Abruptly, the small beach was filled with a shifting, headache-inducing light. Wincing, Tor looked up to see a monster hanging in the sky above them, and despite himself, his heart skipped a beat in his chest.
It was a Behemoth. The harbinger of the ancient enemy of his people – a number of dim childhood memories surged to the surface, stories of war and monsters, half forgotten. It hung in the sky like a great segmented larva, the bulging plates of its body shiny with an oily brilliance. The bulbous lamps that hung from its lower section were pointed directly at the small group on the beach, while wet openings all along its side were peeling back to reveal creatures with six long, spindly legs. Tor felt a wave of dismay move through him. No wonder Ainsel was so afraid – very few humans had ever seen such a sight and lived. Disregarding all thought of being hidden, Tor marched over to the fire, determined now to bring Ainsel out of this dream before she saw any more, but as he looked up he saw that there were more of the spider-like creatures further up the beach, and among them were shambling humans, their eyes empty and their mouths twisted into vacant smiles. Drones.
‘By the roots. This is an impressive nightmare you’ve concocted, Ainsel.’
He reached for her, meaning to drag her out, but the scene around him shifted and all at once the beach and the mercenaries were gone and they stood on the streets of a city, doused in daylight. It was not Mushenska – the buildings were of pale sandstone, with ornate conical roofs pointing towards the sky, and there were clusters of fruit trees lining the street – Jarlsbad perhaps?
‘It’s time to wake up, Ainsel.’
Ainsel took no notice of him. She was dressed now in loose white trousers with a billowing white smock covering her shoulders, and she was watching the building immediately in front of them. There was a tremor Tor felt through the soles of his feet, and an enormous writhing creature pushed its way through the building, smashing it to pieces as though it were made of dust. It looked like little more than a giant maggot, its blunt head a dark pearlescent grey against the creamy segmented flesh behind it. As Tor watched, the creature bent its head to the trees and, opening a wet, sticky mouth, it tore them up from the ground and ate them earth and all. Behind it, more of the long-legged creatures were coming, limbs skittering like spiders. Mothers, Tor remembered. That’s what they were called in Vintage’s extensive notebooks. Now there were men and women fleeing, their faces oddly unfinished – another strange aspect of dreams – but as they ran, they were being snatched up by the spindly arms of the mothers and fed directly into the maggot’s pulsating maw.
‘Roots be cursed. Did you eat something strange for dinner, Ainsel?’
The maggot pulsed, its fat body heaving itself towards them, and even though Tor knew this was a dream, he took a few hurried steps backwards. More mothers were coming, their grotesque shapes almost an insult against the delicate architecture of the city. The maggot pulsed again, and a thick tide of greenish fluid began to surge through the debris. Some of the men and women were caught in it, and they fell, faces filled with dismay as they found they couldn’t escape it. Varnish.
‘Ainsel, we must—’
An alien shape loomed up next to them; Tor had time to see the mother’s spindly black arms loop around Ainsel’s shoulders and they were somewhere else again, travelling in that dizzying instant that is the speciality of dreams. They were on the shores of a still lake, dark trees a thick line on the far side, the sky above grey. There was a presence behind them, and Tor felt himself caught in the sticky tendrils of Ainsel’s dream terror – he could not turn to look at what was behind them; he was held as tightly frozen as Ainsel was. Inwardly, he cursed. Hestillion would never have been caught so.
The figure behind them approached. He could hear soft footfalls, the distant call of birds. What an idiot he had been. Not only had he failed to draw Ainsel from this nightmare, but it also seemed that he would be stuck to see it through to the end himself. Tor scowled at himself, and then he felt a breath on the back of his neck. He thought of Noon touching him there, then pushed the memory away.
‘We’re coming back, and finally Sarn will be ours.’ The voice was soft, female, faintly amused. ‘There is no one to stand against us.’
Using all his willpower, Tor commanded his dream self to turn and look at the owner of the voice, but he could not move an inch. A genuine shiver of terror curled up his spine.
‘We’re coming back,’ continued the voice. ‘And where is Ebora now?’
Tor felt his mouth drop open, whether in surprise or in protest he wasn’t sure, and then he was awake, back in Ainsel’s cramped room. He was still kneeling by her on the bed, his legs numb from sitting in an awkward position for so long and his flesh chilled to the bone. Ainsel was also awake, looking up at him with wide brown eyes; Tor thought he had never seen the mercenary look so young. Without speaking, Tor drew the blanket over them both and they lay together in silence, the first light of dawn seeping in through the shutters.
16
Perhaps the most extraordinary of the myriad legends and myths of Ebora are the war-beasts. It has been so long now since the Eighth Rain that the only living eyes to have seen them are Eboran, but to us they exist in art and sculpture, story and song. Perhaps this is why they seem so impossible to recent generations of humans – they are more story than truth now. Yet we know they did live and breathe, and indeed, without them, Sarn itself would have fallen to the Jure’lia centuries back. Given that it appears we will never see their like again, this isn’t the comforting thought it once was.