by Paul Stewart
Micah’s body felt heavy and his head swam. He placed a hand tentatively on her arm. She did not shake it off. He reached out with the other hand and pulled her gently towards him – and she suddenly hugged him so tight he thought his heart would burst.
‘I’m about to turn out the lamp,’ Eli announced from the other chamber.
Micah lay down beside Thrace, pulled the covers up over them both and wrapped his arms around her slender body. Eli extinguished the lamp, and the winter den was plunged into absolute darkness.
‘Thrace?’ Micah whispered.
‘Micah,’ Thrace whispered back, and rolled over, and he could smell her warm spicy breath in his face. ‘Micah.’ She wriggled out of her silken suit of soulskin, then reached out and began unbuttoning Micah’s shirt, and soon they were naked, skin touching skin. ‘Micah. Micah …’
Afterwards, Micah lay back, an ache, raw and intractable, deep in his chest. He was so close to her, yet each day that passed Thrace seemed more distant from him. He placed one arm gently around her shoulders and rubbed his thumb up and down her temple, and crooked the other arm so that the flat of his hand was resting on her front and he could feel her heartbeat.
‘You don’t need that kinlance, Thrace. You’ve got me,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll protect you.’ He paused. ‘Always.’
The kingirl did not reply. Her breathing was slow and even, for she was asleep, and moments later, so too was Micah.
Above their heads, in the cage by the rock vent, the little manderwyrme fluttered its wings weakly, then collapsed. A soft chirping noise rattled at the back of its throat as it gasped for good air that it could not find, and died.
Six
With a soft grunt, the winter caller swung the heavy backpack from his shoulders and set it down. It sank deep into the feathery snow. He undid the ties at the top and plunged a gloved hand inside.
He pushed aside flasks of bloodhoney, waxpaper parcels of sechemeat; knives, garrottes, lengths of rope and tools. Tongue-splitters and eye-scoops. Bone-shears. Liver-clamps …
His hand closed around the pair of snowshoes he was searching for. He pulled them out and they fell, slap slap, to the ground. A swirl of snowflakes warped and wefted his breath.
The snowshoes were broad and oval, the outer frame and cross-struts fashioned from wyrmeribs, with woven gut forming a webbing between. Heaving himself up out of the deep snow, he bent over and slipped first one heavy boot, then the other, into place in the snowshoes, which he strapped on tightly.
He took a couple of steps, experimental. The snowshoes flattened the surface of the snow but did not sink into it, and he grunted with approval. Rolling his shoulders, he hefted the heavy pack onto his back, and trudged on.
It had been snowing without remission for a long while. Three nights, certainly, plus the brief daylight hours between. The winddriven flakes had fallen and settled and built up and frozen, and more had settled and gone hard in turn, layer upon layer, getting thicker and thicker. And still it hadn’t let up.
It masked the smell – with its earthy tang – that the winter caller was following, but did not obscure it completely. His nose was too good for that. It detected the odour of his quarry every step of the way, and the piece of rag kept him on track.
He was close, he knew that much. Very close. He dropped to his knees and, huge hands flat on the snow, took a deep breath.
These ones were cleverer than most. They had taken great care to disguise their chimney, and sited it as far from the den as was practical. And they dumped their waste just as carefully, to disguise their presence. But not carefully enough. The drip of the waste bucket had given them away, tiny specks beneath the crusting of snow that would have been undetectable to senses less keen than his own.
Straightening up and reaching round, the winter caller unhitched the mattock from the side of his backpack and gripped the carved beech handle in both hands. It was day, or what passed for it. The sky was yellow-grey and the wyrmegrease on the flat cutting edges of the pickaxe gleamed. Stooping forward, he scraped away the freshfall, then began chipping at the icesnow beneath. His breath billowed and snow began to pile up behind him as he dug deeper. Occasionally a frozen lump would run off down the hill, gathering snow as it did so, growing larger, scoring a line down the slope.
The winter caller paused. He pressed the rag to his face and breathed in. He sniffed at the hole he’d made in the snowdrift. Scat. He could smell it. The scat of his quarry.
From behind the bone mask, there came a wet snorting noise. The plumes of breath grew thicker.
The winter caller was laughing.
Seven
‘Wake … up …’
The voice was muffled and echohollow, like it was calling from out of some deep cave, or a well. Micah listened to it rumble and recede, then the heaviness returned, pinning him down till he melted back into the rock itself, and it was dark, and everything was pulsing hard and regular.
‘Wake … up …’
Micah stirred again. Dim red light penetrated his eyelids. He tried to open them, but could not, and his head throbbed at the effort.
The darkness tightened and hardened and held his body motionless. It crushed him, but it was warm and not unpleasant. And it was where he wanted to be …
‘Wake … up … Micah …’
The red glow returned, and something was tugging his arm, pulling at him, shaking him.
‘Micah!’
He opened his eyes. There was lanternlight that was yellow and bright and flickering.
‘Micah, come on. Get up!’
‘Eli?’ Micah’s mouth felt claggy, like it had been stuffed with damp feathers. The face before him was tight with concern. ‘Eli, what is it?’
‘Up, Micah. Come on, now.’ The cragclimber turned to the kingirl lying beside Micah on the sackmattress and shook her by the shoulders. ‘Thrace. You must wake up …’
Micah heaved himself onto his elbows. He felt sluggish. His body ached and was heavy, and his head was fuzzed up like bollcotton. He looked across at Thrace. Naked beneath the quilted blanket, she was beautiful. Slender, pale …
He noticed the purple-blue tinge to her lips. And to her fingertips …
‘Eli,’ Micah cried out, his own voice sounding distant and clogged. ‘What’s wrong?’
The lanternlight dimmed.
‘The manderwyrme’s dead, Micah,’ said Eli, and as he spoke Micah saw Thrace’s neck tremble and her eyelids flicker. ‘The air’s gone bad. Come on, now, Thrace.’ Eli shook the kingirl again. ‘You need to get up. Now, Thrace!’
The kingirl’s eyes opened and she looked at Eli, but there was no recognition in her gaze. She sat up slowly and gathered the covers modestly about her.
‘We don’t have much time,’ Eli said. ‘Something must have blocked the chimney and the den ain’t getting no ventilation. We’ve got to get outside and clear it.’
Micah hurriedly pulled on his breeches, shirt and wyrmeskin jerkin, then his tooled calfleather boots that he’d spent three days mending. He was panting, and the shortness of breath did not ease no matter how much he inhaled.
Looking up, Micah saw the lifeless manderwyrme in the dangling cage, its eyes dulled and tongue lolling, one wing sticking out through the bars. Thrace had seen it too, and she let out a low moan.
Eli grabbed Micah by the arm and bundled him out of the sleeping chamber and across the chamber beyond. It was like wading through black molasses. The walls of the winter den loomed close one moment, then telescoped off the next. There was a weight pressing on Micah’s chest, and his head felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. His heartbeat hammered in his ears.
Pausing by the rockslab that sealed the den, the cragclimber crouched down and gripped the stone. Micah crouched down beside him.
‘Two, three, heave,’ Eli said.
And th
ey heaved, grunting with the strain of it. But the slab did not move.
‘Heave!’
They pulled again, their limbs trembling and sweat breaking out across their creased brows. The last dregs of their strength were ebbing away.
‘Thrace, Thrace,’ Eli called.
The kingirl appeared at their side, her face flickering in the lanternlight and soulskin loose at her shoulders. She placed her blue-tipped fingers against the side of the rockslab just below Micah’s. He could feel her trembling body brace against his.
‘Heave!’ Eli groaned.
Micah closed his eyes and pulled as hard as he could. There was a scritching sound, and a small movement as the rock shifted. Not much. But just enough for a tiny crack to open up.
Eli straightened up. ‘One, two, three. Heave!’ he cried.
And this time the heavy rockslab succumbed, grinding and grating as it slid back to reveal a wall of snow, frozen and tightpacked, blocking the entrance.
Micah stepped forward. He touched the hard wall of frozen snow. It sparkled in the light of Eli’s lamp. The cragclimber reached out and seized the waste shovel that was propped up against the wall.
‘We’ve got to dig,’ he said. ‘Get some fresh air into the den.’
Micah picked up the broad-handled spade that lay next to the shovel, and Thrace grabbed two rockspikes, one in each hand. They turned back to the white wall, ready to attack it with their implements, only for the sound of scraping, methodical and rhythmic, to stop them in their tracks.
It was coming from the other side of the snowdrift, and it was getting closer.
‘What do you think it is?’ Micah asked, squinting up as the scraping grew louder. ‘Squabwyrme? Greywyrme, maybe? I just hope it ain’t no hungry redwing …’
‘That’s no redwing, Micah. It ain’t no wyrme of any kind,’ said Eli. There was dread in his voice. ‘The digging’s too steady,’ he muttered darkly.
Micah turned to Eli, and in the yellow lamplight saw an expression that he recognized, but had never seen in the cragclimber’s face before. It was fear.
‘If it ain’t a wyrme, then what is it?’ Micah said.
Eli shook his head slowly, eyes narrowed, lips clamped thin. ‘Den squatters, most likely – kith seeking to take shelter where they’ve no right to. If we’re lucky …’
‘And if we’re not?’ said Micah, and swallowed hard as he saw Eli reach for the heavy sidewinder that he kept loaded and propped up on the other side of the entrance.
‘Keld,’ came the reply.
Eight
Keld?
Micah’s head swam. The keld were dark secretive cavern dwellers, like the one they’d killed deep down in her underground lair. Images of Redmyrtle’s charnel-kitchen flashed through his mind. Bone-saws, flesh-hooks, severed heads on chopping blocks …
But keld above ground, out in the blizzards of fullwinter? Was that possible?
‘Micah. Look, look.’ It was Thrace.
The wall of packed snow was thinning, and silhouetted against its pale opalescence was a dark shape, hunched in a blur of digging. Thrace let out a low moan as she stared down at the rockspikes in her hands.
‘Kinlance,’ she spat bitterly. ‘It is my kinlance that I need.’
But the winter den was too cramped for the kin-lance. Thrace had wrapped it in oiled wyrmeskin of Eli’s providing, laid it beneath the twin rock outcrop down the mountainside, safe and hidden till the thaw, and Micah had watched her do it. He turned to her now, and their eyes met. Thrace looked away. The rockspikes would have to suffice.
Her chest tightened as she gulped at the stale air. Beside her, Micah took shallow wheezing breaths.
Thrace clamped the rockspikes between her teeth and, with a grunt of effort, scaled the wall above the entrance, then paused, limbs tensing and back arched as she found a purchase on the rock. Slowly, deliberately, she took the spikes from her mouth and gripped them, one in each hand. Below her, Eli panted softly as he knelt down on one knee, his sidewinder primed and raised, and index finger poised on the trigger.
At that moment, there came a grinding crunch and the gleaming iron blade of a pickaxe penetrated the snow wall. Chips of ice showered down onto the floor of the chamber and a blast of air that was cold and clean, and welcome for that, came rushing in.
The next moment, the blade disappeared. The scraping fell still.
‘Micah, son,’ Eli whispered. ‘Don’t just stand there. Fetch your catapult.’
Micah backed away from the entrance and into the shadows of the main chamber, his eyes still fixed on the snowdrift. Suddenly, with a heavy thud, a great brick of compacted snow burst into the den and shattered, followed by the massive boot that had dislodged it.
Micah turned and dashed back through the main chamber and into the sleeping chamber beyond. Behind him a fury of ice-cold air poured into the den.
He heard Eli’s sidewinder give a rattling crack, and then the crumping thud of a bolt striking something hard. The next moment, Thrace’s shrill screech, wild and piercing, filled the den. It was greeted by a wheezing grunt and the sounds of scuffling. Rockspikes clattered to the stone floor; first one, then the other. Eli’s sidewinder clanked as the cragclimber struggled to reload it. There was a hard crunch and a small whimpered sigh, then a sharp crack, followed by another and another, and the heavy flump of a body hitting the stone floor.
The winter den fell silent.
Trembling with fear, Micah inched his way backwards, into the blackness. Eyes still fixed on the entrance to the sleeping chamber, he crouched down beside the sackmattress and felt about until his hand found the catapult. His fingers closed round its handle, then he scooped up a couple of pebbles. He listened intently for any sound coming from the other chambers as he crept deeper into the darkness.
All at once there was the sound of a match being struck on a flint box. Then something rattled and bounced along the floor of the main chamber like a rolling pebble. The next moment, there was a blinding flash and an earsplitting explosion.
Rocks crashed to the floor. Thick dust filled the air. Through the entrance of the sleeping chamber, Micah could see a sheet of flame engulf the main chamber in a sulphurous glare.
A moment later, the light abruptly dimmed as a massive figure filled the entrance to the sleeping chamber, its bulk silhouetted against the firelight behind. It held something up to its face in a gloved hand. It was black and ragged and homespun, a piece of a cloak worn by a ploughboy from the plains and found by the keld mistress, snagged on a hook in Redmyrtle’s lair.
‘They crept into her cavern, these kith. They robbed her. And then they murdered her. One of our own,’ the keld mistress had told him, her voice low and honeyed. ‘The keld must be avenged.’ She had given him the rag. ‘You have their scent.’
Find them. Dig them out. Dispatch them . . . slowly.
The figure pressed the rag to the bone mask and sniffed, then sniffed again. It stooped down and entered the sleeping chamber, its hooded head turning this way, that way.
With the cold stone wall pressed hard against his back, Micah held his breath. He slipped a pebble into the sling of his catapult, which he raised slowly to his eye.
He would only get one shot.
Slurping and snuffling wetly, the monstrous figure was probing the darkness. The air was rank with the acrid stench of burning goosedown and wyrmeskin from the main chamber. But Micah could tell it had detected another odour. His odour.
He pulled back on the drawstring. His hands shook as he took aim.
Do it. Do it now, Micah urged himself, his eye, the stone and his outstretched arm aligned. Now!
He loosened his grip on the leather sling and the drawstring shot forward, sending the heavy round pebble hurtling through the air. An instant later there was a broken-egg crunch as it struck the figure full in th
e face. With a startled grunt, it staggered backwards, stumbled and fell to the floor with a muted crash. Its head slumped to one side. Blood trickled down onto the dusty stone.
Micah remained motionless for a moment, waiting for his heart to stop pounding. Then he approached the body. He looked down. The cloak was open at the front to reveal Eli’s bolt embedded in the intricate patchwork armour of wyrmebone scapulas and clavicles beneath. The hood was still raised and it hung limply over the face. The only movement was the droplets of blood that plashed into the growing puddle below.
Micah crouched over and pulled back the hood. A bone mask stared back at him, the nubbed ridge above the left eyesocket shattered where the pebble had struck. The blood was seeping out through the fractured bone. Behind him, in the main chamber, the blaze crackled and fizzed and he could feel the intense heat of the fire at his shoulders.
He was leaning back on his heels when, all at once, there was a deep grunt and a gloved hand shot up and seized Micah round the neck. He could feel the figure’s warm fetid breath in his face and, from behind the bone sockets, the eyes glared back at him, one glittering like anthracite, the other stained with blood.
The grip tightened and tightened, and a wheezing sound emerged from the mouth hole.
‘Redmyrtle,’ it whispered.
Nine
There was something in his mouth keeping his jaws from closing. It was soft and padded, and it had the tang of dead meat about it.
Micah swallowed. Bile rose up at the back of his throat. He tried to open his eyes, but could not. It was like they’d been glued shut. Neither could he move his arms or legs. He was spreadeagled, arms outstretched above his head and legs splayed.
Arching his back, Micah fought to break free. But his grunts of effort were stifled by the leather gag between his teeth and the ropes at his wrists and ankles bit deep as he struggled. He slumped back, his strength spent. The cold burned into his skin, branding his shoulders, his buttocks, his calves; pulsing inside his head.