Bloodhoney

by Paul Stewart

  ‘These kith,’ said Kilian. ‘They’re not like the others, Carafine. They have done nothing wrong. In fact, I had hoped that they would become Deephomers themselves. But unfortunately they witnessed the way we defend ourselves so, of course, we can’t let them go now …’

  ‘Kith are kith, husband,’ she said dismissively. ­‘Thieving scum, the lot of them.’ She glared at Eli and Micah. ‘So if they didn’t attack us, who did?’

  ‘Well, it’s the strangest thing, my dear,’ the prophet said, his tufted eyebrows knitting together. He crossed to the wyrmeskin curtain and drew it aside. ‘It seems our attacker was a keld.’

  Two more keld stood just outside, waiting to be called. The massive corpse of the winter caller was propped up between them, his scarred head lolling to one side. Carafine leaped up from her chair and strode across the chamber. She paused in the doorway and stared at the body. Her nostrils flared as she sniffed the air.

  She turned to Kilian. ‘I know this keld. He is an ­assassin.’ Her blue-green eyes darkened. ‘He belongs to my sister.’

  Micah saw the whip twitch in her hand and the sinews in her elegant neck tighten as her jaw clenched. And when he glanced at Eli, he saw that the cragclimber had noticed too.

  ‘How dare she!’ Carafine stormed. ‘We’ve paid our dues to her and her cronies, haven’t we, husband? And now she sends her … her creature here to attack us! I won’t stand for it. Come.’ She waved her whip at the two keld. ‘Bring that thing, and follow me. I shall feed it to the wyrmes myself.’

  She stepped out of the chamber and the wyrmeskin curtain fell back into place behind her. Kilian turned to Eli and Micah. In the background, the singing in the great chamber of Deephome continued somewhere above them. Micah looked up and saw a small hole in the ceiling. Kilian followed his gaze and smiled.

  ‘It is how I alert Carafine if we’re attacked,’ he explained, ‘by getting the brothers and sisters to raise their voices in song to the Maker. It can be heard ­perfectly down here in this chamber.’ He smiled. ‘It is the meek, the defenceless, the downtrodden calling uponthe powerful to come to their aid. And the beauty of it is, they don’t even know it.’ His voice grew suddenly stern. ‘And that is the way it must stay.’

  He looked at the two keld guards standing behind Eli and Micah.

  ‘Take off the collars,’ he commanded, ‘then wait outside.’

  The guards did as they were told. As they left the chamber, Kilian crossed to his wife’s chair and sat down. In front of him, Micah and Eli crouched down and sat back on their haunches.

  ‘So, prophet,’ said Eli, rubbing his neck, ‘what are you fixing to do with us?’

  ‘If you knew the position I was in, you would understand what must happen now,’ said Kilian with a sigh.

  ‘Well?’ said Eli. ‘How about you go ahead and tell us, preacherman?’

  Forty-Five

  Kilian sat back and cleared his throat. ‘It all began when, as a young man, I discovered these caverns. I knew at once that they would make a perfect dwelling place, concealed as they were at the bottom of a deep gulley – with an abundance of timber, a good water supply and, of course, the hot springs. I already had a following as a stone prophet, eight good souls and true. They had ­travelled with me faithfully through the harshness of the weald, and joined me in praising the Maker for the purity of the wilderness He had created. They were my flock and I loved each and every one of them.’

  Micah saw a look of tenderness in Kilian’s eyes. The prophet smiled and sat forward in the chair.

  ‘Imagine our delight when the Maker provided us with such a fitting haven. We worked hard, turning the cracks and crevices into tunnels that linked the various caverns one to the other, and gathering together the simple provisions we needed to survive. We called it Deephome, and we prospered – prospered, that is, until that terrible day when a gang of kith stumbled across our haven.’

  Kilian shook his head, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse with anger.

  ‘They were weald-hardened and heavily armed,’ he said. ‘They took everything we had: our tools, our pro­visions, even the clothes from our backs. Then they cut us down and left us for dead. I alone, out of the nine, ­survived. I’d been shot with a crossbow bolt and would have had my throat slit like the others, had not brother Timon made a run for it and distracted them. I passed out, and when I came round, my wounds had been dressed and I was being nursed by a beautiful young woman.

  ‘That woman was Carafine. Cara’s mother …’

  ‘Cara’s mother,’ Micah breathed.

  ‘She told me she’d left her own people and was exploring the valley country for herself when, spotting the carrionwyrmes circling above Deephome, she found me. She tended my wounds – and we fell in love. But when I was well again, she left me …

  ‘Of course, I was broken-hearted, but I threw myself into my work. And, with the help of new followers, poor lost souls who had found their way down into the valley, I restored Deephome. But I was terrified that at any moment another gang of hardened kith might find Deephome and murder us all.’

  Eli stared at the stone prophet, his face impassive.

  ‘Then Carafine returned,’ Kilian went on. ‘But she was not alone. For not only was she holding a child, our child, little Cara, she had a gang of her own in tow. They were the most brutal, terrifying group of fighters I had ever seen. She handed my daughter to me with the ­following proposal. I could look after her, raise her in the peace and tranquillity of Deephome, but only if I allowed her mother to set up a keld colony in the deepest caverns below.

  ‘I resisted at first, of course I did. But then I looked into my baby daughter’s eyes, and Carafine explained that these keld of hers would protect her, and me, and all the other weak and defenceless souls who had come seeking refuge in Deephome. And I could resist no longer.’

  Kilian shrugged.

  ‘All she asked was that, once in a while, her keld receive a little blood from each of us – as well as the right to enslave any kith who attacked us. It seemed a price worth paying to protect my growing flock.’ He smiled. ‘And it’s worked wonderfully well, I don’t mind telling you.’

  Micah saw a strange glint in Kilian’s eyes that made the prophet look almost deranged.

  ‘Of course, I’ve played no small part in the success of our operation,’ he went on. ‘Carafine set up the still, but it was my idea to milk the redwings. It makes all the ­difference,’ he added proudly, ‘the flameoil in the ­distilling process. We produce the most sought-after bloodhoney in all the weald. The kith can’t get enough of the stuff. We can hardly keep up with the demand, and as you’ve seen, our stores are overflowing as a consequence.’

  Eli nodded grimly. ‘Never seen anything like them,’ he admitted.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Kilian excitedly. ‘I go up to the valley country each season, loaded down with bottles hidden beneath my cloak, and my dear sweet Deephomers don’t suspect a thing. And if the kith I trade with ever cut up rough, I just retreat back here and let Carafine deal with them … Of course, she still thinks we need to pay her sister a share. But I don’t agree. So I’ve stopped paying it. And so what? If the winter caller’s the worst they can throw at us, then we’re fine. You saw how we dealt with him.’

  Micah and Eli exchanged glances, but said nothing.

  ‘And now her blood’s up,’ Kilian continued, wild-eyed and breathless, ‘Carafine will finally deal with that greedy sister of hers! So, you see, in the end, here in Deephome, we’re all winners.’ He paused and his face fell. ‘Or nearly all of us.’

  He shook his head. ‘The thing is, I can’t let any of my precious flock know that they’re living on top of a keld colony. Or giving them their blood. It has to remain my secret. Do you understand? If they were ever to find out, they would be both revolted and terrified and would try to flee from Deephome. Then the keld would e
nslave them and it would ruin everything I’ve worked so hard for. And I can’t let that happen to my dear sweet ­Deephomers …’ He paused and looked at Micah. ‘Just as I can never let Cara discover who her mother is.’

  Kilian sat back in the chair and folded his arms across his chest. His face took on a look of intense sorrow.

  ‘Which is why, my dear brother Eli and my dear brother Micah,’ he said, looking from one to the other, ‘though it grieves my heart sorely to have to tell you so, neither of you can ever leave this place.’

  Forty-Six

  ‘I’m sorry, Eli.’

  ‘You ain’t got nothing to be sorry for, Micah, lad.’ Eli laid a hand on Micah’s shoulder. ‘Reckon I’m not entirely blameless myself. I should have trusted my instincts and got the two of us out of Deephome, fullwinter or no ­fullwinter.’

  ‘I was a fool, Eli,’ Micah insisted. ‘That blood­­letting. I should never have believed what Cara told me.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first to be distracted by a pretty face, and I guess you won’t be the last.’ The cragclimber sighed, and in the dim red light of the cavern Micah could see the sweat running down his face. ‘But picking over past foolishness won’t get us out of here …’

  ‘Bloodhoney.’ The keld’s voice sounded from behind them.

  Micah turned. Around the cavern – at the copper still, in the wyrme alcove, beside the firepit – the kith slaves downed their tools and lumbered towards the overseer. He was a tall hunch-shouldered man with a ­lacerated face and ears clipped to points. He held a pewter tray on which a dozen small beakers, the size of thimbles, had been placed. The kith slaves formed a jostling line, their dead eyes fixed on the tray and drool dripping from their lolling mouths.

  ‘Stop shoving,’ the overseer barked as he handed out the beakers of bloodhoney, one at a time. ‘That’s it. Drink it down …’ He noticed Micah and Eli standing by the pile of firewood they’d been stacking. ‘You two. Get in line.’

  Two keld in bone masks turned from the still, where they had been supervising the corking of flagons, and stepped towards Eli and Micah. One of them cracked his whip.

  ‘You heard!’ he grunted.

  Eli and Micah exchanged looks, then joined the back of the line. Eli leaned forward and whispered in Micah’s ear, ‘Whatever you do, don’t swallow the stuff.’

  Micah shuddered. He didn’t need to be told.

  The kith in front of Micah was handed a beaker. Throwing back his head, he downed the bloodhoney in one gulp and returned the beaker to the tray. He turned and shuffled past Micah, a vacant smile spreading slowly across his face as the intoxicating liquor took hold.

  Micah stepped forward and stared at the beaker being proffered.

  ‘Take it,’ the overseer snarled through serrated lips.

  Reaching out, Micah took the beaker. He put it to his lips.

  ‘Drink!’

  Micah tipped the beaker back and his mouth filled with fiery rust-taint sweetness. Avoiding the overseer’s eye, he placed the beaker back on the tray and walked away, trying hard not to gag. He stooped down at the log pile and glanced back. The overseer and the other keld were walking across to the copper still, and Eli was coming towards him. Micah spat out the bloodhoney which spattered onto the floor at his feet, then covered the telltale stain with a hunk of firewood.

  Eli did the same. He wiped a hand across his mouth and scowled. ‘That stuff’ll kill you, you take it long enough,’ he muttered. ‘It destroys the mind, but keeps the body going. That’s why the keld prize it. And they’re not the only ones neither. There’s kith out there in the weald that take doses of it for the strength and endurance it gives them.’ He pushed a log into place with the toe of his boot. ‘But they’re playing a dangerous game, lad. Too high a dose and the heart gives out. I’ve seen it happen.’

  He looked across at where the kith slaves were slumped. Work was over for the day, and the ten of them sat with their backs against the glistening cavern wall, breathing heavily and staring into space.

  ‘But as for those poor wretches,’ Eli said, ‘it’s already too late for them. Their minds have gone and their bodies ain’t far behind. Not that the keld care, not when it comes to slaves. They’ll replace them when the next band of kith show up to attack Deephome.’

  From the opposite side of the cavern came the sound of low voices and hicking laughter. Eli looked across at the eight hulking figures, all now unmasked, as they broke into and ate greedily from stone jars.

  ‘In the meantime,’ he went on, turning back to Micah, ‘they’ve got that stone prophet up there taking in waifs and strays and getting away with this blood­letting of his. Slaves or fresh blood, the keld win either way. And what makes this keld colony so ­dangerous is that nobody but Kilian knows it’s here.’ He shook his head. ‘We’ve got to get out of this cavern, Micah, while we still have the wits and strength to do so.’

  ‘But … how?’ said Micah. He could still taste the metallic taint of the bloodhoney in his mouth. ‘There’s only one door to this place. And it’s locked.’

  Eli glanced round at the wyrmeskin curtain that led to Carafine’s cavern. ‘The singing, Micah. Did you notice where it was coming from?’

  ‘That hole in the ceiling?’

  ‘Yes, Micah. A hole.’ He nodded. ‘Leading up to the great chamber …’

  ‘The great chamber,’ said Micah excitedly. ‘You reckon we might be able to climb up there?’

  ‘Not we, Micah. I’m too big. But you might make it.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Can’t do no harm trying – unless you have a better idea.’

  ‘But what about you?’ said Micah, his mouth ­suddenly dry. ‘I can’t just leave you here.’

  Eli sat back and surveyed the boy coolly. ‘Reckon you’re going to have to,’ he told him. ‘Leastways, for a while …’

  Forty-Seven

  ‘Elders, if I might bring this meeting to order,’ Kilian the prophet announced, rapping on the round ­blackstone table that had been lowered on ropes from the ceiling of the meeting chamber.

  The elders of Deephome turned to him, their faces flushed with a mixture of excitement and relief. How good it was to have their leader back among them, safe from harm and as confident and reassuring as ever.

  ‘I know the events of this morning have been ­traumatic for us all,’ Kilian began, his brow creased with concern, ‘but once more, the Maker has protected we Deephomers from harm. I only wish I could say the same for our precious stores.’

  The five elders exchanged looks with one another, then turned back to the prophet.

  ‘Did we lose much, brother Kilian?’ asked brother Anselm. ‘The stone jars we traded with the black valley kith were stored at the very back of the chamber …’

  ‘And the meats and smoked goods were wrapped and crated,’ said sister Rebekah defensively. ‘I made sure of that myself before the first snows.’

  ‘The labels!’ exclaimed brother Bede, tugging at his grey beard with ink-stained fingers. ‘We don’t have to do them all again, do we? My scribes have only just finished seeing to the last consignment – those sacks of grain from the western valleys.’

  Brother Absolom and sister Grace nodded fervently.

  ‘I’m afraid, brothers and sisters, you must brace yourselves for bad news,’ said Kilian. ‘The damage has been severe.’

  ‘How severe?’

  ‘What are our losses?’

  ‘Can anything be saved?’

  The shocked voices of the elders echoed round the meeting chamber.

  ‘I’m not going to lie to you,’ Kilian told them. ‘We’ve lost almost everything.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘It was a monstrous redwing … the largest I’ve ever seen. It tore our sentinel brother Abel limb from limb.’

  ‘I … I saw his head,’ murmured sister Rebekah �
�tearfully. ‘Rolling down the stockade steps. It … it was horrific.’ She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and pressed it to her mouth.

  ‘The half-starved creature must have been driven mad by the harshness of fullwinter and invaded our store chamber in search of nourishment,’ Kilian said. ‘Maker be praised that you and the flock took refuge inside the great chamber in time. As for myself, I followed you down the tunnel, and when I saw the great doors slam shut, I got down on my knees and prayed to the Maker that Deephome be protected.’

  He smiled and glanced round the table, gauging the elders’ reaction to his words.

  ‘It seems my prayers were answered,’ he continued. ‘The redwing did indeed inflict terrible damage on us, that is true – and yet, brothers and sisters, the Maker moves in mysterious ways. Those two kith who were ­wintering with us – the Maker chose them as instruments of His will. They did battle with the wyrme. I heard ­terrible screams and cries. I smelled burning …’

  ‘It must have been awful, brother Kilian,’ said sister Rebekah, dabbing her eyes.

  ‘It was,’ the prophet agreed, ‘but I was sustained by the sound of your voices raised in song.’

  The elders smiled across the table at one another and nodded.

  ‘Praise be to the Maker,’ whispered brother Bede ­reverently.

  ‘Finally,’ Kilian continued, ‘when the store chamber fell still, I ventured inside to find our stores in a terrible state, which is why I put them off limits until I had a chance to talk to you all. The stockade is in splinters and the shelfstacks upturned. And there’s blood …’ He paused and looked round at the elders, each in turn. ‘The wyrme has gone. But so too, I’m afraid, have our brave kith friends.’ He shook his head. ‘The Deephome will never forget the sacrifice they have made.’