Bone Trail Page 18

  But not in Solomon Tallow.

  Halfway along the shuffling column, he paused to help an old-timer and his hunched wife to secure a rope they’d been struggling with to the flanks of a greywyrme already festooned with the belongings of their extended family. His forearms bunched like iron hawsers as he cinched the rope and pulled hard on the knot, while the greywyrme shifted from one massive foot to the other and rolled its eyes.

  The old man tipped his hat. ‘Appreciate it,’ he said.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Solomon told him, and his natural swagger intensified as he continued along the line.

  Further on a ways, a harassed-looking woman with a boy and an old lady who might have been her mother, or possibly even her grandmother, was finding it hard to cope. Solomon stopped beside them, and showed the woman how to pleat the edges of her flapping tarpaulin, then he double-knotted the ends of the rope tight to hold it shut. Another family, who were sharing the wyrme, had taken most of the available space on the ­creature’s back and were waiting patiently for the signal to move.

  ‘That weald dust gets in everywhere if’n you don’t take precautions to keep it out,’ Solomon told the woman. He turned and admired his handiwork, patting the side of the bulging waxed cloth. ‘This should see you right.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the woman, smiling up at him shyly, and Solomon saw that beneath her anxious ­expression there lurked a pale and beguiling beauty. Her green eyes sparkled as she swept back her thick chestnut hair. ‘It ain’t easy, with my husband passed and all.’

  Solomon cocked his head to one side, boyish, and smiled back at her. His even white teeth gleamed in the sunlight, reassuring and ravenous in equal measure. Behind him, the boy was bickering with the son of the other family. The youth was several years older than him, but the boy was tenacious.

  The woman turned on them.

  ‘You hush now, Josiah,’ she scolded her son. ‘And leave Zeb alone.’

  Instead of easing up, the squabbling grew louder and more physical. The younger boy took a swing at the older, who shoved him hard in the chest and kicked at his shins as he stumbled backwards.

  ‘Hey, there!’ Solomon said sharply, irritated that the boys’ behaviour had stolen the mother’s attention from him. His eyes darkened. ‘This is no time for scrapping.’

  But by now the boys were too far gone to heed anyone. The younger boy had fallen to the ground, the older one had dropped down onto him, and the pair of them were rolling over and over in the dust, fists flying and voices shrill with indignation.

  ‘Stop it, now!’ the woman cried, stooping down and tugging at first one, then the other, with as much success as she’d had with the tarpaulin.

  Solomon strode forward, eased her gently aside and seized the pair of them, one in each hand. He held them up.

  ‘Do I have your full attention?’ he asked.

  They nodded meekly, their anger spent and fear taking over as they began to understand their predicament. Solomon hesitated.

  ‘Don’t I know you?’ he said, looking at the younger boy.

  ‘Reckon so, Mr Tallow, sir,’ said the boy, looking back at him steadily.

  The older boy looked close to crying, and bit his lower lip to ensure he did not.

  ‘I was the one who told you what that gentleman did to drain the firebreath out of these here wyrmes.’ The boy smiled slyly. ‘And you gave me a silver piece. Still have it, safe and sound,’ he said, patting his tunic.

  Tallow let go of the older boy, who fled round to the other side of the laden wyrme to rejoin his family. He set the younger boy down, and smiled.

  ‘You’re an observant lad,’ he said. ‘Reckon I could do with some help out on the trail ahead. What do you say?’

  ‘Gladly,’ the boy said, looking over at his mother. ‘Long as you look out for Ma and me.’

  Solomon winked at the woman, who smiled coyly and lowered her eyes. His gaze lingered on her face a moment longer than was necessary, then he looked back at the boy.

  ‘Be glad to, Josiah,’ he said, and turned away.

  He raised his head and squinted into the sun, high in the sky, directly above his head. It was noon, or near as damn it.

  ‘Get ready to move out!’ he bellowed, his hands cupped to his mouth as he strode purposefully on up to the front of the column. He turned and peered back down the line of heavily-laden greywyrmes. ‘I said, get ready!’

  At his command, the wyrmehandlers gripped the harnesses of their greywyrmes, pulled themselves up into their neck-saddles and took a hold of the reins, while beneath them the settlers hitched backpacks onto their shoulders. A muttering of voices rose to an expectant babble.

  Feeling better than ever, Solomon approached his own greywyrme, which as befitted his status was the biggest and strongest of the hundred and one creatures. A leader, like himself. The covered load upon its back towered half as high again as any of the other wyrmes, while the padded neck-saddle had an impressive harpoon-loaded sidewinder mounted on its pommel.

  ‘All set?’ Solomon called back.

  ‘All set, boss,’ the wyrmehandlers called out along the line.

  Solomon looked up at the greywyrme, and marvelled at just how much the creature was able to carry. Bundles of harpoon bolts; sidewinders, greased and wrapped in tarpaulin; wyrmeharnesses by the dozen; whips, spikes, axes and swords – enough to equip a small army, which was exactly what Solomon intended to do once he’d dumped these settlers out in the grasslands to fend for themselves. Then he’d meet up with Israel Dagg and his gang, and return to the new stockade with more kith, more wyrmes, and repeat the process.

  Soon, Solomon Tallow reckoned, he’d be top man in the high country, as powerful as any of the lords back down on the plains.

  He was about to climb up into the neck-saddle when he paused. Something was missing.

  Or rather, someone.

  ‘Where’s Lint?’ he demanded to one of the wyrmehandlers, the good humour draining out of him like water from a tub.

  The handler turned, shrugged, his grimy fingernails scratching through his matted hair. ‘He ain’t here,’ he said.

  ‘I can see that,’ Solomon snapped. ‘Question is, why not?’ He looked back along the line, seeking in vain for a sight of the young merchant. Then he fixed his hard angry gaze on the wyrmehandler. ‘Find him, Enoch, and fetch him.’

  Thirty-Seven

  Nathaniel Lint reached for the pewter jug and, trying to steady his shaking hands, tipped the dregs of the green liquor into his tumbler. He raised it and surveyed it blearily, then closed one eye in an attempt to make the double-image fuse into one – and, when it would not, he drained the liquor anyhow.

  ‘I’m drunk,’ he admitted to himself, and giggled.

  His inebriation had gone through various stages, shifting from remorse to self-pity, to a burning rage that Garth Temple had been so foolish. It was his own fault that he hadn’t noticed the spigot had been tampered with. Maker above, the man was supposed to be an expert. He was the one to blame for his death – and for leaving him, Nathaniel, at the mercy of that monster Tallow. Then his mood had shifted again, and he’d laughed out loud, aware of Lizzie the tavern-woman staring at him, and not caring.

  ‘Let them do their worst,’ he muttered. ‘Damn them to hell, the lot of them . . .’

  He turned his head and looked out of the window, wincing at the brightness. He groaned.

  They were still there, the greywyrmes, the long column stretching out across the new stockade. He raked his fingers through his hair.

  Surely it was noon by now . . .

  Just then, the door of the tavern burst open and slammed back hard against the wall behind. A hefty-looking figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, legs apart, arms raised.

  ‘At last,’ came a gruff voice. ‘I been looking for you all over.’

  Nat
haniel frowned. ‘I’m here,’ he said, and chuckled throatily that someone might not know his whereabouts when it was so clear to him.

  ‘Sol wants you,’ the voice continued. ‘And he ain’t happy.’

  Nathaniel sighed. He wasn’t feeling too good himself. ‘I . . . I was about to go get me a lie-down,’ he said. ‘A little sleep . . .’

  Muttering something under his breath, the man strode into the tavern, his heavy boots clomping on the bare boards and as he moved away from the blinding light at the doorway, Nathaniel saw him. He wasn’t as big as Solomon Tallow, but he was big enough. And ugly. His face looked swollen and misshapen, like he’d been punched repeatedly back when he was a baby. He had greasy blond hair, tied up at the back, a stringy ­moustache and small hateful black eyes that narrowed menacingly as he came closer.

  He didn’t look too happy either, Nathaniel noted, and he shrank back nervously in his chair, his erstwhile bravado quite gone.

  The man stopped beside him. ‘Get up,’ he snarled.

  Nathaniel looked up and attempted a smile, but the man did not smile back. His eyebrows drew together. His small black eyes all but disappeared.

  ‘Get up,’ he repeated, his voice quieter now, almost sing-song.

  Nathaniel half rose, pushed back his chair, which screeched on the floorboards as it lurched backwards. He lost his balance, slumped back down and giggled ­foolishly.

  The man reached out and grabbed Nathaniel’s jacket, his fist bunching up a wad of fur-trim overmantle and finely embroidered silk. He dragged the young merchant to his feet and thrust his face close. Nathaniel smelled his foul breath. Rank meat. Stale liquor. Contempt.

  ‘Sol don’t like to be kept waiting,’ he purred. Then, altering his hold, the man gripped the scruff of the young merchant’s collar and shoved him unceremoniously across the tavern floor and out the door.

  The noonday brightness struck Nathaniel hard. His head hammered and he screwed his eyes shut as the man marched him across the baked clay of the stockade. When he opened them again, peeking gingerly through slitted eyelids, he saw he was being escorted along the line of huge creatures.

  Greywyrme after greywyrme, great packs on their backs, tied up like parcels – and were those trees? And people. Lots of people. Men, women, children; old and young. They seemed to be waiting for him.

  Perhaps, thought Nathaniel muzzily, Tallow expected him to make some sort of speech, as owner of the new stockade. Bid them farewell. Say a few hope-filled words about the new life that awaited them out west; sensitive, but not cloying . . .

  All at once, the man released his hold. Nathaniel stumbled, momentum driving him forwards a couple of steps, then fell to his knees. When he looked up, he saw that he was at the very front of the column, and that Solomon Tallow was towering high above him, seated in the neck-saddle of a gigantic greywyrme and staring down at him.

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ Nathaniel said, climbing shakily to his feet. He swallowed down a mouthful of bile and tried to sober up, at least enough to speak coherently. If he had to give a speech, he wanted it to be memorable. Or at least understandable. He turned around, one hand on the flank of Solomon’s greywyrme for support. ‘My friends—’

  Solomon cut him short. ‘What the hell you think you’re doing?’ he hissed.

  Nathaniel looked up, puzzled, and winced at the bright sun that shone down on the kith’s gleaming scalp. And his confusion grew when Solomon reached across and patted the seat of the neck-saddle.

  ‘Climb up,’ he said.

  ‘Climb up?’ Nathaniel repeated numbly. ‘But . . . the new stockade . . .’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Solomon reassured him. ‘I’m leaving a few of my boys to take care of things here.’ His even white teeth flashed. ‘You’re coming with me.’

  Thirty-Eight

  The flat ground fell away, sheer and abrupt, like a massive trapdoor had opened up before them. Micah gasped and grabbed at Cara’s arm, tugging her away from the edge. They were standing on the lip of a vast canyon, an unexpected chasm that crossed their path. Cody came to a lurching halt beside them, windmilling his arms for balance. A dislodged rock fell, taking sand and gravel with it, and landed far below with a muffled thud and a circular puff of dust.

  Cody whistled. ‘Glad that weren’t me,’ he observed shakily. He ran his hand over his cropped scalp, sending up a fine spray of sweat that blushed pink against the low red sun.

  Cara laughed uneasily.

  ‘Of course,’ Micah chided himself hotly. ‘I should have known.’ He nodded towards the chaos of orange and brown striped wyrmes that darted through the air overhead, snapping at insects, dodging one another as they wheeled and dived. ‘Favourite roost of manderwyrmes, hidden canyons such as these.’

  ‘What now, then?’ Cody asked. He moved away from the precipitous drop and squinted back the way they’d come. The tall rearing-bear shaped boulder they’d set off from an hour or so earlier was glowing like a fiery beacon in the distance, across the flat plateau. ‘Reckon we ought to head back?’

  Micah frowned.

  They’d come south, foraging for food, while Eli and Ethan had headed north. Originally, the cragclimber had suggested both brothers accompany him, mindful that Cara and Micah might want time alone; said he was fixing to find him some watershrimp or sweetwater crabs at the dewponds he’d sighted through his spyglass. For supper, he’d added. But Cody had declined.

  ‘Happen Ethan would prefer it if he had you all to himself,’ he’d said, and chuckled, making light of it.

  Eli had looked across at Micah, but if he had minded, it did not show. So he left with Ethan, and Cody had set off with Cara and Micah. They were all to meet up back at bear rock at sundown to compare their finds.

  Thus far, the three of them had pitiful little to show for their endeavours. Pickings had been slim. Apart from the skeletal remains of a mistwyrme, a couple of sulphur-rocks and a clump of aromatic herbs that Cara had crushed between her fingers and declared to be rockthyme, they’d found nothing worth adding to their backpacks, and though Micah kept telling himself they had nothing to prove he wanted to return to Eli with something more substantial.

  ‘Happen there might be some redcaps within reach,’ he suggested, leaning out over the yawning drop and scanning the rockside for the telltale crimson blotches.

  ‘We had redcaps the other night,’ Cara reminded him.

  ‘And bitter they were too, to my taste,’ Cody added.

  ‘And mine,’ Cara said, nodding, and they traded quick glances.

  Cody was grimacing, his tongue sticking out and nose screwed up. Cara grinned back at him, amused by this display of boyish revulsion. As a rule the young kith’s face was set hard, impassive and unreadable, like he was holding stuff back; like he was acting the way he thought a man ought to act. Tough and unflinching. With studied disinterest. A hint of menace. The memory of the redcaps had washed all that away, leaving him ­temporarily off guard.

  ‘I ever have to eat them again it’ll be too soon,’ he laughed, holding Cara’s gaze.

  And Cara laughed with him, the moment of light-­heartedness they were sharing permitting her to return his gaze. He had beautiful eyes, she thought. They were the same shape and shade of green as his brother’s, but while Ethan’s flashed and sparkled, everything on show, Cody’s were deep and still and mysterious as dark limpid pools. She looked away, flushing in her cheeks, the front of her neck, and she glanced at Micah, hoping that he hadn’t noticed.

  He hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t. He was staring off into the sky – the way he did – and Cara wondered somewhat bitterly what might have triggered his memories of the kingirl this time. The manderwyrmes maybe? ­Tumbling over a cliff-face . . .

  ‘What about the eggs?’ said Cody.

  Micah turned, frowned, rubbed a hand over the back of his head. ‘Eggs?’

  Cody jerk
ed his chin toward to the flitting manderwyrmes. ‘I take it they’re roosting for a purpose.’

  Micah nodded. ‘It’s a hatchery,’ he confirmed. ‘They nest in dug-out hollows, but—’

  ‘I love manderwyrme eggs,’ Cara broke in. ‘Back in Deephome, certain times of year, the brothers would return from sentinel watch with sackloads of the things. We’d have them breakfast, dinner and supper.’ She licked her lips at the memory from her lost home at the bottom of the wooded chasm in the valley country. ‘And any left over got pickled in great glazed demijohns . . .’

  Cody laughed. ‘Manderwyrme eggs it is, then.’

  ‘I don’t think we should,’ said Micah. ‘Eli, he ­wouldn’t like it. He don’t hold with killing wyrmes and such, you know that.’

  ‘Eggs,’ said Cody slowly, like he was talking to a child, or an idiot. ‘I ain’t talking ’bout killing no wyrmes, I’m saying we take a few of their eggs. Hell, Micah, back on the plains people eat duck eggs, chicken eggs. Don’t do no harm to the ducks or chickens, do it?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Well, there you go then. We take us a few and fry them up tonight in the skillet.’ He smacked his lips ­theatrically. ‘Dee-licious.’

  Cara laughed, cocked her head to one side. ‘Oh, Micah,’ she said, cajoling him sweetly. ‘It can’t do any harm, surely.’

  Cody snorted. ‘You know Micah, Cara,’ he said. ‘He’s a good boy. He wouldn’t never do nothing to upset old Eli, now would he?’

  Cara flinched at the taunting words, but though she stopped laughing she could not entirely wipe the smile from her face. Micah was bristling. Cody stared at him, loose-shouldered­, fists half-bunched. They were all but squaring up to one another, eyes locked. The tense silence between them seemed to throb. Cara wanted to say that the eggs didn’t matter; that they should just forget them. But she could not.

  Micah’s cheeks trembled as his jaws clenched.

  ‘I intend to get us some,’ said Cody matter-of-factly. His top lip curled. ‘You have any problems with that, Micah, you can always tell Eli you was out-voted.’