53

Night Nation

The gate sucked her down and Candle squeezed her eyes shut, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. She was pushed at great speed through a vortex of light and water, bubbles streaming past her face while the breath was crushed from her lungs. The pressure was immense, and just as panic began to set in and the urge to open her mouth was becoming unbearable the gate twisted sideways. She was spat out into darkness.

Her head broke through the water's surface with a pop and she gulped in great lungfuls of air, legs kicking beneath her as she struggled to stay afloat. Wherever she was, it was pitch black and claustrophobic. Her hands struck rough stone walls to either side of her and she grasped at them, steadying herself with her palms. As she moved, hundreds of tiny spirits took flight, illuminating the narrow space with their light. Barely bigger than dust motes, they had tiny transparent wings, and the bodies of tiny wyverns with resplendent yellow scales. They darkened as she stilled, only to take flight again when she lifted her arm, darting and gliding off the glimmering surface and pinging against the stones.

The place was oddly familiar. By the light of the little spirits she could see she was in the bottom of a closed cylindrical shaft. Tilting her head she could make out a dim circle of light high above. The well at Hanternos – she was in the well, she was sure of it. Her theory was confirmed by the location of the ladder, which was made from a soft rose gold metal, rather than the more prosaic iron one at her home. She lost no time climbing up and out, moving as silently as she could with water dripping from her clothes and hair. When she reached the topmost rung she paused for a long while, listening – but there was nothing to hear. Carefully, she heaved herself over the rim of the low stone wall and jumped down onto soft ground.

For one disconcerting moment, she expected to find herself back in her home village, but it seemed Hanternos did not exist in the Night Nation, not even as a ruin. Where the houses of the village had stood, there was a lush field of emerald green running down to the river. The Bleujen was much the same, a silver snake winding its way through a landscape untouched by human hands. There were no bridges and no boundary walls.

The air was thick with moisture and the scent of gently rotting vegetation. It was hotter than she was used to, and a warm breeze blew from the north. The well itself was the only building in sight, and it stood alone, hidden in a grove of low growing, tumbled down trees. Stepping back, she could see it was glamoured to look like a large, unremarkable rock. Candle lifted her eyes to the dark bulk of the mountains above. They, at least, were the exact same midnight silhouette she had grown up with. Dawn Watch, The Enchantments and the Spear – they were all there.

It was, of course, nighttime. Candle had expected darkness, but the sky above was what drove home the fact that she was no longer in familiar territory. There was no moon to be seen but the stars were not just bright, they were luminous – a glorious splay of diamonds flung with wild abandon across the arc of the heavens. She gazed up at the gaseous clouds of the Highway of Souls. They were a shimmering blush of pinks and mauves, fading into vivid, opulent green behind the southern mountains. The sky was stained with colour from mountaintop to mountaintop in a ghostly curtain of dancing light that shifted gently in an undulating sheet.

It was as though the earth was somehow closer to the heavens. On the midnight fells above Hanternos she had occasionally heard the faint whispers of distant singing. Here, the music was a swell of sound that resonated through the landscape in an unearthly, achingly beautiful melody. The warm breeze stirred her hair as she listened, and she took a tentative step forward, gazing about her with wonder. More of the gently luminescent spirits took to the air as she moved, adding to the dream–like quality of the view.

Her feet sank into the velvet softness of the earth. It was coated with a deep carpet of uneven moss, and her shoe cracked against something hard and brittle buried beneath the green. She stared at the ground and gulped. A long ivory stick was poking up at a sharp angle. It looked like a human thigh bone. She bent closer. It was a human thigh bone. Putting her fingers down, she felt around beneath the moss and then pulled them back with a shudder. It was growing on a bed of bones – old, half buried bones. She lifted her eyes – the moss stretched out in every direction, as far as she could see.

She walked away from the well, wincing at each crack. Jotham was right, she decided, the less time she stayed in the Night Nation, the better. The horror beneath her feet spoilt her enjoyment of the heavens, and she set off, treading softly. She made her way through the low copse of trees in the direction that would take her towards her destination, the Olduvai Gate. The trees were lush and densely green, their trunks coated with moisture and lichen. Twinkling spirits took to the air as she passed so that she left a glimmering trail of light behind her.

There was nothing alive and warm blooded in sight, but there were more spirits that she had ever seen in her life. The small luminous ones seemed harmless, but the larger, more menacing ones carved of shadow and malice were everywhere. The stitched together monstrosities of animal and human parts regarded her with baleful eyes. They drifted by in great shoals, clustered together like fish in the river or birds in the sky. She did her best to keep her distance but some of them drifted towards her, limbs outstretched and fangs bared. Fumbling in her bag, she drew out her iron dagger, waving it towards any of the spirits which threatened to come to close. To her relief, they shied away from the metal, changing direction and flowing away. She kept the dagger out as she walked, just in case.

Wading across the Bleujen she entered the deep shadows of the small forest that trailed across the valley to the west. The scattered branches made her feel less exposed and she was glad of the tree cover even though it made for slow going. The warm breeze had soon dried her clothing, and hair frizzed to twice its normal volume in the sticky humidity. She kept alert for trouble but nothing bothered her on her journey. Far away, on the distant slopes she spotted a herd of wights, moving in a pack. They shambled across the verdant green on the trail of something she couldn't see, and she was glad when they disappeared behind a hill. She contemplated taking flight but a shadow caught her eye high over the Enchantments. Starlight glinted off the unmistakable texture of scale. It was a dragon.

Catching herself on a branch she froze, eyes on the creature high above. It was enormous, at least as big as Jotham. Seeing the unknown dragon made her feel strange. Friend or foe? It was too dangerous to find out. At length, the dragon vanished over the crest of the mountain and Candle was once again left to the company of the silent spirits.

With the chance of encountering wights on the ground and dragons in the skies, Candle decided her decision to walk had been a wise one. She couldn't be more than a couple of hours away from the catacombs and making her way through the starlit groves was not unpleasant.

She passed unmolested through the valley except for the interest of the occasional curious spirit for the better part of an hour when a blood curdling cry cut the air in two, making her jump. Candle ducked down beside a tree, peering anxiously skyward. The atmosphere over the valley was changing, darkening as clouds drew overhead with supernatural speed, blocking out the gentle shimmer of the stars. The atmosphere thrummed with tension and she crouched low in the sudden gloom.

A sheet of lightning burst above the valley, crackling from east to west. During the brief illumination she caught a glimpse of three winged creatures cleaving their way through the clouds in pursuit of a fourth. They were not dragons – but something else. Another flash of lightning sizzled and Candle saw that they were giant birds – their wings dark brown and densely feathered, their bills long and black, tapering to a long, vicious point. Their prey was struggling to fly, plummeting towards the ground with one broken wing. Blood streamed from its wounds in crimson ribbons.

With an ear–splitting crash of thunder, the broken bird landed in a heap not ten yards from where Candle was crouched. Lightning forked through the air and the three birds, each one larger than a man, landed with thunderous impact. The metallic taste of magic filled her mouth and all of the monstrous birds transformed into humans. Or at least, they turned into something that appeared human.

Feathers morphed into great shocks of dark hair that stood up and away from their foreheads, falling down their backs. Naked to the waist, all four were young men, similar in build and feature as if they were brothers. Tall, long limbed and brown skinned, their eyes were black and bright, and their cheekbones high. Their fingers ended in dark claws which they used to slash and harry the wounded one who stumbled away from them, hissing. Their torsos were covered in black tattoos, in an elegant script in a language Candle didn't know.

"Aeshma," called the closest, in a sing–song voice. "You cannot get away."

"Aeshma," called the second, "come here and let us kill you properly."

The luckless Aeshma said something that Candle didn't catch, his handsome face pinched with pain and his brow beaded with sweat. He was younger than the rest of them, perhaps only a year or two older than Candle, and her heart leapt in her chest as she watched his attackers toy with him. He was bleeding now from a score of cuts. It was not a fair fight, and they jeered and called as he desperately tried to avoid their claws while holding his wounded arm. She rose to her feet and shouted, hoping to distract their attention long enough to give him a chance to escape.

As one the strange bird men's heads snapped towards her. They lifted their fine arched noses to taste the evening air. Even as men, their movements were avian and their black eyes glinted balefully in the shadows.

"There's something else here."

"What is it?"

"In the trees."

Candle ducked behind the tree as they moved closer, cursing her stupidity. Less than three hours in the Night Nation and she had already broken Jotham's first rule. But what was done was done. Perhaps they wouldn't see her. A foolish hope, but the wounded man had made the most of the distraction and disappeared into a thicket. Candle fumbled for her dagger, which suddenly felt very small and ineffectual.

She looked up and found the three young men standing less than three yards away. She had not seen or heard them move. They were staring right at her, smiling, their eyes bright. Hiding was no longer an option.

"Well, well," said the closest one, the tallest, his hair as dark as his eyes. His voice was low and deceptively mellow, his expression cruel. He carried himself with a haughty arrogance that reminded Candle of Rasmus. "What have we here?"

"A lost lamb, Stolas?" suggested the second, black eyes gleaming. He mirrored the first one's movements, but kept a step behind, hovering on light feet.

"What manner of beast is it?" asked the last, sniffing. This one had an unruly shock of hair that turned to burnish gold at the tips. He seemed distracted, glancing back over his shoulder towards the trees. When he looked back at Candle his brow was creased in worry, his frown a contrast to the predatory grins worn by his brothers.

"It doesn't matter," the first one said, cocking his head on one side. "Kill it, Ronove, and find out what it is later. We have unfinished business to attend to."

Candle brought up her blade warily. She didn't like the odds, but the weight of the necklace around her neck comforted her. She could take to the skies if need be... Hopefully she would be able to outfly them.

The obedient Ronove lunged for her with outstretched claws, his teeth pulled back to the gums. Candle dodged and slashed at his arm with her blade, tearing a jagged wound. He fell back with a howl, nursing his arm.

"Iron!" he cried. "It has cold iron, Stolas!"

His brothers hissed and exchanged glances. Lighting crackled at their fingertips. They closed in on her, moving together and she stepped back, one hand on the seawater vial. Stolas feinted towards her and she ducked. Her spin took her away from Stolas but too close to his brother who raked her across the shoulder, with savage delight. She swallowed a scream as he licked his claws clean, tasting her blood. He fixed his eyes on her face, his own beautiful visage serene.

"Human," he said, "an unusual strain."

"Don't play with your food, Ronove," said Stolas, with an air of boredom. "Kill it, and quickly. The Lady expects us soon."

Belias billowed into existence beside Candle, dark and menacing. He took in the scene before him with greedy eyes and the brothers all stepped back, eyebrows raised. They could see him, Candle realised with a jolt. At home the demon had been a creature of smoke and shadow, but here, in the Night Nation, his form had weight and substance. There was a corporealness to him now that he lacked in Havi. It was not an improvement, thought Candle uneasily. But if it meant she could kill him...

Belias leered at the three men before him, his maggoty eyes whirling in excitement.

"We hunt, mistress!" he declared. "I can taste their souls. I can taste their hearts."

"Begone, fiend!" the brothers shouted, backing away with trepidation. Belias turned his head towards Candle, his face splitting into a dark mockery of a smile.

"Think, mistress," he said, the longing in his voice self evident. "If I do not help you, you will surely die...You have no magic, you are alone... you have very little training in the art of self defence..."

"Shut up," Candle hissed between clenched teeth. They could hear him. This was a danger she had not foreseen. The demon knew the brothers could hear him and he was trying to force her hand. It was time to fly. Keeping her eyes on the brothers, she tucked the iron dagger away from her skin and reached for the seawater pendant. Belias moved then, ink-black shadows leaking from his body. He pushed her, with malevolent glee, and sent her sprawling on the uneven ground. The fragile vial shattered against a bone, its precious contents sinking into the soft green, even as she scrambled for it.

"No!"

"You know what you have to do, Mistress." Belias leered at her as she leapt up and nearly tumbled over again, the pack throwing her off balance. The three brothers grinned and moved a little closer.

"It looks harmless – small and feeble."

"It cut you."

"Why does it not use the demon?"

"Perhaps it is broken."

"It is broken," said Belias. "It is afraid."

“She can’t use it!”

Jotham said I could change without seawater, Candle thought, fighting the grip of her panic. She stepped back, her feet sinking into the moss, stumbling over the bones and branches buried there. Her old friends, fear and anger, thundered through her veins and she drew a deep breath, feeling for the currents of magic surrounding her. Jotham was right, the Night Nation was rife with magic. The threads were thick and plentiful. She pulled them towards her. Change, she urged her body.

But nothing happened.

They sprang towards her and she ran, narrowly avoiding their claws. For a moment she thought she might outrun them. Then she felt a hand slip around her ankle and down she went, face to the moss. She rolled and kicked with her free leg. The brother snarled and pulled at her, his incisors frighteningly sharp, looming in the periphery of her vision. She thrashed and kicked him in the face, her foot making contact with a satisfying crunch. He howled in rage and she managed to roll free, pushing herself up and away, but the other two brothers were waiting. They jumped on her as she staggered back, their hands pinning her limbs, their claws puncturing her skin so that blood ran in crimson rivulets down her arms.

"Anytime, mistress," said Belias, his grin deepening until the slit of his lips became a cavernous maw. She growled, fighting to free herself, begging her body to change, to become the dragon that was her other self; the dragon that would save her from this situation. A movement caught her eye and it took all of her self control not to react to the sight. Aeshma was advancing on Stolas, a large rock held high over his head. He brought it down on his brother’s skull with a sickening crunch. Candle's heart leapt and she rolled aside, managing to free herself. She focused, pulling the threads of magic towards her, recalling the satisfaction of flight, the feeling of talons, the power of her dragon body. She willed herself once more to be that shape. Her true shape. The shape that was brave and loved to fly. To her delight, her body swelled in size, scales bursting from her skin, her teeth growing sharp and predatory. She turned with a roar, but it was too late.

Aeshma lay gulping on the ground, the light fading from his eyes. The remaining brothers, their claws and arms crimson to the elbow, had split open his throat. They bared their teeth as they beheld Candle's changed body, leaping towards her with bloody talons extended. She screamed her rage and grief, sweeping them away with a powerful thrust of her wing, but the life had left Aeshma's body. He lay on the moss looking small and fragile, his body bent and broken. Candle nudged at it sorrowfully, but he lay unmoving. Next time, she swore, it would go differently. Next time she was in a position to help someone she would save them.

She roared her sadness at the stars and bounded into the air, barrelling upwards into the sky.