by Jen Williams
Noon smiled to herself. Vostok had brought them to the foothills of the Bloodless Mountains, a broken mess of a region bristling with trees newly budding for spring and unexpected outcrops of steely grey rock. Here, they were faced with a sharp incline, the earth under their feet loose and black. Ahead, the trees grew thicker.
‘There’s something I need to show you, first. And it’s best if Vostok doesn’t come any further. Come on, it’s not that far and I know you’ve walked further than this.’
‘Surely there is nothing up here a dragon should be afraid of, and if there is, I should like to severely question your motivations for bringing us up here alone—’
‘Vintage, you get what a surprise is, yeah? It’s a surprise. Which I told you at least nine times on the way over.’
She glanced over her shoulder at the older woman and shared a grin with her.
‘It’s good to have you here, you know,’ she said, turning away quickly so Vintage wouldn’t see her face. ‘Another voice of reason to drown out Tor’s ego.’
‘Oh! Yes.’ Vintage put on a sudden burst of speed, catching up. The trees crowded in on either side the higher they climbed, and both their faces were shrouded in dappled shadow. ‘I wanted to ask you about that, my dear, because clearly I missed a lot at some point. Was it at poor Esiah’s house? In Ebora, after the Ninth Rain fell? But that doesn’t seem right, I can’t imagine Vostok being anything other than outraged. On the road here, then, that seems most likely.’
‘What –’ Noon cleared her throat. ‘What are you talking about?’
Vintage chuckled and elbowed her in the ribs, none too gently. ‘Oh please. Tor watches you, you watch him, it’s all quite adorable. I met one of his old, uh, companions, did I ever tell you that? Sareena, lovely girl, spends a lot of time on her hair but no nonsense about her, and you know, he never looked at her the way he looks at you.’
‘Vintage!’
‘Come on. I never had much opportunity for girl talk at home. I have a sister, of course, but she was younger and, well . . .’ For a brief moment the brightness in Vintage’s eyes seemed to fade a touch. ‘Well, it was difficult. For a number of reasons. We were close, but not close when it came to those sorts of things.’
‘Hmm. Well.’ Noon narrowed her eyes at Vintage. ‘Me and Tor . . . it’s weird. I grew up thinking his people were inhuman monsters. Knowing that they were. Eborans are so strange – even knowing him like I do now, Tor seems almost unreal, like a figure from an old story. So do Nanthema and Eri, if I’m honest. But Tor is – I don’t know what he is.’
‘He’s just as bloody complicated as the rest of us, of course. Are we nearly there?’
‘Can you see that big outcrop of rock ahead?’ Noon pointed above the tree line, where a rounded crest of moss-covered rock broke through the canopy. ‘That’s where we’re going. So what about you and Nanthema, then? What’s going on there?’
Noon took no small measure of glee in the way Vintage’s step faltered, but then the older woman briefly squeezed her arm, and looking at the expression on her face her pleasure turned to guilt.
‘Well, my darling, I suppose I’m not the only one with a beady eye, am I?’ She sighed, pushing a twist of tightly curled black hair back under her hat. ‘Nanthema. I don’t think she wanted to come back here at all, you know. What is it with Eborans and running away from Ebora?’
‘You must have loved her very much,’ Noon said quietly. ‘I mean, to look for her for so long. To be thinking about it, all that time.’
She risked a look at Vintage, and was surprised to see the older woman looking sternly at her boots – it wasn’t an expression she associated with Vintage at all.
‘For Nanthema, you see, no time has passed at all. She was trapped inside the heart of that Behemoth for more than twenty years, but she did not feel the years crawling by. To her, she should have stepped out into the world exactly as it had been, and it was not. And I am not who I was twenty years ago.’ The shadows of the rock face were close now, creating ominous green and black shapes ahead. ‘If you don’t mind, my darling, I’d rather not talk about it at the moment. So much for girl talk, aye?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Do not worry yourself. I started it, after all, and if I can’t – oh! Well, that’s quite a thing.’
The trees had parted to reveal the dark chasm in the rock face ahead. It was tall and narrow and filled with shadows, while creeping vines of unusual size and thickness twisted around the entrance. When Noon had last been here, they had been covered in hard buds, but now they sported bright-yellow flowers with thick, fleshy petals like the fingers of babies. She paused, and looked behind them, but the forest they had walked through looked normal enough, so she put it from her mind.
‘Come on. Do you have your old travelling lamp? I can make one, if not. It gets quite dark in there.’
‘What do you take me for, darling?’
Vintage retrieved her lamp, and when it was lit they made their way into the cave. Yellow light skittered up the walls, revealing more of the vines within, and the craggy ceiling. The floor was dry and stony, and they had to look carefully at their feet to avoid tripping, which was what ultimately spoiled Noon’s surprise.
‘Noon, is this guano on the floor here? It is, isn’t it? Is this where your bat has been hiding?’
Noon sighed theatrically. ‘You have to be so bloody clever, don’t you? Although you’re not completely right, still. Up here, look. Hold up your lamp.’
Vintage did as she was bid and the warm yellow circle of her light revealed a cosy nook, high in the back of the cave. It was filled with a great furry pile, which gradually resolved itself into two giant bats – a black one and a white one. Fulcor, her sleep disturbed, turned her big solid head to face them and uttered a shrill but oddly welcoming chirp.
‘Goodness, it’s the two of them!’ Vintage grinned and then advanced rapidly, no longer mindful of the rocks. ‘That’s the Winnowry agent’s bat, isn’t it? The one that tried to recapture you.’
‘It is. His name is Gull.’ When Vintage glanced at her, Noon shrugged. ‘It was sewn onto his harness. Vintage, be careful, will you? You’re going to break a bloody leg.’
Vintage paid no attention at all. Instead, she peered up at the bats, one hand hovering near her pack as though she wanted to remove a notebook. ‘Well, isn’t that interesting? You know, my dear, we know almost nothing about the Targus giant bats as a species, or at least we know nothing of their natural habits. The Winnowry have had them kept in their towers and used as steeds so long the poor creatures are institutionalised.’
‘How very unlike the Winnowry,’ said Noon drily. ‘That’s not all of it, though, look.’ She stood up on her tip-toes and reached out a hand to Fulcor. She had put a handful of dried fruit in her pockets before they’d left, and the great bat shuffled around, nose twitching with interest. Gull, the big black bat next to her, opened his eyes a crack, obviously wondering where his source of warmth had gone, and it was possible then to see a smaller shape nestled between them. It was covered in grey fur so thin that its pink skin was visible underneath, and it clung to its father with oddly delicate wings.
Vintage made a noise, threatening to drop the lamp. Noon laughed.
‘You see, this is why I keep Vostok away. The Winnowry’s giant bats are pretty tough, but I reckon babies are still scared of dragons.’
‘But this is simply wonderful! When was the pup born? It’s still quite early in the spring for such things, but I have read theories that bats can mate, then the female holds the male spermatozoa in a special sac until the conditions are right, which can sometimes be several months and then, when there’s enough food around, the spermatozoa is permitted to—’
‘It was a few weeks ago,’ said Noon hurriedly. ‘I think they must be making it up as they go along. Neither of them can know what they’re really supposed to do, but they’re free now, so they’re having to learn everything from scratch.’ She smiled. ‘I’
ve brought little bits and pieces of food that we can spare. I think they take turns hunting, with one staying here to look after the little one.’
The quality of light in the cave changed, turning abruptly darker. Noon turned back to the entrance and saw a low shape crouched against the faint daylight. For a confused second, Noon thought that Vostok had come to get them for some reason, and then as the shape moved – a low, sinuous and silent creep – she corrected herself. It was Kirune, it had to be; perhaps the war-beast had been exploring the area alone and had heard their voices. But as it moved further into the cave, Noon realised that although the thing was big, it was not nearly as big as Kirune, and its eyes were long and narrow and faintly pink in the lamplight.
‘Vin . . .’
Warned by the tone of her voice, Vintage turned around, her smile vanishing as she caught sight of what was approaching them. The thing moved utterly silently, and to Noon that was somehow the worst of it: a Wild-touched monster should come roaring and frothing, like the thing that had attacked the winnowline. Vintage put the travel lamp down on a handy rock and retrieved the crossbow from her belt. Above them, the bats had smelled the predator and were beginning to shift about. Fulcor gave a series of high-pitched squeaks.
‘Not to worry, darling.’ Vintage’s voice was soft, painfully casual. ‘I’ll just sting its nose and we’ll soon see its backside.’
She raised her crossbow even as the Wild-touched cat crept closer, and although Noon didn’t see the bolt fly, she saw the creature jump backwards as several inches of wood suddenly appeared in its bulky flank. The cat hissed, an oddly discordant noise that made the hair stand up on the back of Noon’s neck, and then it continued creeping forward.
‘Shit.’
Noon looked around. There was no vegetation she could see on the ground, and the bats themselves were out of reach. As the Wild-cat moved further into the lamplight, it was possible to see exactly how worm-touched it was; its pinkish eyes looked runny and diseased, its long fangs too big for its mouth so that drool ran continually in thick strands over its lower jaw. In every way it looked subtly wrong, as oddly shaped and unnerving as every worm-touched creature Noon had ever seen. It had bunches of long black hair sticking out of its back periodically, like quivering whiskers. Above them, both the bats were shrieking now.
‘Vintage! I need your help.’
The older woman understood instantly, and stretched out her hand. Noon grasped it, and siphoned off the life-energy she needed. Her heart was thumping painfully in her chest but she forced herself to watch Vintage’s face carefully; it would not do to drain the woman to the point of unconsciousness. Meanwhile, the Wild-cat was creeping ever closer. It was no longer looking at the two humans facing it; the thing’s strange runny eyes were focussed on the family of bats. Noon motioned Vintage to get behind her, and glanced back up at Fulcor and Gull.
‘Can’t they just fly away?’
‘The pup won’t be able to fly yet, my dear, and they won’t want to leave it.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, fuck this, then.’
Sweeping both hands low by her sides, Noon funnelled the energy into two bright flowers of green fire. More light than heat, she threw them gently ahead of her, intending them to float towards the cat and frighten it away. Dimly, she remembered cold winter nights on the plains when all the fires were built up as high as they would go. Predators were afraid of fire, everyone knew that.
Instead, the winnowfire – so bright that it filled the cave with a shifting eldritch light – flew along the ground at the height of the thing’s legs and rather than turning tail and running, the creature sprung up into the air. Clearly it intended to leap over the fire, but instead the cat landed in the midst of it, and in the time it took Noon to take a startled breath the worm-touched monster was a torch. The eerie green of the winnowfire vanished to be replaced with a more familiar orange and suddenly the cat was barrelling towards them, jaws yawning wide with agony.
‘Fuck, the thing’s mad! Vintage, look out!’
They scattered to either side of the cave, Noon crashing her toe painfully into an unseen rock, but they needn’t have worried. Although the thing was lit up like a beacon and the stench of its burning hair filled the cave, it still seemed to be focussed on the young bat family. It flew past Noon and Vintage, howling and hissing, and leapt madly up the wall. Fulcor, already very distressed, leapt away from her roosting place, and a second later, startled and no doubt terrified, Gull followed, and the young baby bat was falling.
‘Vintage!’
But the older woman was already moving. Noon watched in horror, too far away to do anything useful, as the two big bats flew around the ceiling of the cave in obvious distress and Vintage threw herself over a pile of rocks to arrive just under the pup as it made its descent. There was a bellowed swear word from the scholar, loud enough to be heard over the howling of the Wild-cat, and then Noon was moving, summoning every last piece of life-energy from within her. The cat itself was writhing on the cave floor, a quickly blackening mess of claws and teeth, and standing over it, Noon sent a hot stream of bright-green fire from her cupped hands – as intense and narrow as she could make it. The worm-touched creature stiffened, its back seeming almost to curl in on itself, and then it was still. The winnowfire had simply cooked everything inside it in an instant. Clouds of foul-smelling black smoke billowed off it. Noon coughed into her hand.
‘Vintage? Are you all right? What about the pup?’
‘The pup is fine, darling. The dear thing has quite dribbled all over my shirt.’ She paused, and when she spoke again her voice was tight. ‘You know you were joking earlier about my breaking my leg?’
18
They were bringing the growth fluid as quickly as Celaphon could drink it, which was turning out to be very quickly indeed. Already he had outgrown their old quarters, and the queen had crafted them a new set of rooms without even needing to be asked. Ten times the size that he was, Celaphon lay stretched out on the porous floor, his snout buried deep into a pod while a small team of the homunculus creatures, armed with rags and bowls of water, cleaned his shining scales for him. This was something else Hestillion had not asked for, and she stood watching them work, her lips pressed into a long, thin line. There was no doubting he was better, she told herself. There was no doubt he was no longer dying.
‘There is normal food too, Celaphon,’ she said, observing a small servant of the queen busily polishing the claws on his back foot. ‘Fresh meat, fresh fruit.’
Celaphon grunted into the pod. ‘That’s good. This is also good. There is more of this?’
‘There is always more,’ murmured Hestillion, more to herself than the reclining dragon. ‘It is oozed out of the walls, or something like it, so there will always be more.’
Celaphon was unlike any war-beast Hestillion had seen, unlike any in the paintings and books she had grown up with. He was still a dragon, and a mighty one, his shoulders broad and thick with muscle, his jaws bristling with teeth. Horns twisted from his head like a riot of branches. But his beautiful deep-purple scales were tinged in places with a deep, oily green, and along his belly were patches of white, like fading sunbursts. They put Hestillion in mind of mould – chalky growths on books that had been left to rot. His wings, once covered in fine silky black feathers, were now the leathery wings of a bat – the feathers had all fallen out, covering the floor in a shifting tide of darkness. And all along the back of his spine were the serrated plates, dark green and black at the edges. Again and again Hestillion thought back to the war-beasts she had seen as a child, and to the books and paintings she had poured over when they were gone, but she could think of no beast that looked quite like him. Try as she might to ignore it, there was no missing the link between what he was becoming, and the worm people.
‘He is unique,’ she said aloud. One of the homunculus creatures turned towards her, rag in hand, then returned to its work. ‘No other war-beast was born this way, or raised this way. Of c
ourse he’s different.’
The wall to her right flexed open, and the queen stepped quickly through. She came over to Celaphon, looking him over with apparent satisfaction, and turned her porcelain gaze onto Hestillion.
‘We have found another ship, as you would call it. We wondered if you would like to come and see it.’
‘A Behemoth? What do you mean, you’ve found it?’
The queen waved a hand dismissively. There was something different about her movements; they were jerkier, less controlled. As if she were excited about something.
‘We are all connected. But so long apart, the connections have eroded, broken down. We must reconnect if we are to function again. Will you come?’
Hestillion smoothed her dress down. It was one of the finest the Jure’lia had scavenged for her; the skirts were a dowdy brown, but the bodice was constructed from panels of a soft velvet the colour of autumn leaves. Hestillion almost thought it worthy of wearing in Ebora itself.
‘Very well. Celaphon . . .?’
‘I will stay here,’ said Celaphon. One of the queen’s scuttling creatures pulled an empty orb away from his nose, and reattached a new one. Hestillion nodded and followed the queen from the room.
‘How much of that can he safely eat, would you say?’
The queen led them down a series of shifting corridors. Walls oozed and melted out of their way as she followed her own path through the Behemoth.
‘What can he eat safely? That is an interesting question, Hestillion Eskt.’
‘You know well what I mean. He has been gorging himself on it for days now. I thought the pain of the growth spurts would have held him back, but instead he seems almost . . . addicted to those changes. He will not stop eating the stuff unless we – unless I – step in.’
The queen’s pace was quickening, and she did not look at Hestillion as she answered.
