Draykon (9 page)

She knew
instinctively that this was no native of Glour. Never had she heard
of such a creature, with flesh as black as night, almost as tall at
the shoulder as she was. She began to retreat, moving as fast as
she dared.

A mistake. The
movement incited the beast: it tensed and sprang. Its weight
barrelled into her and she fell, gasping. The creature turned and
lunged for her again; she rolled instinctively, but not fast
enough: searing pain exploded in her arm as long claws ripped
easily through her flesh. She twisted away and launched herself to
her feet, then into the air. Flying in the darkness was a danger in
itself: repeatedly she swerved only just in time to avoid colliding
with trees that loomed suddenly out of the darkness. Behind her she
could hear the creature crashing through the undergrowth, easily
keeping pace with her.

Light blossomed
ahead of her and she burst into Glinnery's woods, weak with relief
as her eyes showed her a coherent picture once more. Flexing her
wings, she began to climb higher into the skies, aiming for
home.

Then a small grey
shape below caught her eye. Sigwide! He was prone to wandering, but
now the blessed animal still sat obediently where she'd left him,
waiting patiently for her return. She cursed faintly and dived,
scooping up the orting. Beating her wings hard, she fought to climb
back into the skies but she wasn't fast enough: claws raked over
her back, tearing through her clothes and tracing deep lines of
fire across her skin. She was knocked to the ground, pain-blinded
and losing strength. She had fallen on the wrong side of the divide
and lay again in darkness.

Eyes flashed in
the gloom, icy-pale and merciless. The beast growled. Desperate,
she forced herself to her feet and threw herself into the air,
trusting to her wings to catch the wind and carry her aloft. She
expected any moment to feel claws in her flesh again, expected to
be dragged back down to earth. But to her intense relief she rose
and rose, speeding away from the border and back towards the city
of Waeverleyne.

Sigwide was still
cradled to her chest. He was screaming in distress, the sounds
shattering the calm she tried to draw around herself. His grey fur
was soaked in blood, and for a horrified second she thought he was
injured. Then she realised the blood was her own; her left arm was
shredded, pouring blood. The extent of the injury sent a shock of
terror through her; gritting her teeth, she fought it down. If she
could only keep going for another few minutes, she would reach her
mother's house - or somebody who could convey her there.

But moments later
dizziness engulfed her and her sight blurred. She felt herself
falling. She landed hard, the impact sending waves of pain through
her body. Sigwide fell from her weakened arms. She lay for a
moment, half-stunned, then drew a deep breath, pulling herself
carefully into a sitting position. She examined her arm.

Five long gashes
ran from shoulder to elbow, deep and ugly. Blood flowed in alarming
quantity, coating her skin in sticky, warm redness. She flexed her
hand gingerly, breathing deeply to ward away the faintness. Pain
scorched from her shoulder to her fingertips and she
gasped.

She felt the
gentle touch of Sigwide's nose against her knee. The orting gazed
at her with his liquid eyes wide. She stroked his fur with her good
hand, and gathered him up.

'Onward, and...
fast.' She spoke through gritted teeth. Sigwide stuck his nose into
her ear as she moved on again, trying to hold her wounded arm
immobile. She swayed as faintness again threatened to overwhelm
her. Sigwide settled himself against her neck, uttering a rough,
grumbling purr.

Llandry took
another three steps and stopped. The world blurred and her vision
clouded with fog. She swayed, and Sigwide squeaked with alarm as he
tumbled out of her limp arms. She fell.

***

Llandry woke
beneath layers of blankets in a bed that was not her own. She
frowned, confused, blinking in the low light of a bedside globe.
Her arm throbbed painfully when she tried to move, so she lay
still.

'Llandry?' Her
mother's voice, muted and filled with concern. Llandry recognised
the room now: the bedchamber in her mother's tree where she had
slept as a child. It still flourished with the forest's most
colourful fungi, well tended in neat clay pots.

Soft footsteps
sounded, then her mother's face bent over her.

'Ah - you are
awake.' There was relief mingled with fear in Ynara's voice. She
peeled back the covers gently. Llandry glanced down at her arm
reluctantly, afraid of what she might see. The pain was so
excessive, she felt as though half of her arm was
missing.

It wasn't. Her
arm lay inert but whole, swaddled in bandages. Clouds of blood
marred the white cloth in several places, alarmingly red. Ynara's
lips twisted in sympathy. Llandry felt curiously detached as she
watched her flesh bleed.

'Keep still,
love,' said her mother. Her face vanished from Llandry's line of
sight, her footsteps rapidly receding. Llandry had no intention of
moving. Was it possible for a limb to spontaneously detach itself?
It felt possible. Maybe it ought to be encouraged: at least it
would stop hurting.

Ynara returned,
and set a steaming cup to her daughter's lips. The scent was
familiar: litorn mushroom, but stronger than she'd ever tasted
before. She drank, and the pain gradually began to
recede.

Ynara allowed a
few minutes to pass before carefully rebandaging her daughter's
arm. Llandry lay quietly until it was done, her mind busy. She
recalled the black claws, the ice-coloured eyes in the darkness,
the sudden, searing pain in her arm...

'Where's
Sigwide?' Her voice sounded strange, distant and annoyingly
feeble.

'In the kitchen.
I left him with a whole bucket of food, so he's quite
happy.'

'Was he
hurt?'

'No; he's quite
well.'

Llandry relaxed
slightly. 'Thanks, Ma.'

Ynara tucked the
blankets carefully around Llandry's chin. She was smiling, but her
eyes were anxious.

'He was curled up
on your stomach when you were found. Apparently he would hardly let
anyone near you.'

Llandry smiled
too. 'That's my Siggy.' A thought occurred to her, distantly. It
took a while to work its way to the fore. She waited patiently as
her mother busied herself with collecting the discarded bandages
and cup.

'Ma. Should the
Night Cloak change?'

'Change how,
love?'

'Spread. Swallow
parts of Glinnery.'

'I've never heard
of that before.'

Llandry nodded
drowsily. 'Well, that's what happened.'

Ynara frowned.
'And what else, love?'

'Don't know,' she
said hazily. Her mind wouldn't co-operate; she felt like she was
swimming through fog. 'Something else in there. Shadowy,' she added
helpfully.

'All right, love.
We'll talk of it when you've rested a bit more.' She placed a kiss
on Llandry's brow and moved away.

'Aren't you angry
with me, Ma?'

Her mother sighed
deeply. 'I ought to be. But no. I am far too relieved that you're
alive.' Llandry was distantly aware of her standing on the other
side of the room, smiling down at her. 'Get some sleep, Llan.' She
left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Llandry
slept.

***

Next time she
woke, she opened her eyes to see her mother sitting in a chair
nearby, reading a book. She looked up when Llandry stirred, and
smiled.

'I was hoping
you'd wake soon. Are you hungry?'

Llandry sat up
slowly, horrified by the stiffness in her body and the pain in her
arm and back. 'Not even a tiny bit hungry.'

'You must eat,
Llan. You lost a lot of blood. Take some soup.' A set of dishes was
arranged over Llandry's bedside table. Ynara lifted the lid of one,
releasing a fragrant aroma of mushroom broth. The smell alone was
enough to turn Llandry's stomach, but she took the bowl and
obediently applied herself to eating. Ynara waited patiently,
watching the progress of Llandry's spoon as she painfully consumed
half the bowl. Then she set it aside.

'Ma?'

'Yes,
love.'

'You said I was
"found".'

'Yes, only just
in time. You were in a bad way.'

'What happened? I
remember that I fell out of the sky.'

A male voice
spoke in deep, rather melodious tones: certainly not her father. 'I
found you.'

Llandry
stiffened, peeking over her blankets. A stranger stood in the
doorway, carrying Sigwide in his arms. The orting looked
offensively unconcerned at his predicament; in fact he seemed quite
at home in this intruder's embrace.

'May I come in?'
The man looked first at Ynara and then at Llandry.

'For a minute,'
her mother said, waving him in. 'Don't tire her.'

'I'm already
tired,' Llandry said, trying to focus on this new person. She
received a vague impression of dark hair and paler skin than was
commonly seen in Glinnery. Darklands pale. But he didn't seem to
suffer in the light. He approached Llandry's bed, gently placing
the orting onto the covers. She noticed he avoided her injured
side.

'I arrived late
yesterday,' he said, chuckling as Sigwide ducked under her blanket
and burrowed determinedly down to her feet. 'I found you
unconscious in the moss, with that little demon sitting guard over
you. He actually bit me when I tried to pick you up.'

Llandry lay
unmoving, silent with discomfort. The presence of a stranger was
unwelcome at any time, and still more so when she lay, prone and
injured and barely conscious. She wished her mother had not let him
in, then swiftly chided herself for her ingratitude.

'We haven't met,'
she managed. She felt she ought to say more, but the words didn't
come.

'I'm a friend of
your mother's,' he said comfortably. 'I could hardly fail to
realise who you were. You could've been Ynara herself, except for
the colour of your wings.'

Llandry's eyes
flicked to her mother's face. It was true about the resemblance,
superficially anyway: Ynara's honey-brown skin, wavy black hair and
grey eyes were echoed in her daughter's colouring. But to suggest
that they were virtually identical was meaningless flattery.
Llandry's features may be similar to her mother's, but something
about their arrangement fell far short of the perfect symmetry of
Ynara's. Llandry was perfectly aware that she looked plain next to
her mother: that the similarities were striking but that the
differences were equally so. She glowered darkly at him, refusing
to make any effort to speak. Sigwide had worked his way back up to
her chest, winding himself into a tight, sleeping ball of fur, and
she occupied herself with stroking his soft head.

The man either
didn't notice or refused to take the hint. He continued to stare at
her - probably wondering how Ynara's features could be so poorly
transposed onto her daughter's face. The notion made her
uncomfortable and she shrank beneath her blankets, wincing as the
lacerations on her back sang with pain. Divining Llandry's
thoughts, her mother touched the stranger on the
shoulder.

'Dev, Llandry
should sleep now.'

'Dev?' Llandry's
eyes returned to the man's face, too weak to phrase the questions
that bloomed in her mind. He smiled and extended a hand, then
remembered her arm and dropped it again.

'Devary Kant, of
Nimdre,' he said. 'We'll meet properly later, no doubt.' Her heart
sank a little. Obviously he intended to stay a while. She made no
move as Devary Kant nodded pleasantly to her and left the
room.

'Sleep, love.'
Ynara paused to brush a lock of hair away from Llandry's eyes and
then left as well, closing the door quietly behind her.

Chapter Eight

The pale moon
rose high over Glour. It was almost full today, and cast a strong
silvered glow down upon the buildings of the city; but its coveted
radiance could offer little comfort to the citizens of Glour.
Rumours swept the city streets, whispers of black beasts with the
eyes of winter stalking through the houses on silent paws. The
bulletin boards continued to issue their sedate, government
warnings of danger. Privately printed news sheets offered more
lurid accounts of the events of the past two days. Some
thoughtfully included artists' impressions of the three deceased,
heavy on the blood content. The mood across Glour was
tense.

Eva Glostrum sat
shivering in the city library. It was a vast building, so of course
it was cold. After hours of crouching miserably in her chair trying
to ignore the freezing drafts, she felt like a block of ice. At her
left elbow rested a stack of the dailies, all hysterically
reporting a great deal of misinformation. At her right lay a
leaning mountain of books hurriedly pulled from the library
shelves. She had been studying throughout the darkest hours, poring
over all the oldest texts on the shelves until her eyes were
stinging with tiredness and her fingers coated with dust and ink.
She had worked her way steadily through all the tales of the old
days - days before the Summoners' Board had been formed, when
creatures of all kinds had roamed the Seven Realms untamed,
unrecorded and uncontrollable.