6
Green leaves blurred as Athena whipped through the canopy, searching for a tall tree to perch on. She didn’t want to breach into open air, at least, not yet. Instead, she found a tall, pine-like conifer, with gnarled bark and sharp, pin-like leaves. It towered above the trees around it and she landed with outstretched claws. Careful to avoid detection, she crawled up its trunk and inserted herself among the needles at the top.
A few hundred feet back and even further below, Fletcher and his team peered at Verity’s tablet, which Cress unashamedly confessed to having ‘borrowed’ when the young noble was not looking.
‘I can’t see a thing,’ Othello murmured, leaning closer to the tablet. ‘There are branches in the way.’
Fletcher nudged Athena forward with a thought. Strangely, she did not seem afraid at all. Instead, he sensed exhilaration and knew she was in her element among the treetops. Gryphowls were solitary rovers by nature; never staying in one place for too long, so the unfamiliar territory did not intimidate her.
Within the branches, Athena used her claws to push aside the green needles, then poked her head through to survey the landscape around her. Using her flexible, owl-like neck, she slowly turned to give them a panoramic view of the skyline.
‘Bloody hell,’ Cress breathed.
Mountains stretched into the heavens ahead, rust red against the pale yellow of the dimming sky. They curved east, half encircling them in a sierra of jagged peaks, towering so high that the Beartooth Mountains were mere hills in comparison. To the west, a sparkling sea glimmered, with emerald green shallows that slowly darkened into the dusky blue of fathomless depths.
The skies were almost devoid of life, except for a few moving specks too far away to discern. A pall of clouds hung low, blocking the view directly above. A low-flying Ropen half a mile away was the only identifiable creature – a large, featherless hybrid of bat and bird, with wings of stretched membrane, a pelican-like beak full of teeth and an elongated crest on the back of its head.
‘We’re trapped,’ Sylva stated, tracing her finger along the mountaintops. ‘Sea to the left, mountains straight ahead and to the right. We can’t get through and see what’s beyond. So we have to go back. Take our chances in the orcs’ part of the ether.’
‘Aye,’ Othello agreed, shaking his head.
Fletcher gritted his teeth; his heart was pumping with disappointment. They had lost fifteen hours since their arrival – and their way back was through desolate swamps and Sobek-infested waters. Not to mention the fact that Sheldon was needed to get through the water: he hadn’t once deviated from his course, even when the way had been snarled with fallen tree branches.
‘Sheldon,’ Fletcher said, thinking aloud. ‘He hasn’t turned once.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Sylva asked, prying a clump of lichen from the shell and hurling it angrily into the trees.
‘Sheldon’s heading straight for those mountains,’ Fletcher said, standing up and looking at the Zaratan’s direction. As if he recognised his name, Sheldon swung his ponderous head at them and blinked slowly, before returning to his lumbering across the soggy land.
‘So what?’ Sylva said, though her eyes had brightened.
‘He’s heading somewhere, and he’s not built for climbing. There must be a way through. Guys, what do you remember about Zaratans? Are they good at navigating?’ Fletcher asked.
He had never really thought his demonology lessons would be important or, at least, not the lessons about obscure demons such as the one they rode now.
‘They can grow pretty big, maybe three or four times Sheldon’s size,’ Cress said. ‘But I think that’s only the really ancient ones. Sheldon’s probably in his prime.’
‘They migrate annually, as do many other species of demon,’ Othello said, scratching at his beard, ‘congregating to breed and lay their eggs – though where wasn’t specified.’
‘When?’ Fletcher asked. ‘When do they do it?’
‘Winter time,’ Othello said, a half-smile slowly spreading across his face. ‘Like … right now.’
‘So unless he’s never made this journey before, he probably knows exactly where he’s going.’ Fletcher grinned, and it suddenly felt as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders. ‘If we stay on him long enough, he’ll take us through the mountains.’
‘You horny devil, you,’ Cress said, slapping Sheldon’s shell. ‘You’re off to find a missus, aren’t you?’
Fletcher burst out laughing. It felt good to laugh, and the others joined in, until their sides hurt and Fletcher was struggling for breath. Even Ignatius seemed to be happier, barking and spinning around. Athena rejoined them and settled back in Alice’s lap. For a time, at least, they were happy.
But soon the light began to fade, and their happiness with it. Their stomachs rumbled and their flasks sloshed half empty. Despite the apparent lifelessness of their surroundings, strange noises echoed through the treetops and they could hear nocturnal creatures prowling close by. They had left the swamplands now, and the trees were becoming so congested that Sheldon struggled to pass between them.
Tosk was on night watch, but with every snap and rustle Fletcher found himself sitting up and gazing into the gloom. He saw nothing but shadow upon shadow. Still, Tosk seemed unperturbed, even when he heard a low snarling from what felt like a few yards away.
A moment later, in the dim darkness, a blue glow appeared, the chill light matching the icy fear that took hold of him.
‘Guys, wake up,’ Fletcher whispered, shaking the others.
‘You thought I was sleeping?’ Othello said, turning over and rubbing his spine. ‘It’s bloody impossible, with this pineapple of a shell and that racket—’
‘Quiet!’ Fletcher hissed, clamping his hand over Othello’s mouth.
Sylva was silent, but rolled into a low crouch, her falx half drawn from its scabbard on her back.
‘Wyrdlight – over there,’ Fletcher whispered, pointing at the glow. It was growing stronger by the second, and Fletcher could see dark shapes skittering past them – tiny demons escaping the unnatural light.
Fletcher heard the creak of wood and metal as Cress slowly cranked her crossbow, and his heart hammered in his chest as he peered into the gloom.
‘Shamans?’ Sylva hissed.
The first speck appeared clearly now, glowing an electric blue in the darkness. Soon others followed. They were small, perhaps smaller than a normal wyrdlight, but brighter and more numerous, with hundreds of them spread out in a line across the forest as far as the eye could see. Stranger still, their movement seemed purposeful and co-ordinated.
Then they saw it. Figures, following behind the swarm of lights, walking with the slow pace of sleepwalkers.
‘They’re combing the forest for us,’ Cress gasped, edging away as the halo of light turned Sheldon’s shell a dull blue. ‘We should climb into the trees!’
‘No, wait,’ Othello growled, holding up his hand. ‘Look.’
The dark shapes were demons. At first they confirmed Fletcher’s suspicions that shamans were nearby, for there was a mishmash of species that would rarely be seen together. A shaggy-haired Canid stumbled over a tree root, its eyes fixed on the lights above. Three Lavellans, ratty rodents with poisonous fangs, followed in a line nearby. A dozen lesser Mites of varying colours trundled along the ground beside them, ranging in size from that of a weevil to a stag beetle.
There was even a Baku, a rare, pig-sized demon with an elephantine trunk and tusks, and the striped orange fur of a tiger. But all walked like the zombies of legend, mesmerised by the lights above.
‘Will-o’-the-wisps,’ Othello said, his brow creased in consternation. ‘We needn’t worry.’
‘What do you mean?’ Fletcher asked, shuffling back as the glowing specks of blue light neared the shell.
‘They fill their translucent abdomens with wyrdlight and use it to move around, like tiny, limbless glow-worms.’
Even as Othello replied, Fletcher could see tiny motes of black beneath the lights.
‘What are they doing?’ Sylva whispered, waving her hand at one as it floated past.
‘They’re leading them to their deaths,’ Othello murmured.
The Canid knocked against Sheldon’s trunk-like leg, but it seemed not to notice, merely continuing on beneath the Zaratan’s belly.
‘They mesmerise demons with their lights and lead them into swamps, or quicksand, or anywhere their victims will die. Then they feed on the corpses and lay their eggs in them. It’s probably why this area is so lifeless – it must be infested with them. Luckily, it only works on smaller, wild demons.’
Fletcher shuddered and drew his coat closer around him. They had seemed so beautiful, yet their true purpose left a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He realised that Othello was the only one of the group to have had two years at Vocans, and the dwarf’s knowledge would be useful in the coming days. He only hoped that they would avoid the more dangerous demons of the ether.
The group watched in silence as the blue light faded, and the mesmerised demons disappeared into the gloom. Fletcher shuffled closer to his mother, but saw she was sleeping, curled up with Ignatius and Athena nestling beside her.
‘We should have killed it,’ Sylva murmured, so low that Fletcher could barely hear her over the dull thuds of Sheldon’s footsteps.
‘Killed what?’ he asked.
‘The Baku,’ she replied, pointing the way the demons had gone. ‘It’s a prey demon – low on the food chain. Plenty of meat on it too.’
‘You want to eat demons?’ Cress gasped, overhearing.
‘You’ve been eating them since you got here – hell, even before you got here,’ Sylva said, pointing at their dwindling supplies of petals. ‘Didn’t Electra say plants from the ether are technically demons too?’
‘Yeah, but … it feels wrong,’ Cress said, pulling Tosk to her chest and cuddling him protectively.
‘Well, it’s either that or starve,’ Sylva replied. ‘Unless Hominum’s part of the ether is around the corner – which it isn’t, by the look of those mountains – we’re going to need to feed ourselves at some point.’
‘I’ve never heard of anyone eating a demon before, although I hear shamans do it during some of their ceremonies,’ Cress mused.
The thought of eating a demon had never crossed Fletcher’s mind. It repulsed him in some ways, but then, demons ate meat from his dimension. Why could he not do so in theirs?
‘Fletcher, what do you reckon?’ Othello said, watching his face as he mulled it over.
Fletcher grinned and shook his head ruefully, suddenly acutely aware of the hollowness in his empty stomach.
‘Get some sleep,’ he said, scooting over to his mother and laying himself out beside her. ‘Tomorrow, we hunt.’