12
What do we know of the Jure’lia, then? Astonishingly little, given how long they have been haunting our history.
First, Jure’lia comes from the Kesenstan word for ‘worm’, or, more accurately, ‘worm people’. As far as we can tell, Kesenstan would have been one of the first places to experience an invasion; artefacts dating back thousands of years have been found during mining operations in the country. We do not know what the Jure’lia call themselves.
Second, the Jure’lia are not from Sarn. Or, at least, not from any part of it we know about – not from the surface of Sarn . . . do you begin to see the problem? Every few centuries or so, they appear in our skies apparently from nowhere, and begin the relentless destruction of our lands, our cities, our people. I say ‘our’ here in the broadest sense – the Jure’lia focus their attacks on no particular country or nation, and send forth no diplomat to negotiate terms. Efforts have been made to communicate in the past, but it has always ended badly for our delegates.
We call the ships they arrive in Behemoths, and for good reason. Bigger than anything seen on Sarn, these flying contraptions are great, bulbous things, resembling, if anything, the humble woodlouse (for reference: Rolda de Grazon made a number of extraordinary sketches during the Eighth Rain, which are kept in the Grazon family archive, and these I have compared to other contemporary reports. Dear distant Cousin Rolda had a good eye). Within these Behemoths travel the seeds of their entire force. Behemoths that have been brought down and crashed into the surface of Sarn have proved difficult to explore, with most accounts of the interiors making little sense – the general assumption is that something within the broken ships causes humans to lose their sanity. It’s not a comforting thought. In recent times, pieces of broken-up Behemoth, shards of their strange green or black ‘moon-metal’, are known to generate or attract the beings known as ‘parasite spirits’ – no one knows why this is, whether they are from Sarn itself, or a direct fallout of this alien technology. The parasite spirits only started appearing after the Eighth Rain, for reasons we may never know. One theory I believe has merit is that they are some sort of ‘sleeping weapon’, left behind by the Jure’lia as a way of further poisoning our land while they themselves recuperate. It’s a fascinating idea.
Within each Behemoth will be several hundred ‘mothers’. As ever, with the Jure’lia, we are uncertain whether or not these creatures are entirely organic, or manufactured in some way. With six mobile legs coming together in a central ‘cup’, they mostly look like especially tall spiders, although without eyes or mandibles or even an abdomen. Instead, the cup holds a sac, pearlescent in colour, which generates, or gives birth to, thousands of ‘burrowers’, also referred to as ‘bugs’. These creatures look a little like beetles with soft body casings. They are narrow, with multiple legs, and, unfortunately, that’s about all I know as no organic material has ever survived from them. Infamously, burrowers are the true horror of the Jure’lia, and the method via which they threaten to conquer Sarn – burrowers will hide inside a human victim and ‘eat’ away their insides, leaving a hollow interior coated in a strange, black, viscous substance. Whatever this substance is, it is more than simple waste material, as it leaves the victim conscious and able to communicate to some extent – although, of course, all trace of their previous personality has been replaced with the Jure’lia hive. Such unfortunate souls are effectively dead – at least, to their families and friends.
When the burrowers have done their work, what we’re left with are drones. They make up the vast majority of the Jure’lia force, and represent a terrible psychological toll on the survivors. Fight against the Jure’lia and you will be killing enemies with the faces of your neighbours, your friends, your family, your lover. We know from accounts of previous invasions that armies have suffered significant losses of morale, which in turn has been devastating.
Also contained within the Behemoths are ‘maggots’ (also referred to, rather colourfully, as the ‘shitters’, but I will stick to maggots for my purposes). Maggots are enormous living creatures, around sixty feet long and twenty feet wide. They move slowly, and seem to largely consist of a mouth at one end and an anus at the other, with a fat segmented middle section (for reference, again dear Cousin Rolda has done a series of drawings, from several angles. I must assume that because these things take a while to travel any distance, he was able to spend some time studying them). These creatures appear to have been entirely organic, with no interior skeleton and, consequently, no physical sign of them remains. These creatures made their slow way across Sarn, guarded by mothers and by drones, and consumed all the organic material in their paths. Trees, grass, plants, crops, animals, anything slower than them – and then excreted a vast amount of a thick, viscous slime, dark green in colour. This substance would then set, becoming harder than steel and smothering anything that came into contact with it.
It is possible to see evidence of this ‘suffocation’ at several locations around Sarn, most notably at the so-called ‘abyssal fields’ on the Wintertree plains – here you can experience a landscape so bleak and horrifying that I wouldn’t recommend more than an hour’s visit. It is possible, through the thick layer of vaguely translucent green varnish, to see the lost earth beneath, with strands of lost grass frozen in time. And a fair few bodies too – some are almost certainly drones who did not get out of the maggots’ way in time, and others were humans fleeing the invasion. It is a sad sight indeed, and deeply eerie – these men and women died hundreds of years ago, yet the maggot fluid has preserved them so well it looks like they have simply ducked their heads below the waters of a pond for a few brief moments.
There are similar sights at the Fon-sein Temple of the Lost, to the east of Brindlebrook in Reilans, the Iron Market Memorial in Mushenska, and in the Thousand Tooth Valley, although that particular stretch of ‘varnish’, as it has become known, has been built on top of and has become something of an attraction for travellers. The varnish has proved near impossible to move, which rather raises the question: will the Jure’lia eventually win by simply covering us over, piece by piece, however long it takes? An alarming thought.
Extract from the journals of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
As the dismal summer faded and autumn fell over Ebora, Hestillion kept largely to the sprawling confines of Ygseril’s palace. What she had told Lord Moureni about the wolves was true; they were normal wolves, not worm-touched creatures half mad with the taint of the Wild, and they didn’t seem interested in her bony flesh, but that could well change as the colder months drew in. Whoever was left outside the palace would have to deal with that as they saw fit.
It was a cold, grey morning, chilly enough for her to see her breath before her even as she walked the corridors of the palace. It was just a cold snap – the true brutality of winter was a way off yet – but it was a reminder that she would need to start stockpiling firewood, and bring the warmer gowns out of storage. This morning, though, she had set aside for other concerns. She paused outside the Hall of Roots, needlessly glancing over her shoulder in case there was anyone there to observe her. The doors were as stiff and heavy as they had ever been, and she had to lean her entire body weight on them to squeeze her narrow frame through the gap. Inside, the echoing hall was a forest of shadowed shapes, ghostly in the muted light from the glass roof. A hundred years ago, when he was still alive, Hestillion’s uncle, Nourem, had become convinced that the plains people on the other side of the mountain were planning to band together to sack Ebora. He had been a sharp man in his day, but years of watching his people die and the early stages of the crimson flux had pushed him towards some teetering, paranoid edge. He had ordered all their valuables to be stored in the Hall of Roots, reasoning that it was the most defensible space in the entire city. Their artworks, their paintings, their sculptures and finest furniture had been brought into the hall and covered with sheets, and then allowed to moulder here in silence. Hestillion remembered watching the room fill up with their ancient treasures, and how the men and women moving the objects did not look at Ygseril, not even once. To them, the god was no longer there. It was just another piece of their lost history, gathering dust under the sky.
Hestillion wove her way between the shrouded statues of Eboran war-beasts and the towering blood-vial cabinets, heading towards the giant ghost in the centre of the room. Ygseril was a looming grey presence, his branches spread over her head like a cloud. Just as she had when she was a child, she climbed out onto the thick roots, feeling the solid cold press of their rippled bark through her slippers. It was so hard to get warm in this place. She promised herself a roaring fire when she was back in her suite.
‘Hello, old man.’ She sat down where the trunk met the roots, resting her back against the chilly bark. From here, Ygseril filled the whole world. ‘Another quiet day.’
Silence hung in the Hall of Roots, an invisible shroud that Hestillion could almost imagine brushing against her skin – clammy and clinging, like death. Music was something else they had lost in the gradual collapse of Ebora. When was the last time she had listened to a song sung by someone else, or the playing of instruments? Ebora had once been full of men and women who were exceptionally skilled musicians and composers, having dedicated centuries of their lives to learning their craft. Once, Ygseril’s palace had echoed continually with music. Her brother had dedicated most of his years to swordplay and then to the more secretive disciplines practised in the House of the Long Night. He was very good at it, he never tired of telling her, and by all reports, he was right. Hestillion herself had never been drawn to music, instead studying painting and embroidery, but her greatest passion had been for dream-walking. Tormalin had always said that she was the finest dream-walker Ebora had produced, that she could hide herself within a dream as well as a grasshopper within a glade. Hestillion smiled bitterly to herself. Perhaps he had been right; it hardly mattered now.
Thinking of the dream-walking, she ran her hands over the cold bark underneath her. Once again, she looked around to make sure she was alone. Aldasair had not been in here in years, but that didn’t mean he might not suddenly decide to make the trip – his mind was slowly spooling into chaos, after all.
Bowing her head, Hestillion closed her eyes, feeling her mind sink into the shadowy netherdarkness. It closed around her, as comforting to Hestillion as being held by a dear parent. She looked around. Darkness, almost entirely. There was a faint light that pulsed softly, which she knew to be Lord Moureni. Sleeping now, edging closer and closer to the point where he simply wouldn’t wake up. She felt a brief stab of curiosity about the old Lord’s dreams, wondering if he would be reliving past glories on the battlefield, but the possibility that he dreamed of misery, illness and a slow death was too great. She had no wish to share that with him. Another dreaming mind nearby was brighter. She was half surprised that Aldasair was still asleep when the sun had been up for hours, but then what else was there to do in this place now, but sleep? His dreaming mind was bright, a torch in the darkness. Allowing herself to feel briefly reassured by its presence, she turned her own mind away. In the netherdarkness, Ygseril was a great grey blot, a shadow in the dreamspace.
‘Ygseril. Are you there?’
There was no change in the grey shadow, no light to indicate a dreaming mind, not even a flicker. Just as it had been for hundreds of years.
‘I still believe you are there, somehow. You sleep more deeply than any of us, that is all.’
Moving towards the shadow until it was all around her, Hestillion pushed her consciousness deep into the surrounding gloom, feeling for the resistance that would normally come before she entered a dream. It was like walking in the thickest fog. Once, when she and Tormalin had been small, they had gone exploring the ornamental forest that curled around the northern wall of the palace. It was an exquisitely beautiful place; every tree, every small hill, every plant and streamlet had been placed according to a design by Ebora’s foremost gardener. In the summer months it was an island of greenery, thick with blossom and the scent of flowers, but they had gone walking in midwinter, and a swirling fog had grown up between the tree trunks. The white mist had made her think of forgetfulness, and as the trees and the plants vanished behind it, she had been filled with a terrible sense of loss. She had looked at her brother, and had seen the same misery on his face. Once, she and Tormalin had often shared the same feelings. That was a long time ago.
This was fog on a much grander scale. The shadow that was Ygseril was all around her, and although she searched with every fibre of her dreamself, there was nothing.
‘Come back to us, Ygseril. Come back.’
Nothing. Hestillion swallowed hard, feeling an echo of that same loss and despair she had felt in the garden with Tormalin, so long ago. In desperation, she cast her awareness downwards, feeling along the complex labyrinth that was Ygseril’s roots. Down and down, into a darkness that rivalled the netherdarkness itself, until she felt lost, disconnected from herself. It was tempting to keep going, to keep pushing until whatever held her to her own body snapped, to sever that connection and stay lost in the fog forever. Better that than a slow death watching Ebora collapse into a horror of blood and empty corridors. But the truth was, she was too good at this. She had travelled further in the netherdark before, and survived, more than once.
Her heart stuttered. The tiniest blink of light had flickered on the edge of her awareness, just for a second. It had been there and gone so fast that she wasn’t certain she hadn’t imagined it, or if it had been an anomaly of her own vision – her brain trying to create light and colour when she had been in the darkness for so long. Without pausing to think further, Hestillion dived after it, seeking the space where it had been. The darkness pressed in around her, claustrophobic now, and she could almost feel the roots surrounding her, half unseen. Was it her imagination, or was the greyness lighter here? For a fleeting moment, it was almost as though she were standing in a dark room with someone beside her. If she reached out, without looking, she could touch them . . .
A hand curled around the top of her arm, and she was back in the Hall of Roots, her eyes wide open.
‘Aldasair! What are you doing?’
The young man was crouched on the roots next to her, his tousled hair half falling over his face. He was still wearing his night robe, and his eyes were heavy with sleep. How long had she been in the netherdark, searching?
‘You were asleep,’ he said, a shade defensively. ‘I wanted you to come and eat with me. And there’s someone here.’
‘You idiot.’ Hestillion shook his hand away. Had she simply been sensing Aldasair’s presence in the hall, or was it something else? ‘What do you mean, there’s someone here?’
‘I wanted to have rala root with my lunch, so I went outside to see if it’s still growing wild in the Red Singing Garden.’ Hestillion raised her eyebrows. This was as lucid as she’d seen Aldasair in months. ‘And I saw them, walking down the Great Street towards the palace. They were coming along very slowly, looking around at everything. They’ll get eaten by wolves if they don’t hurry up.’
Hestillion stood up, swaying slightly – she had been very deep in the netherdark when Aldasair had pulled her out of it, and the speed with which she had been drawn back was disorientating. She glanced up at the trunk of Ygseril, wondering if she’d imagined the light, but there was no time to think about it now. ‘Aldasair, do you mean there are humans in Ebora?’
Aldasair brushed his hands down the front of his night gown. It was slightly dusty. ‘That’s precisely what I mean. All the rala root is dead, by the way.’
Hestillion hurried to the front gates, smoothing her hair back behind her ears while Aldasair followed her reluctantly. She had at least put on one of her finer padded gowns this morning – deep emerald green with a turquoise pattern of spiral serpents – and although she wore no jewellery her boots were studded with lesser gems. It would do, for meeting with surprise guests. She could see them already beyond the golden gates, a ragtag group of men and women standing very close together. From the shapes of their faces and the elaborate travelling tents they carried with them they were plains people, which was in itself a surprise. Since the Carrion Wars plains people had rarely come to Ebora voluntarily. Hestillion consciously smoothed her brow and put on her most welcoming smile before slipping out through the gates; they were always left open these days.
‘Greetings!’ she called. ‘I cannot tell you how good it is to see visitors here. You must have come a long way.’
The small group were watching her with dark eyes. They wore soft deerskin leggings and heavy woollen garments that swept their shoulders with bright colours – reds, yellows, purples and greens – and hoods of horsehair circled their faces. As she watched, the men and women shuffled aside to reveal a sturdy wooden litter with a heavily padded seat at the centre. In it was a tiny, ancient woman, mostly concealed by blankets and her own horsehair hood. One long-fingered hand, leathery with exposure to weather, gripped the arm of the seat.
‘You are in charge here, girl?’ The woman’s voice was cracked with age, but firm.
Hestillion came forward, her own hands folded into her sleeves against the cold. ‘I suppose you could say that I am. Please, let me take you all inside. Whatever hospitality we have left will be yours.’
The figure in the litter raised her hand, beckoning.
‘Let me have a look at you first. Been years since I’ve seen a real, live Eboran.’
Hestillion came forward slowly. She did not look at the men and women who stood with the litter, but she could feel the distrust radiating from them. As she drew closer, the old woman leaned forward, pushing her horsehair hood back. Hestillion’s first instinct was to gasp, to look away, but she swallowed it down.
The woman must have been nearly a hundred years old, unspeakably ancient for a human. Her skin was as thin as a dried leaf and looked just as fragile, peppered all over with dark brownish age spots. This was not what had alarmed Hestillion though; at some point in the past, the old woman had been very badly burned. The skin on her face and neck was a raw, shiny pink, the flesh melted and twisted beyond all recognition. Her right eye was gone, a slippery pucker of scar tissue in its place, and her hair was reduced to a few scanty white braids on the left side of her head. Her mouth was little more than a slit, and the eye that was left was a deep dark brown. It fixed Hestillion with a piercing gaze.
‘I am Mother Fast, girl. I had a dream, and I’ve come to lend my aid to Ebora.’