The war-beasts are inextricably linked to Ygseril, the Eborans’ tree-god. At times of great peril to the Eboran empire, Ygseril would grow great silvery fruit, high up in its labyrinthine branches (the length of this process has never been agreed on – I have found writings that insist they sprouted from the buds of previous fruits, and spent centuries maturing, others say that the process was nearly instantaneous. Ebora, as ever, remains tight-lipped). When it was ripe, the fruit would fall, a miraculous ‘rain’, and the broken fruit revealed the most extraordinary menagerie of creatures, each ready to fight and die in defence of Ebora.
The date of the First Rain is not recorded, but the second we know took place at the time of the reign of Queen Erin of Triskenteth, when the city state of Reidn was in the grip of the Third Great Republic. There is a mural carved into the remains of the Triskenteth wall which dates from the period – it shows Ygseril, branches spread wide, and the silver fruit falling, the Eboran war-beasts leaping, fully formed, into the air. Further along, we see the war-beasts joining the Eboran knights and riding into battle together, while the Jure’lia are represented as great looming clouds, a host of the dead following on behind. See enclosed: rubbings taken directly from the remains of this incredible mural, which clearly show, I believe, that there was a significant connection between the war-beasts and their Eboran knight masters – each beast and knight wear similar insignia, and in some cases have been carved to resemble each other. The mural at Triskenteth was maintained beautifully for many, many centuries, but, sadly, the recent war with their Orleian neighbours has meant that it has disintegrated terribly, entirely blasted away in places by fell-mercenaries. I took what rubbings I could, and received many a dark look for my efforts. Triskenteth sees war everywhere these days.
And of the beasts themselves – they truly appear to have been creatures straight out of myth. The fruit of Ygseril produced not a single creature, like brown kittens born to a brown cat, but a wild collection of what, for want of a better word, I will call monsters. It’s certain that some of those depicted in the paintings, sculptures and songs are fanciful creations, but I have seen repeated images of several types, and these I think we can safely say were true forms of the Eboran war-beasts: dragons of all shapes and varieties, griffins with their snowy feathers flecked with black, giant birds and bat-like creatures with four legs, enormous armoured foxes, giant winged-wolves and cats.
Of course, the other thing that we know for certain about the Eboran war-beasts is also, in its way, the most significant: the Jure’lia always fell before them, eventually.
Extract from the journals of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
Vintage pushed the heavy books as close to the edge of the table as she could without their falling off, and wiped down the section of table she’d been able to clear with a damp cloth. It was hardly the strictest of scientific methods, but needs must. On the far end of the table the breakfast the staff had brought up for them steamed away, untouched. Let the others have it. She couldn’t wait any longer.
In the space she’d cleared she set up her vials and glasswear, her notebooks and inks, and then, finally, she unpacked the samples they’d taken from the forest. In one narrow glass tube she had the remains of the strange fluid that had seeped from the broken artefact she had found in the Shroom Flats – the fluid that had apparently grown a tiny garden overnight. She held it up to the light, turning it back and forth in front of her eyes; it had settled somewhat, leaving a yellowish liquid with a small storm of golden flecks. The Jure’lia had left many strange things behind them, all wondrous and strange, but few of them could be said to be beautiful. The liquid in this little vial appeared to be the exception.
She paused to make further notes – on the colour and viscosity, and, after uncorking it, on the smell. Using a pipette, she deposited the smallest amount on a glass slide, and slid this into the lens contraption her nephew Marin had sent her last year. The extraordinary thing magnified objects through a series of lenses, and must have cost the boy a fortune, but then he had always had good taste. Unfortunately, the lenses revealed very little, save for the oddly uniform shape of the golden flecks. Even so, Vintage paused to make a number of sketches, using a small box of watery paints to capture the colour as best she could.
‘Hundreds of years old, and it hasn’t dried up or turned to muck. Extraordinary.’
She looked back at the breakfast things. There was a bowl of fruit, with a bunch of tiny grapes. Vintage reached over and plucked them from the bowl; she was always faintly amused by the regular variety of grapes, so small and perfect. She set the bunch down on a porcelain plate, and then took from her own pocket a crumpled, dead leaf, picked up from the street that morning. She placed it next to the grapes and, using the pipette, placed the tiniest sample of the golden liquid on the cluster of tiny branches that the grapes sprouted from, as well as a single drop on the leaf. She was holding her breath and waiting for something to happen when Noon walked through the dining-room door.
‘Oh, Noon, my dear, there you are.’ Vintage didn’t take her eyes from the grapes. ‘There’s breakfast, if you’d like it. Eat as much as you like. I’m not hungry and it seems Tor has yet to return from last night’s escapades.’
Noon nodded and skirted the edge of the room like a wary cat, putting the table between them. The young witch stood for a moment, staring at the various foods, before cautiously taking a seat.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Having a proper look at what we’ve gathered. I’ve never seen anything like it, and certainly seen nothing that references it in all the studies I’ve read. Extraordinary.’ She stared at it a little harder, willing something to happen. ‘Extraordinary.’
‘Why are you doing this? Really? There’s a bigger reason.’
Vintage looked up. She blinked rapidly. ‘I’m sorry, my dear?’
‘A bigger reason for your interest in all this stuff.’ The fell-witch tipped her head to one side. She had washed her hair and let it dry as it would, sticking up in black spikes, and she carried her new hat in her hands. ‘You’re not just curious. You’re angry about it. All under the surface.’
Vintage straightened up. The girl was perceptive. She would do well to remember that. ‘There are the remains of a Behemoth on land I own,’ she said carefully. ‘Land that has been in my family for generations. The vine forest there is the source of my family’s wealth, but it is also incredibly dangerous, thanks to the presence of parasite spirits and the taint of the Wild. We monitor it, and we cordon off that section of the forest as best we can, but it is . . . a strain. I wish to know more about it, so we may neutralise it somehow.’
Noon was watching her closely even as she buttered her toast. ‘And?’
Vintage felt her mouth twitch into a brief smile. Truly, this girl was worth watching.
‘You said we should trust each other,’ said Noon. She took a bite of toast, and her next words were muffled. ‘If I’m helping you, I want to know why.’
‘Pour me a cup of that tea.’
Noon did so, and Vintage took a sip, marshalling her thoughts.