drumbeat steady from the far side of the ridge. A pair of foraging skitterwyrmes paused. The footfalls crunched and squeaked in the freshfall snow. They did not falter.
They were getting nearer …
The skitterwyrmes stood up on their hindlegs and peered around jerkily through the driving snow, heads cocked and fluted crests fluttering. Beneath their feet, the ground trembled. They eyed one another for an instant, then with short barked shrieks darted for a crevice in the snowcrusted rocks close by and disappeared.
The thudding grew louder, anchoring the freeform wail of the wind with its relentless rhythm …
The hissing of the falling snow softened abruptly as the wind dropped. Above, yellow-grey clouds curdled and thinned, and a pale sun broke through. It set the dwindling display of snowflakes to sparkling and sent long shadows off across the snowdrifts. Yet there was no warmth to it.
A cowled head rose up from behind a snowcapped ridge, the face lost in shadow beneath a heavy hood; then broad shoulders, with an immense backpack strapped to them. A white lakewyrmeskin cape creaked as it flapped to reveal legs like tree trunks, and heavy boots that were toecapped and laced ladderwise to the shins.
The winter caller paused at the top of the ridge and surveyed the rocky snowscene ahead. A gloved hand emerged from the folds of the cape. It reached up and pushed the hood back, and the cold sun fell upon a bone mask that covered the face. It gleamed on the yellowed cheekbones and eyesockets and glinted in the darting black eyes beneath.
With a gruff snort, the hulking figure pulled a piece of rag from a back pocket and, with unlikely delicacy, cupped it to the mask and breathed deeply, eyes closed.
It was fainter now, the smell. But it was still there. A telltale mix of wyrmeoil and pitchsmoke, and sweat soured by fear and disgust. It was a unique smell, unmistakable, and leading him inexorably on to his quarry.
Find them. Dig them out. Dispatch them … slowly.
The words of the keld mistress echoed inside his head. Ever since he had left the underground cavern he had heard them, urging him on through the weald of fullwinter in pursuit of the murderers.
The winter caller lowered the cloth and sniffed at the air, then snorted again. Twists of mist coiled out of the bone nostrils.
He rummaged in another pocket and drew out a handful of dried meat, which he shoved through the mouth hole in the bone mask. He chewed mechanically, turning the meat to pulp – till his molars clamped down on something that jarred his jaws. He probed around his mouth with his tongue, seeking and finding a small hard object, then spat it out.
It was a milk tooth. It lay on the surface of the snow for a moment, pearly and unblemished, before fresh snowflakes hid it from view.
He pulled the hood back over his masked face and lurched forward. The thudding drumbeat resumed.
It was as he crested the next ridge that he saw them. He did not stop, nor break his stride. There were two of them, one taller than the other, the pair of them brown against the white, standing beside a tattered awning and broken staves. Then they saw him.
The shorter one waved.
It wasn’t his quarry, he knew that much. They both smelled of damp buckhide and something metallic. And, as the waving grew more agitated, he noticed that the shorter one’s odour was laced with buttermilk. Kithtang.
A man and a girl …
They started towards him. The girl was up front, wading thighdeep through the drifts of snow as fast as she could manage, her walking staff raised above her head. The man hurried after her, shouting out for her to watch her step, to probe for hidden cracks and crevasses that might swallow her up, but ignoring his own advice. They were grinning, the both of them, their gaunt faces flushed.
The twitter and chirp of their eager voices grew shrill as the gap between him and them closed up. And as they approached, the man extended a hand in greeting.
‘How do, stranger,’ he said. ‘I am truly pleased to make your acquaintance.’
The winter caller stared down at the man from the shadows of the hood. He noted the raggedy beard, the sunken sparkle to his eyes, the broken crossbow at his shoulder. He said nothing, nor made a move to shake the proffered hand.
The man pulled back awkwardly and brushed snowflakes from his beard. ‘Like I say, I … I can’t tell you what a relief it is for us that our paths have crossed,’ he told him, though his voice lacked conviction.
‘We got separated from the convoy,’ the girl chipped in. ‘Daddy and me. On account of the bellyache I got from that bad meat …’
‘Then the snow set in,’ the man added. He shook his head. ‘And a mountain still to climb before we make our winter lay-up. The winds destroyed the makeshift,’ he said, nodding back at the flapping wyrmeskin canopy and splintered wood. ‘And … and our provisions are woeful low.’ He eyed the bulging backpack at the stranger’s shoulders. ‘If you maybe had something to barter, friend. Something to share with me and my little girl here …?’
The figure grunted, seemingly in response, then swept back his gleaming grey cloak. He reached out with his huge gloved hands and clamped them gently to the sides of the man’s head. The man looked up at him, smiling warily, trying not to react badly to this hulking stranger’s unusua
l greeting. Beside him, his daughter stepped back uneasily.
‘Daddy?’ she said.
‘It’s all right, angel,’ the man told her. ‘He don’t mean no harm, do you, stranger?’
The winter caller said nothing, but steadily increased the pressure on the man’s head as if he were testing a fruit for ripeness.
‘You let go of him!’ the girl shrieked, fear gripping her as she saw her daddy’s eyes bulge and turn bloodshot. ‘Let him go!’
The winter caller knocked her aside with a casual shrug that sent her sprawling to the snow-covered ground, and his hood fell back. The girl looked up and gasped at the sight of the bone mask.
‘Daddy! Daddy …’
There was a splintering sound. Blood started to ooze between the fingers of the wyrmeskin gloves. It spattered down onto the snow, red on white, turning pink, like cherry blossom. The lifeless body slumped down upon it with a dull thump.
The hooded figure turned to the girl, and she shook uncontrollably beneath the emotionless gaze of the glittering black eyes behind the bone mask. Stirring herself, the girl scrambled backwards, struggling to climb to her feet, the worn soles of her boots slipping on the snow.
She began pleading, begging the stranger to spare her life. Her anguished voice rose and fell, words spilling from spitfleck lips.
Twitter twitter. Chirp chirp chirp.
The winter caller remained motionless.
The keld mistress and her colleagues would certainly appreciate the girl, he knew that. She was small, but looked strong, and Cutter Daniel had a thing for plaited braids. She would make a good slave. Then again, he had other business to attend to, didn’t he? The little matter of his quarry. She’d only get in his way, and if he tied her up and left her till he was done, she would be dead and useless by the time he returned.
He reached down and grabbed a hold of her. He lifted her off the ground and the twittering and chirping grew louder and uglier and higher in pitch, till it was screeching inside his head.