4
In order to properly understand the Jure’lia and their queen, we have to know something of their opposite number. In recent times, the Eborans have been almost as hated and reviled as the invaders; their only saving grace perhaps the fact that they have, for thousands and thousands of years, held back attack after attack from the worm people.
What should we know of Ebora? For generations they were sustained in their glory by their god Ygseril, known more prosaically to outsiders as ‘the tree-god’. The sap of their great tree, ingested orally, made them almost immortal – young forever, inhumanly strong, impervious to most wounds and diseases, and perhaps, to human eyes, beautiful.
And then at the end of the Eighth Rain, the last great war with the invaders, Ygseril suddenly died. There was no more sap. The Eborans began to grow old, they began to grow weak. They became ill, just as humans do, and succumbed to injuries and infections. Eborans do not have children at the drop of a hat like humans do, and without the sap, newly born children grew rarer and rarer. It was a disaster. Their great cities beyond the Wall began to fall into disrepair, and the Eboran people into despair.
In time it was discovered that human blood could be used as a substitute (please see journal 73 on Lady Carmillion for the possibly apocryphal details of that incident). Blood was not nearly as powerful as the god-sap had been, of course, but it did slow their aging, and it gave them back their strength, their vitality, acting almost as a stimulant in small doses. Over a period of time, in sufficient quantities, it could even heal grievous injuries, to some extent.
Unsurprisingly, relations between Ebora and their human neighbours deteriorated rapidly.
So began the years of the Carrion Wars. Ebora sporadically invaded the surrounding territories – the nomadic plains peoples taking the brunt of the attacks – stealing away human captives to be donors and, eventually, simply killing and ‘harvesting’ their human victims there on the battlefield. Out of desperation? Fear? Perhaps. Without their war-beasts born from Ygseril the Eborans were not as fearsome as they had been, but they were still stronger than the average human warrior, and could heal faster. It was carnage, and who knows where it would have ended? Except that human blood turned out not to be their saviour, but their curse.
The first recorded case of the crimson flux befell Lady Quinosta. Known for her prodigious consumption of human blood – bottle after bottle decanted at every meal, she would also bathe in the stuff – she awoke one day to find herself in terrible pain, her body stiff and unresponsive. Her white skin grew hard and cracked, revealing livid red flesh beneath. She developed a terrible cough, and her silk handkerchiefs were soon soaked with the strange fluid that passes for Eboran blood. She took to her bed, and spent six months dying in agony. Human blood did nothing to arrest the progress of the illness – it made it worse. And she was just the first.
Ebora was decimated. Those few who have so far survived the disease now keep to the land beyond the Tarah-hut Mountains, and many, it is said, still drink human blood in small, regular doses. Enough to keep old age and weakness at bay, but not enough to summon the crimson flux. They hope.
Extract from the journals of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
There was half an inch of wine left in the bottom of the bottle. Untangling his arm from the sheets, Tormalin reached across and snatched it up. There were no glasses within reach of the bed, but he was no savage, so he poured it into one of Sareena’s empty incense bowls instead. He took a sip and then spotted the tray of cheese and fruits she had left on the small table on the other side, so he rolled in that direction, narrowly avoiding tossing the wine over the sheets and falling out of the bed.
‘What are you doing?’
Sareena had returned, a bottle of sweetly perfumed oil in her arms. She wore the purple silks he’d bought for her on a previous visit, and they shifted and swirled around her body as he’d known they would. He grinned at her.
‘I am hungry, my sweet.’
She raised an eyebrow at him and came to sit on the bed, in the warm space left by the curve of his body. Tor drank the last of the wine and set the bowl on the table, before chasing a ball of cheese around the plate with his fingers. It kept getting away from him.
‘I’m not surprised you are hungry,’ said Sareena. She laid the bottle, still stoppered, on the bed, and smoothed some strands of hair away from his face. ‘But does it always have to be cheese?’ She wrinkled her nose, which Tor found delightful. ‘And always the most pungent ones.’
Tor kicked his legs out and lay with one arm under his head, contemplating the cheese. ‘There are few things as fine, Sareena, as a good piece of cheese and a decent glass of wine.’
‘Except you are not even drinking it out of a glass.’ She drew herself up, preparing to tease him. ‘I am sure that the House of the Long Night does not whiff of strange cheeses, or keep ridiculous drinking vessels.’
Tor sat up and put the cheese to one side. He could feel the wine warming his blood and everything in the room was pleasantly hazy, but he attempted to focus. ‘You are quite right, of course.’ He took hold of both her hands, running the pads of his thumbs over the sensitive skin of her wrists. The Early Path: Spring’s First Touch. ‘It is a place of great seriousness, and we have a contract, you and I. Forgive me, Sareena, for neglecting you.’
Her cheeks turned a little pink, and she even turned her smile away from him. He loved the fact that she was still bashful, could still blush at his words, even after all these months.
‘If you knew how jealous my sisters are,’ she said, ‘you would know no forgiveness is needed.’ Her smile was now wicked. ‘Our arrangement is very satisfactory to me, Tormalin the Oathless.’
He kept his eyes on hers, and gently ran his fingers along the underside of her forearms. He felt rather than saw her shiver. The Early Path: The Rising Leaf.
‘Do you want the oil?’ she asked. Her eyes – a deep dark brown, just like her hair – were very wide, and as he smiled she bit the edge of her lip.
‘In a little while.’
Tor knelt and slid one hand around her waist to rest on the small of her back. Very gently, he pulled her to him, and he touched his lips to the smooth place where her neck met her shoulders. A line of kisses there, feather light. The Early Path: Spring’s First Flight.
‘Mmm.’ Sareena swayed with him, and he could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Do they really teach you all this at the House of the Long Night?’
‘I studied . . .’ he transferred his attention to the other side of her neck – ‘for years.’
He followed the line of her jaw and then kissed her mouth, firmly at first, and then deeply. The Morning Sun: Dawn’s Prayer. She responded eagerly, smoothing her hands along his arms and then his bare chest. Quickly, he gathered her up and lay her down in front of him, and she laughed a little – she was always caught unawares by how strong he was. Carefully, he pulled at one of the silk ties holding her outfit together, and the upper part began to unravel. She wriggled a little, and Tor smiled – he had known how the silk would feel against her skin, and had had the shift made specifically for this effect.
Leaning over her, he kissed the bare skin of her breastbone, and touched the tip of his tongue there. The Morning Sun: The Heart’s Obeisance. She sighed, and when she spoke again her voice was huskier.
‘That is very good, Tor, I can’t even begin to tell you . . .’
He followed the line of her body down, smoothing away the ribbons of purple silk and tasting her skin as he went. She was apricots and smoke, and a faint curl of oil against his tongue, left over from their afternoon together. Her hands found his hair and pulled and pushed at it, running it through her fingers. She was making small noises now, taking small breaths. He should slow down. The High Sun: A Silk Flower.
Pulling back slightly, he slid his naked thigh along the inside of her own – The High Sun: Chasing Leaves – and was pleased as she shuddered amongst the sheets. The confection of purple silks had fallen completely away, and she was quite beautiful. He bent his head to her breasts, and caught her eye as he did so. ‘You are a feast,’ he told her, ‘and I, my sweet, am ravenous—’
Something solid crashed against the chamber door and they both jumped. Tor lifted his head, his hair hanging in his face.
‘Oh no.’
There was another crash. It sounded suspiciously like a large boot kicking the door.
‘Oh no.’
‘Tor!’ The voice was remarkably loud. Tor winced. ‘I know you’re in there. I told you to meet me at sun down and it’s already moon up!’
Tormalin sat up. ‘I’ll be with you in a little while, Vintage! There’s no rush. Honestly, woman, we’ve been poking around these things for years and it’s not as if they’re going anywhere—’
There was another thump. ‘Sareena, my dear,’ the voice called, ‘get back under the sheets for me, would you? There’s a good girl.’
Sareena raised an eyebrow at Tor – he didn’t miss the amusement in the quirk of her lips – and then shimmied over to the other side of the bed, where she swiftly wrapped herself in the bed covers. Abruptly, the door crashed open and an older woman with deep brown skin and a mass of tightly curled black hair stomped into the room.
‘Vintage!’ Tor put on his most outraged expression, and pulled the sheets around his waist. ‘This really is unacceptable. Unacceptable. How dare you interrupt—’
‘Darling, if I had to wait for you to voluntarily leave this good woman’s bed, I’d be waiting until the Tenth Rain. And stop clutching at yourself like a maiden, you’ve nothing I haven’t seen before.’
She smiled warmly at Sareena, who waved cheerfully enough.
Tor spluttered and did his best to look affronted, but it was difficult to retain the moral high ground when you were naked in front of a woman who you happened to know carried a crossbow on her belt. ‘Really, Vintage, we haven’t completed our transaction, and it is an insult to the teachings of the House of the Long Night.’
‘Are you drunk?’ Vintage stalked into the room and snatched up the empty bottle of wine, peering at the label. ‘And on this swill?’
‘Yes, I am quite drunk, which is exactly why I cannot accompany you on your latest ridiculous quest. It would be dangerous for both of us. And innocent bystanders, no doubt.’
‘Nonsense.’ Vintage put the bottle down and fixed him with a glare. ‘Get back into your trousers, dear, or I will spend your wages on buying this girl some decent wine.’
Tor sank back, defeated. He needed what Sareena could give him, but he needed coin more.
‘You are leaving Mushenska?’ asked Sareena. ‘You are going beyond the walls? Is that safe, Vin?’
Tor winked at her. ‘Worry not, my sweet. What is out there holds no fears for an Eboran warrior and his fabled sword.’
‘I’m sure the girl has heard quite enough about your fabled sword for one evening.’ Vintage turned back to the door. ‘You’ve got until I bring the horses round. Have a good night, Sareena my dear, and do send me the bill for the wine.’
Vintage went through her pack while she waited for Tor. The Frozen Moon Inn, where Sareena kept her suite of rooms, was on the very edge of Mushenska. From where she stood she could see the lanterns of the city wall, and the one great beacon that marked the northern gate. If the lad got a move on, they could reach the place before sunrise.
Notebooks, ink, spare crossbow quarrels. Oatcakes, ham, water, cheese. A thick pair of leather gloves, a small collection of tiny glass jars, ready for any specimen she might be able to take. Knives, increasingly smaller blades for fine work. Sketching charcoal, grease, oil, a bundle of small sticks, some other odds and ends she hoped she would not have to use. With a sigh, she pulled the flap shut on her pack and secured it. She was as ready as she could be. Perhaps, this time, it might be worth all the preparation.
A polite cough alerted her to his presence. Tor could tread very quietly when he wanted to.
‘You’ve dragged me out of a warm bed. I’m assuming you have spectacular reasons.’
Vintage tutted at him. ‘My darling, when do I not have spectacular reasons?’ She led him around the corner of the building into the stables where two young horses awaited them. There was a pack for Tor, already affixed to his saddle.
‘More Behemoth bits, I assume? Well, I have had a full bottle of wine, so you might have to remind me of the specifics,’ he said.
Vintage glanced up at his tall form. He did not look like a man recently rousted from bed with a bottle’s worth of wine inside him. In the gentle lamplight his handsome face looked carved from fine marble, his long black hair tied and bound into a tail on the back of his head. His clear eyes, the irises a deep ruddy colour in this light, were bright and alert, and he was dressed in his infuriating manner – that was to say, he appeared to have thrown together a collection of silks, furs and worn leathers and somehow managed to look exquisitely elegant. In the years they had been travelling through Sarn together, Vintage had never seen him look anything less than composed, even when turfed out of someone’s bed. The only sign that he’d had to rush was the lack of jewellery – he wore only a single silver earring in the shape of a leaf, and a silver ring with a fat red stone on his left hand; in the daylight, she knew, his eyes were the exact same colour as the stone. His sword belt was already in place, and his sword, the Ninth Rain, rested comfortably across his back. She grinned up at him.
‘More Behemoth bits or, at least, the potential to find some. Let’s get going. We’ll ride and talk.’
Together, they mounted their horses and made their way through Mushenska’s wide, cobbled streets. It was a large and crowded city, spilling over with lights on every corner and from every window; people felt safer when the shadows were kept at bay. Eventually, the great city wall loomed up ahead of them, and Vintage noted the beacons along it, the men and women armed with powerful longbows, and the solid black shapes of cauldrons. They would contain oil, which could be lit and tossed over the side at a moment’s notice. She had never witnessed an incident while she had been staying in Mushenska – much to her annoyance – but she had returned from travelling once to see the smoking body of a great Wild bear, and the claw marks it had left on the walls. It had been twelve feet tall, its muscles so enormous it was misshapen. What it could possibly have been thinking to attack the wall, Vintage did not know – but the poisoned wildlife of Sarn did not always behave rationally.
At the thickly reinforced gates they met a trio of guards who expressed a great deal of concern about them leaving at night, until Vintage passed them each small bags of coins. Even so, the eldest, a stocky woman with a scar slashed across her blunt nose, fixed Vintage with a pained expression.
‘If it can’t wait until morning, then that’s your lookout.’ She glanced once at Tor, then looked away. ‘But keep to the road. There are places further out that are getting overgrown, but it’s still better than being out in the Wild.’
Vintage nodded seriously, touched by the woman’s genuine concern. The gates were opened for them and they passed through, riding their horses out into a balmy night. Ahead of them stretched the northern road out of Mushenska, a featureless stretch of brown beaten earth. Scrubby grassland flanked the road, and in the distance was the darker presence of the forest – or, as the guard had called it – the Wild. Vintage knew that the further they travelled from the city, the closer the Wild would get. The people of the city worked to keep it back, but their efforts only stretched so far, and the Wild was always growing. Vintage cleared her throat as the gates rumbled closed behind them. The road was utterly clear, with not a soul in sight, and it was eerily quiet.
‘What’s the story then, Vintage? What’s the hurry? Surely this could have waited until the morning.’
Vintage touched her boot heels to her horse and they moved off smartly down the road. ‘There is a settlement, not too far from here. Well, I say settlement. It’s more a place where a few people bumped into each other and decided they were done travelling. A woman from there arrived early this morning, asking for aid. They have been visited. Half their livestock dead, and they’ve lost people, too.’
Tormalin snorted. ‘What do they expect, living out in the Wild?’
‘They expect to live their lives, just as all people do.’ Vintage shifted in her saddle. ‘Besides which, it is not the lively wildlife that is bothering them. It is a parasite spirit.’
Tor was quiet for a few moments. In the distance, the high and lonely call of some night bird rent the air.
‘They’ve not been bothered by one before?’
‘No. Which leads me to believe that there could be Behemoth remains nearby. Undiscovered ones.’ She looked over at Tor and smiled. ‘Can you imagine that, my dear?’
Tor didn’t look nearly as pleased. ‘Why now?’
‘A shifting of the earth has uncovered them, perhaps. A tree fallen in a storm has disturbed them, or perhaps just the rain. Or maybe something large has been digging.’ She shrugged. ‘Either way, it is worth a look. And the sooner we get there, the better chance we have of witnessing something ourselves. Besides which, we have decided that it is better to tackle these things in the dark, if we can. Have we not?’
Tor sighed. ‘You are right, of course.’
Vintage nodded. A year ago, they had been investigating an eerie stretch of land known to its locals as the Thinny. It was a ravine, partially filled with rockfall and the usual explosion of plant life that was typical of the Wild, and the far end of it, the stories went, was haunted by parasite spirits. A local man had insisted on accompanying them. Berron, his name had been, and he had been kind – just like the guard on the gate, he had been genuinely concerned for them. Had wanted to help. They had spent hours clambering through the shadowy strangeness of the ravine, until they had come to an unexpected clear patch. The walls of the ravine had fallen there, letting in bright sunshine. The three of them had stood blinking for a moment, dazzled by the unexpected light, and that was when the parasite spirit had taken Berron. A being mostly made of light is harder to see in the daylight. It was as simple as that.
A comfortable silence settled over them, and they rode for some time with only the sound of their horses’ hooves striking the dirt road. The night was still and the moon was as fat as a full tick, dusting the tops of the trees with a silver glow. In time, the Wild drew closer, eating up the scrubby grass and creeping towards the road.
‘It stalks us,’ pointed out Tor. Vintage felt a shiver of relief at the sound of his voice. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Nonsense, my dear.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘The Wild is not a living thing. Woods is woods, is what my father used to say.’
‘Did you spend much time in the vine forest at night?’
‘Not as such, no. The work we had to do there required daylight, but I did go walking after dark a few times. The night transforms a place like that. I grew up in between those trees, learned to walk and skinned my shins there, but at night it was like it no longer belonged to me.’
She could feel Tor’s eyes on her now.
‘Did it frighten you?’
‘It exhilarated me. That even the familiar can have secrets. Here, look, that track ahead. We must take that, and then we shall be there in a few hours.’
The track cut off from the main road and headed straight into the dark trees. As they turned, it was possible to see how the trees had been cut back from this new, smaller road; tree trunks, their blunt ends like pale imitations of the moon, flanked it on both sides.
‘Be on your guard, darling,’ said Vintage. Here, the Wild pressed in to either side, a curtain of darkness trying to close over them. Her horse shuddered, a reflexive shivering of muscle, and she pressed her hand to its neck to calm it.
‘You hardly need to tell me that.’ Tor loosened his sword in its scabbard.
In the end they only had the one close call. Vintage had settled into her saddle, the rhythmic movements of the horse lulling her, when, abruptly, the animal skittered over to the far side of the path. She looked up to see Tor half rising from his saddle; on the far side of the road, on the very edge of the trees, were four hulking great wolves. In the shadows they were little more than lethal shapes, their eyes like pieces of yellow mirror. And beyond them, within the trees themselves, Vintage sensed the movement of others. Each of the wolves they could see was twice the size of a normal animal. Vintage had seen wolves – dark shapes trickling across the plains at night, and they were shy, wary animals – but these creatures watching them now had grown from puppies in the shadow of the Wild. Somewhere here, perhaps thousands of years ago, the remains of a Behemoth had disintegrated, seeping its subtle poisons into the soil until everything was tainted with it.
Tor drew his sword, a silent movement against the soft leather of his scabbard. The Ninth Rain ran liquid with moonlight, but Vintage shook her head at him.
‘Wait. Wait.’
Vintage reached back to her pack and, without taking her eyes off the wolves, slipped her hand into the outer pocket. She brought out a handful of tiny white bulb-like objects, each twisted at the top. She passed these to Tor.
‘Throw them. I know you can throw further than me.’
Tor raised his eyebrows, and then turned and threw the papery handful overarm towards the wolves. The bulbs landed on the dirt road with a series of surprisingly loud pops, and as one the animals skittered back from the noise. Vintage watched, her heart in her mouth, as the largest creature took one step forward, before shaking out his coat all over and slipping back into the tree line. After a moment, the others followed.
‘We’re lucky it has been a fine summer,’ said Vintage quietly. ‘Wolves, even ones from the Wild, are reluctant to approach humans unless they are really hungry.’
Tor grunted. ‘You can’t possibly know that for certain.’
‘Of course not. What is familiar can always surprise us. Are you disappointed, my dear? Did you want to face down a pack of wolves in the dark?’
‘I have had a very tiring day, Vintage.’
When they had ridden some distance from the dark space where the wolves had disappeared, Tor cleared his throat. ‘These places give me the creeps.’
‘So much of Sarn is like this now, we half think it’s normal.’ Vintage sighed, trying to ignore the crawling of her own flesh. There could be hundreds of creatures like the worm-touched wolves close by, hidden beyond the tree line, watching them. ‘We scuttle from one so-called settlement to the next, not questioning if this is how we should be living our lives. There are no places like this in Ebora?’
As usual, when Ebora was mentioned, Tor looked faintly pained.
‘No, there are not.’
Vintage pursed her lips. ‘Sarn has its safe places, the places that have not been poisoned. But once, before the Jure’lia began their relentless invasions . . . If we knew what the poison was exactly, if we could isolate and remove it . . .’
‘Once, Sarn was safe, and the roots blessed us all.’ Tor sighed. ‘I’m not sure even my people remember that far back.’
They reached the settlement as the sky to the east was turning the expectant, bruised colour of the hours before dawn. The village was ringed with a wall made of thick tree trunks, and a pair of torches burned brightly at the open gates. Vintage could make out a trio of figures there, staring out into the dark.
‘Do you see them?’
‘I saw them half an hour ago, Vintage.’
‘Be on your best behaviour. They’re likely to be very twitchy.’
One of the men waved them down, and Vintage led them over towards the torches. There were two men, and a woman. They each wore short swords at their waists, and one of the men carried a long pitchfork. Beyond them, Vintage could see a ramshackle collection of huts and shacks, all unusually well lit with lamps and standing fires.
‘Who are you? What do you want here?’
Vintage smiled down at the man who had spoken. His beard was scruffy, and he had the wide-eyed look of someone who hadn’t been sleeping well lately.
‘My colleague and I come on the word of one Cara Frostyear. She came to Mushenska seeking aid. With your current, uh, difficulties, my dear.’
The man looked confused. He glanced at his companions.
‘But you are . . . forgive me, but you are a single woman. We hoped that Cara would bring back a host of the city guard.’ His face creased with anger. ‘It’s all very well for them, safe inside their walls, but we’re out here in the dark.’
Vintage pursed her lips. The city guard had their own problems. The men and women who chose to live out amongst the Wild were generally considered mad or foolish, and she could well imagine the reception Cara Frostyear had received.
‘I am Lady Vincenza de Grazon, and your little problem just happens to be my speciality.’
Tor chose that moment to lead his horse into their circle of light. He drew his sword, twisting it so that the lamplight flashed along the blade.
‘And I, Tormalin the Oathless, have come to slay your monster!’
As one, the three took a step back. The man with the pitchfork stood with his mouth hanging open.
‘An Eboran? Here?’ He moved the pitchfork in front of him. ‘You bring a monster to kill a monster?’
Vintage heard Tor sigh noisily. She pointed to his sword.
‘I well understand your caution, my good man, but do you see that? That is the Ninth Rain, a sword forged for a future battle, a sword forged in winnowfire!’ When they didn’t react, she cleared her throat. ‘Steel forged in winnowfire is the only thing known to injure a parasite spirit.’ When still they said nothing, she leaned forward in her saddle. ‘You must know this?’
The woman stepped forward. She had a squarish, stern face, her black hair pulled back tightly into a bun. ‘I know our swords have had no effect on it, and if you think you have a way of killing it, then I am very willing to listen. My name is Willa Evenhouse, and these are my cousins Dennen and Fera. This is a poor place, as I’m sure you can see, and I’m not sure what we’ll be able to give you in return.’ The woman took a breath, and abruptly Vintage could see how tired she was. It had been a long time since anyone had slept properly here. ‘But we will gladly offer you what we can, if you can make this . . . this thing go away.’
‘I want it dead,’ said the man she’d named as Dennen, the one who’d spoken first. ‘It killed Morin’s boy, and Mother Sren. It must die.’
Tor sheathed his sword. ‘Then let us talk of our fee—’
‘Of which, there is none,’ said Vintage hurriedly. ‘Save for food, drink, a place to shelter our horses.’
Willa nodded. ‘Come with me. Dennen, Fera, keep watch.’
Vintage and Tor dismounted and followed the woman into the village, leading their horses. It was quiet, the light from numerous lamps casting buttery light on the packed dirt ground. They passed a paddock filled with scrubby grass, and Vintage caught the mineral scent of old blood. There was a dark patch, difficult to make out in the colours of the night, but she was willing to bet that was where these people had lost most of their livestock. Likely, they had woken in the night to the sound of cattle screaming as their skins melted away, and then the first villagers had perished also. She had seen it before.
‘Here.’ Willa indicated a low, sturdy building, thick with the smell of horse. A young woman came out, her eyes wide in the gloom. When she caught sight of Tor she took a startled step backwards.
‘Ma?’
‘Take the horses in, Duana, have them made comfortable for the night.’
The girl looked as though she had a thousand questions, but she did as she was told. When she was out of sight, Willa shook her head.
‘We’ve heard of these parasites, of course we have. We might be in the middle of nowhere but we know some history. But never around here. We know what we risk, living out in the Wild, but these things – they shouldn’t be here.’
Vintage reached within her pack and drew out a narrow silver flask. She passed it to the woman, who took it with a brief nod. ‘I couldn’t agree more. Tell us everything you can, my dear,’ she said. ‘Any small detail could help.’
Willa unscrewed the bottle and took three quick gulps of the strong brandy. When she began to speak, not looking at either of them, Vintage slipped the pencil and notebook from her bag and began to make hurried notes.
‘It was four nights ago when it first came. I’d been dreaming. Some bad dream where I was trapped in the dark, and I could feel everything dying all around me. There was something terrible in the sky.’ She looked up, glaring at them both. ‘I know that sounds stupid, but I’ve never had a dream like it. It might be important.’
Vintage nodded. She liked this woman. ‘You are quite right, my dear. Please, continue.’
‘I woke up because Cara’s goat was crying. I lay there listening to it and cursing it because it was still full dark, and I had a good three or four hours before I would have to be up. It was bleating, over and over, and then it was shrieking. Something about that noise . . . I leapt out of bed even as Duana came into my room, and I told her to stay where she was.’ Willa took another gulp of brandy. ‘Outside there was . . . there was a halo around Cara’s place, yellow and blue and shifting. Looking at it, I felt unwell. Like perhaps I was still asleep. I ran down there anyway, and I was just in time to see—’
She stopped, and looked down at the straw-covered floor. Next to her, Vintage could sense Tor becoming impatient, and she willed him not to say anything.
‘I saw the goat. It was a stupid thing – what goats aren’t? But I saw its eyes, and then I saw the thing standing over it. The thing ran its – hand – over the goat’s flank and it just burst open. The skin peeled back and what was inside, what should have been inside . . .’
‘Take a deep breath, Willa.’ Vintage caught her eye and tried to hold her gaze. It was rare to have such a lucid witness, but they didn’t need a description of what had happened to the goat. They had seen the aftermath of that often enough. ‘What did you see standing over Cara’s goat?’
Willa pressed her lips into a thin line. ‘It was tall, taller than Cara’s hut, and it looked like it was made of water.’ She glanced at Tor, as if waiting for him to mock her. ‘I can’t think of another way of saying it. I could see through it, but not properly. Like looking through warped glass. And it was roughly shaped like a person, except that its arms were too long. And there were too many of them. There were lights inside it, blue and yellow pulsing lights. The ends of its arms had lots of fingers but no hands.’ Willa visibly shuddered. ‘It was its fingers it was using to peel back the goat’s skin, and the flesh just seemed to boil away from it, like it couldn’t bear for it to be touching—’
‘Are there any Behemoth remains around this area, my dear?’ Seeing the woman’s blank expression, Vintage spoke again. ‘Anything left behind by the worm people? Twisted pieces of strange metal, perhaps?’
‘No, not that I know of.’
‘Its face?’ asked Tor. ‘Did you see any of that?’
Willa shook her head. ‘It was bent over the poor animal, I couldn’t see it. Shen, Morin’s boy, jumped over the fence and he had his da’s sword with him, the young idiot.’ Willa lifted a hand and pushed her fingers across her forehead. They were trembling slightly. ‘I told him to get away. I told him—’
There was a shout, and Willa stopped. They all turned to where it had come from, and a bare second later, there was another cry. The panic in it was as clear as sunrise.
‘Willa my dear, go inside,’ said Vintage quickly. ‘Keep your daughter with you. We’ll be back.’
Tor had his sword ready as they headed back the way they’d come. Halfway there and they saw it – the creature had come back to them, a beacon of strangeness on the edge of the village. As they watched, it moved through the tree-trunk wall as though it wasn’t there, its translucent body oozing silently through the wood. The spirit was a good fifteen feet tall, and gently glowing fronds ringed it like petals on a deadly flower. The two men were below it now; one was scrambling away while the other, incredibly, was attempting to jab at the creature with his pitchfork.
‘Ha! Well, it is a touch taller than the hut,’ said Tor. ‘Was that an elaborate joke of some sort, do you think?’
‘Go, get between it and those idiots,’ said Vintage. She had her crossbow in her hands, and was letting her fingers fit a new quarrel. She didn’t take her eyes from the parasite spirit. ‘If we can drive it back outside of the village, perhaps we can get a proper look at it.’
But it was too late. As they arrived, the spirit was bending down over the hapless Fera, who was still thrusting his pitchfork at it. Long tapered fingers closed over him – Vintage was struck briefly by how it looked like a child peering at a new bug on the ground – and then Fera was falling apart. He screamed as his body was unzipped, and Vintage saw a gout of blood and other fluids hit the dirt. The long transparent fingers were still moving though, and her stomach twisted as the man’s skin rolled back like a carpet being peeled away from a floor.
‘Damn it all.’ She raised her crossbow, already knowing it was pointless. ‘Ahoy! Lanky!’
She squeezed the trigger and one of her specially crafted quarrels sank home into the parasite spirit’s uncertain flesh. It looked up, taking notice of them for the first time – as well it might. Each of Vintage’s quarrels was tipped with shards of winnow-forged steel. Priceless, every single one. Inside the blurred glass of the creature’s flesh, the quarrel grew faint, and then seemed to disintegrate, but the place where it had entered was a small blackened hole.
‘Well, I think you have its attention.’ Tor stepped up next to her, his handsome face creased with distaste. ‘My undying gratitude, Lady de Grazon.’
‘Shut up. See if you can push it back into the forest.’
He shot a look at her.
‘Are you out of your mind? It just killed someone. The poor bastard’s entrails are currently staining my boots.’
‘Do as you’re told.’
For a wonder, he did. Stepping lightly forward, Tor swept the long straight blade of his sword in front of him, directly challenging the parasite spirit. He didn’t make contact, but the spirit took two large steps backwards, its focus on the blade. It knew what it was now.
Vintage stared at its face, for want of a better word. There were four circular white lights, that could have been eyes, swimming in its elongated head, while at the bottom a wide flap hung down, lined with gently glowing fronds.
‘They are all different,’ murmured Vintage under her breath. In her mind she was already sketching this beast into her notebook, taking care to capture the fronds, the oddly split feet, and the spidery hands . . .
‘Do you have any further thoughts, Vintage?’ Tor was yelling over his shoulder. ‘On, for example, what we do once we get this bastard beyond the wall?’
‘Just keep going!’ She loaded another shot into her crossbow, fingers moving automatically. The spirit was stumbling slowly backwards now, its elongated head swinging slowly from one side to another, lighting up the night. She could hear shouting from behind her, and assumed that the villagers had come out of their homes; probably discovering the inside-out remains of their kinsman steaming on the ground. She had no time for them.
‘Push it back gently,’ she called to Tor. ‘Perhaps if we just persuade it to leave, rather than chase it off, it will lead us back to the remains of a Behemoth.’
She could see from Tor’s stance that he meant to reply with something quite rude, but then one of the creature’s arms was sweeping down towards him. Tor jumped gracefully away, bringing the Ninth Rain down in a sweeping arc to sail through the parasite spirit’s spindly arm, severing several waving fronds. Immediately, the creature’s clouded-glass body turned darker and its head split open in the middle. A high-pitched keening noise filled the night, so loud that Vintage felt it reverberate against her eardrums. She winced even as the villagers screamed in response.
She sprinted over, keeping her crossbow trained on the monster and her eyes on the ground. There. Smoking pieces of what looked like glass lay on the grass, writhing like snakes, already growing still. One handed, she pulled a rag from her pack and threw it over the remains before scooping up what was left and stuffing it back into her bag. Above them both, the parasite spirit was howling; the cavernous hole in the centre of its head was sprouting dark tentacles like bloody tongues, and the four lights were blinking on and off furiously.
‘Vintage!’
Tor was slicing madly at the parasite spirit, driving it back with abandon, while casting furious looks at her.
‘Stop looking at me, you fool! Concentrate on getting that—’
There was a chorus of screams, quickly drowned out by an odd discordant bellowing. Vintage turned to see an alien shape burning in the night, all purple and green lights like a migraine. Another parasite spirit had melted out of the darkness, and it was heading right for them.
‘Oh, well, that’s just bloody marvellous.’
Tor ducked out of the way just as the first parasite spirit took another swing at him – it was still screaming, and the dark tentacles that had sprouted from its head were writhing maddeningly; meanwhile, the new creature was stomping along towards him with its head down. Vintage, her coat with its many pockets flaring out behind her, managed to jump out of its path just in time, and now it was bearing down on him. It was markedly different to the first creature; still formed of odd, twisted glass-flesh, it was squat, like a toad, with lots of tiny purple and green lights swarming and swirling at the ends of its appendages. It had a wide fleshy mouth, which fell open as it ran.
With one parasite in front of him, one about to arrive to his left, and the villagers behind him, he had very few options. Tor spun in a quick circle, letting the sword move like a thing made of water itself. Both parasites reared back, and Tor shouted in triumph. The sword of his ancestors would be too much for them.
Too soon. The tall parasite seemed to take sudden offence, swiping one long hand down at him while the toad creature lurched forward. All at once, Tor found he needed his blade in two places. Slashing at the shorter one’s nose, he felt a surge of satisfaction as his blade met resistance, and then he was off his feet and crashing into the dirt. The taller one had caught him, and now his left arm was threaded with a weird combination of pain and numbness – it felt as though something had tried to twist the flesh off his bones.
‘Die, beast!’ One of the villagers had run forward brandishing a short sword, his ruddy face wild with terror.
‘No, get back, you fool!’
The toad creature struck the man in the waist just as he stabbed downwards wildly. Rather than severing the flesh as the Ninth Rain had done, the man’s sword became stuck, just as though he’d thrust it into a barrel of tar. He tugged at it once, and then, thinking the better of it, turned to run, but the toad parasite had hold of his tunic with its wide mouth and pulled him back easily enough. Long tapering fronds squeezed out the corners of its lips and slapped wetly around the man’s neck. Tor, struggling to his feet, grabbed hold of the man’s shoulder, hoping to yank him from the thing’s grasp, but the fronds squeezed and the man’s head burst like an overly ripe fruit. The strange appendages immediately slid into the wet mess where his neck had been, as though searching for something. Tor let go of the body, surrendering the useless flesh.
‘That’s quite enough.’
His words were quiet, but both the parasite spirits turned to regard him, lights spinning in their flesh like the stars after one too many glasses of wine. Tor bellowed and rushed at the toad-shaped creature, driving the Ninth Rain ahead of him with both hands on the pommel. His arm was still bright with pain but he kept it steady, and he had the satisfaction of watching the creature suddenly turn and scamper away. Tor struck, the long straight blade piercing the fleshy back deeply and then he flicked it up, tearing through the wobbly resistance. The torn area turned a cloudy grey, and the creature squealed and bellowed and fell onto its side. As it died, its form twisted and melted and re-formed, as if trying to find a shape where it was unhurt.
Tor stepped away, turning towards the tall parasite spirit – a moment too late. It was already bringing one of its long arms down, and again he was struck and this time thrown into a nearby fence. The touch of its glassy flesh trailed down his chest, and for a few horrible moments his breath was frozen where it was, a hard lozenge in his throat. Tor tried to sit up, his boots digging furrows in the mud, but a tide of weakness moved through him, holding him in place. Panic clutched at his throat – his sword was no longer in his hand – and with effort he forced himself to calm down. With his right hand, thankfully still responding to his commands, he slipped a glass vial from within his pocket. One-handed, he uncorked it and pressed it to his lips. Blood, salty and not as fresh as he’d like, flooded over his tongue and filled his mouth. He thought, briefly, of Sareena, and the sweet afternoon they’d spent together. It was pleasant to imagine that her blood tasted like her skin, of apricots and smoke, but it did not. It tasted of blood.
‘Get up, lad!’
Vintage was sprinting towards him, waving the crossbow in a worrying manner. Tor stood up, feeling strength coming back to his arm, sensation coming back to his chest. He could breathe. He felt powerful. Behind Vintage, the tall parasite spirit was standing over the body of its kin, one arm blackened where Tor had severed some of its fronds, but when it saw Tor coming, something in his stance seemed to spook it and it began to take odd, lolloping strides backwards.
‘Tor, remember, we may be able to follow it back to the Behemoth.’
Tor stalked past Vintage without looking at her. The creature had touched him, had hurt him. It had insulted him – had insulted Ebora itself. This would not stand.
But the creature was already leaving. Abruptly, it began to fade from view, vanishing like a deep shadow at sunrise. He had seen them do this before; seeping away into nothing, leaving their destruction behind. In a few moments it was gone completely, and the corpse of its brethren was mouldering where it lay, a pile of congealing jelly. The weird alien funk of it filled the air.
Tor sheathed his sword, watching the shadowed place where the tall parasite had vanished. Dimly, he was aware of shouting, of many complaints from Vintage and cries from the villagers, but the blood-fire was leaving him now and he felt oddly empty.
Hollow again.