Turning from the alcove, Lin walked to the roofless section of the tower, where the bat mount she had been assigned waited for her, ready to leave. The creature’s leathery face was latticed with scars, and its black fur was streaked with grey behind its large crinkled ears, but its eyes watched her with bright intelligence. Smiling faintly, Lin sank her bare hands into the animal’s fur.
‘Ugly creature.’ She took a touch of its life-force, just a touch – enough to warm her against the endless bloody damp of the Winnowry. The bat gave a high-pitched whine and shuddered under her fingers, while she felt the latent power curl inside her. She would be glad to be away from this cold, dead place and back in the land of the living. There was so much life to be taken, after all. ‘Little Fell-Noon won’t be lost for long.’
9
Well, yes, I did ask him about the blood, Marin, but just like Ebora itself and any family he might have there, it is a subject he is very reluctant to discuss. I know that he partakes of it in small doses, and carries small vials around with him in case it is required. When is it required, I hear you ask? Well.
From what I have observed, small amounts of blood act like a kind of pick-me-up. You remember that thick black drink from Reidn you were briefly obsessed with, the one that smelled like burning dog hair and made it impossible for you to sleep? I believe that very minor doses act almost like that on the Eboran system. Over time, the doses stop them aging like we do, and I have seen it written that large amounts can start to heal an injury, although, thankfully, I have not had to witness such. Tormalin is no creature of blood-thirst, ripping open throats and drinking his fill as the Eborans did in those woodcuts from that ancient book in the library – but he takes his doses steadily enough. More often than it is ‘required’, no doubt.
Will he catch the crimson flux? I do not know, my dear. From everything I’ve read, and everything I’ve gleaned from Tor’s tiny hints, I believe the onset of the disease is unpredictable – Eborans who sipped the occasional cup came down with it swiftly and died swifter, and those who drank lakes of the stuff are still living out their days in the city beyond the Bloodless Mountains, waiting for it to catch up with them. Only the handful who never touched a drop seem guaranteed to survive it, but they instead are taken by old age, and more prosaic illnesses. But for my sake, let’s hope he has escaped it – having an Eboran bodyguard has done wonders for my reputation.
Extract from the private letters of Master Marin de Grazon, from Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
Vintage peered at the fibrous stalk. She had thought that it was just the shadows in this strange place, but no, it was there – a smear of something thick and glutinous and largely transparent ran across the length of the stalk and then the next one too, as though each of the towering toadstools had been brushed by something as it passed. Small white nodules, like blisters, clustered where the substance was thickest. She took her smallest scalpel and very carefully scraped away some of the affected tissue, pushing the flakes into the glass pot she had waiting. When she attempted to capture one of the nodules, it cracked open and a thin, pinkish fluid ran from it, smelling of old cheese. She wrinkled her nose.
‘How charming,’ said Tormalin. He was standing to one side, leaning against the towering stalk and watching her progress with a beautifully bored expression. ‘I, for one, am more than glad to spend my time watching you root around in the mud.’
‘Darling, will you kindly get out of what little light I have? Take your lanky arse off somewhere else please.’
Tor sighed noisily and moved back to where they had dumped their packs. A few moments later, she heard the unmistakeable noise of him liberating a bottle from her bag.
‘I do not have an inexhaustible supply with me, Tormalin, my dear. You may want to go easy on that for now.’ This time, she managed to lever off a piece of tissue big enough, leaving the nodule intact. She nodded with satisfaction. It was a small thing, but small things could be big clues.
‘When I agreed to work with you, Vintage, you promised me “as much wine as I could drink”. Good wine, too.’
‘Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?’ Vintage stood up, wincing slightly at the ache in her back. Since the double attack on the village, they had been moving constantly, trying to follow the trail before it went cold. In truth, the trail hadn’t been much more than a hunch and a hope for better luck, but here, finally, they had something solid. She had seen matter like this in her own vine forest, and now that she looked, it was clear that this patch of the Wild, with its monstrous fungi, had seen parasite activity. Aside from the glutinous smears and the blisters, the place just didn’t feel right. It felt haunted.
‘There’s definitely something here.’ She returned to the packs, where Tor was now examining packages wrapped in greased paper. ‘We need to head deeper in.’
‘I’m hungry. But the smell of this place makes everything unappetising.’ He put the packages back, frowning slightly. ‘If there’s Behemoth wreckage around here somewhere, then why hasn’t anyone found it before?’
Vintage shrugged and put the specimen jar back into one of the bags. ‘Would you want to spend very long in this place? It’s damp. It smells, as you say, appalling, and unless you have a deep and abiding hankering for mushrooms . . . It could be that the pieces of the Behemoth are very small, wreckage left over from one of the earliest rains, perhaps.’ She smiled to herself. ‘If that is the case, my dear, then this could be one of our best finds. A Behemoth site as yet undiscovered, and with pieces small enough to be studied properly. It might not even be that dangerous.’
Tor snorted. ‘I love it when you say things like that, Vintage. It just makes it more delicious when you’re wrong.’ He paused, and put down the bag he was holding. In one smooth movement he pulled his sword free of its scabbard.
‘What is it?’ Vintage moved closer to the Eboran, one hand settling lightly on the crossbow at her hip.
‘There’s something beyond those stalks. Something moving.’
‘A parasite?’
He waved at her to be quiet and moved off to where the shadows were at their thickest. Vintage ghosted along behind him, keeping her tread light. Now that they were closer, she could see it too – something pale moving between the giant stalks; flashes of black and grey.
‘Not a parasite,’ she whispered to Tor. ‘There are no lights.’