by Anthony Ryan
Beside her, Lutharon gave a low, ominous growl. His blue eyes were narrowed as he looked upon the arena and his tail scraped yet more foliage from stone as it swished in agitation.
“Drakes have many mental limitations that humans do not,” Ethelynne said. She put a hand to Lutharon’s snout which calmed him somewhat, though his tail continued to swish. “But,” she went on, “when it comes to memory they are our undoubted superiors. You see, drake memory does not die with the individual, but rather accumulates down the blood line over many generations. Not everything remains, of course, even they have limits, but locked in every drake’s mind are memories from its forebears that span centuries.”
Clay followed as she started down into the arena, leading him to the tower in the centre where she stopped and gestured for him to take a closer look. Not stone, he realised, peering through the gaps in the shroud of vines. A skull stared out at him from a wall of fused bone, just like in the Badlands but on a much grander scale, and a great deal older. He stood back, his gaze tracking the tower from base to top. How many bones would it take to fashion such a thing?
“The last of my Blue,” Ethelynne said, and he turned to find her holding up a vial of product. “The connection won’t be strong given the brevity of our association, but it should be enough.”
Clay glanced back at Lutharon, now lowered to a defensive crouch, eyes fixed on the tower and wings half-spread as if in readiness for a quick flight. “You can share memories with him?” Clay asked. “Like in the trance?”
“The differences between a human mind and a drake’s are considerable, so complete understanding is impossible. But yes, we have shared memories. One I should now like to share with you.”
“He knows what happened here,” Clay realised. “One of his ancestors saw it.”
“Yes.” She held the vial out again, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“Can’t you just tell me?”
“I have a task to perform, Clay, one I shirked almost thirty years ago. I believe I shall need your help to complete it.” She removed the stopper from the vial and drank half the contents, holding it out to him once more. “But I won’t ask you to join my course without a full understanding of what lies ahead.”
Clay’s gaze returned to the empty eyes of the skull peering out at him from the vines. The compulsion to know, to find answers to so many questions, was strong, but tempered with an awareness that this was a decision he may well regret for a long time.
“Well, I guess a memory can’t kill me,” he said, taking the vial and draining the remaining product.
—
Ethelynne’s mindscape took the form of a library, Clay finding himself surrounded by tall shelves, each crammed with more books than he could count. The books came in various sizes, the colour of each binding different. Some were bound in board of faint pastel shades whilst others, usually the larger volumes, were bound in leather of more vibrant hues.
The Academy library where I spent so much time as a girl, Ethelynne explained. Madame Bondersil was forever dragging me out of here. Naturally, I had to make a few modifications to fit everything in.
Clay perceived her as a vague, ghostly shape gliding through the maze of shelves, eventually coming to a stop. Here we are. She reached out a translucent hand to pluck a book from the shelf, one of the larger volumes, bound in shiny, black leather. Are you ready? she asked, spectral fingers poised to open the book. Noting the way her hands had begun to shimmer he wondered if she wasn’t more nervous about opening it than he was.
When you are, ma’am, he told her.
She opened the book and the library disappeared, replaced in the blink of an eye by a swirl of confused colour and sensation. Clay grunted as the discordant mess of images birthed an ache in his head. What in the Travail is this? he demanded.
The world as seen through the eyes of a Black drake, she said. I told you, their minds are different, as are their eyes. They do not see as we do. Relax, let your mind adjust.
He tried to calm himself, allowing the ache in his head to subside into a dull throb as the confusing morass gradually resolved into recognisable shapes. People, he realised, seeing what he initially took as a cluster of flames but now realised were running figures, red silhouettes against a dark background.
They see heat rather than light, Ethelynne said. It is often a uniquely beautiful way to perceive the world . . . But not today.
The red silhouettes were engulfed by something so hot it appeared like a pale yellow jet. When it cleared they lay on the dark ground, flame rising from their crumpled remains in an orange fog. Through the shimmering heat Clay could see more figures, a great mass of them in fact, boiling over the walls of the arena in a fiery tide. He realised he was seeing this from near ground level, the view shifting as the drake that had captured it tried to rise, then faded for a second as it failed, eyes closed in pain.
Wounded, Clay realised as the vision cleared and tracked over a massive body riven with fresh scars, all leaking blood. He could feel the animal’s agonies, muted and bearable but still fierce enough to make him reconsider his decision to let Ethelynne show him this.
The wounded drake’s gaze swung about, revealing that the mass of people descending the tiers had now reached the arena floor. By now Clay’s mind had adapted to the change in perception sufficiently to allow him to make out details. He could see the faces of the onrushing figures and recognise their deformities. Spoiled.
Yes, Ethelynne confirmed. The first generation of Spoiled. Countless people taken and twisted into a horde intent on destroying those with whom they had once lived in harmony.
The pale yellow jet streamed out once more, engulfing the leading Spoiled in flame. The vision shifted to the left, revealing a Black drake, a huge male even bigger than Luthoran. His mouth gaped wide to spew more flames before he spread his wings and launched himself directly into the midst of the on-coming horde, teeth, claws and tail wreaking bloody havoc. Clay felt something then, a rush of warmth through the pain and knew his host was looking upon its mate. The male Black must have cut down fifty or more before they swarmed over him, clubs, hatchets and spears rising and falling in a frenzy.
His host gave a faint despairing cry as the male Black’s tail cut down another few Spoiled before it fell limp and his huge body disappeared under the seething mass. The view swung away from the Spoiled and fixed on something small, something Clay realised had been sheltering behind his host’s body. The boy was perhaps twelve, and looked up into the eyes of the wounded drake with an expression of such trust and affection it was hard to bear. Beyond the boy he could see evidence of battle, the bodies of Spoiled and un-Spoiled humans lying tangled together in death, the fierceness of their struggle clear in the dismembered limbs and sundered entrails littering the ground. There were a great many bodies, enough, he understood now, to craft a tower eighty feet high from their bones when this was over.
They were protecting him, he thought, returning his attention to the boy.
Apparently so, Ethelynne replied. The memory froze at that point as she focused all her attention on the boy. This city, and others like it, once they were mighty and the Black was revered; understanding grew as one Blood-blessed in every generation drank the heart-blood of a dying drake. This boy, I believe, was the last Blood-blessed born to this city, a precious soul they sacrificed themselves to preserve. It seems not all humans here fell under his sway.
His?
She unfroze the memory and a vast piercing cry sounded in the sky above the arena, the horde of Spoiled all freezing in place as if in response. Clay’s drake host shuddered as a very large shadow swept the structure from end to end. Her gaze shifted to the sky as it grew dark, the sun blotted out by a huge, winged shadow. She tried once more to rise as the thing landed a short distance away, its claws shattering the stone floor of the arena. Its colour was not revealed by the heat-vision but from it
s size Clay knew this could be only one breed of drake. It glowed with energy, shining brightest in the upper belly where it stoked its fires. Behind the massive drake the Spoiled horde all stood, as still and silent as Protectorate riflemen on parade.
Clay’s host succeeded in raising herself up, the vision swaying as she staggered and stumbled her way towards her enemy. It peered down as she approached, head tilting from side to side in apparent curiosity. The female Black came to an unsteady halt a few yards short of her foe, raising her gaze to meet its eyes. They blazed back at her like two glowing coals and Clay felt something new stir in her pain-wracked body: defiance.
The female Black launched herself at the White, the vision blurring as she coughed out a jet of flame, fading to reveal her claws latching onto its neck, talons digging deep. For a few seconds all was a confusion of flame and heat, then a new pain, sharp and deep enough to make Clay cry out. The vision flickered, clearing for a moment to show the White stepping over its victim and making an unhurried progress towards the small boy who now stood amidst a mound of corpses, lacking all protection.
Clay was forever grateful that the vision descended into blackness at that point, for he had no desire to see what came next.
—
Lutharon brought them down on the temple’s western side, alighting just beyond the canal on a patch of ash-grey ground littered with tree-stumps and the twisted remains of Greens. What remained of the Spoiled lay along the canal bank, a long, straight line of blackened bodies, all twisted up. They just stood there and burned, he realised. Strangely, he felt no triumph at the sight; it was too ugly for that. Instead, there was only a sense of grim satisfaction at the necessity of it and, though he fought it, an undeniable flare of guilt.
Lutharon folded his wings and issued a low, rattling sound that Clay initially took for a growl but Ethelynne seemed to take as a reassuring sign. “It seems there are no enemies close by,” she said, slipping from the drake’s back. Clay followed quickly before Lutharon could tip him off once more.
“So it rose once before,” he said. He had to hurry to keep up with Ethelynne as she strode towards the east, away from the temple. Lutharon lumbered along behind, pausing now and then to sniff at the corpses of his lesser relatives.
“It would appear so,” Ethelynne replied. “And in so doing, either killed every human on this continent or transformed them into its mindless servants.”
“Which means something must have brought it down. Otherwise, its descendants would still be ruling this place.”
“Sound reasoning, Claydon. Well done.”
“You know what it is, don’t you?” Clay persisted. “That’s why you stayed out here all these years. You’ve been looking for a way to bring it down.”
“Actually, I haven’t the faintest idea what brought about its prior demise. But, perhaps with your help, I might finally find out.” She kept striding across the ash without further explanation and he realised she was done answering questions for now.
After a hundred paces the ash gave way to thick jungle, Ethelynne disappearing into the trees without hesitation. Clay drew the Stinger and hurried after her, eyes roving the shadowed surroundings for signs of an enemy. Despite her assurance, the Interior had ingrained a caution in him that didn’t fade easily. He found her halted before what he initially took to be just an overgrown rocky mound but soon recognised as another ruin. Surveying the fragments of tumbled stone he was able to envision the arch they must once have formed, his gaze tracking along the mound to see it disappear into the earth a short way off.
“They called it the ‘Supplicants Path,’” Ethelynne said, tapping her walking-stick on the stones. “Those hoping to ascend to servitude in the temple would gather once a year to walk it. Any who navigated their way to the temple would graduate to the next set of tests.”
“What if they didn’t?” he asked.
“Most just made their way back here and went home, greatly shamed by their failure and obliged to do penance. Though some inscriptions speak of supplicants becoming lost in the tunnels, never to emerge.” She crouched, leaning close to the stones with ear cocked. “Nothing,” she said, after a moment.
“Are there other ways in?” he asked, a certain desperation creeping into his tone.
“There were, but the Krystaline swallowed them centuries ago. The coast-line was very different when this city rose tall.” She straightened, looking expectantly back at the trees. There soon came the sound of cracking branches and Lutharon landed a short distance away, the ground shuddering with the weight of his arrival.
“Drake hearing is perhaps ten times that of a human,” Ethelynne said as the Black sniffed at the stones before cocking his head in a manner unnervingly similar to hers. Lutharon became very still, blue eyes closing in concentration before he huffed a loud grunt and moved back. Woman and drake exchanged a long look, Clay sensing the passage of information between them.
“Is it heart-blood that does it?” he asked Ethelynne. “Lets you command him like this?”
“Command him?” She laughed. “What an absurd notion. But, you are partly correct. Heart-blood brings about certain changes in a Blood-blessed, provided one survives the experience of drinking it.”
“But he’s a Black, and you drank Red.”
“What an astute observer you are, Claydon. Your friends are there.” She tapped her stick to the stones. “But it seems they’re in a bad way. The air in the tunnels isn’t very good. Pockets of gas have built up over the years.”
Clay moved to the stone, pulling away a hefty boulder then immediately reaching for another. It soon became apparent, however, that shifting so much rock would take more time and strength than he possessed. “Can he help?” he asked, panting and pointing at Lutharon.
The great black turned to Ethelynne and once more Clay sensed their unspoken communication. “He’s . . . understandably reluctant,” she reported eventually.
“Reluctant?” Clay fought down a surge of anger. “Can’t you just tell him to do it?”
Ethelynne’s face took on a severe aspect that would have put Madame Bondersil to shame. “He is not some beast of burden bound to obey my every whim. He is a thinking and feeling creature, and, as you have seen, his kind have a very long memory. He can smell your people; he knows what they are. He was barely ten years old when I found him, Clay. Starved nearly to death and nuzzling at the corpse of his mother, his mother who had a longrifle-bullet embedded in her skull. I assume the body tumbled into too difficult a place for the Contractors to harvest her. Most of her blood had seeped away, but some still lingered in the heart.”
Lutharon issued another rattling hiss, his gaze still locked on Ethelynne’s and Clay knew they were engaged in some kind of unspoken communication. “You drank his mother’s heart-blood,” he realised. “That’s how come he’s bound to you.”
“It enabled a certain mutual understanding,” she answered.
“Then he knows you need me to find the White.” He jabbed a finger at the piled stones and stared up into the Drake’s eyes. “And I need them. I’ve seen what you’ve seen. Do you want to see it happen again?”
Ethelynne moved to Lutharon’s side as the drake’s hiss faded, smoothing a hand over his flank before closing her eyes and pressing her forehead to his hide. Clay heard her whisper, “I’m sorry,” before moving back. Lutharon’s gaze swivelled back to Clay for an instant, eyes betraying a certain reluctance, if not resentment, then he turned about, tail whipping. For a moment Clay thought he would take flight once more but instead the drake raised his tail and brought it down in a blur. The spear-point-like tip must have possessed the hardness of iron from the way the stone shattered under the weight of the blow. Clay moved back as Lutharon repeated the action over and over, the tail whipping in a rising cloud of powder. After several minutes Lutharon turned about and began to dig at the sundered stone, gravel rising in a foun
tain as he burrowed with forelegs and back legs. He stopped when something noxious rose from the hole he had dug, scooting back and waggling his head before sneezing out a plume of flame. Whatever miasma had escaped the hole caught the spark and blossomed into a brief but bright column of blue fire.
Clay stepped to Lutharon’s side and crouched to peer down at the hole he had dug. For a long moment he heard nothing, but then came the sound of echoing voices, faint and clearly near exhaustion, but still alive. He sagged in relief then turned to Ethelynne. “Best take him back a ways. This is gonna take some explaining. And as for the White, that all stays twixt us for now.”
She nodded and Lutharon abruptly bounded away, launching himself into the tree-tops once more. Clay turned back to the hole, cupping his hands about his mouth to call out, then pausing as a fresh thought crept into his head. Leave them here. They’ll find the way out soon enough. What d’you think Uncle’ll make of your purpose? He forced the notion away with ruthless conviction as Silverpin’s face loomed large in his mind. Ain’t leaving them adrift in the jungle. Got from now until the Coppersoles to make him see sense.
“Uncle!” he called into the hole. “This way! Got someone you’ll be glad to meet!”
CHAPTER 30
Hilemore
Duels, as Hilemore knew all too well, were a very serious business in Varestia. Although the peninsula was renowned for the warlike and unwelcoming nature of its inhabitants, the region hadn’t seen a full-blown civil conflict for the best part of two centuries, even during the tumultuous years of the Revolution which had seen Varestia transformed into a de facto autonomous state. Duelling remained the principal reason for this uncharacteristically lengthy period of peace. If one clan found itself in dispute with another, the matter would normally be resolved either through an arranged marriage or single combat. Similarly, petty feuds between individuals could be settled with a duel before they could escalate into something worse. In consequence, the formalities surrounding such occasions were numerous and subject to a rigid code, successive decades having evolved a system that prevented any claim of unfairness or skulduggery that might defeat the entire purpose. Duels were overseen by a neutral party with a detailed knowledge of the varied technicalities who would be handsomely paid for the task. In the Hive the duty fell upon the shoulders of Constable Tragerhorn who, despite not being of Varestian origin, took a rigorous approach to his responsibilities.
