‘This is unprecedented,’ Hestillion was saying. Her voice now was level, control in every word as she spoke to the Jure’lia queen. And, for a wonder, the queen was listening. ‘Our peoples have never spoken before, as far as I know?’
‘Peoples.’ The Jure’lia queen seemed to find this amusing.
‘Why is that? You are clearly intelligent, you can communicate with us.’ Hestillion cleared her throat and held her head up. Her face was still much too pale for Tor’s liking, but there was a stubborn set about her mouth that he remembered well. ‘What I’m saying is, surely an agreement can be reached.’
‘Hestillion . . .’
She elbowed him in the ribs again. She didn’t want his opinion; she wanted his attention.
‘Such a remarkable mind,’ said the queen. Her mask-like face split into a wide smile. Slightly too wide. It made Tor think of hands making her face move; hands that did not truly understand how human faces worked. ‘Always thinking of solutions. You never rest, seeking it. Remarkable. I have so enjoyed our talks.’
Hestillion seemed to ignore this. ‘There is no need to re-live this war over and over again, as we have done for generations. You want land? You can have it. We can agree on land for you to have. Then you will stay there, and we will stay here. In time, we may . . . reach out to each other. Or, if you prefer, we could never speak again.’
The dripping black mass that made up the body of the queen shivered all over, like a breeze across the calm surface of a lake, and then she made an odd, hissing sound. It took Tor a moment to realise she was laughing, or whatever the Jure’lia equivalent was.
‘Your bright little mind does not know everything,’ said the queen, baring her gumless teeth. ‘All must be consumed, for us to live. We do not make agreements with food. You have no idea how close to the end you are.’
The queen gestured up, to the bright sky overhead. Within it, the corpse moon hung like a green shadow and – Tor felt his heart lurch in his chest – it was larger than he had ever seen it. The corpse moon, the long-dead Behemoth in the sky, was coming towards them. Now that he looked, he could see movement on the surface of the thing. Too distant yet to identify, but patches of it that had been in shadow as long as he could remember were growing bright again.
‘No!’ Hestillion took an angry step towards the roots. ‘Why won’t you listen to me? I know you’re not an idiot!’
‘Enough, little morsels,’ said the queen, almost kindly. ‘Ebora ends here, now, forever. And Sarn will follow.’
‘Never.’
At the sound of that voice, Tor felt all the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He turned round to see the dragon stalking towards them, Noon sitting on its back, just ahead of where its wings began.
‘Oh, old enemy,’ said the queen. ‘You have been turned out of your womb too early. You are but a babe in arms, and your brothers and sisters still sleep.’ She pouted. ‘I am sad for you.’
‘My wings may be wet and my fire unkindled, but I can still kill you, parasite. I am not alone.’
The dragon lowered its head as Noon sat up, her hands in front of her. A bright point of green light appeared there, and then Noon seemed to strike it, sending a ball of roaring fire across the hall straight at the Jure’lia queen. The wall of black ooze rose to meet it in a teeming curtain, but the fire exploded against it like acid, blowing it to tatters. The Jure’lia queen shrieked, twisting the black slime around her like a cloak. All around them, the drones and the burrowers that had been still lurched into sudden life.
It was the strangest, and perhaps shortest, battle of Tor’s life. There were around fifteen drones left, men and women with holes for eyes and dreamily blank expressions. Three of them rushed him, trying to overpower him at once, but none of them carried weapons and his sword made short work of them. Two of them went for Hestillion, who produced a short dagger from the folds of her dress, and then she was lost to view as another three came for him. He heard a bellow and a series of thumps and spotted the warrior Bern, his axes flying as he took down the drones on that side of the hall, an expression of horrified disgust on his face. Aldasair was there with him, weaponless but refusing to leave the bigger man’s side.
Tor raised his sword again and was almost knocked flying as the dragon leapt past him, crashing into the group of drones. Tor caught a glimpse of Noon, her hands and arms working furiously as she generated ball after ball of winnowfire. Her face wasn’t just calm; it was exalted. The dragon swept its long tail across the floor, knocking a handful of the drones onto their backs, before Noon drenched them all in dragon-fuelled winnowfire. They went up like tapers, as though being hollow inside made them easier to burn.
Another drone lurched at Tor. This one he recognised; once, it had been Thadeous, an Eboran who had been a good friend of his father’s. When Tor had trained for the sword, Thadeous had been there too; the man had been a legend amongst those who trained with weapons, practising relentlessly, decades of skill endlessly honed. For the ceremony, he had dressed in his old military uniform, despite the ravages of the crimson flux turning his face into a cracked mask, and his sword still hung at his side. Now, his eyes were empty black holes.
‘Thadeous,’ Tor nodded formally, ‘I don’t suppose those creatures ate away your skill at using a sword, by any chance?’
The drone bared its teeth at him and lunged, the blade suddenly in its hands. Tor met it easily enough but found himself pushed away, wrong footed, and narrowly avoided being run through. He staggered, aware now that there were burrowers all around, scuttering across his boots and dividing his attention. Thadeous leapt at him again, and they fought bitterly for a few moments, Tor gradually being pushed back away from his sister and the roots. The burrowers may have eaten the man’s brain, but it seemed that his body remembered his years of training, and Tor found himself at a distinct disadvantage.
‘Too many years,’ he gasped, ‘fighting off – giant bears and – bloody parasite – spirits.’
The old man got in under his guard; too close for a killing wound, but the drone brought up his fist and punched him on the scarred part of his face. Tor felt the skin across his cheekbone split, a bright slither of pain, and that somehow was too much. This day had started so well, with its sunshine and its hope, and now he was here, about to be killed by one of his father’s oldest friends while the Jure’lia spread their filth over Ebora. Enough.
With a bellow of rage he brought his elbow up and crashed it into Thadeous’s throat, half collapsing it in one blow. The drone fell back and Tor swept the Ninth Rain up and round, severing its head from its neck so swiftly it turned a full somersault in the air before falling to the marble floor with a hollow thud.
‘You always were a tedious old fart, Thadeous.’