Darkburn Book 4: The Haunt of Ternss by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 32

She has ruined the sea for me, thought Maeneb. My first glimpse of it in seven years – and now I shall never be able to look at it again without visualising her standing there like a dress-shaped rock, rigid in her sodden skirts, blocking the view. What did the woman think she was doing? Trying to stop the waves?

“That dress will take three days to dry out,” she informed Gaelera shortly. The dress lay draped wetly over the sand close to where the group had built their fire.

“Then it is fortunate that I have others with me,” Gaelera said composedly. She was wearing a new dress now, appropriately sea-green, its skirts enlivened with twisting golden threads like baby eels. “Jebil; you rinsed the skirts in fresh water, did you not, to avoid unsightly salt stains?”

“Ma’am,” said Jebil in the lowest of voices.

“Which water did you use, Jebil?”

“The stream back there, ma’am, where the horses are drinking.” Jebil barely raised her hand to indicate the area, let alone her eyes.

“The water there is sufficiently fresh? Did you test it, Jebil?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

At least the girl was staying in character, thought Maeneb, even though there was no-one round this fire who did not know of her previous identity as Janeya; for they were all women of the Vonn.

But the next fire, a few yards away, was a different matter. That was a more raucous fire, for around it sat the men of Melmet and a few other non-Vonnish members of the army, all talking loudly. Gaelera’s toothless groom was in that company, sucking on a mutton-bone. Yaret was sitting with them, deep in earnest conversation with the northern vagabond called Zan. Well, he looked like a vagabond. Probably none of those men would care about Janeya; they would shrug if they knew the truth, but it was better that they should not know.

And Gaelera? Does she know? Of course she does, thought Maeneb. That’s why she’s questioning Jebil. She is enjoying this.

“Gaelera,” she said abruptly, “Lady Gaelera, I mean. Are you quite sure you wouldn’t rather join the Lady Meya inside the monastery tonight? Or be with the Kelvhan nobles in the east wing? There you could be comfortable and private.”

“I like it here,” Gaelera answered calmly. “I like it here, sitting by a camp-fire as the sun goes down, with the sea nearby, hearing the waves push and pull at the shore. I am warm and dry and full of an interesting broth. And I have my friends beside me. What more could I wish?”

“Your friends?” said Maeneb curtly, choosing to ignore Hilbré’s widening eyes and faint shake of the head.

“A mere serving-maid cannot be my friend, of course,” proclaimed Gaelera. “We are too far apart in rank. But I count you as my friend, Maeneb, and by extension your companion Durba also.”

Durba made a small noise in her throat that might have been assent or equally protest.

“And as for the rest of you, you are surely not my enemies?” enquired Gaelera, her head tilted: which meant that Hilbré had to answer courteously.

“Indeed, we wish you well, my lady. We are in no way your enemies. But as Maeneb says, you may be more at ease within the shelter of the building than out here with us.”

Gaelera was silent for a moment. “I am not in communication with my father,” she said deliberately, “if that is what you fear.”

“I am sure your father would want to hear from you,” said Hilbré.

“Oh, I am quite sure of that,” Gaelera said. “He would very much like to know what my intentions are. But as yet I have not quite decided them myself.”

Over at the other fire somebody began to strum a lutine. It was Yaret, playing a wandering pattern of chords, alternately major and minor, followed by a faint murmuring of song. Probably some ditty, Maeneb thought, by that ancestral bard she’d mentioned. Madeo. It was plaintively attractive; annoyingly so. Maeneb was not in the mood for soothing music.

“That is pleasant,” commented Gaelera. “A traditional tune, I doubt not. Shall you sing?”

“I’m going to sleep,” said Maeneb abruptly. She had had enough of Gaelera’s play-acting and posing.

“It’s, it’s not dark yet,” said Durba. In the last day or two her stammer had returned a little, although Maeneb thought there was no reason why it should. There was no bloodshed here, no conflict to return her to her state of speechless shock. Nothing but the hypnotic, tranquillising murmur of the sea. Maybe it was the strain of Gaelera’s presence.

She retorted brusquely. “The days are getting long already. If I wait till dark I won’t get enough sleep before the dawn wakes me again.”

She stood up and without any bow to Gaelera tramped back towards the tent pitched on the grass-tufted dune, well above the tide mark. The pegs, set into deep sand, would not hold against a strong wind; but at present it was almost windless. When she looked out to sea a dull grey haze enveloped the horizon. The ominous piling clouds which she’d seen earlier had gone or were obscured. The blue was fading from the sky; the air was warm and still and humid. The sea was hushed, as if it too was readying for sleep.

Maeneb crawled into the tent and lay down on her bedroll. It was airless in there, almost stifling. She was aware of the smell of other bedrolls close around and wished she had a tent of her own. It wasn’t as if the others stank. But they smelt of people; all too close, too intrusive, too oppressive. It made her itch and twitch.

And Gaelera. So irritating. Why did the woman make those ponderous statements in that way? Why did everyone hang on her words and treat her as if she might burst into flames if she were not deferred to?

They are afraid of her, of course, thought Maeneb; and so I am. They are afraid of her because of her father – and Janeya. She might betray the one to the other. Yet I don’t think she will. She doesn’t like her father enough to do that. She just wants to keep everyone guessing and deferring to her.

She turned over, feeling the bedroll stick to her clammy shirt. Her forehead was damp. Her innermost, unwanted thoughts crept out into the humid air.

I am the one who should be most afraid of her, because of that man I killed. The one whose face I kept seeing all the way down the Red Roads. That golden beard. The sneer. My knife stuck in his throat…

Against her will, the scene replayed itself: the armoury stall with its high glinting shields, the nobleman’s arm abruptly round her neck, his other hand trying to pull her shirt off. What could she have done differently?

Nothing, she thought. At least I did it properly. I killed him. He did not speak again. He never named me. But I shouldn’t have gone running to Gaelera. That was my mistake. I should have walked away and they would not have caught me. Probably. I panicked when I didn’t need to.

I put myself in Gaelera’s power. Well, let her do her worst, because I won’t submit to her. And what’s the worst that she can do?

Tell the Kelvhans about the man’s death. Would that disgrace Huldarion? Would it throw the whole alliance in jeopardy? I’m not important enough, surely, to do that. Unless the Kelvhans chose. They could use me as an excuse. Maybe I should leave the Vonn, in case. I could saddle up and ride away, at dead of night. Desert the army.

And where would I go?

Farwithiel…

That weight of trees that holds the world at bay. The light that falls between them like clear water: a separate, self-sufficient world. So much space there.

Well, maybe. But not yet.

She heard the others come in and lie down, murmuring and rustling. They gradually fell quiet, yet still she could not sleep. She rolled over and tried to let her thoughts drift off.

But they were very odd thoughts, and Gaelera seemed to be in the middle of them all, in her long damp skirts, hands spread out by her sides, a faint smile on her face. Oh, go away, thought Maeneb, as she turned over yet again. She was all too aware of Gaelera lying next to her.

Gaelera slept on her back, her mouth closed – how did she manage that? Most people’s mouths fell open – yet she did not snore. Previously it had been impossible to tell if she were asleep or not: on waking up, she didn’t yawn or stretch. Her eyes opened and that was it. She was fully there.

Was Gaelera asleep now? Whether she were or no, Maeneb could bear it in the tent no longer. Sweat was running from her forehead again. She was too warm. She was being suffocated, by the humid air and by her thoughts. There was a faint, persistent hissing from outside; thin rain on the sand perhaps, or falling on the sea. Those veiled clouds far out must at last have come to shore. It seemed to grow still warmer and clammier, until with a stifled groan she threw aside her cloak and crept out of the tent to try and cool herself in the fine rain she could hear.

But it was no cooler outside the canvas walls; and it wasn’t raining after all. The hissing must be distant rain upon the sea. Yet the air seemed full of moisture – heavy, clinging, like the steam-filled cabins some of the tribes in Outer Kelvha favoured. Pointless things, in Maeneb’s view. Why would you want to sit in a hut and sweat?

Now Maeneb stood by the tent and sweated. It wasn’t fully dark. The faint lightening of the eastern sky informed that she must have slept without realising it. But not for long enough, she thought grumpily; for it still lacks an hour to dawn.

In that thick leaden sky the stars had disappeared. The moon was a slender shimmer beyond the misty veil. Veron came to her mind: did he stand somewhere to look up at this frail moon? How were they all faring? She reached her mind out to Olbeth’s farm; but no, she could feel nothing there. They would all be asleep. And she remembered now that they weren’t at Olbeth’s farm in any case; there was a rumour they’d moved on. She did not know to where.

Farwithiel, she thought. Should I ride off to Farwithiel? That would take the wind out of Gaelera’s sails. But the Farwth might not let me in. And such friends as I have are here, in these grey humps of tents. Although I don’t like many of them much, I still don’t want to leave them.

The tents, just visible, slept like giant seals parked on the beach. Further off was the much longer, darker body of the monastery sleeping on its cliff. The sea was haze and shadow.

Maeneb walked towards it, her legs immediately weary with the effort of wading through this heavy atmosphere. When she came to the sea, the muted lapping of the waves grew hardly any louder. The hot damp air was stifling. Only that faint hissing sound persisted: she wished the rain would come to shore and fall on her.

The rain falls nightly in Farwithiel, she thought: such sweet, cool rain, called down by the Farwth. Or else the Farwth arranges its green realm so as to attract it. That roof of mist that hides it always…

She gazed across the shrouded waves, thinking of that misted canopy above the trees. Mist lay heavy on the sea here too. Bring me rain, she thought. I don’t care if it needs a storm. Bring me some rain to cool my body and my mind.

Through the constant hissing a faint dull roar grew, out to sea. Was that thunder? But there was no lightning. Instead, in the dim moonlit grey she saw, to match the swell of sound, a slow swelling of the ocean’s surface. It was the same heaving movement that the sea had made the previous day – but now much closer, bigger.

“What?” said Maeneb, staring through the dark. The hiss grew louder: the damp and heat grew more intense, as if she were standing amidst a hundred boiling kettles. The mound of swelling sea became a hill, a liquid tumulus, gleaming in uncertain moonlight, water streaming down its sides. As she watched it in bewilderment, it gradually subsided; the mound sank down, the noise grew less intense. Maybe some strange habit of the sea.

“What is that?” said a voice beside her. She turned and saw Gaelera, still, bizarrely, wearing her eel-laden dress. Of course, there was no maid at hand to help her change.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Maeneb.

“I am looking at the waves, as you are. What is that?”

And then Durba was there, running up behind them in her underclothes. “I’m, I’m, I’m s – sorry,” she said. “I c– I c–”

“She couldn’t stop me,” said Gaelera calmly. “What is that?”

“It’s water,” Maeneb said. “It’s the tide, or currents, or something.” The sea was all in motion now, its slack surface breaking up, torn into shreds of grey and black and blacker in the dull quarter-light.

And then, as they all watched, the sea rose up again. The mound swelled slowly; ten feet up, then twenty, maybe thirty, and surely it must be eighty, no, a hundred feet in length. It was become a hill once more, pouring water from its slopes; an intense hissing pierced the air; a hot wind steamed past her. Was this an outsized wave like those that she had heard of? Would it come crashing in to shore? Ought they to run? She felt a tug of fear.

“I think we should–”

Her words were lost. For abruptly the hill began to rise again, rearing up into a mountain, shedding rivers, impossibly steep; and as the water rushed down it with a noise of thunder it turned into something else.

Something huge, dark, twining, coiling, steaming. Maeneb caught a glimpse of gleaming scaly skin before the clouds of steam enveloped it. The mass of hissing water began to move towards the shore.

“Get back! Get back!” she shouted. “Wake the others!” Her shout was eaten by the sound of the sea – now not so much a hiss as a huge roaring snarl.

But the other two did not need telling. They were already running back across the sand, Durba scampering swiftly, Gaelera hampered by her dress. Maeneb grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along, cursing. Briefly she looked back over her shoulder.

Beneath the billowing steam the water seemed to boil. And then the vast grey cloud of mist turned black. A shape emerged from it and resolved into something more solid than water yet in perpetual motion, writhing, undulating, convoluting in tortuous, rippling coils.

It was coming faster than they could run. Within a few more seconds it was at the water’s edge. A gigantic bunch of black coils landed on the beach with a huge juddering thump that made the sand around her leap and shiver.

The creature writhed again while steam as thick as smoke poured from it. Then it twisted and rose up, the coils behind it expanding. A long sinuous body reared up from the coils and thudded down again upon the hissing sands. It was as thick as a dozen tree trunks. She felt the earth shake with its falling. Then it lifted itself up, twining serpent-like, before plunging down upon the shore a third time, further from the sea. It was advancing.

“Pick up your skirts,” Maeneb yelled at Gaelera. Had the woman no idea how to run? She tugged her along frantically until Gaelera fell, stumbling and slumping on the sand. “Get up! Get up!” she shouted furiously, and tugged some more, cursing that useless dress.

The air was hugely hot. The vibrations of the heavy body beat through the sand behind her. She heard the shouts of sentries: a horn blew, and then another, thank the stars, and she was aware of movement by the tents.

The hissing grew a little less. But now there was a dreadful smell, a familiar smell, a stench of rotting flesh; and a familiar feeling. It was not just fear of the writhing monster that filled her limbs with sudden weakness and made Gaelera struggle to stand up. This was an aura that Maeneb knew too well. The thing behind them was a darkburn.

But that was unthinkable. How could it be? It was so vast – and it had risen from the cold, deep ocean. How could it emerge so hot that it made the waters steam?

There was no time to think about the matter. The great black coils were continuing to heave along the beach towards them. One end reared up – head or tail, she could not tell – before plunging itself earthward in a heavy shower of sand and water. Maeneb was spattered with hot sandy rain.

Again the head – or tail – upreared itself. Gaelera was on hands and knees: it seemed she could not move. The black coils looped towards them and thudded down again just yards away. The long neck swung towards them. They could not escape.

Maeneb threw herself on top of the other woman, pressing her down into the sand. She saw the creature looming over her, and felt a rush of heat – so scalding that her skin seemed to be burning through her clothes. The great coiled body thundered down just next to them, less than two yards away. Shards of burnt scales fell off and hissed upon the steaming sand.

“Get up, get up,” yelled Maeneb, and as the coils contracted she fought against the weakness and horror that assailed her and wrenched Gaelera to her feet. “Come on!”

Gaelera’s face was blankly startled. She tried to brush sand from her dress, appalling and exasperating Maeneb.

“Will you stop that! Run!”

The coils were pumping out appalling heat as they lifted from the sand again. And now at last Gaelera managed to run, staggering as if drunk while Maeneb dragged her up the beach. They could see a row of Riders forming a defensive line: bows were raised; a whine of arrows shot across the air. One of them narrowly missed Maeneb and buried itself in the sand. More arrows fell around the monster. None of them seemed to penetrate its burnt scaly hide. Did it even notice them?

But it had noticed her. Her and Gaelera. Maybe it was just the movement that attracted it. Again it raised what must be its head – a blunt, charred snout, eyeless, earless. It turned towards them, seeking them. The heat was horrific. Where could she escape to? How could she protect Gaelera?

She ran: not up the beach towards the tents, but along it, tugging Gaelera by the hand and hearing behind her the thump of the immense pursuing body.

Then Durba was beside her, shouting something. Maeneb could not hear what. The hiss and boom of the serpent deafened her and the flying sand half-blinded her and the fear and heat all but immobilised her.

But she saw that Durba was holding a long knife. It was Maeneb’s own knife, which she had left inside the tent. What earthly use was that against this monster?

“Run,” Maeneb shouted at her. “Get away from it!”

Durba said something else. Still inaudible. Maeneb shook her head and shouted, “Run! Run!”

Durba turned and ran. But she ran the wrong way. How could that be by accident? How could she make such a dire mistake? Maeneb was open-mouthed as Durba ran up to the undulating, stinking, steaming coils.

They convulsed again; Durba was almost knocked over. But she dodged the sweeping blow of the body and as it moved past her like some giant rotting rope she thrust the knife into it, through its hide. The blade went in right up to the hilt.

There it seemed to stick. Durba tried to pull it out. Her clothes were steaming, smoking. The knife-hilt was wrenched out of her hand as the thick body lifted itself in a high arching loop. The burnt head swung round again, this time away from Maeneb and Gaelera, to face Durba.

“Run!” yelled Maeneb, although her voice had gone. Then she was dragged away, against her will: this time it was Gaelera doing the dragging. They both floundered along the beach through flying sand and spray – too slow, too slow, her feet were bogged down and entrapped, the spray was scalding hot. Glancing over her shoulder she saw Durba caught between black scaly coils, one arm free and flailing.

The coils closed in round her and tightened. Durba disappeared.

Maeneb wanted to scream. Half of her brain was saying, no no, this is all impossible, Durba has slipped out the other side and got free, she was not there, it has not happened: the other half told her that it had, and that it would happen to her too if she didn’t get away.

They ran. No longer holding hands, they stumbled inland now, through longer tussocky grass that made them stumble. Maeneb had some vague idea that the grass might hide them; certainly there was nowhere else to hide.

But the massive thuddings did not follow. The heat receded. Risking another glance over her shoulder she saw that the coils had slackened and that the creature was now lower to the ground and slinking steadily towards the tents. Beneath it, the sand fizzed. Behind the snaking body lay a shred of something, crushed to red and black, unrecognisable as human but for one arm; unmoving but for the smoke and steam that curled up to the leaden sky.

A few bold Riders ran over: another volley of arrows was released, without effect, before they had to turn and flee. The blunt head swung round, searching.

But as the thing thumped down again upon the shore, there were three swordsmen standing ready. She recognised Rothir’s bulk in the gloom, and maybe Sashel: and was the third Ikelder?

Not again, she said aloud, no, no, not again. Let them not die as Durba had.

She saw the three swords slash as one, the swords rebounding: they struck again. Then Sashel stabbed as deep as he was able, before the burnt seeking head hurtled at them like a battering ram.

The three men ducked and ran in different directions, so that the head did not seem to know which one to follow. Thus all escaped, leaving Sashel’s sword buried in the creature’s flank. Somewhere there too was her long knife. Oh, Durba, she thought; I should not have left my knife behind, I never move without my knife. Why did I choose tonight of all nights to forget it? Why did I leave it there for you?

Other Riders were fleeing to the tents and beyond, small frantic shapes in the dim light. Some raced over to the ruins of the town, while others headed for the black outline of the monastery. More horns were sounding. Torches flared up, bright against the grey, while several monastery windows were abruptly lit.

And again over the shrill horn-blasts and the heavy sighing of the waves came the hiss and thud of the enormous darkburn. The ground shook where Maeneb and Gaelera crouched in the long grass.

She saw the squirming coils reach the tents, rear up and fall upon the nearest with a heavy crunch. After a few seconds the creature raised itself again. The tent was unrecognisable: completely flattened, its remnants black and smoking. Maeneb trusted that no-one had been in it. Surely everybody must have run?

Somebody was running now towards her, pounding through the sand. A horse was galloping close behind.

It was Rothir. He stopped, gasping for breath. His clothes were charred. “Lady Gaelera! Thank the stars you’re safe,” he panted. “Climb up on my horse. I’ll carry you to safety, over to your father and the Kelvhan army.”

“No,” Gaelera said.

“Yes,” insisted Rothir. “I’m going there in any case. We need to warn them.”

“Does Huldarion command it?” Maeneb asked; for she could not believe that Rothir had been to the monastery and back.

“I haven’t seen him. But there’s no time to waste. This thing could swim with speed along the coast. And there may be others like it. Lady Gaelera–”

“No,” Gaelera said. “You may tell my father I refused.”

“My lady, please! The danger that this darkburn brings–”

“A darkburn? That is a darkburn? I thought it was a linwyrm,” said Gaelera. “The sea serpent of the stories. I did not believe in them till now.” She sounded, if anything, exhilarated.

“Gaelera,” said Maeneb, in exasperation: for what did the name matter? Linwyrm, darkburn, infernal fiery serpent… Whichever it was, it was destroying Thield and would destroy them all if they allowed it. “Gaelera, get on Rothir’s horse!”

“No,” Gaelera said, her voice high and sharp above the growl of waves and harsh crackle of the burning tents. “I will not go with you. Here I shall stay, amongst the Vonn, where Durba died to save me.”