by Paul Stewart
Micah pulled himself up onto his own elbow, mirroring Cara’s posture.
‘He had gathered nine followers along the way,’ Cara went on. ‘Four men and five women. Lost souls out wandering in the weald for their own reasons.’ She paused. ‘One of them was my mother. Not that I ever knew her,’ she added softly, and Micah saw her gaze slide off into the distance as the past stirred. ‘I only have memories of my father,’ she said. ‘No recollection of her. But my father told me that she was bright and brave and determined, and that he would have done anything for her. But …’
Tears filled her eyes. One welled over and trickled down her cheek and Micah reached out and caught it on the tip of his finger. Cara looked at him and smiled bravely.
‘She died?’ said Micah.
Cara sniffed. ‘Like I said before,’ she said, ‘sometimes the Maker’s ways are hard to fathom.’
She eased her arm out from under her head and clasped it to the other, before her, like she was lying on her side praying. Micah took both her hands in his own and squeezed them reassuringly. Cara sniffed again, and resumed her telling.
‘So there was my father and me, a baby, and the eight that had joined him,’ she said. ‘But soon more came, wayfarers and trailsetters who had stumbled across Deephome, and others who had heard rumours of our settlement and come a-searching – the helpless and the dispossessed souls who were lost, but who found their true calling in Deephome. My father offered them shelter and food and, most important of all, protection. And all he asked in return was that, just as he was obedient to the will of the Maker, they should pledge their obedience to him.’
Micah nodded. ‘I guess he was lucky to stumble across such a place,’ he said.
Cara frowned. ‘Micah, have you not been listening to me?’ she said, and he heard a sharpness in her tone. ‘I told you, luck played no part in this. The Maker guided him, and my father followed. Besides,’ she added, ‘when he first discovered Deephome, there wasn’t nothing here but what’s now the store chamber. The rest has been excavated, piece by piece, tunnels joining up the underground caverns. Some big, and some small,’ she added, and she sat up and swept her arm round. ‘Like this one.’
Micah grinned. ‘This one’s my favourite,’ he told her.
‘And mine,’ said Cara, twisting round and wrapping her arms about Micah’s body. She held him tightly, her chin resting on his shoulder. Then she pulled back and pressed her face close to his. ‘I don’t want to talk no more, Micah,’ she said. ‘Kiss me.’
And Micah was happy to obey.
The sound of the horn echoed through Deephome with its deep mournful wail. Cara sat up.
‘The sentinel,’ she said. ‘Someone’s been found.’
Micah rolled over onto his back, put his hands behind his head. He watched Cara as she climbed to her feet, staring intently as she clothed her slim body in the thick skirt and high-buttoned shirt, and imprisoned her long lustrous hair inside the white bonnet.
‘You just going to lie there?’ she asked.
Micah sat up. His head was fuzzy, still full of the intimacies they’d shared in this shimmering cave, and the warm, comforting presence of Cara’s body close to his. He hadn’t felt this safe and protected ever. Not back on the plains, not in the high country. Not with Eli.
Not with Thrace …
He pushed the wyrmepelt covers back and got himself dressed. He was pulling on his second boot when the horn sounded again, louder now.
‘Come on. Everyone will be gathering at the stockade, and my father will notice if we’re not there,’ said Cara urgently, as she headed out of the small cave and back down the narrow tunnel.
Micah grabbed his hacketon and chased after her.
When they arrived at the store chamber, Micah found it thronging with the brothers and sisters of Deephome. In among them was Kilian, his face flushed with anticipation, and Micah found himself wondering whether his and Eli’s arrival had provoked such keen excitement.
‘Quieten down, all of you,’ Kilian was saying. ‘You shall discover in good time whoever it is the Maker has brought to us. Now, let us create the right impression by quietly getting on with whatever chores are to hand.’
There was a soft muttering of approval as Deephomers did as they were told. Cara approached her father, and Micah held back, suddenly shy and guilty-feeling, and fearing the prophet might notice that something had changed between himself and his daughter. Kilian turned and appraised Cara then, as if satisfying some unspoken question of his own, he smiled. Micah felt himself flush hot and red, and stared down at his boots.
‘Be prepared to lead everyone to the great chamber should I give the signal,’ said Kilian.
Cara nodded solemnly.
Her father turned and, adjusting his hat and pulling his grey cloak around him, he stepped outside, where the wind was wailing and the snow falling so thick that the stockade just beyond was fuzzed up and barely visible.
‘We need help here,’ came a faint call, and Micah recognized the voice of Abel, the dawnwatch sentinel.
He hurried up the snow-covered steps after Kilian and looked down over the sharpened wooden poles of the stockade. Abel was standing at the foot of the rope ladder, one arm supporting a limp, gaunt-looking man at his side.
He was white from head to toe, snow covering every inch. His boots, his wyrmeskin breeches and jacket; his gloveless hands and bare head. And when he looked up, Micah saw that there was even snow on his face, obscuring the sunken grey cheeks and redrim eyes, stuck to the skin that had not warmth enough to melt the flakes as they had settled.
Micah’s heart leaped as, from behind the snowy veil, pale blue eyes fixed their gaze on his.
It was Eli. And he was still alive!
Micah wanted to shout for joy, to praise the Maker for sparing his friend’s life. But he did not. Instead, he helped Abel and Kilian lift the shivering, half-frozen cragclimber up the ladder and over the stockade. In the store chamber, they half carried and half dragged Eli over to a brazier, and Cara appeared with a bowl of steaming broth in her hands.
‘Drink this, brother Eli,’ she said, and Micah saw Kilian nod approvingly.
‘Cara will look after you now,’ he said, but his eyes were fixed on Micah as he spoke, and Micah found it hard to take his gaze.
Kilian turned and strode off across the store chamber as, all around, Deephomers absorbed themselves in various tasks, while clearly listening closely. With a twinge, Micah began to understand Cara’s need for the old laundry chamber.
He knelt down beside Eli, who was accepting spoonfuls of the hot broth from Cara and trying to stop his teeth from chattering. Micah smiled and clasped one of the cragclimber’s hands.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he said softly.
‘I must look quite a sight,’ said Eli. He shook his head. ‘Don’t know what I was thinking, lad. Like some greenhorn, wet behind the ears, I underestimated the savagery of fullwinter. And when it attacked me, I was as defenceless as a newborn grey before a redwing.’
Micah nodded sympathetically. ‘How far did you get?’ he said.
‘Far enough to make the return all but impossible,’ Eli said wearily. ‘If that sentinel hadn’t spotted me …’
‘Brother Abel has good eyes,’ Cara murmured.
Eli nodded, then looked up into Micah’s face. ‘Much as it pains me to confess it, lad, you were right and I was wrong. We can’t move on, not till fullwinter’s over.’
‘So you’re happy to stay in Deephome?’
Eli shivered. ‘Happy don’t play no role in it,’ he said, ‘but I accept it’s the only option open.’ He frowned. ‘I guess I shall have to get used to it. And I shall endeavour to make myself useful while I’m here,’ he added, smiling at Cara and accepting another spoonful of the soup. Then he paused. ‘And how about you, Micah. Are you happy?’
Micah looked round at Cara, who smiled back at him. And Micah thrilled inside.
This kithgirl clearly loved him – loved him with all her heart and with an intensity that he recognized. It was how he’d felt about Thrace, yet the kingirl had been incapable of returning his feelings. It was good to be the one who was loved for a change. He would endeavour to earn that love.
He looked back at Cara, then at Eli, and nodded.
‘More than happy,’ he said.
Thirty-Five
Alsasse and the great blueblackwyrme stood on the broad slab of rock facing one another.
The leader of the whitewyrmes had pulled himself up to his full height, his neck extended and chin raised – yet he was dwarfed by the blueblackwyrme, who fixed him with a sapphire stare. The moon had risen, and it shone down bright and cold and picked out the three ridged tusks at the snout and lower jaw of the immense wyrme as he dipped his muscular neck and thrust his face towards Alsasse.
The whitewyrme recoiled a fraction, both at the meat-rot stench of the larger wyrme’s breath, and the power of his voice.
‘You are not welcome here,’ he repeated in the strange guttural tones which Alsasse had to concentrate on to understand.
‘Forgive us,’ Alsasse breathed, inclining his head and lowering his eyes respectfully. ‘We do not mean to trespass on your lands, only …’
‘Only what?’ the blueblackwyrme snarled, acrid smoke curling up from his flaring nostrils. In contrast to Alsasse’s hissing whisper of a voice, this wyrme’s guttural roar sounded like thick swirling lava as it bubbled up from the depths of his throat.
‘Only we have nowhere else to go, and we need to rest and forage,’ Alsasse answered softly.
The blueblackwyrme’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded over Alsasse’s head at the colony of whitewyrmes, the spiked barbels at the sides of his mouth quivering. ‘How many are you?’
‘There were nearly twelve hundred when we set off. Now there are barely a thousand,’ Alsasse said sadly. ‘And those who have survived are weak from hunger.’
The blueblackwyrme stared at Alsasse, as though sizing him up. ‘Follow me,’ he barked at last, and edged back toward the lip of the crevice he’d emerged from.
Alsasse tried to obey, but his legs gave way and he stumbled and almost fell. The flight had weakened him even more than he’d realized.
Alucius stepped forward. ‘I shall go with you,’ he told the blueblackwyrme, and Alsasse noted how the second of the host had cleverly added a harsh and guttural tone to his voice that echoed that of the blueblack’s.
The blueblackwyrme dipped his head and, spreading his immense wings, stepped backwards into the crevice and disappeared from view. With a reassuring glance at Alsasse, Alucius spread his own wings. Then he sprang out from the lip of the crevice and swooped down into the glowing void after the wyrme.
Below the crevice, the walls of rock widened, opening up to reveal a cavern that was vast and bathed in lavagloam. The air was hot and the fumes from the river of molten rock far below were acrid and sulphurous and stung Alucius’s eyes. As the blueblackwyrme wheeled around on the thermals, Alucius followed, craning his sinuous neck upwards to observe the strange bluish-grey clusters of nests that dimpled the roof of the cavern high above.
They were large and domed and appeared to be made of baked mud. As the two wyrmes glided up towards them, Alucius could see that the nests were decorated with clawcut patterns; squares and circles and spirals, sun-rays and cross-hatching, and intricate interwoven designs that looked like plaited grass. Each mud nest had twenty or more openings, with hundreds of blueblackwyrmes flying in and out of them.
This colony, Alucius realized, like the blueblackwyrmes themselves, dwarfed his own, and must number into the thousands.
Flying close to his escort, Alucius swooped and swerved past countless wyrmes who were feeding on the clouds of iridescent sulphur flies that swarmed in the hot air. They stared at him with their bright sapphire eyes, but seemed content to let the strange whitewyrme in their midst pass unmolested.
With a tilt of his wings, the blueblackwyrme soared up towards the cavern ceiling, where he selected an entrance to one of the great mud domes and disappeared inside. Summoning what remained of his strength and courage, Alucius followed him.
Warm humid air enveloped him and, from the gloom inside the dome, Alucius was aware that there were many pairs of eyes upon him. Looking up, he could see that the interior was terraced, and on the curved ledges, wyrmes of all ages were jostling for position and talking loudly in their harsh jarring voices that were so difficult to listen to. At the centre of the sloping floor, on a bed of yellow lichen and red mossbloom, sat a blueblackwyrme of immense age, judging by his great curved claws, elongated chinspike and the overlapping scales that ridged his back.
A hush fell as Alucius’s escort stepped forward. He bowed his head in supplication.
‘Beveesh-gar, the thin-necked snowwyrmes we sighted have arrived at the steam pools. I brought this one for you to see for yourself.’
The ancient wyrme turned his great head and Alucius saw that he had lost an eye. The other stared at him unblinkingly.
‘What my scouts have reported is true,’ the ancient wyrme conceded. ‘You are indeed odd-looking, and your wyrme calls are strange to our ears.’ Beveesh-gar’s eye narrowed. ‘But tell me, snowwyrme, what is to stop us breaking those fine wings of yours, and snapping those slender necks.’
Alucius bowed his head. ‘We offer you and your colony no threat,’ he said, forcing a growl into his soft whistling call. ‘We ask only to be allowed to rest and recover from our journey. We have travelled far from our lands to escape the taint of the two-hides.’
‘Two-hides?’ said Beveesh-gar.
Alucius raised his head. ‘Man, they call themselves,’ he said, ‘but our name for them is two-hides, since they cover their own hide with a second hide.’
‘Why?’
‘For protection,’ Alucius said. ‘Manhide burns in the sun and offers no warmth against wind or snow. And it tears easily …’
‘They sound weak, these two-hides,’ Beveesh-gar observed, and from the ledges above came growls of agreement. ‘So why do you fear them so much that you and your snowwyrmes fled from your roosts in the middle of fullwinter?’
‘They are many and we are few,’ said Alucius, his yellow eyes trained on Beveesh-gar. ‘And what the two-hides lack in individual strength, they make up for in cunning. They have ways to kill wyrmes that we do not understand: holes that open up beneath our feet, invisible entanglements that ensnare us, and thorns that whistle on the wind and tear our flesh … And all so that they can rip our hides from our backs and take them as their own. It makes no sense to us, this killing …’
Alucius paused. Beveesh-gar stared at him, saying nothing, waiting for this snowwyrme to continue. And when he did, Alucius’s voice was soft and mournful.
‘Some of our number tried to understand the two-hides,’ he said. ‘They took their young and gave them their sloughed skin. But those wyrmes have now got the two-hide taint themselves, and are drawn into killing in their own strange ways. And that the colony cannot accept. So, rather than be tainted ourselves—’
‘You took flight,’ Beveesh-gar sneered. ‘And came here.’
He raised his sapphire eye to the ledges above him. They were crowded now with blueblackwyrmes who chittered and rasped as they made room for the wyrmes still arriving.
‘Hear this, thin-neck snowwyrme. We, the clans of the fire rifts, shall tolerate your presence, but only if you stay out of our way,’ the blueblackwyrme announced, his voice amplified by the curved walls of the mud dome. He leaned closer to Alucius, his head cocked to one side as he fixed the whitewyrme with a penetrating stare. ‘But these two-hides,’ he growled. ‘They interest me …’
Thirty-Six
‘She and her farmers need to be taught a lesson,’ the eel-mother said, her shrill voice shot with sour recrimination.
The flickering light of the smoking tallow candles played on the wet walls of the kelds’ gathering chamber. The air was cold and dank, and the two fat crevicewyrmes coiled round the eel-mother’s fleshy shoulders slithered closer for warmth.
‘But with the winter caller still gone,’ she said, ‘we will have to wait till the thaw to make our move.’
Beside her, slumped in a chair of human thighbones and skin, Blue Slake the poisoner gave a slurfing laugh. He raised a claw-like hand and wiped round the hole in his face where his nose had once been.
‘Like I always said, you can’t trust those who turn to farming,’ he muttered.
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ Cutter Daniel observed levelly. The liquor bottles tied to his coat jangled as he withdrew his left hand and extended his right, so that the dull-eyed slave kneeling before him might complete his nails, filing them to needlepoints. ‘But I agree with you. Get too close to the kith and you forget that you are keld.’ He reached out and ran a razor-sharp nail across the slave’s cheek, drawing blood, then licked his finger. ‘But that’s no excuse. She agreed to pay us a share if we allowed them to set up on their own—’
‘And now those payments have ceased,’ Blue Slake interrupted, and shook his head.
‘And you know why, don’t you?’ hissed the eel-mother. ‘It’s because they’ve got greedy. They’re trading every drop they make with kith on the trail, and leaving none for us.’
