Bloodhoney

by Paul Stewart

  The prophet pulled himself up to his full height and stared past his daughter at the Deephomers, his eyes fixing on the faces of each of the elders in turn. ‘Rebekah, Grace, Anselm, Absolom, Bede,’ he said. ‘I know you don’t believe a word of this.’ He smiled sadly. ‘My poor dear daughter is distraught. She was in love with the kith boy and can’t accept his loss. We must try to be ­understanding.’

  He took a step toward Cara, but she backed away, tears in her eyes.

  ‘These horrible nightmarish fantasies of hers will fade, so long as we don’t indulge her further. There are no keld. There are no slaves. There is no secret cavern, just an old equipment chamber and the ravings of a grief-stricken mind …’

  ‘If that is true, Father,’ said Cara quietly, wiping the tears from her eyes, ‘then who are they?’

  She pointed at the entrance to the great chamber where Micah and Eli were now standing. Behind them stood the kith slaves, their mouths lolling open and their dead eyes fixed on the floor.

  Kilian turned, and as his eyes met Eli’s, the blood drained from his face and he seemed almost to shrink into himself. His shoulders slumped, his mouth fell open and, for a few moments, he seemed incapable of speech. Around the great chamber, the Deephomers stood in stunned silence as they stared at the two kith that the prophet had told them were dead, and at the ghoulish faces of the other kith the prophet had told them he’d persuaded to leave.

  White-faced and trembling, Kilian fell to his knees. Hands clasped before him, he looked up beseechingly at his daughter.

  ‘Cara, I can explain … Everything I did, I did for you. For you, my daughter.’ He looked round, but no Deephomer met his gaze. ‘I only wanted to protect her … To protect you all – the meek, the defenceless, the downtrodden …’

  At that moment, there came an earsplitting ­explosion from beneath the great chamber. The blast shook the floor, shattered stalactites and sent ­sparcrystals raining down on to the stunned ­Deephomers. Another explosion sounded. Then another …

  Wild-eyed and shaking, Kilian looked across at Micah and Eli in the doorway. ‘What have you done?’ he wailed.

  Fifty

  A ball of fire from the exploding keld cavern rose up through the twisting tunnel and erupted from the opening high up in the wall of the great chamber. It spread out across its vaulted ceiling in a rippling tide. Sparks and flaming globules of red liquid rained down onto the glowing straw that covered the floor of the chamber, setting it ablaze. A carpet of flame came towards the Deephomers.

  Screaming, weeping, clutching at one another, the Deephomers were forced back towards the cavern doors and spilled out into the tunnel beyond. The fire followed them.

  Micah and Eli fell back on either side of the doorsas the Deephomers jostled and elbowed their way through.

  ‘Cara!’ Micah shouted, forcing his way into the chamber against the surge of fleeing bodies. ‘Cara!’

  She was standing close to the wall, head in hands, as flames lapped at the hem of her grey cloak. Kilian stood a little way off, his arms spread wide in supplication and a look of utter despair on his face. His clothes had caught alight. Flames rose up his cloak, flickering in his face, setting his hair on fire. He stared at his daughter, ­oblivious to the inferno consuming him.

  ‘Forgive me, Cara,’ the prophet pleaded. ‘I … I did it for your mother. I loved her. Even though she was wicked, I loved her …’

  Micah leaped forward and swept Cara up in his arms. ‘Don’t look,’ he whispered as he ran with her from the burning chamber.

  ‘FORGIVE ME!’

  The prophet’s anguished screams echoed round the empty chamber as Micah hurried after Eli and the ­shambling kith slaves up the tunnel to the store chamber, while, clinging to Micah’s neck, Cara sobbed ­uncontrollably.

  Thick black smoke and crackling flames filled the passages and chambers behind them as the fire spread over the glowing straw that carpeted every part of ­Deephome. In the sleeping galleries the flames spread from the floor, up the ladders and into the niches, setting the straw-stuffed mattresses ablaze. In the eating chamber, the benches and dining tables burst into flames as vats of cooking oil exploded in the kitchen chamber beyond. As the ropes from which it was suspended burned through, the stone table in the meeting chamber fell from the ceiling to the floor with a colossal crash, while in the bathing chamber, the pools were surrounded by rings of fire as the straw-strewn floor burned.

  Coughing and spluttering, Micah stumbled blindly through the smoke that filled the store chamber and staggered outside. In his arms, Cara gasped for breath. Eli was just ahead of them, crouched down beside the remains of the stockade, his soot-blackened face staring after the kith slaves.

  They were lurching up the trail that led to the head of the valley, tripping and stumbling, sometimes falling to the ground and getting up again, as they scrambled mindlessly towards the pale sun. The sound of their low groaning voices echoed against the steep valley sides as blind instinct and the blood­honey coursing through their veins fuelled their escape from Deephome.

  ‘Couldn’t stop ’em once they caught a whiff of that halfsummer breeze,’ Eli said, glancing round at Micah. He shook his head. ‘Not that I had the heart to anyway – not given what those poor devils have been through.’

  Clustered in small groups in front of the cavern entrance and perched on rocks at the sides of the trail, the Deephomers looked unhappy and bewildered. The sun was low in the sky, the pines and cedars casting long slanted shadows across the melting snow. Above beak rock the waterfall shimmered in the evening light, the torrent of water swollen with freshmelt. Fisherwyrmes were diving in and out of the pool below, while two crested manderwyrmes drank at its edge.

  ‘It’s what we’ve been waiting for, Micah, lad,’ the cragclimber smiled. ‘The thaw.’

  Micah set Cara gently down. She looked across at the Deephomers. They were gathered around the elders, who were wringing their hands and shaking their heads and calling on the Maker for guidance. Several were kneeling, their heads bowed and arms upraised, while others stood in shock, staring at the cavern mouth from which a thick black pall of smoke was rising up into the warm valley air.

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ Rebekah the elder was saying. ‘The prophet is dead. I shall go to the western valleys. Follow me, brothers and sisters.’

  ‘The high plateau,’ exclaimed Bede. ‘Come with me to the high plateau.’

  Anselm and Absolom both nodded, but Grace the elder barged them aside. ‘I shall go to the east,’ she said. ‘The kith traders will welcome us there.’

  The Deephomers started falling into groups behind their chosen elders, casting regretful looks back at their burning settlement. Cara watched them, then turned back to Micah, her turquoise eyes were hard and clear.

  ‘Take me with you,’ she said.

  Fifty-One

  Two whitewyrmes appeared in the halfsummer sky. One was young and skittish, soaring high and swooping low; the other was older and more measured, flying levelly with slow rhythmic beats of its powerful wings.

  Once it had begun, the thaw was swift. Warm winds had blown in from the west, gently forcing fullwinter’s frozen grip on the high country to yield.

  The blanket of snow covering the weald had thinned, turned lacy and fragile, and melted away. Water dripped from every branch, every boulder, every overhanging rock; pools and lakes lost their impenetrable covering of ice. Rivers and falls flowed once more, roaring noisily through the valleys, turbulent and milky blue. And, in every crack in the mountain rock – from the narrowest crevice to the broadest valley – life stirred.

  Manderwyrmes and bluewings emerged from their rock nests in the cliffsides, and circled in great flocks. Squabwyrmes scuttled over the scree, while herds of ­lumbering greywyrmes came up from their winter hides and roamed across the high plateau, their broad backs warmed by the watery halfsummer su
n.

  High above, at the summit of the loftiest of the jagged peaks, the distinctive silhouette of a Methuselah pine stood out against the clear blue sky. The ancient tree, that had seen more than five thousand fullwinters come and go, had a broad folded trunk and stout branches. Some of them were twisted like wood shavings, some beanpole straight; some were decked in dark green needles and clusters of cones, others stripped and dead and scoured pale by snow and sun. Below them, the trunk of the tree was anchored at its base by immense ­serpentine roots that gripped the pitted sides of the steep rock and delved down deep into its fissures and cracks.

  The two whitewyrmes circled low over the ­Methuselah pine, their wings grazing its uppermost branches as they inspected it with keen yellow eyes, before soaring back up into the sky. The older wyrme opened his mouth and let out a long sighing call, like wind in long grass. He swept his wings back and arrowed back down towards the tree, his eyes fixed on the upper branches that were bleached and vertical and grew straight as candles.

  Spotting the approaching wyrme, a small colony of carrion­wyrmes, perched in a row along a knotted branch like dirty washing on a line, screeched with rage for a moment, before taking to the air and flapping noisily away, their tatterwings black and ragged against the ­flawless blue of the sky.

  The older wyrme landed on the branch they had vacated. He folded his wings. The younger wyrme landed beside him, and the pair of them looked up at the cluster of thin straight branches above them, which pointed up at the sky. The older wyrme spoke again and the younger wyrme nodded, before leaving the branch and climbing up the trunk, his claws sinking into the rough bark as he did so. Pausing, the wyrme ran a curved talon up and down the length of first one branch, then the next, then the next – before hesitating at the one after that.

  He glanced back at the older wyrme, who nodded in agreement. The young wyrme turned back to the branch and drew back his head. He opened his jaws and released a jet of yellow flame that he directed up and down the length of the branch.

  It steamed and darkened, but with instruction from his companion, the young wyrme was careful not to hold the stream of fire on one spot for long enough to char the wood. Droplets of resin bubbled at the surface and spread out to form a thin film that sealed the wood and made it sheen. Up to the very tip of branch the wyrme aimed his jet of flame, then down again, back and front. The air filled with a sweet clean fragrance that made the older whitewyrme’s nostrils quiver.

  Suddenly, with a loud rasping crack, the branch split along its length.

  The young whitewyrme closed his mouth and drew back, surveying the damage ruefully. Then, at the older wyrme’s instruction, he moved on.

  The second branch he selected did not crack when he scorched it. Nor did it buckle or warp, and when the older wyrme below was satisfied that the branch had been tempered to perfection, he instructed his young companion to use his claws to slice through the branch at its base, cutting it from the tree. And this he did.

  With the length of wood clutched in his foreclaws, the young wyrme launched himself off the Methuselah pine and flew after the older wyrme, who turned to check he was being followed. The older wyrme’s nostrils flared and streams of white smoke plumed back in the air. His jaws parted and he growled his congratulations.

  The young wyrme chittered back – grateful, eager, proud.

  Fifty-Two

  Thrace and Hepzibar were standing face to face at the centre of the cavern floor of one of the upper wyrme ­galleries. Thrace gripped her kinlance in her hands and took a step forward. Arching her back and bracing her legs, she thrust the lance out to the side in one swift ­decisive movement. In front of her, the younger kingirl mirrored her movements, her hands gripping the shaft of an ­imaginary lance.

  A gentle breeze whispered round the twisted pillars and ruffled their ashgold hair, bleached and sheened by wyrmesmoke. Thrace twisted round and jabbed back behind her with the other end of her kinlance, and once again Hepzibar mirrored her.

  ‘Good,’ said Thrace, the sound soft in the back of her throat. ‘But twist the lance, little one. Like this.’

  Hepzibar’s dark eyes narrowed as they fixed on the flexing of Thrace’s slender fingers, and the kinlance ­spinning in her grip.

  ‘Then the wound will be deep …’ Thrace paused as she saw the young kingirl’s eyes widen. She straightened up and placed her kinlance in the crook of her arm. ‘I think that’s enough for now, Zar,’ she said with a smile.

  Hepzibar frowned as she looked back at the older kingirl. ‘But there isn’t much time,’ she said. ‘You said so yourself. The thaw is here and I need to learn quickly.’

  Thrace met her gaze. ‘You’re doing well, little one,’ she said encouragingly. ‘And once Asa has finished your kinlance, you will learn even quicker.’

  Hepzibar nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well, if we are finished,’ she said, turning to go, ‘I’ll go and see how he’s getting on.’

  Thrace watched her leave. Hepzibar wasn’t just a quick learner, she thought; she had a natural talent. They were fine traits. But the young girl was gentle-hearted, and Thrace wondered whether she would prove to be a good fighter.

  Leaving Thrace in the small gallery behind her, ­Hepzibar stepped out into the larger chamber beyond, its far side open to the elements, jutting slabs sticking out high above the ground below and the wind whistling through the fluted columns between them. She made her way across the floor of the chamber.

  ‘Oi,’ came a sneering voice, and Hepzibar’s stomach churned. It was Kesh. She tried ignoring him, but he only called out the louder. ‘Oi. Hep-zi-bar,’ he said, breaking up her name like it was something ridiculous. ‘Where you off to?’ Kesh snorted unpleasantly. ‘Not that it matters,’ he said, ‘since you and that little wyrmeling of yours don’t even have a lance.’

  Hepzibar could feel herself blushing from the tip of her chin to the roots of her hair. She wished she could think of something clever to say, but her head was full of shame and anger and embarrassment, and she could not.

  ‘Zar.’

  The voice was soft and reassuring, like barley rustling in a warm breeze. Hepzibar turned to see Asa sitting at the foot of one of the great twisted pillars. Aseel was by his side.

  ‘Asa,’ said Hepzibar. ‘I was hoping I’d find you here.’ She was aware that Kesh was listening. ‘How’s it coming along?’

  ‘Your kinlance?’ Asa said, then glanced round at Aseel. ‘Nearly ready, I think.’

  The young wyrme returned his attention to the length of ancient pinewood that he was holding in his claws, and continued scraping a curved talon over its surface, removing the last of the bark and smoothing the annealed wood beneath. The older whitewyrme watched critically, then turned to Hepzibar. His eyes grew wider.

  ‘Asa is about to sharpen the ends,’ he told her. ‘Then the lance must be primed.’

  ‘Can I help?’’ Hepzibar asked gravely, trying hard not to hear Kesh’s snort of derision.

  Aseel nodded, and she sat on the floor and watched as Asa put the finishing touches to the length of wood with his claws. Then, when Aseel was satisfied it was ready, Asa opened his jaws and, twisting the lance in his claws and biting down, began to chamfer the first of the ends to needle-sharp points against his teeth.

  The timber – seasoned for thousands of years and tempered with fire – cut well. There were no splinters, no knots, no fibrous twists. Instead, as he continued to turn the wood against the razor-sharp edge of his teeth, thin shavings coiled away from the wood and fluttered to the floor. Slowly, patiently, under Aseel’s watchful eye, Asa honed both ends of the lance to lethal points, then handed it to Hepzibar. She tested its sharpness with the ball of her thumb, her heart racing.

  ‘Call that a point?’ came a sneering voice, and despite herself, Hepzibar looked round. Kesh was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder, a look of ­contempt tugging at hi
s face. ‘That ain’t sharp enough to skewer a squabwyrme.’

  Hepzibar looked away. She stared down at the lance. Her hands were shaking so badly that it slipped from her grip and clattered to the stone floor.

  Kesh snorted again. ‘Useless,’ he snarled, ignoring the way Asa and Aseel were eyeing him. ‘You won’t be no good in a fight, a little girl like you. No good at all. Fact of the matter is, you just ain’t cut out for it�’

  Asa growled menacingly, but Hepzibar’s cry of anger drowned him out as she grabbed the lance and leaped to her feet in one movement. Her dark eyes fiery and intense, she shoved Kesh back hard against a twisted pillar. He banged his head on the rock and, dazed, looked down at the small furious kingirl before him, surprise turning suddenly to blind rage.

  His hand went for his knife – but Hepzibar was too quick for him. Gripping the lance tightly, she jabbed the sharpened end at Kesh, forcing him back against the pillar till his shoulders were pressed against the rock. The point of the lance prodded the soft skin at the base of his neck.

  Hepzibar stared into Kesh’s frightened eyes. Her lips were small and hard; her knuckles were white.

  The three wyrmes looked on. Asa trembled. Azura braced herself, ready to attack, but paused when she saw Aseel’s eyes darken menacingly.

  Hepzibar felt the anger inside her crystallize into a single thought. One little thrust. That was all it would take. One shove of the lance in her hands and her ­tormentor would be dead …

  ‘Seems she might be good in a fight after all,’ came a soft voice.

  Everyone turned to see Thrace standing beside Aseel, her own kinlance in her hand – everyone, that is, except for Hepzibar, for she had not heard her. It was only when the older kingirl reached out and took hold of the lance, and pulled it from her grip, that Hepzibar realized she was there. As Kesh put his hands to his grazed neck, she suddenly felt self-conscious, foolish. Ashamed.