Her fingers brushed it, and she felt a tingle move up her arm. Definitely a Behemoth artefact. She grinned into the hole. ‘Nearly there. Lower me down, just a little further, Tormalin, my dear, that’s it—’
Behind them, Noon made a strangled sound, and several things happened at once. The dim patch of broken earth lit up with shifting pink lights, turning everything nightmarish; an undulating cry filled the air while Tormalin twisted round slightly, muttering under his breath; and the damp earth Vintage was sitting on fell away, dropping her into the darkness.
‘Vintage!’
She fell, legs swinging through nothing, and then Tormalin had her arm. His white face hung above her, his mouth hanging open with shock. The little ledge containing the half-buried artefact was to her left, just out of reach. She swung her free arm at it, missing it by inches.
‘Buggeration!’
Above her, a shimmering light-filled shape appeared behind Tormalin. It was an amorphous thing, shifting and melting while pink and white lights moved to cluster at what almost could have been a head.
‘Tormalin, look out!’
The Eboran was already reaching awkwardly for the sword slung across his back, but Vintage’s weight and the precariousness of his own footing made it impossible. He snorted with frustration and gave her a furious yank, intending to pull her up out of the hole, but the ground underneath him partially gave way, and he had to scramble back to avoid following her into the crevice.
The parasite spirit now seemed to fill the canopy above them. It spread to either side, fronds growing at its edges and curling in towards Tormalin, who could not reach his sword and was now in danger of falling into the crack with Vintage. Well, she thought, how swiftly life shits in my face.
‘Let me drop!’ she shouted at Tormalin. ‘I’ll climb back out!’
‘Are you out of your mind?’
From her limited vantage point, Vintage saw Fell-Noon step into view. The young woman was staring up at the parasite spirit, apparently entranced. Her movements stiff and unnatural, the fell-witch took a step backwards, and, still with her eyes on the spirit, placed her hand on Tormalin’s bare neck. Vintage saw the Eboran jerk as though he’d been touched with a hot poker, and he cried out – whether in pain or surprise she couldn’t tell. For a moment, his eyes glazed over, and she wondered if perhaps he were about to pass out. That would end badly for both of them.
Instead, Noon lifted her other hand, almost dreamily, and from it erupted an enormous blossom of green fire. It floated up and exploded against the parasite spirit.
All was chaos. There was a flash of light so bright that, for a few moments, Vintage didn’t know where she was, and then Tormalin was swinging her to the left. The warm presence of his hand on her arm vanished, and she crashed onto the muddy ledge, something hard striking her in the stomach. Vintage looked up to see a boiling nightmare made of flames staggering away from them, the silhouette of Noon caught against it like a tiny scrap of shadow.
‘What . . .?’
It was the parasite spirit, consumed with winnowfire. Tormalin was staggering to his feet, one hand to his neck as though he were injured and the other brandishing his sword, but as they watched, the creature collapsed, falling to the ground and rolling in a very human gesture of desperation. Belatedly, Vintage realised that she had been hearing a high-pitched screaming since the explosion, which then stuttered and became a guttural howling. Despite everything she’d seen of the parasite spirits and the deaths she had witnessed, she felt a stab of pure horror at it.
Vintage stuck her boot on top of the metal artefact and used it to lever herself out of the hole. She scrambled out the rest of the way, her eyes riveted to the dying flames – they were turning a muddy yellow now, and a peculiar stench was filling the air.
‘Roots curse you, what have you done to me?’ Tormalin was gesturing at Noon’s back with his sword, but the young woman was paying no attention. She was staring raptly at the burning form of the parasite spirit, which was shuddering on the ground now, still emitting terrible squawks of pain. After a moment, she raised her hands and placed them over her ears, and then she fell to her knees. The young fell-witch was shaking all over.
‘I don’t care what you’re raving about, Vintage. This creature assaulted me!’
By the time they had beaten out the last of the fires the stench from the burned parasite spirit had been overwhelming, and they had retreated to their makeshift camp. Vintage had built up the fire again – she did not ask Noon for assistance this time – and now they were huddled round it. The fell-witch sat facing away from the flames, with her arms wrapped around herself. She appeared to be staring off into the spaces between the trees, although Vintage doubted she was seeing them at all. Tormalin had liberated a bottle of wine from the pack and was making short work of it, in between complaining. Every now and again his hand would sneak up to his neck and rub the skin there, as though it ached.
‘That’s right. You appear to have lost a couple of limbs, in fact. Whole pints of blood, no doubt.’ Vintage rooted through her bags for her notebooks, trying to ignore how her fingers were trembling. A weapon. Finally, they had a formidable weapon. ‘Oh no, what’s that? You’re absolutely fine? My darling, what a relief.’
Tor nearly spat his wine back into the cup. ‘You don’t know what she did! She tore the strength from me! She just . . . took it. Like a thief.’
‘I am not a thief.’ Noon’s voice was soft. ‘I just took what I needed. You’d both be dead now, otherwise.’
‘We would have been fine!’ Tor stiffened where he sat. ‘Vintage and I have faced these monsters many times and have survived without your assistance.’
‘What was that thing that . . . burned? What was it really?’ Noon had turned back to the fire, her eyes on Vintage now. ‘I know we call them spirits, but what is it?’
‘No one really knows, my dear, and that’s the problem. The information we have on these “parasite spirits” is so incredibly sparse. We know they’ve been around since the Eighth Rain, that there are no records of them appearing before that. We know that they haunt the remains of the old invader’s ships. We know that they can attack and kill living beings – indeed, the touch of their flesh is extremely damaging – but they do not actually seem to seek out conflict. Living things get in their way, and so they are torn apart.’ Vintage squeezed her notebook between her fingers, feeling the burn of a frustration that was decades old. ‘We know nearly nothing about them or the invaders.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Which is why I would like to engage your services, Fell-Noon.’
Tormalin gave a short bark of laughter, while Noon seemed to break out of her fugue.