Bone Trail Read online

  Micah gazed up into the sky, a faraway look in his eyes. It was the look he always got when he mentioned the kingirl – or so it seemed to Cody. Cara had noticed it too. Cody could tell that by the way she busied herself with the canegrass, her head down. And he did the same, aware of her ill-ease and wanting to comfort it away with sympathetic words.

  How could Micah be so insensitive? he wondered as anger boiled up inside him.

  He glanced up at the beautiful kithgirl. He had to be careful.

  The episode outside the scrimshaw had unnerved her, he knew that. Of course, she’d been grateful when he’d rescued her from that filthy kith with the knife at her throat, but when he’d smashed the man’s ribs and jaw with his fists, and beaten his face to a bloody pulp, unable to stop himself pummelling, pummelling, Cara had watched, shocked and frightened, then turned away.

  True, he’d proved that he could protect her. But it had come at a cost. For she was wary of him now. His brute strength. His hot-headedness. Cody knew that Cara feared for the next time he might lose control.

  Then again, so did he.

  Cody saw Cara glance up at Micah again, a welling sadness in her turquoise eyes, and he felt his fists bunch up. Given half a chance, he’d beat Micah’s thoughtlessness out of him. He breathed in long and deep, then out.

  Stay calm, he cautioned himself. Keep a hold of ­yourself.

  He turned to Micah, who was still staring out at the far horizon, lost in his own thoughts. ‘You seen Eli and my brother?’ he asked, and wondered whether Cara could hear he was talking through gritted teeth.

  Micah turned to him. ‘Said something about scouting out those cliffs to the south,’ he said distantly. ‘Foraging for redcaps . . .’

  ‘Redcaps?’ said Cara brightly, her nose crinkling up questioningly as she seized on his words. ‘What are they?’

  ‘Giant mushrooms,’ said Micah. ‘Biggest I’ve ever seen. They grow on the ledges below manderwyrme colonies. Hard to get to though.’ He crushed another of the lengths of canegrass into the pot. ‘But they make for good eating.’

  He reached for another stem. Cara and Cody resumed their cutting. The conversation ceased.

  The midges thrummed, the wind sighed and the trickling of the syrup rose in pitch as the earthenware pot steadily filled. Low in the sky now, the sun had turned slowly from white to red, colouring the thin streaks of cloud vermilion, then purple, as it did so.

  All at once there came a loud noise – like hands ­clapping in applause – and all three of them looked round to see a small flock of mistwyrmes rising up from the clumps of grass and ratty scrub. They flapped hard their pale-blue wings, and wheeled off, ungainly and screeching, towards the sinking sun. And below them, silhouetted against the fading colours, were Eli and Ethan.

  ‘There they are,’ said Cody unnecessarily. He climbed to his feet.

  Ethan waved to him, and Cody waved back, noting, not for the first time, how much his brother had grown since the pair of them had first entered the weald. He watched the two of them approach, his eyes thin slits against the brightness.

  Eli, tall, rangy, his gait loose-limbed and purposeful. He barely seemed to notice the rucksack on his back. And Ethan beside him, stumbling forward, tilted to one side by the heavy bag slung over first one shoulder, then the other. He was chattering by the look of him, and glancing round at the cragclimber for approval.

  ‘. . . and I could have got that big one if I hadn’t slipped,’ Ethan was saying, his voice breathless and excited as he and Eli drew closer. ‘But I held onto what I had, Eli. Reckon I’m getting a head for heights, like you,’ he said, looking up at the cragclimber. ‘Do you reckon I’m getting a head for heights?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Eli indulgently.

  ‘It was that manderwyrme,’ said Ethan, smiling. ‘Flapping up like that and scaring me half to death.’

  The pair of them stopped in front of the pile of shredded canegrass.

  ‘We got us a whole load of redhats,’ Ethan announced proudly, swinging the heavy bag off his shoulder and setting it down on the ground.

  ‘Redcaps,’ said Eli.

  ‘Redcaps,’ Ethan repeated without missing a beat. ‘Some for now. Some for later.’

  Eli removed his rucksack and nodded towards the earthenware pot. ‘Looks like you’re just about finished here,’ he said with approval.

  Micah nodded and, picking up a cork stopper, sealed the pot.

  ‘Reckon we’ve earned ourselves a good campfire tonight,’ said Eli. ‘Spotted some brushwood over yonder, Micah,’ he added, with a jerk of his head. ‘Care to help Ethan and me gather it?’

  Micah nodded again, and followed Ethan and Eli off across the dusk-shadowed grass plain, but Cody could tell his thoughts were still on that kingirl of his. Opposite him, Cara was equally distracted as she rummaged through her rucksack once more.

  ‘Reckon you’ve lost it,’ he told her calmly.

  ‘What?’ said Cara sharply. She looked up, her blue-green eyes flashing.

  ‘That scrimshaw medallion,’ said Cody. ‘The one Micah gave you.’

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the scrimshaw carving he’d bought. Bought for her. Cara. He held it out.

  ‘You found it!’ she exclaimed.

  Cody dropped the medallion into her outstretched hand and watched as she examined it. A look of ­confusion passed across her face. She looked up.

  ‘But . . . but this is a wyrme in flight,’ she said. ‘My one was carved different, curled up in a spiral, its wings folded.’

  Cody shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t blush. His stomach knotted.

  ‘Just put it on,’ he said, holding her gaze.

  For a moment Cara did not move. Then, to Cody’s relief, she reached up and knotted the thong behind her neck.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ she asked.

  ‘Same place as Micah,’ Cody replied. ‘The scrimshaw den.’

  Cara nodded slowly, then; ‘Why?’

  For you, Cara! For you! the words shrieked inside Cody’s head.

  He shrugged again. ‘No reason,’ he said, and wanted to bite off his own tongue for the lie he’d told. ‘I just liked it was all.’

  Cara smiled uncertainly, then lowered her gaze. She undid the top two buttons of her blouse and let the small medallion fall back against her skin.

  ‘It looks real pretty,’ said Cody. The knotted fist inside his stomach clenched all the tighter. ‘And . . . and Micah’ll never notice the difference.’

  Cara eyed him warily for a moment, then smiled again. ‘You don’t think so?’

  Cody shook his head.

  Ever since Micah had clapped eyes on that kingirl, Thrace, back in the grasslands, it was like he only had thoughts for her. Cara – sweet, beautiful Cara – seemed invisible to him.

  No, Micah would not notice.

  But Cody would. Every time he looked at Cara, he’d know that it was now his medallion that she was wearing, nestling against her skin, so close to her heart. Not Micah’s.

  And that made Cody happy. Very happy.

  Thirty-Five

  Nathaniel Lint the Younger nursed the half-empty tumbler before him, turning it round and round with his fingers, spoking out blades of light from the angles of glass that slid over the barewood walls of the tavern as he did so. There was a clock in the corner. White ­enamelled face, fancy numbers and ornate hands, and a ponderous brass pendulum, all clad in polished mahogany. Like Nathaniel himself, it was fresh from the plains and out of place; like him, it was counting off the seconds.

  Outside, greywyrmes bellowed and bucked, tugging at their harnesses. Bullwhips cracked as the wyrme­handlers struggled to hold them in check. Voices were raised, urgent, excited. Filled with fear, with hope. Barking out commands, instructions, keeping errant children close by. There was clatter and crash, the noise
of wood on wood, metal on metal. The air was brown with scuffed-up dust, and through it, the fuzzed sun rose inexorably to its noontime zenith, the scheduled time of their departure.

  The minutes passed and the frenzied activity grew, the cacophony of man and beast reaching a tumultuous crescendo.

  ‘Secure that tarpaulin.’

  ‘Get them seedsacks loaded.’

  ‘Aaron. Aaron! You come here now, d’ya hear? I don’t want you out of my sight.’

  It had started early, with the would-be settlers from the plains rising hours before the sun, emerging from their rooms in the bunkhouses, from their tents and benders, and packing up their belongings. After weeks of waiting, the moment was almost upon them – the moment the great expedition would set off from the ­badlands and trek westwards towards the grasslands and the promise of a new life in the high weald.

  Nathaniel Lint glanced up at the clock. High noon was less than an hour away.

  The feverish activity outside was everything he had hoped for and dreamed of for so long. Finally, those plans – hatched in a tavern over a bottle of finest wine down on the plains and painstakingly honed here in the badlands – were coming to fruition. The not inconsiderable sum of money that his father had given him, and that he had invested in the enterprise, had not been wasted after all. The new stockade, with its pumps and well, its haylofts and silos, its bunkhouses and corrals – its tavern, had come into being; the settlers had arrived from the plains in droves. Now they were all but ready to depart.

  And Nathaniel had never felt worse.

  ‘You require a top-up, sir?’

  Nathaniel looked up. Lizzie the tavern-maid was wiping her chapped hands on a rag, staring at him levelly.

  He wondered whether she had her suspicions about how he, a young merchant, had become sole owner of the new stockade. Each day in the cabin, when she brought him his breakfast on a tray, Nathaniel searched her face for any trace of blame for that ‘dreadful business’, as she’d called it. He’d yet to find any, but remained uneasy nonetheless.

  She raised her eyebrows questioningly, and he nodded.

  ‘A jug,’ he said morosely, raising his tumbler and tossing back the last of the green liquor in one gulp.

  Lizzie nodded, pushed back a greasy strand of lank hair behind her ear and turned away. Moments later, she was back, a bulbous pewter jug in her hand. She filled the tumbler to the brim, then set the jug down beside it. Nathaniel nodded his thanks, then waited for her to go before raising the glass.

  ‘To you, Garth Temple,’ he muttered to himself, and knocked back the whole tumbler in one. He slammed it back down on the table, wincing as the burning liquor coursed down his insides.

  Garth Temple. The kindest, truest, most trusting friend a young merchant could ever wish for. The weald would never see his like again . . .

  He poured himself another shot of liquor.

  Nathaniel had hoped a drink or two might make him feel better, to ease the guilt. Instead, it was turning him maudlin. He looked back at the clock ticking steadily in the corner.

  If only he could turn back time, he thought bitterly. But what was done was done, and no amount of remorse would change that. And then there were the voices he couldn’t get out of his head.

  There’s a fortune to be made for men of vision. Men like ourselves.

  Nathaniel recalled the look of fervent belief in Garth Temple’s eyes as they had shaken hands on the deal. It had gone better than either of them might have ­imagined.

  Thing is, with you at one end of this here operation and me at the other . . . Solomon Tallow’s voice had been smooth, persuasive, with that hint of menace Nathaniel had got to know so well. Do we need anyone in the middle? Do we need Garth Temple?

  Nathaniel poured and downed another shot of the green liquor.

  All you got to do is turn the spigot off . . .

  And that was what he’d done. He had tampered with Garth Temple’s extraordinary contraption for taming the greywyrmes’ fiery breath. And when Garth had gone to decant the flameoil that had should have collected in the leather pouch buckled round the great creature’s neck, it had opened its gaping mouth and incinerated him in an instant.

  Garth Temple was dead. And he, Nathaniel, was the cause. He was a killer. A murderer . . .

  Cheer up, Nat.

  Tallow’s words. Goading. Scornful.

  The first murder always hits hardest.

  Nathaniel shuddered.

  It won’t be your last.

  Oh, but it would. It would. As the Maker was his witness, Nathaniel swore that never, ever again would he cause the death of another man.

  It won’t be your last. It won’t be your last . . .

  Nathaniel groaned.

  Solomon Tallow had got his hooks into him and wasn’t about to let go. Now he and those henchmen of his strutted around the place, calling the shots, while he, Nathaniel Lint the Younger, the owner of the new ­stockade, had to skulk in the tavern to keep out of their way.

  Nathaniel looked up at the ticking clock and smiled. As soon as Tallow and his thugs had departed, he would see about getting himself bodyguards of his own. Big, brawny, fearless men that he would pay handsomely to protect him. And when Solomon Tallow returned, it would be his turn to take orders.

  ‘Get them boxes loaded!’

  He could hear him now, shouting. The bullying voice was louder than all the other noises put together, and conjured up the sight of the man; his brutish muscular bulk, his bunched fists and shaved head; the dark ­calculating eyes.

  ‘Move it!’

  Nathaniel drained his tumbler, set it aside. He rested his elbows on the table, put his hands to his ears and pressed, endeavouring to shut out the man’s voice.

  ‘Fall into line!’

  But Solomon Tallow would not be shut out . . .

  Thirty-Six

  ‘Fall into line!’ Solomon bellowed, jabbing at the flanks of a straying greywyrme with a long spike-tipped pole.

  The heavy-laden creature lumbered forward, roaring flamelessly. The sacks and boxes roped to its back swayed from side to side, and its driver, perched atop the neck-saddle, tugged hard at the reins to hold the wyrme steady. Solomon strutted past.

  ‘Move it along here, folks,’ he called out as he con­tinued along the line of greywyrmes towards the head of the column. The heavy bullwhip in his fist twitched impatiently as he walked. ‘I ain’t fixing to wait for no stragglers.’

  The column of greywyrmes extended right the way across the new stockade, from the bunkhouses at one end to the corral at the other, and off a ways into the dustblown rockflats beyond. There was a greywyrme for each group of settlers. One hundred and one in all. They were tethered up in lines of eight or nine, a broad neck-saddle attached to each of the lead wyrmes, and all loaded with possessions and provisions of every kind, secured with ropes and nets and lengths of oilcloth. There were leather chests and nailed-down crates; pots and pans; boxes, bales and bedrolls; sacks of seed and coils of wire, and timber planks for the homesteads the settlers planned to construct, as well as the chairs, beds and bathtubs they would furnish them with.

  It made for an odd sight, the wyrmes and their loads; like cluttered houses on legs. And to complete the ­illusion of a small town on the move were the saplings – apples, pears, cherries and plums; walnut and pine – ­tethered into place by those hoping to establish orchards up in the fertile grasslands, and creating the appearance of small copses nestling in among the ­buildings.

  Solomon cracked his bullwhip, and a grin plucked at the corners of his mouth. He was enjoying himself. There was a carnival atmosphere to the air. The travelling show was about to leave town, and he, Solomon Tallow, was its ringmaster, in charge of every last detail.

  ‘I said, move it!’

  The settlers had packed up their gear quickly and cheerfully,
that much he had to concede. Chivvied both by him and his men, and their own desire to get underway, they had stowed their tents, separated out gear for the journey from gear for when they arrived, and roped the whole lot to their allotted greywyrmes.

  Truth be told, the settlers had been so biddable that Solomon had barely had to raise his voice at all, and the bullwhip was good as redundant. Yet he had shouted and threatened and cussed, and that bullwhip of his had cracked the air like thunderclaps. It was required. The settlers wouldn’t have expected anything less.

  They wanted to know that there was someone in charge. Someone capable and strong. Someone they could depend upon to guide them through the unknown wilderness ahead, who would take care of their needs and protect them from attack, should it come to that. And if that meant being cussed at and menaced, then so be it. It was for their own good, and they were grateful to accept this rough kith as their leader.

  And for himself, Solomon Tallow was more than happy to take on the role.

  He’d had a shave that morning in preparation for their departure. Maker knew, there’d be little enough opportunity­ for primping and preening when they were on the trail. He’d shaved his face, his head, and buffed up his scalp with wyrmegrease that would protect it from the sun some, and that marked him out as someone who was not to be messed with.

  They admired him, these settlers, Solomon could tell that; could see it in their eyes. He observed how they looked askance at him as he strode past, tree trunk legs splayed and heavy boots kicking up the dust. They noted his gleaming skull, his bull neck and barrel chest, his massive arms that looked to be carved from dark ­seasoned wood. Once or twice, someone’s gaze would linger a mite too long. A callow youth, envious of his physique; a pretty girl, weak-kneed with longing in his presence; a stocky former ploughhand, fists clenched, sizing him up. And Solomon would hold that gaze until they looked away.

  They always did.

  He could also be considerate though, gracious. In a lesser man, it might have been seen as weakness rather than strength.