‘Hundreds of war-beasts flew to fight in the Eighth Rain, you said,’ Tor continued. ‘We have only fourteen. Fifteen, including you.’
‘You don’t even have that,’ Vostok’s tone was sour. ‘The newly revived Ygseril was far too weak to produce the pods that he did, but he did it anyway, out of desperation for his children. We were not ready. Rightly, we should have had days to gestate upon the tree, but we fell too early.’ Vostok shrugged, a strange movement that travelled down her entire body. Pearly scales caught the subdued light and winked like moonlight on water. ‘You are lucky that I live, and that I was present enough, thanks to Noon, to fight. The others . . . time will tell. If you have more luck, son of Ebora, they will live, and although they may not have their true voices, their root-memories, they will choose warriors to bond with, as I have. Then we may have a chance.’
‘You have bonded? Already?’
An uncomfortable silence pooled between them, Vostok and Noon both looking at him steadily. Eventually, he shook his head, half laughing.
‘I may not know enough about Eboran history, but I do know that no human has ever bonded to a war-beast . . .’
He trailed off. Noon tipped her head to one side, still looking at him, and he cleared his throat. Vostok chuckled.
‘Yes, it is unusual. Particularly as my kind has never had any love for the green witch fire . . . however, having lived inside it for a time, I see it anew. It is a fine weapon, of a sort. And son of Ebora, we can hardly afford to be choosey. How many of you live, now? Bearing in mind that your sister has left you.’
It was painful to hear that. ‘A few live. If we can throw the crimson flux off, there is a chance for us. Speaking of which, this must mean Ygseril lives?’
Now Vostok looked uncomfortable, turning her long head away. ‘He lingers,’ she said. ‘Being dead for so long, waiting with the poison of the Jure’lia suffusing his roots . . . it has left him greatly weakened.’
Tor took a slow breath against the thudding of his heart. ‘Then, the sap? Will he be able to produce it? Will my people be healed of the crimson flux?’ He felt a terrible urge to touch his scarred cheek, and fought it down with difficulty.
‘You must wait, son of Ebora. Ygseril fights – he fights to live. For now, it is taking all of his essence to sustain his link with us, his war-beasts, and as I said before, without that link, we are nothing. I cannot say if he will be able to heal Ebora. You will have a small and weakened force here, Tormalin the Oathless, and a terrible war is about to begin. You will have to fight.’
Aldasair’s shout echoed down the room, the excitement and anxiety impossible to miss.
‘It’s hatching! It’s coming, quickly now!’
Heedless of the dragon, Tor turned and ran back down the chamber. Aldasair was kneeling in front of the pod, his face flushed. The silvery surface was already breached, and behind a thick lacy membrane something alive was moving. Tor knelt next to him and together they began to break away pieces of the pod, scattering them to the floor. Vostok and Noon came up behind them.
‘Will this be another dragon?’ asked Noon as the pieces fell away. Tor glanced up at her, and saw the same anxious excitement on her face as he felt on his own.
Vostok rumbled a response. ‘I cannot say, child. We are all of us different.’
Be strong, thought Tor. The oily fluid inside the pod coated his hands and forearms now. The smell of it was a good thing, clean and sharp, like apples. Be strong, be a weapon for us to use in this war. Help us to survive, at least.
The lacy material split and a huge paw burst through, covered in wet grey fur and studded with four long black claws, wickedly curved like hooks. It landed on Tor’s hand, and a moment later a great blunt head forced its way through the hole – it was an enormous cat, eyes bright and yellow, like lamps, ears folded back against its head. It stared, it seemed to Tor, directly into his soul, and then the thing hissed, digging its claws into his arm. Tor yelped.
‘Looks like you’ve been chosen,’ said Noon, from behind him. He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘I would recommend leather gloves. Elbow-length ones.’
On the third day, they camped in the hills, some distance above the small seaside town. They had been there briefly, attempted to warn who they could, but what could you say, other than run? The people there had been disbelieving, and then they had seen it for themselves, rising like a bad moon over them. Vintage and Nanthema had fled with heavy hearts – the risen Behemoth had moved slowly in the first couple of days, still juddering and uncertain, but despite the gaping holes it still sported in its side, the thing appeared to have recovered some of its appetite.
Now Vintage poked their fire, her eyes returning again and again to what was left of the little town. In the purple light of dusk it was difficult to tell that it had ever been a town at all. Now it was a confusion of thick green varnish, a collection of broken buildings under it somewhere. The Jure’lia had moved on, but not before the Behemoth had birthed one of its terrible maggot-like creatures, a thing that consumed everything before it and excreted the viscous substance they called varnish. Vintage thought that she would never forget the sight of that hideous, wriggling thing being birthed from the side of the Behemoth. She thought it would probably haunt her dreams nightly, for however long she had left.
‘I never really thought I’d live to see the Ninth Rain,’ said Nanthema. She had made a rough sort of stew from their supplies and was pushing it around the bottom of her bowl. ‘I don’t think any of us did, really.’
Vintage felt the corners of her mouth turn up, against her will.
‘What is it?’
‘Oh, an Eboran friend of mine had a sword named the Ninth Rain. I wonder how he’s getting on.’
‘You had an Eboran friend besides me?’ Nanthema had injected a note of outrage into her voice, but Vintage didn’t feel much like laughing.
‘I think you’d like him. We have a lot to talk about, Nanthema.’
‘We do.’ The humour faded from the Eboran’s face, and for the first time she did look older. ‘I need to go home, don’t I?’
At that moment, the wind changed, and, carried on it, they heard a distant, eerie crying. At first Vintage thought it must be an animal, hurt in the forest somewhere, but the wind blew stronger and it became clearer. It was the sound of a great number of people crying out in horror and pain; another town, somewhere near, had discovered that the worm people were back.
‘Yes. But let’s not talk about it tonight.’ Vintage looked up at the sky, deepening towards night all the time. The stars were just coming out, a scattering of shining dust in the heavens, but she found them no comfort. The Jure’lia had returned, and she had lived to see a war that could end them all. Reaching across, she pulled a bottle of wine from her pack, and ferreted out a pair of tin cups. ‘Drink with me, my darling, and let’s keep the darkness at bay for one more night, at least.’
Acknowledgements