by Paul Stewart
The whitewyrme’s wingbeats grew faster as wyrme and rider rose steadily into the wintry sky. Then, spreading his wings wide, the wyrme caught the gathering wind and soared off over the mist-blurred mountaintops.
Before long, wyrme and kin were no more than a smudge of white against the dark incoming clouds; a smudge that faded and shrank, and then disappeared.
Micah remained motionless, his eyes fixed upon the spot where they had melted into the greying sky.
‘Best get dressed, lad.’
Micah stared up at the cragclimber blankly.
Eli was standing over him, the youth’s clothes and boots clutched to his chest. He placed them down on the frozen ground, took Micah’s arm and threaded it through one sleeve of the undershirt, then the other. He crouched down and began doing up the buttons, like a father dressing his infant son.
Micah stirred and looked down. ‘I can do it,’ he said, brushing Eli’s hands away and climbing to his feet.
He buttoned the thick undershirt up to the collar, the warmth of the soft material letting him know just how cold he was. He put on his breeches, socks, the tooled boots and jerkin, and looked around for his hacketon, but the heavy leather overcoat must still be in the den, and he looked up to see Eli standing over by the entrance.
Beyond the tunnel of ice, the winter den was soot-blackened and smoke-filled. The cragclimber was shaking his head.
‘Flameoil grenade,’ he said. ‘The keld’s burned us out. There ain’t nothing down there to salvage, Micah. Clothes. Provisions. Tools. It’s all gone. And the den itself, it can’t offer us shelter no more …’
Micah nodded dumbly, the words barely sinking in, the image of Thrace in her gleaming soulskin filling his thoughts. Far above, the sun was blotted out by the yellow-grey clouds.
‘What do we do now?’ he asked, his voice flat and without hope.
Eli’s clear blue eyes fixed themselves on Micah. ‘We find ourselves a new place, son,’ he said simply. ‘Or we die.’
Twelve
It was powerful, this musky odour that clung to the air. It seemed to have seeped into the soft yellow-grey stone of the fluted pillars and clawscratch walls of the deserted wyrme galleries. Rich, pungent and soursweet, it was the odour of the whitewyrmes who had once inhabited them.
It was this that had drawn them to the place.
Asa had detected it first; the scent of his own kind – faint, yet unmistakable on the biting fullwinter wind. And clinging to his back for warmth, swaddled in white soulskin, his kin, Hepzibar, had sensed his excitement. They’d circled high overhead, Asa’s wings flexing against the gusting blizzard. Then, with his back arched, his neck braced and his tail ruddering his approach, he had swooped down out of the sky.
Yet when they had landed and looked about them, there had been no wyrmes to be seen.
They had stayed nonetheless, the juvenile whitewyrme with the pearlwhite fresh-sloughed skin and the eight-year-old girl he was kinned with. And they were grateful for the refuge.
Fullwinter had only just been breaking when they’d escaped from the hideous underground kitchen of the keldhag, Redmyrtle. Hepzibar had felt so frightened and alone, tied up in that terrible place until Asa, the young wyrme, had been tethered beside her. He had coiled his white body around her and breathed softly in the darkness, and she had felt comforted. And then her father had come to rescue her, with the others. The boy and the man, and the kingirl, Thrace. They had set them free and killed Redmyrtle, though not before the hag had embedded a hatchet in her father’s chest. He had died in Hepzibar’s arms.
But then Thrace had taken them aside. She had explained kinship to them. And when Asa had shed his first skin, Thrace had helped Hepzibar clothe herself in it. And Asa had breathed on her, enveloping her in warm wreaths of smoke, until the wyrmeslough had tightened around her body, protecting her like a second skin.
Soulskin.
‘Asa will take care of you now, in the kin way,’ Thrace had said, as they stood on the snowy ledge outside Redmyrtle’s lair. ‘You will meet others and they will teach you, but first you must learn to look after yourselves.’
And then she had set them free, releasing them into the bewildering vastness of the wyrmeweald.
They had spent those first frostladen nights together in the lee of the crags that fringed the high lakes, Asa’s body coiled round Hepzibar’s, offering her warmth and protection. But when the water had frozen solid and fishing had become impossible, they had been forced to move on.
They had roosted in the highstacks close to the warmth of the smoking vents, but there had been no food to be had there, and they’d moved on again. They’d scavenged through the ruined nests of redwings on the high plains and had dug for damsel grubs in the frozen river gulleys. But as the drifts of freshfall snow grew deeper, food had become harder and harder to find, and by the time the scent of the great whitewyrmes had reached them, both wyrme and kin were bone-thin and famished.
Hepzibar looked up from the crackling fire of thornbrush. Asa was coiled round one of the pillars, his legs, tail and sinuous neck hugging the rough stone, and she noticed how perfectly his body fitted the contours of the sculpted rock. He was skritching himself up and down, the sound soft and insistent as he added his own saltmusk scent to the fluted column, just as generations of wyrmes had done before.
Where were they now, Hepzibar wondered, the whitewyrmes that had once lived in this place?
There was firewood to be had here, for thornbrush and cragscrub flourished in the shelter of the undercliff, and there was plentiful water from melted snow. And as they had explored the labyrinth of ancient rock caverns, they had found lofty chambers with perches and dustbaths and ledges lined with nesting material. They had chosen a cavern at the centre of the wyrme gallery that was warm and still and safe. Only the eerie wailing of the wind testified to the fact that, outside, the weald was still in the throes of fullwinter.
And when they’d explored deeper, they had come to cool, low-ceilinged caves where long grooves had been scratched deep into the walls. Clusters of flame-dried leathergrubs and smoked bugspawn lined them, while brine pits dug into the cave floor held preserved damsel-fly larvae and bundles of stipplebeet. There was enough food here to feed a thousand wyrmes through the long months of ice and scarcity.
Yet they had abandoned it.
Hepzibar looked down and turned the skewered damsel grubs that were hissing and steaming in the flames and replacing the redolent wyrmemusk of the cavern chamber with their own tangy sweetness. Asa eased up in his skritching and peered across at her, his nostrils twitching. His eyes widened and his barbels trembled, and he opened his jaws to emit a lulling noise that pitter-pattered in the back of his throat and hissed over his teeth, like wind sighing through long grass.
Hepzibar nodded. She parted her lips and trilled her tongue, blowing out softly. ‘Dinner’s ready.’
Asa purred appreciatively, uncoiled himself from the fluted pillar and crossed the cave to the fire, flexing his wings sleepily as he did so. Hepzibar took two of the laden skewers from the flames and held one out to Asa, who took it in his claws and began nibbling delicately, cautiously at the sizzling grubs. He sighed and husked.
‘Tastes good,’ he said, and a black tongue flicked from his scaly muzzle and lapped at the oily juice on his lips. He chittered, and Hepzibar saw amusement in his eyes. ‘Much better than scraps from a redwing nest.’
Hepzibar smiled and nibbled at a toasted grub. It was nutty and succulent, and still slightly salty from the brine pit.
‘More?’ she said, noticing that the whitewyrme had eaten every morsel from the sharpened stick.
‘Yes, Zar, more,’ the whitewyrme replied, his yellow eyes bright now and alert.
Hepzibar plucked a second skewer from the flames and handed it to him. She took one for herself.
‘Asa.’ She frown
ed. ‘We will be all right, won’t we?’
As she spoke, she saw Asa flinch, and understood that he was as uncertain as she was. Hepzibar laid the skewer aside, climbed to her feet and stepped towards him. She wrapped her arms round his neck and whispered softly in his ear.
‘I have you.’
Asa inclined his head. ‘You have me. And I have you . . .’
‘We have each other.’
Asa purred, and Hepzibar smiled and hugged him tighter. The simple words had worked, just like they always did when she felt uncertain or afraid – when the lakes had frozen, when the hunger at the highstacks had driven them both half mad, when the fullwinter wind had harried and pursued them across the snow-filled skies …
She let go of Asa and crouched down, and was about to stoke the fire with a grease-stained skewer when she heard a noise behind her.
She spun round, to see a pale red-headed youth leaning against a cavern pillar a little way off. She could tell at a glance that he was older than her, and though his bones showed through the white soulskin he wore, he looked taller and stronger than she was. He was gripping a long black lance which was pointing straight at her, and when he spoke, his voice was a guttural snarl at the back of his throat.
‘What are you doing here?’
Thirteen
‘I said, ain’t that right, Micah?’
‘Y … yes,’ said Micah uncertainly. He scratched behind his ear. ‘What? I …’
‘Micah!’ Eli said sharply, taking him by the shoulders and pushing his face up close. ‘You gotta snap out of this.’
Micah tried to pull away, but the cragclimber held him tight. His thumbs dug into Micah’s shoulders.
‘You’re kith, boy. Thrace is kin. Y’understand? She weren’t never more than on loan to you, and now Aseel’s come back to claim his own, that’s it. It’s over. She’s back where she belongs, and if you truly have feelings for her, then you should be glad for her …’
‘If! Eli, how could you doubt it?’
The cragclimber released his grip. He stared intently into Micah’s eyes. ‘Then let her go, Micah.’ His voice was softer. ‘And with good grace. Life in the winter den weren’t no life for Thrace. You could see that.’
Micah bowed his head, scrutinized his boots. His face felt hot, his scalp tingly.
‘Thing is,’ Eli pursued, ‘with her whitewyrme to protect her, Thrace is fine. We are not, Micah. Not fine at all. If we’re to make it through to the thaw, then you’re gonna have to pull yourself out of your despond. I can’t have no dead weight round my neck, not with the trail we have in front of us. Once we get started, we’ve got to keep moving, or we die. And I ain’t fixing to die.’ He paused, his pale blue eyes boring into Micah’s. ‘Y’understand what I’m saying to you?’
Micah nodded. Eli held his gaze for several seconds more, then jerked his head toward the winter caller’s pack.
‘Like I was saying,’ he said, ‘we may have lost our den supplies, but at least we ain’t starting out with nothing.’
Micah stared down at the half-empty backpack slumped on the ground between them. Powdersnow was already gathering in the folds of wyrmeskin. He grimaced.
‘Can’t afford to be squeamish, boy. Besides, he don’t got no more use for it himself.’
Micah crouched and watched as Eli stooped over and plunged his hand inside the winter caller’s pack.
‘This’ll come in handy,’ he said, laying out a length of rope on the ground. ‘And this. And rockspikes are always useful. And …’ He fell still.
Micah stared at the catapult gripped in the cragclimber’s calloused hand – the catapult he’d spent so many long hours fashioning from the wishbone. Eli placed it down on the ground with the rest. A stoppered jar of flameoil followed. A copper pot. Eli’s battered spyglass and a couple of his best knives, plus Micah’s own hackdagger appeared next, and Eli chuckled.
‘Looks like that winter caller did some ransacking of his own.’
The cragclimber drew a waxpaper parcel of sechemeat from the pack. Then another, and another. He placed them down on the snow, his face sombre. More keld stuff followed. A jar of bloodhoney. Snares and garrottes. The rolled-up pelt of a greywyrme …
‘Reckon that’s about the last of it,’ said Eli, straightening up and upending the backpack.
With a soft jangle, something dropped out, and Micah and Eli found themselves staring at an oval medallion on a short length of silver chain that lay in the dusting of freshfall. Eli picked it up and awkwardly flicked the clasp with a thumbnail. The top of the medallion sprang open on its hinge. Inside was a coil of plaited hair, each of the three thin locks cut from a different head. One was crinkled and red, one was straight and black, and one, wispy and fair, was baby hair.
Micah stared at the delicate little plait. It was tradition with some parents back on the plains to mingle their hair with that of their child on its first birthday.
‘Wonder what poor wretch he took that from,’ said Eli. He closed the lid, turned the medallion over and squinted at the italics engraved into the back. ‘Hiram. Anya. Darius.’ He shrugged, then slipped the medallion over his head. ‘Never know, might be able to trade it for something useful,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s get this lot packed up, lad. We need to make tracks before sundown.’
Eli began selecting the equipment and provisions for their journey and returning them to the winter caller’s backpack. Micah’s empty stomach rumbled, and, without thinking, he picked up and unfolded one of the waxpaper parcels. He selected a slice of the brown sechemeat it contained and was about to put it in his mouth when Eli’s hand shot out and slapped it from his grasp.
‘Don’t,’ he chided. ‘That’s keld meat.’
He left the words hanging in the air as he returned to his task. Micah’s top lip curled as he stared at the twist of dried flesh that lay beside him on the snow.
Keld meat. Which meant human meat, sliced and dried.
Micah’s stomach lurched, and he couldn’t stop himself wondering what part of the keld’s victim it might have been cut from. A spasm racked his body, followed by another, and sour bile swirled around his tongue. He plunged his hands into the snow and rubbed them together, then wiped them across his lips and gagged again at the thought of what he had almost done …
‘You ready?’
Eli was standing over him, the winter caller’s backpack strapped to his shoulders. He helped Micah to his feet and handed him the wyrmepelt. The cragclimber had cut a hole in the centre of the heavy skin to fashion a makeshift cape.
‘It’s a mite rough, but I reckon it’ll keep you warm,’ he said.
Micah pulled the skin over his head and strapped it at his middle with his belt, and the pair of them tramped off up the mountainside.
Despite the heavy pack at his shoulders, Eli was soon up in front, his gait easy and loping, and Micah attempted to copy it. He could have done with his walking staff, but like Eli’s own staff, and so much else, it had been turned to ashes in the winter den.
As they crested the first of a series of ridges, Micah looked back. The line of gutting tools they’d left behind had all but disappeared beneath the falling snow. Beyond it were the packs of sechemeat, open now, a group of five or six small bearded rockwyrmes snouting at the meat and squabbling as they devoured it.
Micah’s belly churned. He would never eat such meat. And yet, as he watched the wyrmes tucking in, his hunger tightened and he found himself – Maker forgive him – envying the small creatures that had no such qualms.
Fourteen
The youth regarded Hepzibar levelly. His eyes were pitchdark and glittered in the firelight. His cheeks were sunken and had a grey tinge to them that matched the dark crescents beneath his eyes. His nostrils flared as he took in the scent of the toasting grubs.
‘Get away from the fire.’
Beside her, Hepzibar felt Asa bristle. His wings unfurled and his neck coiled back as a low growl grew steadily in his throat.
‘Why should we?’ he said.
From the shadows behind the youth stepped a great whitewyrme, a female, scalestained with age and scarred from many battles, yet powerful and braced to strike. Smoke coiled from her nostrils as her jaws parted. Her fangs flashed.
‘Move,’ she growled menacingly. Her jaws opened wider and she spat out a jet of flame, sulphurous and blisterhot.
Hepzibar stumbled back, her hands raised, shielding her eyes from the scorching heat. Asa snarled and reared up – but the adult whitewyrme reared up twice as high, slashing at the air with her hackdagger foreclaws and releasing another fierce blast of fire. Asa dipped his head. There was nothing he could do to protect his kin, and Hepzibar felt his rage and frustration as he submitted to the larger creature and withdrew meekly to her side.
The youth approached the fire and flicked the skewered grubs out from the flames with the point of his lance, before pouncing on them. He tossed two of them back to the whitewyrme.
‘Eat, Azura. Eat.’
His words were guttural, and to Hepzibar, whose ears were accustomed to Asa’s soft keening whispers, they sounded clipped and harsh. With his teeth bared and his eyes fixed on her, the youth began tearing at the toasted grubs with cracked and filthy nails, and stuffing them in his mouth. Oily juice ran down his chin. When he had finished them, he plucked the last half dozen grubs from the flames and divided them between himself and his wyrme.
Hepzibar watched as they devoured them greedily. She reached out and rested her hand on Asa’s trembling neck. The youth and the whitewyrme were growling and snarling, and she was unsure whether this was some dark language between them that she could not understand – or simply raw hunger.
‘Any more?’ the youth demanded, wiping grease from his chin on the cuff of his soulskin.