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  ‘Did you need to kill so many?’ said Alsasse, and he was aware of how thin and feeble his voice must sound to the leader of the blueblackwyrmes.

  ‘There is no turning back now, snowwyrme,’ Beveesh-gar snarled. ‘The taint must be eradicated.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Along with any wyrme that bears it.’

  Behind him, his son, Hasheev-gul growled throatily. ‘They fought hard, these kin,’ he said, and shook his head solemnly. ‘We lost many of the host . . .’

  His blue eyes stared into Alsasse’s yellow ones. Alsasse looked away, unable to bear the penetrating gaze of the blueblackwyrme a moment longer.

  The three of them were standing at the top of the ­galleries, the lowering sun casting their shadows long over the sandstone rock that was cracked and uneven beneath their claws. Far below them, the canyon beneath the ­galleries bore grim testament to the truth of Hasheev-gul’s words.

  The ground was littered with corpses. Scores of corpses. Blueblackwyrmes. Whitewyrmes, and the kin who had ridden them. Their bodies lay broken or burned, inert – but given the gruesome semblance of life by the rockwyrmes and carrionwyrmes that picked greedily over their flesh and bones.

  Beveesh-gar cleared his throat. ‘They fought well indeed,’ he acknowledged. ‘For whitewyrmes,’ he added. ‘It seems these kin of theirs taught them something useful after all. How to fight. How to defend themselves . . .’ He nodded his head sagely. ‘Something that we blueblackwyrmes have tried to teach you, snowwyrme.’

  ‘But . . . but it is not our way,’ Alsasse protested, trying hard to meet the blueblackwyrme’s accusing look.

  ‘Your way,’ said Beveesh-gar, and his gruff voice was loaded with contempt. ‘We have already heard far too much about your way, snowwyrme. Your way led you far from here to a place where you could not survive . . .’ He paused, coughed, the sound deep down in his throat like molten lava ­bubbling. He breathed in wheezily, his eyes watering, before collecting himself. ‘Our way has led you back here and restored you to the home of your ancestors . . .’

  ‘Our way is the only way,’ broke in Hasheev-gul.

  His father nodded, his eyes still watering as he struggled not to start coughing again.

  Hasheev-gul looked at him with concern. ‘And though we find this a cold and inhospitable part of the weald, we shall go further to the east, to eradicate the taint of the two-hides,’ he continued softly. His cold blue eyes fixed on the whitewyrme. ‘As you should have done.’

  ***

  As darkness fell, two whitewyrmes slipped out of the shadows of the lowest tier of the galleries and took silently to the air, gliding on outstretched wings over the bodies strewn across the canyon depths. The larger of the wyrmes clutched a bundle in its foreclaws while the smaller, a young wyrme, carried a hooded rider with a kinlance on its back.

  It was this that alerted the blueblack sentinel high above on the lip of the highest gallery. With a guttural cry, the massive creature launched itself clumsily into the air as the whitewyrmes below beat their wings and soared off to the east.

  Aylsa turned her neck to see the black shape closing in from behind them.

  ‘Faster,’ she cried out desperately, as much to herself as to Asa, who was flying beside her.

  But it was no good. The blueblackwyrme was too fast. Already Aylsa could smell his sulphurous odour and, as his jaws parted, the blast of fire seemed almost to bite into her swaying tail. Asa was directly in front of her now. She wanted to slow her pace, to protect him and Zar from the intense heat of the fire, but she knew well enough that if she did that, then they would all perish.

  Craning her neck, she looked back at the blueblackwyrme. His eyes were narrowed; his thick neck extended and pulsing. He was readying himself for another blast of fire that, this time, would surely envelop them all. She was about to turn back and endure the fire as best she could, when she saw something out of the corner of her eye.

  It was a flash of white, swooping down out of the sky as fast as a bolt of lightning.

  The blueblackwyrme must have seen it too, for he turned his head – just as the kinlance penetrated his thick skull direct­ly between his eyes. He was dead in an instant, and tumbled down out of the sky, wings collapsing and neck and tail limp. He disappeared, noiseless, into the darkness below, and it was seconds later when the sound of his body crashing down onto the floor of the canyon echoed up through the air.

  Aylsa drew level with Asa, and the pair of them slowed down as they looked round to see who had come to their aid.

  ‘Ramilles!’ Zar exclaimed. ‘I thought you were dead . . . .’

  Ramilles raised his kinlance in greeting, and as the clouds opened up and the moon shone down, Zar saw blood dripping from its point. ‘I thought the same of you,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Where are you heading?’ his wyrme, Aluris, asked, her wingbeats matching Asa’s and Aylsa’s.

  ‘To the east,’ said Aylsa, her eyes fixed steadily on the horizon. ‘In search of Aseel.’

  Forty-Four

  ‘There’s kith to the east of us,’ said Eli. ‘A whole load of them, I reckon.’

  ‘We spotted their campfires from the top of that ridge yonder,’ said Ethan, his gaze flitting restlessly about. ‘Didn’t we, Eli? We didn’t stop to count them exact like, but there must have been fifty or more ­flickering in the dusk, weren’t there?’

  ‘’S right, lad,’ the cragclimber confirmed. He sat himself down in the tall grass and began loosening the ties of his boots. ‘Happen we ought to get a few hours shut-eye, then set off before dawn. And we should head south – skirt the fringes of these here grasslands, keep close to the ridges.’

  Cara nodded, then patted the blanket she was sitting on. ‘Sit yourself down, Ethan,’ she said, smiling up at the youth. ‘I’ve saved you some of last night’s broth and ­corncakes . . .’

  ‘Is that the way it’s gonna be?’ Cody’s voice came from a little way off in the gathering dusk. ‘Always moving. Never stopping anywhere for more than a day or two? Hitting the trail every time we sight another human soul?’

  He sounded miserable, Cara noted, out of sorts. It was the old brooding Cody from before their kiss at the waterfall.

  ‘That’s the way of the wyrmeweald,’ said Eli slowly, pulling off one boot and then the other. ‘Leastways, it is if you’re fixing to survive more than a season or two.’

  He looked out across the rolling grasslands. Cody was sitting on a low boulder, his bulky outline just visible against the glowing horizon.

  ‘Kith in such numbers are best avoided,’ the cragclimber went on. ‘My guess is these are the ones been trapping greywyrmes, rounding them up, harnessing them. I smelled the greywyrme musk on the wind,’ he said and nodded, as though to himself. ‘They must’ve bagged themselves a mighty herd.’

  Cara handed Ethan a bowl of the broth and a couple of corncakes, then dished out more of the broth from her canteen and gave it to Eli. The meal was cold on account of Eli forbidding a fire, but the pair of them ate hungrily. Cara got up from the blanket and walked towards Cody’s silhouette.

  As she approached, he reached forward and scooped up a handful of loamy earth in his big calloused hands. It was dark and frangible. He sniffed it, rubbed some between a finger and thumb, then let the whole lot drop to the ground.

  ‘This is good soil,’ he said appreciatively.

  Brushing the last of it from his palms, Cody climbed to his feet and surveyed the vast expanse of the grasslands around him, the grass flexing and bending as a gentle breeze ruffled its yellowing blades and seedheads. He plucked one of the plump clusters of seeds, rubbed it between his palms, then blew away the winnowed husks before turning to Cara. In the half-light, she could make out the questioning look in his eyes.

  ‘Is this the life you want, Cara?’ he asked. ‘This endless travel, with only a hole in the ground each fullwinter to call home?’ />
  Cara coloured. Life on the trail was hard compared with Deephome. She’d grown up never having to concern herself with where the next meal was coming from; never having to worry about finding somewhere warm and dry to spend the night. But then that old life of hers had been built on a lie – a lie that Micah had saved her from.

  ‘We have no choice,’ Cara said. ‘Eli’s right about that. You’ve seen how kith can be.’ She frowned. ‘You remember what happened at the scrimshaw den, don’t you?’

  Cara saw Cody flinch, then turn away. He looked back out across the rolling grasslands. They stretched off to the west as far as the eye could see, the last glow of sunset bathing them in golden light.

  ‘It’s a pitiful shame is what it is,’ Cody said, ‘that such a bounti­ful land should be the sole preserve of thieves and murderers.’ His voice was tight, constricted. ‘Without such folk, we could settle here, Cara. You and me. And farm . . . I reckon anything’d grow up here. Wheat. Corn. Tatoes.’ His green eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘Pumpkins and apples . . . Happen there’s neither vegetable nor fruit that would not thrive in soil as rich as this.’

  For a moment, the image of a farmstead, with lush fields and well-stocked outhouses, hovered before her like a mirage, tantalizing yet frail. Then it faded abruptly.

  ‘And when kith came?’ she said. ‘Or . . .’ Cara ­shuddered. ‘Keld? What then, Cody? What would we do out here in the open?’

  Cody’s shoulders hunched and his head slumped forward, but Cara could see his powerful hands were bunched into fists.

  ‘It’s a pitiful shame,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. ‘A pitiful shame . . .’

  Cara was about to put her arms around him, to soothe away the anger and frustration of the old Cody, the way she knew she could; and to bring out the new Cody – the Cody who thrilled and excited her with the intensity of his feelings. But then she saw Micah.

  He was standing a little way off, looking distracted; a dark figure against the horizon glow. He was wearing his hat, had a full pack on his shoulders and a walking staff gripped in one hand. Seeing him there, Cara was reminded of the first time she’d laid eyes on him.

  How rough and ready Micah had seemed back then; the seasoned weald traveller with his trailworn boots and hacketon, and the bold swagger to his walk. Her heart had leaped at the sight of him. Now, instead, it seemed to tighten in her chest as she felt a familiar pang of guilt.

  She left Cody standing hunched and immobile, his back to her, lost in his thoughts, and waded through the long grass towards Micah. As she approached, she saw his face was white and mask-like. It was the same blank expression he’d worn for days now – almost as though he had seen inside her, had read her thoughts and knew of her feelings for Cody.

  But then, how could he? Cara asked herself. She’d been so careful, trying not to show favour, avoiding Cody’s glances, turning her attention instead to Ethan and Eli. And yet . . .

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Cara stopped in front of Micah, her eyes searching his impassive face for clues. ‘Just like that? Slipping away into the dusk without saying a word? Why?’

  ‘I’ve squared it with Eli,’ Micah said in a low voice, looking away from her to the far distance. ‘I . . . I need some time on my own is all.’

  Cara followed his gaze. He was looking out across the grasslands towards the west where, beyond the horizon, there lay the wyrme galleries. And the kin. The guilt she’d been feeling dissipated, to be replaced by hurt. Betrayal. Of course, that was why he was going.

  Because of the kingirl. The one he couldn’t forget. Cara had imagined that she and Micah would love one another for ever and ever. It seemed she had been ­mistaken.

  ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ she said evenly.

  Micah turned his head to look at her. His dark-rimmed eyes were glistening and his face, no longer a mask, had a haunted stricken look. He glanced at Cody, then back at Cara, and when he spoke his voice was raw with emotion and pierced Cara’s heart.

  ‘I hope you do too, Cara.’

  Forty-Five

  Thrace and Aseel stood at the top of a jagged ridge looking westwards, the kingirl’s hair and her white­wyrme’s barbels set in motion by the warm breeze from the east. Before them, the grasslands were spread out, flat and rolling and gold-leafed in the low sun. Neither of them spoke.

  Finally Thrace broke the silence, her gaze still fixed on the far horizon. ‘Yes, you were right. I think I see them now,’ she said. ‘A kin patrol from the galleries coming this way.’ She stole a glance at the wyrme. ‘They must have picked up the taint from the wyrmetrain on the wind.’

  ‘The taint,’ Aseel sighed, the words hissing from his mouth like floodwater gushing through a broken riverbank. His eyes pulsed from amber to red.

  ‘We can stop these two-hides and their wyrmetrain,’ Thrace told him. She raised her kinlance. ‘The wyrme­kin acting as one can kill them all . . .’

  ‘And then?’ said Aseel. ‘You heard the words of the two-hides trapper. More are coming. They are gathering in the place of dust and heat to the east, where they drain the wyrmes of their oil and enslave them. Unless the settlement there is destroyed, the taint will grow and grow until it covers the whole of the weald . . .’ He inclined his long neck towards Thrace. ‘But if the flameoil is set alight, it will turn that settlement of theirs into an inferno . . .’ He paused, his eyes glowing dark red. ‘Along with whoever gets close enough to ignite it . . .’

  Thrace held Aseel’s gaze for a moment, then nodded grimly. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘if that’s what it takes to stop the two-hides once and for all, then that is what we must do.’ She smiled, tears welling up. ‘We shall die together.’

  Aseel’s eyes paled with sorrow. ‘No, Thrace,’ he told her. ‘I must do this alone.’

  ‘Alone?’ she breathed. ‘Without me? But why, Aseel?’

  ‘The two-hides murdered my wyve. I have nothing left to lose . . .’ Aseel lowered his eyes. ‘But you have.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t understand,’ Thrace whispered, her voice as cracked as splintering wood.

  The whitewyrme sighed, then, without speaking, inclined his neck. He rested the side of his head against Thrace’s belly, his eyes half-closed and barbels twitching.

  ‘There are two hearts beating within you,’ he said at length, and straightened up.

  Thrace gasped. ‘You mean . . . ?’

  Staring down, she placed the palms of her hands flat on her belly and tried to sense the life growing inside her.

  A baby. Micah’s baby . . .

  Those nights in the winter den, when she had lain in Micah’s arms, half-crazy with loss and longing for her life with Aseel, a life that had seemed over . . .

  Micah had soothed her, had eased her sorrow. Had made her love him . . .

  But then Aseel had returned once more, the great whitewyrme who had rescued her as an infant, who had raised her, taught her to love and defend the weald. And she had been prepared to go with Aseel to the new ­stockade, even if it meant death for them both.

  Aseel.

  Micah.

  How could she ever have decided between them? She pressed her hands more firmly against her belly. But now the decision had been made for her.

  ‘I have lost my offspring, Thrace,’ said Aseel, his voice gentle yet firm. ‘You must not do anything to endanger yours. Go back to the galleries and take good care of the wyve inside you,’ he told her. ‘And send the kin to deal with these two-hides in the wyrmetrain when they leave the ridges and come out into the open spaces of the grasslands.’

  Thrace stared into Aseel’s eyes. Then she stepped towards him, her arms outstretched. Aseel dipped his head, his jaws parted and, as Thrace embraced him, her ear pressed against the black zigzag scar, she was enfolded in warm white aromatic smoke.

  After a few moments, Aseel pulled away, raisi
ng his head, his wings. Reluctantly Thrace had to let go and step back. Her soulskin shone brilliant white in the failing light. Aseel raised his wings and, flexing his hindlegs, launched himself off the top of the ridge. He circled above Thrace once, twice, his yellow eyes staring down at her with a mixture of love and sorrow. Then, with a flick of his tail, he soared off to the east, the rhythmic wingbeats fading as he disappeared into the night.

  Standing alone, Thrace stared after him into the darkness, weeping silently, tears coursing down her face. The distant upland was speckled with the glow of kith campfires. She lowered her head, a curtain of ash-gold hair hiding her grief as she did so.

  A short while later, she heard the sound of wingbeats behind her, and the quiet scritch-scratch of talons on rock as the kin patrol landed on the ridge top. She hurriedly wiped her face with the back of her hand, and turned to see Aseel’s mate, Aylsa, standing there, along with little Zar and Asa, and the kin, Ramilles, with his wyrme, Aluris.

  Thrace’s sorrow turned to a sudden burning anger that rose up inside her, implacable and merciless. She gripped her kinlance and pointed at the campfires in the distance.

  ‘The kin must gather,’ she told them, ‘to meet the two-hides in the grasslands and kill them. Kill them all.’

  Ramilles climbed slowly down from Aluris’s back. Aylsa inclined her neck, her pale eyes searching the ridge top for Aseel, and Thrace saw that she was cradling her kinchild in her foreclaws. Zar’s face was streaked with tears, and Asa would not meet Thrace’s gaze.

  ‘What is it?’ Thrace asked.

  ‘The rest of the kin . . .’ Zar began.

  ‘They’re dead,’ said Ramilles, his voice choked and bitter. ‘All of them.’

  Forty-Six

  The day broke sultry and oppressive. Drab pink stained the eastern sky and tipped the serrated ridges and jagged peaks. Mist hovered low above the ground in the dips and hollows.