‘Come and have a look. It’s big enough.’
Pamoz led them around to the front of the engine. Noon was so busy trying to keep an eye out for fell-witches or agents that she almost walked into the back of Tormalin, who had stopped. She ducked round him and winced. It was a pretty big problem.
A tree had fallen across the winnowline tracks, and this being the Wild, it was no ordinary tree; it was huge, a good sixty feet in length and wider across than the height of a human with her arms stretched above her. It was twisted and warped, the greyish bark bulbous and smooth, while the broken branches were still thick with dark, shiny green leaves. Pamoz was shaking her head.
‘It’s going to be a bastard to clear, Lady de Grazon. We’ll have to take the engine back up the track aways, and then the witches can start burning it. They can do that – very controlled, focussed heat, take it to bits – but it’s going to take a while. We’ll have to go slow to avoid damaging the line underneath. That’s if it’s not broken already.’ Pamoz gave a sudden huge sigh. ‘We’ll need time to clear the debris too. This could put days on the journey.’
Vintage looked as serious as Noon had ever seen her; a deep line had formed between her eyebrows, and her mouth was turned down at the corners.
‘I’d advise you to be careful burning it, Pamoz, my dear. The smoke from Wild wood can have strange effects, and this –’ she paused, taking a few steps forward to look at the far end of the tree; an explosion of pale roots lay exposed to the sky, still thick with clods of mud – ‘this isn’t a dead tree. And nothing else has fallen on the track.’ The frown deepened. ‘I think this was placed here, Pamoz.’
‘Placed here?’ Pamoz laughed. ‘What could possibly fucking lift it? I mean, I think it’s a little large to be moved around easily, Lady de Grazon, is what I mean to say.’
There was nothing they could do here. Noon opened her mouth to tell Vintage that she was going back to their carriage to wait – she had no intention of being out in the open when the tame fell-witches came trooping out to deal with the tree – when there was a deafening crash, and the whole contraption rocked wildly towards them. For a moment, Noon was sure it would topple and fall on them, no doubt reducing them all to elaborate stains on the rough dirt, and then it fell back. The air was full of frightened shouts, and then they were all drowned out by a shattering, discordant roar.
‘By the bones of Sarn, what—?’
A huge shape appeared around the front of the engine, shrouding them all in shadow. Noon felt her throat close up in fright – what it had been, or what its ancestors had been before it had been worm-touched, she did not know. Something like a bear, perhaps; it was bulky, with a thick midsection and four short but powerful legs, and a long, blocky head. But instead of fur it was covered in pale, fleshy pouches of skin, which shivered and trembled as it moved, and Noon could see four circular black eyes along its head, clustered together and oddly spider-like. Its mouth, when it opened its jaws to roar again, was pink and wet and lined with hundreds of yellow needle-like teeth.
‘Vines save us,’ gasped Vintage. ‘A horror from the deepest Wild!’
The monster reared up on its back legs and roared again, blasting them all with a hot stench of rot and green things. Long tendrils of drool dripped from its jaws, and Noon thought she could see things squirming in it. Behind them, the other passengers were screaming and running back down the track.
A few of the fell-witches piled out of the engine, their ash-covered faces slack with surprise. Instinctively, Noon tried to move away, but of course they weren’t looking at her – as she watched, four of them formed a line and threw a swift barrage of green winnowfire at the monster. The creature reared up, the flames only licking at its strange, twisted flesh, and hitting instead the tree behind it. Small fires burst into life amongst its branches, while the monster roared again and leapt forward, directly at the fell-witches. The faster ones fell back, but one young woman was caught with its huge paw and she crashed to the ground, rolling in the gravel. The monster made to follow her when a short length of wood appeared suddenly in the side of its thick neck. Noon turned to see Vintage with her miniature crossbow raised, and then the monster was lumbering towards them, a thin line of crimson blood leaking from the hole she’d made.
‘Did you mean to do that?’ Noon was finding it difficult to catch her breath. She wanted to siphon energy, grab it from Tormalin or someone and then burn it, burn the monster, but if she did that, they would all see what she was. There would be no more hiding. ‘Because now it’s looking at us, Vintage, it’s looking at us.’
Vintage was pressing another quarrel into her crossbow. ‘Where’s the boy?’
Noon looked around. Tormalin was standing over the fell-witch who had been thrown to the ground, but now he was drawing his sword, an outraged look on his face.
Later, when she would think of what happened, Noon was inevitably reminded of the stories Mother Fast had told them, and the books her mother had read with her. For all of the terror and the fear, she briefly saw a tale brought to life: when Tormalin the Oathless killed the worm-touched monster of the winnowline.