Chris Riddell : Blood Honey

A Reading with Chris Riddell : Blood Honey

ONE

THE THUD THUD of heavy footfalls came drumbeat steady from the far side of the ridge. A pair of foraging skitterwyrmes paused. The footfalls crunched and squeaked in the freshfall snow. They did not falter.

They were getting nearer …

The skitterwyrmes stood up on their hindlegs and peered around jerkily through the driving snow, heads cocked and fluted crests fluttering. Beneath their feet, the ground trembled. They eyed one another for an instant, then with short barked shrieks darted for a crevice in the snowcrusted rocks close by and disappeared.

The thudding grew louder, anchoring the freeform wail of the wind with its relentless rhythm …

The hissing of the falling snow softened abruptly as the wind dropped. Above, yellow-grey clouds curdled and thinned, and a pale sun broke through. It set the dwindling display of snowflakes to sparkling and sent long shadows off across the snowdrifts. Yet there was no warmth to it.

A cowled head rose up from behind a snowcapped ridge, the face lost in shadow beneath a heavy hood; then broad shoulders, with an immense backpack strapped to them. A white lakewyrmeskin cape creaked as it flapped to reveal legs like tree trunks, and heavy boots that were toecapped and laced ladderwise to the shins.

The winter caller paused at the top of the ridge and surveyed the rocky snowscene ahead. A gloved hand emerged from the folds of the cape. It reached up and pushed the hood back, and the cold sun fell upon a bone mask that covered the face. It gleamed on the yellowed cheekbones and eyesockets and glinted in the darting black eyes beneath.

With a gruff snort, the hulking figure pulled a piece of rag from a back pocket and, with unlikely delicacy, cupped it to the mask and breathed deeply, eyes closed.

It was fainter now, the smell. But it was still there. A telltale mix of wyrmeoil and pitchsmoke, and sweat soured by fear and disgust. It was a unique smell, unmistakable, and leading him inexorably on to his quarry.

Find them. Dig them out. Dispatch them … slowly.

The words of the keld mistress echoed inside his head. Ever since he had left the underground cavern he had heard them, urging him on through the weald of fullwinter in pursuit of the murderers.

The winter caller lowered the cloth and sniffed at the air, then snorted again. Twists of mist coiled out of the bone nostrils.

He rummaged in another pocket and drew out a handful of dried meat, which he shoved through the mouth hole in the bone mask. He chewed mechanically, turning the meat to pulp – till his molars clamped down on something that jarred his jaws. He probed around his mouth with his tongue, seeking and finding a small hard object, then spat it out.

It was a milk tooth. It lay on the surface of the snow for a moment, pearly and unblemished, before fresh snowflakes hid it from view.

He pulled the hood back over his masked face and lurched forward. The thudding drumbeat resumed.

It was as he crested the next ridge that he saw them. He did not stop, nor break his stride. There were two of them, one taller than the other, the pair of them brown against the white, standing beside a tattered awning and broken staves. Then they saw him.

The shorter one waved.

It wasn’t his quarry, he knew that much. They both smelled of damp buckhide and something metallic. And, as the waving grew more agitated, he noticed that the shorter one’s odour was laced with buttermilk. Kithtang.

A man and a girl …

They started towards him. The girl was up front, wading thighdeep through the drifts of snow as fast as she could manage, her walking staff raised above her head. The man hurried after her, shouting out for her to watch her step, to probe for hidden cracks and crevasses that might swallow her up, but ignoring his own advice. They were grinning, the both of them, their gaunt faces flushed.

The twitter and chirp of their eager voices grew shrill as the gap between him and them closed up. And as they approached, the man extended a hand in greeting.

‘How do, stranger,’ he said. ‘I am truly pleased to make your acquaintance.’

The winter caller stared down at the man from the shadows of the hood. He noted the raggedy beard, the sunken sparkle to his eyes, the broken crossbow at his shoulder. He said nothing, nor made a move to shake the proffered hand.

The man pulled back awkwardly and brushed snowflakes from his beard. ‘Like I say, I … I can’t tell you what a relief it is for us that our paths have crossed,’ he told him, though his voice lacked conviction.

‘We got separated from the convoy,’ the girl chipped in. ‘Daddy and me. On account of the bellyache I got from that bad meat …’

‘Then the snow set in,’ the man added. He shook his head. ‘And a mountain still to climb before we make our winter lay-up. The winds destroyed the makeshift,’ he said, nodding back at the flapping wyrmeskin canopy and splintered wood. ‘And … and our provisions are woeful low.’ He eyed the bulging backpack at the stranger’s shoulders. ‘If you maybe had something to barter, friend. Something to share with me and my little girl here …?’

The figure grunted, seemingly in response, then swept back his gleaming grey cloak. He reached out with his huge gloved hands and clamped them gently to the sides of the man’s head. The man looked up at him, smiling warily, trying not to react badly to this hulking stranger’s unusual greeting. Beside him, his daughter stepped back uneasily.

‘Daddy?’ she said.

‘It’s all right, angel,’ the man told her. ‘He don’t mean no harm, do you, stranger?’

The winter caller said nothing, but steadily increased the pressure on the man’s head as if he were testing a fruit for ripeness.

‘You let go of him!’ the girl shrieked, fear gripping her as she saw her daddy’s eyes bulge and turn bloodshot. ‘Let him go!’

The winter caller knocked her aside with a casual shrug that sent her sprawling to the snow-covered ground, and his hood fell back. The girl looked up and gasped at the sight of the bone mask.

‘Daddy! Daddy …’

There was a splintering sound. Blood started to ooze between the fingers of the wyrmeskin gloves. It spattered down onto the snow, red on white, turning pink, like cherry blossom. The lifeless body slumped down upon it with a dull thump.

The hooded figure turned to the girl, and she shook uncontrollably beneath the emotionless gaze of the glittering black eyes behind the bone mask. Stirring herself, the girl scrambled backwards, struggling to climb to her feet, the worn soles of her boots slipping on the snow.

She began pleading, begging the stranger to spare her life. Her anguished voice rose and fell, words spilling from spitfleck lips.

Twitter twitter. Chirp chirp chirp.

The winter caller remained motionless.

The keld mistress and her colleagues would certainly appreciate the girl, he knew that. She was small, but looked strong, and Cutter Daniel had a thing for plaited braids. She would make a good slave. Then again, he had other business to attend to, didn’t he? The little matter of his quarry. She’d only get in his way, and if he tied her up and left her till he was done, she would be dead and useless by the time he returned.

He reached down and grabbed a hold of her. He lifted her off the ground and the twittering and chirping grew louder and uglier and higher in pitch, till it was screeching inside his head.

Twitter twitter. Chirp chirp chirp.

He started to shake the girl, his gloved hands gripping her bony shoulders, shaking and shaking and shaking until she fell limp. And silent. Her head lolled back on her broken neck.

The winter caller released his grip on the body and it crumpled in a heap at his feet. He stepped over it and continued up the mountainside.

The words of the keld mistress returned.

Find them. Dig them out. Dispatch them … slowly.

Behind him, the two skitterwyrmes appeared from the crack in the rock, and were joined by half a dozen more. They scurried over the snow, which was already crusting up with the intense cold. They lapped at the blood. They probed the bodies with greedy curiosity, then sank their fangs into the still warm flesh. If they were to benefit from this unexpected feast before the carrionwyrmes arrived, they would have to be quick." 

by Paul Stewart in Wyrmeweal

Chris Riddel