Bone Trail

by Paul Stewart

  ‘The name’s Solomon Tallow,’ he said.

  Nathaniel took the hand and shook it warmly. ‘Nathaniel Lint the Younger. I’m a guest of—’

  ‘Garth Temple,’ said Solomon, and smiled. ‘I heard.’

  Behind them, there was the sound of the door being kicked open, and Nathaniel turned to see the heavy body of the trapper flumping down onto the ground outside. A cheer of derision went up. He turned back to Solomon.

  ‘I am in your debt, Solomon Tallow,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  The gangmaster’s even white teeth flashed in the gloom of the tavern. ‘Happen I might think of ­something,’ he said.

  Twenty-One

  It took Garth more than four hours to finish tapping the greywyrmes, by which time the last dregs of sunlight were draining away. He looked up into the starflicker indigo sky, head back, arms out, and stretched. He was exhausted – but it had been worth it. Not only were the greywyrmes no longer a danger unmuzzled, but they were now able to eat and drink their fill.

  Plus there was the flameoil itself. The last greywyrme he’d tapped was a large male. A whole pouch had been filled, and still the priceless liquid had kept coming. Garth bent down and picked up the earthenware flagon he’d decanted the wyrmeoil into. Full, and it would bring him a small fortune down on the plains.

  As Garth turned to go, he was aware of the sound of steady breathing as the eleven greywyrmes slept, their necks curved round to meet their tails in the broad coil that wyrmes formed when at rest. He had applied salves and ointments to their festering sores and oiled the split skin of their feet, and was gratified to see that their ­condition was not quite as bad as he’d feared.

  He rubbed his hands together and headed off to his cabin, clutching the flagon of flameoil. He would collect more from the pouches of the others in the morning. Pure profit, just for himself. His deal with Nathaniel Lint had been to build the stockade, to stock the corral with packwyrmes and fleece the settlers for passage up to the high country. The flameoil was his little sideline. No need to trouble the young merchant’s head with things that needn’t concern him.

  As Garth crossed the dusty courtyard, passing the oxen toiling at the well pump, he glanced over to see the merchant stumbling out of the tavern. Grease and spilled drink stained the front of his fine silk shirt, and there was more matting the fur of his collar. His eyes ­glittered. He paused in the open doorway and smiled lopsidedly.

  ‘Temple,’ he said, and Garth could smell the liquor on the merchant’s breath.

  ‘Been well looked after?’ Garth enquired.

  ‘No complaints,’ Nathaniel said. ‘Got fed. Watered . . .’ He hiccupped, then giggled. ‘Watered a bit more than I should of.’

  Garth looked in through the doorway. The tavern was full, but his gaze fell at once upon the five wyrmehands who were standing in a group over by the shuttered windows, looking back at him. Solomon smiled and raised his tankard in greeting. Beside Garth, Nathaniel giggled again.

  ‘Fascinating man, that Solomon Tallow,’ he said.

  Garth Temple nodded thoughtfully. For all his ­arrogant swagger the young merchant was weak and ­suggestible. Garth did not want Tallow getting his hooks into him. He would have to watch them. Watch them carefully.

  Twenty-Two

  ‘She sure was pretty,’ Ethan muttered, and he let out a soft appreciative whistle.

  ‘Who?’ said Cody, though he knew full well who Ethan meant.

  ‘Why that kingirl, of course. Thrace. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice how’ – Ethan checked himself – ‘pretty she was. Well, not pretty exactly,’ he said. ‘Pretty’s the wrong word. Beautiful.’ He frowned. ‘Fierce beautiful,’ he said, settling on the words.

  ‘Fierce beautiful is just about right,’ said Cody. ‘She’d eat a scrawny little jackrabbit like you alive. That’s if she gave you a second look,’ he added dismissively. ‘Which I doubt.’

  ‘Unlike a big hunk like you, eh, Code?’ Ethan grinned. ‘Fancy your chances, do you?’

  ‘She ain’t my type. Far as I’m concerned, Cara’s ten times more beautiful,’ Cody replied, and his smile ­broadened. ‘A hundred times.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ Ethan continued, and Cody held his breath, wondering what fool thing his brother was about to come out with now. ‘I can’t imagine her living in no winter den with Eli and Micah. It must have been like trying to cage the wind.’

  Cody nodded. He knew what his brother meant. The kingirl was as wild-seeming as she was beautiful, more wyrme than human . . .

  ‘Stop your dawdling and keep up!’

  The cragclimber’s shout echoed back across the grassy plains, and the two of them looked up to see Eli standing facing them, his hands on his hips.

  ‘I intend to make it to them mountains yonder,’ he called, and pointed to the high ridge of purple rock far ahead, ‘and find me a den there. With you, or without you.’

  ‘Cara,’ Micah said and, for the first time, he seemed to notice how far ahead the others were. He squeezed her hands. ‘You waited for me.’

  Of course I waited for you. I would wait a thousand years for you. An eternity. The thoughts jabbered and jostled inside Cara’s head, but remained unspoken. She shrugged.

  ‘Didn’t want to lose you,’ she said lightly.

  Micah nodded. ‘I . . .’ He fell still.

  Cara looked into his eyes, wondering whether he was going to finish his thought – and when he did not, she let go of one of his hands and tugged him into motion with the other.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, pulling him along with her as she strode ahead. She nodded into the distance. ‘Eli seems determined to reach those mountains by sundown.’

  Micah observed them. ‘They’re not as close as they look,’ he said.

  Cara nodded.

  ‘And if I know Eli Halfwinter,’ Micah went on, ‘he won’t be content with just reaching them. Happen he’ll be fixing to press on through them before darkness forces us to rest up.’

  ‘Then come on,’ said Cara, tugging his arm again.

  They continued after the others, walking in silence for several minutes, before Cara spoke again.

  ‘Thrace . . .’ she began.

  ‘Thrace?’ Micah said warily. ‘What about Thrace?’

  Cara sighed miserably.

  ‘What about Thrace?’ he repeated.

  ‘Nothing, I . . .’ Cara instantly regretted speaking the kingirl’s name, suddenly afraid she would hear things she didn’t want to know. ‘The pair of you shared a winter den.’ She hesitated. ‘You must have been very close.’

  Micah shrugged. ‘Thrace is kinned,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Like them other wyrmes and their riders that captured Ethan.’ He swallowed. ‘Her bond is with Aseel, her wyrme.’

  Micah realized how low his voice had become, how fractured – and he realized too the effect his words were having on Cara. She nodded and tried to smile, but she looked tense and shrunken into herself. He smiled back at her, hoping to make her feel better.

  ‘Thrace and I could never have stayed together,’ he said.

  Cara shivered, her thoughts colliding with one another inside her head. She was glad they could never have stayed together. More than glad. But Micah wasn’t. Despite the smile he’d managed, that much was clear. And the obvious pain in his eyes filled Cara with a nagging desperation. Oh, she could do her best to wash away his pain, and would do. But what then? Thrace would always be someone missing from his life; a part of him that he could not have. And she, Cara, would forever be second best.

  ‘Y’all right?’ Micah asked her tentatively.

  Cara looked at him, nodded, a small fragile smile on her lips. ‘I’m all right,’ she said.

  They arrived in the foothills of the mountain range soon after the sun had disappeared behind the tall purple crags. The
sky was still light and the cragclimber proposed that they press on.

  Ethan and Cody exchanged glances. The pair of them would have preferred to rest, but were not about to speak up.

  ‘Think we can find a way through?’ Micah asked.

  Eli shrugged. ‘Happen there’s only one way to find out.’

  They set off into a likely-looking pass, a small stream coursing through a narrow, steep-sided valley, the lower rock walls thick with broad ferns and pale stubby ­succulents. Half an hour in and a sheer rockface with water cascading over it from high above forced them back the way they’d come. They fared no better at their second attempt, while the third cleft in the rock closed up before they’d gone more than a hundred yards. ­Darkness was beginning to close in.

  Micah scanned the landscape around them. The foothills seemed, to his mind at least, uncommon fertile. The further south away from the wyrme galleries they’d travelled, the greener the landscape had become. And here the low mounds and outcrops of rock that fringed the grasslands and abutted the soaring mountains beyond were thick with low trees and berried shrubs and clumps of herbs, that scented the still-warm air with rich tangy smells. There were the telltale signs of a valley to his right – a broad stream, dense foliage; manderwyrme and bluewing nests clinging to the vertical cliffsides.

  ‘How about that one?’ he suggested.

  Eli nodded. ‘Go ahead and scout it. We’ll follow.’ He stopped to tighten the straps of his backpack. Micah and Cara went on ahead, while Ethan and Cody stayed with Eli.

  The gloom wrapped itself around them. The air was pungent and moist. Dense tumblemoss clung to the rocks. Micah stumbled ahead, the scene before him almost seeming to flash on and off as the colours peaked and faded, and his night vision of black and white and grey took hold. They’d advanced into the valley some three hundred yards or so, climbing the while, when Micah caught sight of what he took to be a large grey boulder up ahead. Unlike all the others, though, there were no ferns clinging to it; no lichen, no moss.

  As he got closer Micah saw that it wasn’t a boulder at all. It was a greywyrme, lying dead and desiccated on the ground, its tail half-curled, body twisted with legs to one side, and long neck outstretched. The creature looked as though it had been fighting. There were deep wounds and gashes on its back and flanks, and one of the stubby wings was torn and hanging on by a dark bloody tendon.

  Micah approached the corpse and frowned, nonplussed.

  There was a rope shackling the greywyrme’s back legs together. He moved round to the front of the creature. More rope had been used to clamp the jaws tight shut, while attached to its head was something that to Micah resembled horse-blinkers. He stepped away from the dead wyrme, turned back and peered into the shadowy darkness behind him.

  ‘Eli!’ he called. ‘Eli! There’s something up here you need to see.’

  Twenty-Three

  Nathaniel’s mouth tasted foul. He sat up on one elbow, reached out and poured himself a mug of water. Took a sip.

  The water was sugary, citric, and he gulped it to the bottom of the glass, then poured himself another from the jug beside the bed. He sat up and leaned back against the wall behind him till the hammering in his head ­subsided some.

  He was back in Garth Temple’s quarters, the mean little timber cabin with the earthen floor and hard bed, yet he had no memory of getting there. Not for the first time, he asked himself what he was doing in this flyblown hell-hole.

  ‘So the young merchant adventurer is off to seek his fortune in the high country,’ his father had said, when Nathaniel had finally got up the courage to outline his plans. ‘And all based on the magnificent theories of a scrimshaw den trader.’

  Nathaniel grimaced. He could see that look on his father’s face now, a look of patronizing contempt; he could hear the sarcasm that loaded his words.

  Scrimshaw den master he was. And more than that, Garth Temple was a man with a vision – a vision that made sense to Nathaniel, of a great train of greywyrmes, each with an immense load strapped to its back and whole families of settlers following behind their great swishing tails. From the badlands up to the weald and back again they would plough a trail, taking settlers one way and weald goods the other. At the new stockade, the weald goods would be unloaded and sent on down tothe plains in ox carts which, in turn, would bring fresh ­settlers up to the new stockade.

  There was a fortune to be made, Garth Temple had declared, for men of vision. Like themselves.

  Nathaniel’s pulse quickened just thinking about it. Holding a hand to his head, he climbed gingerly to his feet, crossed to the window and looked out.

  Construction of the bunkhouses was continuing apace, with the foundations of three more buildings already in place. He watched the carpenters and joiners and tilers hard at work, their faces glistening in the swelter of the mid-morning sun.

  He had to hand it to Garth Temple. The stockade was beginning to look like a proper settlement. But Nathaniel was paying for it all, and he wanted a return on his investment as soon as possible. The settlers wouldn’t pay up until the corral was full and Garth Temple’s ‘great journey’ to the weald could finally set off. Then Nathaniel could return to the plains, his purse bulging, to wipe that contemptuous smile of his father’s face once and for all.

  ‘Morning, Nat!’

  The rough yet jovial voice broke into his thoughts, though Nathaniel did not associate it with himself. At least, not at first. It was only when he saw the burly kith wyrmehandler with the shaved head grinning up at him from the courtyard outside, that he realized Solomon Tallow had intended his greeting for him.

  And it all came back to Nathaniel. The tavern. The trapper. The fight. And the long hard drinking session that he had had with Tallow and his wyrmehandlers.

  They’d had trouble with his name – or feigned it, calling him Nestor, or Nicodemus, or Nebuchadnezzar, and roaring with laughter each time he’d corrected them. Laughing himself, Nathaniel had spelled it out.

  ‘N-A-T . . .’ – which was as far as he got before Tallow had raised a hand to stop him.

  ‘Nat,’ he’d said. ‘Nat is good. Nat we can remember, eh, boys?’ And he’d raised his tankard of ale and toasted him. ‘To Nat!’ he’d said.

  And the others had raised their own tankards in response. ‘To Nat!’

  As the ale took hold, Nathaniel had begun to relax. It had felt good being accepted by these rough, weald-­seasoned kith. The drink had flowed. More tankards of ale, accompanied by shots of green liquor that tasted of tar and anise, and, as he gulped them down, each one burned his throat a little less than the one before. When the others had become rowdy, with backslapping and hearty laughter; sharing stories, ­breaking into song, Solomon had taken him to one side.

  Nathaniel remembered how he’d fixed him with those dark eyes of his. And when he’d spoken, Solomon’s voice was low and intimate, like he was taking the young merchant into his confidence.

  ‘You seem like an enterprising young fellow,’ he’d said. ‘Well-connected down on the plains, according to Lizzie the tavern-maid over there, and doing fine work recruiting would-be­ settlers.’

  Nathaniel had nodded, his brow furrowed.

  ‘Well, I’m well connected up in the weald,’ Solomon had continued. ‘Got the harpoon gangs organized and working for me. Rounding up greywyrmes ready to herd down here to the new stockade. Already a new batch on its way, or should be.’

  Nathaniel had tried to concentrate, but his head was swimming, and it was all he could do to follow Tallow’s words.

  ‘Thing is,’ the kith gangmaster had added, ‘with you at one end of this here operation and me at the other, my question to you is . . .’ Solomon had paused and held the young merchant’s gaze, unblinking, for what seemed like an age.

  ‘What?’ Nathaniel had said. His voice was slurring and Solomon seemed to have four eyes.


  ‘Do we need a middle-man?’ Solomon had said. Then he’d grinned, placed a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. ‘Do we need Garth Temple?’

  Now, in the dry and dusty courtyard outside his window, Solomon had stopped and was looking at Nathaniel amiably, his teeth bared and hands on his hips.

  ‘Thought about my question from last night?’ he asked.

  The colour drained from the young merchant’s cheeks and, in the presence of the rough bluff kith, he suddenly felt callow, effete.

  ‘Just thinking it over now,’ he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  Twenty-Four

  It was six days later when a distant dustcloud heralded the arrival of a second convoy of greywyrmes. It might have been sooner than that, but for the violent lightning storms that had gripped the badlands in between.

  Forked lightning bolts had hurtled down out of a glowering sky for three days and three nights solid, ­striking the parched ground and skewering anything in their way. The greywyrmes in the stalls bucked and ­bellowed. The silo was damaged, and one of the newly completed bunkhouses was struck and set ablaze. Word had gone up at once, and the plainsfolk had organized a human chain from the well to the burning building, passing buckets back and forth, while the roughneck kith trappers watched from the tavern porch, shouting raucous encouragement, but making no move to help.

  Each day, fresh would-be settlers had arrived from the low plains, their worldly possessions packed onto the backs of carts and wagons and pulled by exhausted oxen and wheezing, half-starved mules. The plainsfolk were grateful for the shelter the new stockade afforded up here in the badlands, and they huddled in groups in the lee of its buildings and beside the corral. Finally, the ­lightning storms passed, and when the cry went up that more greywyrmes were approaching, the newcomers joined the others of the stockade to greet the incoming convoy.