Bone Trail Page 23

  Poking out of it, like islands set in the swirling white, were the tops of tents and benders, and the great arched backs of resting greywyrmes. Embers glowed through the mist, red and purple, blurred like ink on wet paper. High above, in the lightening sky, sharp-eyed carrionwyrmes wheeled round and round, watching closely as the first of the settlers stirred, eager to land and pick over whatever scraps the camp might leave behind.

  As the carrionwyrmes cawed and screeched ­impatiently overhead, men and women emerged from their shelters, raised their eyes to the heavens, stretched, or scratched, or stamped life into their feet. Children appeared and began at once to scamper about. The greywyrmes ringing the camp snorted as they were prodded to wakefulness by their bleary-eyed handlers. Breathing out smoke, the huge creatures pulled themselves up from their sleeping positions – front legs kneeling, rear legs sprawled out behind them on either side of their massive tails, and long necks twisted round and resting on their backs – and looked about for their feedsacks.

  One of the wyrmehandlers came striding into the camp, his legs bowed and shoulders rolling. The tether of the lumbering greywyrme that towered beside him was wrapped round his hand. His leather longcoat glinted in the sun, along with the knives at his belt and the sidewinder slung across his shoulder – and the smooth skin of the scar at his jaw. He surveyed the settlers, his dark eyebrows arched in something hovering between bemusement and contempt, and when he spoke his voice was gruff, dismissive.

  ‘Get yourselves packed up,’ he told them. ‘Mr Tallow wants a specially early start.’

  Like wildfire taking hold, pockets of activity spread out until the entire encampment was a hurry-scurry of sound and movement, with each settler family completing its own tasks and then coming together to help fellow travellers; the old, the infirm, the unfortunate. Eating and packing away. That was the order of the day, as it was every day – as it had been since that morning, nigh on nine weeks earlier, when the wyrmetrain had set forth from the badlands.

  Those first mornings had been difficult. Inexperience had led to confusion. Mistakes had been made. Now, everything ran like greased cogs, and the air thrummed with purpose.

  ‘Ain’t they the spit-image of a colony of ants,’ Solomon Tallow observed drily. ‘All busy, busy, busy.’

  He was standing on a rockspur at the edge of the broad hollow looking back over the makeshift ­encampment. Beside him, his chief wyrmehandler chuckled.

  ‘And just as easy to crush underfoot,’ he said lightly.

  ‘Now, now, Enoch,’ Solomon chided. ‘That ain’t no way to talk about our precious charges here.’

  The man shrugged, his disfigured face squirming with distaste. He stroked his stringy blond moustache thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘I sure won’t be sad to see the back of them,’ he said, and spat on the ground.

  ‘Patience, Enoch,’ said Solomon cheerfully. ‘These here folk are farmers. They plough and plant, then reap a harvest. And when they do, we’ll be back to take a share of their bounty.’ He chuckled. ‘In return for our con­tinued protection.’ He raised his hands and cupped them to his mouth. ‘Stand by your wyrmes!’ he bellowed, and smiled to himself as his words caused the hectic activity to grow more frenzied still.

  ‘Mr Tallow. Mr Tallow, sir. Can I ride up front with you again?’

  Solomon turned to see the boy, Josiah, hurrying towards him, a bundle wrapped in greasepaper and tied up with string clutched in his hands. He smiled wolfishly.

  ‘More of Molly’s fine home cooking?’ he said.

  ‘Mary, sir,’ said Josiah, correcting the brawny gangmaster without thinking. He blushed. ‘M . . . Ma’s name is Mary.’

  ‘Mary. I knew that,’ said Solomon, unflustered. He nodded at the parcel. ‘So what exactly you got there?’

  ‘Cornmeal pasties,’ Josiah replied eagerly. ‘Flatstone-baked this very morning and still warm. Ma sends them with her . . . her . . .’ His face crumpled, confused-looking, as he struggled to remember her exact words. ‘Sincere regards,’ he said at last.

  ‘Sincere regards,’ Solomon repeated and chuckled to himself at the formality of the words. Mary or Molly – or whatever her name might be – was clearly at pains to conceal from her son the closeness that she and Tallow had shared along the trail.

  ‘Can I then, sir?’ Josiah persisted. ‘Can I ride up front?’

  Amused by the boy’s eager face and earnest en­treaties, Solomon leaned forward and tousled his hair. ‘Happen you can, Josiah, lad. And we can share us them fine pasties.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Josiah happily. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Solomon turned away and took the tether from Enoch, who had been holding the gangmaster’s greywyrme in check. He tugged down hard, bringing the massive creature’s broad neck low to the ground. The greywyrme chirred throatily and smoke coiled from its nostrils, but it did not resist. It had learned not to. Tallow checked that its flameoil drain was in place, then took a hold of the strap on the side of the neck-saddle and hauled himself up. Reaching down a hand, he gripped Josiah’s wrist and pulled the boy up next to him in the saddle. Then he turned and looked back over his ­shoulder.

  ‘Move on out!’ he called.

  The wyrmetrain lurched into motion, starting at the front and rippling back down the line, one wyrme after the other, till the entire column was trudging forwards. The gangmaster’s greywyrme picked its way stolidly up the snaking dusttrail that led out of the mist-laced hollow and up over the ridge beyond. The others ­followed. The hulking greywyrmes trudged, ungainly but sure-footed, their drivers urging them on with sticks and whips, and with the settlers endeavouring not to slip on the loose scree or turn their ankles in the cracks and crevices in the rock as they struggled to keep up. Solomon leaned back in the saddle and rubbed the back of his shaven scalp.

  ‘Memory serves, Josiah,’ he said, ‘we have no more than one or two such ridges still to climb before we reach our final destination.’

  ‘The grasslands,’ Josiah breathed.

  ‘The grasslands,’ Solomon Tallow confirmed. He patted his stomach expansively. ‘Time to sample them delicious pasties, I reckon,’ he said.

  Josiah nodded. ‘Sure thing, sir,’ he said. ‘And if you like ’em, Ma said she can rustle up some more when we set up camp this evening.’

  Solomon turned to the boy, one hand gripping the reins, the other scratching lightly at the side of his nose. ‘There ain’t going to be no camp this evening,’ he said, his voice measured. ‘We arrive at the grasslands. We unload. Then me and the boys return to the stockade with the wyrmes.’ He smiled at the boy. ‘And you begin your new life as a farmer.’

  Solomon reached over and patted the boy re­assuringly on the shoulder. ‘Enterprising young pup like yourself,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be just fine.’

  He paused and glanced back over his shoulder at the great wyrmetrain once more. They’d all be fine, Solomon thought. Probably. And if they were not, well, that was none of his concern. He’d be back to collect either way. After all, it was what the great lords down on the plains did. Well, he, Solomon Tallow, aimed to be lord of these here high plains, and he and his men would take their due.

  ‘’Sides, I’ll be back soon enough,’ he told the boy. ‘With a fresh bunch of settlers. Happen you and your ma’ll have established yourselves by then.’

  Josiah nodded, but made no reply. His gaze was fixed on the wall-like incline ahead as, lurching from side to side, the greywyrme slowly but steadily climbed higher.

  As the wyrme drew closer to the crest, Josiah sat forward in the saddle, back straight and neck craned. It was midday and the sun was directly overhead, throbbing hot and casting little shadow. A small wyrme, the size of a jackrabbit, sat at the top of the rise observing the oncoming greywyrme, its tasselled beard trembling – then, discretion winning over curiosity, it skittered down the rock and disap
peared into a jagged crevice.

  Josiah held his breath.

  The next moment, as the great lumbering greywyrme beneath him finally reached the top of the ridge, the land abruptly opened up and Josiah found himself staring out across an empty plain of tall swaying yellow-green grass that was so vast it seemed to stretch on for ever. His eyes widened and he snatched a sharp intake of breath, his brain struggling to take in the sheer magnitude and grandeur of this great high-country wilderness.

  ‘Well, boy?’ said Solomon Tallow, his voice breaking into Josiah’s awestruck thoughts. ‘How d’ya like the look of your new home?’

  Josiah raised a hand. He shielded his eyes from the high sun, though there was nothing he could do to cut out the glare of the grasslands themselves, that were glowing so bright it was like they were on fire.

  He shook his head, for once at a loss for words.

  From behind came whoops and cheers and cries of triumph as others reached the top of the ridge and were afforded the same view. Family members fell upon one another, hugging and kissing. Friends congratulated each other with backslapping and arms round shoulders. ­Children who had been on their last legs minutes earlier jumped up and down, caught up in the excitement of their elders, and ran on ahead, suddenly full of boundless energy. An old woman with a straw bonnet fell to her knees at the top of the ridge and offered a silent prayer of thanks . . .

  ‘Well, Josiah?’ Solomon persisted, as they continued down the far side of the ridge and the jagged rocks gave way to some low nubbed hills. ‘What do you think?’

  Josiah pushed back his shock of blond hair. He nodded. ‘It’s big,’ he said.

  ‘Big,’ said Solomon, and laughed. ‘I like that.’ He slapped the boy on his shoulder. ‘That’s a good answer, Josiah,’ he said. ‘Big.’

  As they crossed the border between foothill and plain, and the blistering east wind picked up, the sound of the parched grass hissing and sighing rose up around them. Josiah looked about him. There were scrubby bushes and stunted shrubs in among the long grass, he saw, their leaves dried and curled, and those fruits and nuts that had not already been foraged, shrivelled on the branch. And as they trudged on, he noticed sump-pools and dewponds shining like mirrored glass, their water low, but the footprints in the surrounding mud offering proof that the grasslands were not as devoid of wildlife as he had first thought.

  Beside Josiah, Solomon Tallow turned in the saddle and looked back. The last of the greywyrmes had already left the final gravelled slopes of the ridge country and were trampling down the grass. He turned back and scanned the flat horizon.

  Up ahead, a dust-devil spun, blurred and conical, the needle-like point at its base touching down on the ground time and again, like a bee probing flowers for nectar, stirring the dying grass and raising the dust beneath. Solomon squinted into the clogged air for a moment, then half climbing to his feet in the saddle, raised a hand.

  ‘Make a halt!’ he bellowed. ‘And get them wyrmes unpacked! This is as far as we go!’

  He tugged hard on the reins and pulled the great greywyrme beneath him to a standstill. Behind him, the other wyrmehandlers did the same.

  Solomon turned and, face set solemn, extended a hand to Josiah, who looked at it for a moment before taking hold. His own small bony hand was all but lost in the gangmaster’s great meaty paw, and he felt the hard callouses graze his knuckles.

  ‘It’s been an honour knowing you, boy,’ said Solomon, grinning broadly and pumping the boy’s hand up and down. ‘You been my ears and eyes on this trip and I appreciate it. I shall not forget.’

  He climbed to his feet and jumped down from the neck-saddle. Josiah was about to follow him, when something caught his attention. He paused.

  ‘Looks like there’s a storm approaching,’ he said, and pointed off towards the horizon far to the west.

  Solomon turned and looked, his eyes squinting against the brightness of the plains. Far above his head, the sky was still clear, and the sun beat down, searing and relentless. But the boy was right. There was something there. He frowned. It looked like a great dark stormcloud all right, but it was advancing across the grasslands towards them – which was impossible, since the wind was coming from behind.

  ‘Whatever that is,’ Solomon Tallow pronounced, ‘it sure ain’t no storm.’

  Forty-Seven

  The settlers stopped what they were doing and looked up into the sky. The belongings that were being un­tethered from the backs of the greywyrmes were momentarily abandoned; barrows of seedsacks, bundles of timber, tools and farm implements, carefully wrapped in oiled wyrmeskin, were left dangling from ropes or stacked in small piles in the tall grass. All eyes were on the approaching stormcloud spreading across the sky.

  Young and old clustered together, talking in awestruck voices. The children were transfixed. Some were frozen to the spot, trembling, their mouths open. Some ran this way and that from one group of adults to another, seeking reassurance. Others were hoisted up onto their parents’ shoulders for a better look. None of them could take their eyes off the dark cloud on the horizon.

  ‘What d’ya think it is, Cain?’ asked one of the ploughhands, looking up at his friend, who was standing on the back of their greywyrme.

  ‘It sure as hell ain’t no weather,’ Cain shouted down. ‘Looks more like a flock of critters. Thousands of ’em . . .’

  His words broke off as the greywyrme beneath him abruptly reared up, its eyes rolling and smoke snorting from its flared nostrils. Cain made a grab for a rope, but missed and keeled over backwards and landed heavily on the ground, cussing as he did so.

  ‘What are they, Pa?’ asked a boy, his voice shrill. He was perched on his father’s shoulders, holding his ears and kicking excitedly against his chest with the back of his heels.

  ‘A wonder of our new home, Gideon Junior, that’s what it is,’ came the reply. The man shook his head – as much as his son’s grip would allow. ‘I ain’t seen nothing like them back on the plains.’

  ‘But what are they?’ the boy persisted.

  Sitting astride his greywyrme, Solomon Tallow was asking himself that self-same question. With sixteen years in the high country under his belt, he thought he’d seen it all. Skitterwyrmes and rockwyrmes on the scree-covered slopes of the high plateaus; pitchwyrmes and snatterjabs fishing the falls of the valley country; cliff colonies of bluewings, spikebacks and manderwyrmes in the eastern canyons. And in the ridges, ferocious redwings, plump squabwyrmes, stormwyrmes . . . And greywyrmes, of course. Even in the highstacks, where, on rare occasions, he had caught distant glimpses of the great whitewyrmes.

  But he had never seen wyrmes like these.

  He lowered his spyglass and snapped it shut. These wyrmes were gigantic, twice the size of the lumbering greywyrme he was sitting on, yet judging by the speed of their approach, as fast as any redwing. Their blueblack scales looked like fire-scorched metal. Their claws were like sabres. Their wings seemed almost to flash as they beat up and down. And, as they drew closer, Solomon could hear their guttural chittering and chirring. They seemed to be calling to one another, the way the great whitewyrmes were said to do.

  On the ground below him, Enoch, his chief wyrme­handler, was getting uneasy.

  ‘I don’t like the look of them,’ he muttered as he struggled to keep a tight rein on the gangmaster’s ­fretting greywyrme.

  Solomon grinned, putting on a show of bravado for settler and wyrmehandler alike. ‘They’re just migrating wyrmes,’ he told him. ‘Probably off to roost some place. They won’t bother with us if we don’t bother with them.’

  The wyrmehandler shrugged, then stumbled forward as the greywyrme lurched to one side. ‘Maybe so,’ he said, ‘but they sure are spooking this here wyrme.’

  The other greywyrmes were becoming just as ­agitated. All of them. With their hindlegs still hobbled by ropes, they stamped round in circles,
trampling down the long grass – as well as some of the settlers’ ­possessions; boxes and barrels and precious farm tools which had already been unloaded. They bucked and ­bellowed, their necks extended and tails swishing wildly from side to side and, for all the whipping and beating they were doling out, Tallow’s wyrmehandlers were facing a losing battle in their attempts to hold them in check.

  What was more, the greywyrmes’ growing agitation was beginning to prove contagious. The settlers themselves were becoming uneasy, for as the dark cloud grew closer, it was becoming all too clear to the naked eye that it was in fact a flock of gargantuan wyrmes.

  ‘I don’t like them,’ a small boy whimpered, tears filling his eyes as he clung onto to his father’s leg. ‘Make them go away, Pa.’

  ‘It’s all right, Zeb,’ his father told him. He eyed the swirling mass of blueblack creatures in the distance warily. ‘They don’t mean us no harm.’

  ‘Y’sure?’ the boy said and looked up, his big brown eyes pleading for reassurance when his father did not reply.

  ‘Are you sure, Silas?’ asked his wife quietly. She sounded frightened.

  Silas shook his head. ‘There ain’t no point in scaring the boy, is there?’ he whispered.

  But Zeb must have heard him. ‘They’re fixing to eat us, ain’t they?’ he said, his voice oddly matter-of-fact. ‘Ain’t they, Pa? That’s what such critters do up here in the weald. They’re gonna gobble us all up . . .’

  ‘Of course they’re not,’ his father snapped, his own misgivings flipping the words from comforting to angered, and the boy burst into tears.

  A little way off, the rangy old farmer with the rabbitskin hat, Amos Greenwood, and his wife Ida, clutched at one another anxiously. Close by, a mother swept her little girl up in her arms and hugged her tightly to her chest. ‘Bekkah, Bekkah, Bekkah,’ she hushed over and over in her ear. Two thick-set brothers, eager to keep their ­possessions safe from the increasingly agitated greywyrmes, tottered past, red-faced and sweating, a huge wood and leather chest swaying between them. Alarmed by the approaching flock, an extended family, some three dozen in number, clustered together, the womenfolk at the centre – from a hunched bewhiskered great-­grandmother to twin baby girls in arms – and the men, armed with knives and hoes and pitchforks, around them, keeping guard.