The Bone Quill by Carole E. Barrowman, John Barrowman Page A

tree, Solon grabbed Carik’s hand, squashing a handful of berries into her fist. He used his own knife to sharpen the end of a stick. Dipping the point of the stick into the viscous red juice cupped in Carik’s hand, Solon closed his eyes and let his imagination draw.
    Closer and closer, the Grendel’s massive jaws ground through the crushing blackness.

TWENTY
     
    A lthough Solon had never left the Western Isles of Scotland, he had travelled far and had seen many wonderful things through the monastery’s books. And one of those wonders was a Roman general’s manuscript, describing and illustrating the weapons of a castle siege.
    Solon let his fingers fly across the bark, trying to replicate the weapon he had in his mind. When he finished the drawing, his heart sank. Nothing had happened. He was too young and untrained to animate yet on his own. The terrible stench from the monster was suffocating, its jaws opening and closing as if already tasting its prey.
    ‘Move!’ yelled Carik, shoving Solon against the rowan tree, as a blinding flash of light burst from the bark. On the spot where Solon had been drawing, a colossal catapult – a trebuchet with a bucket as big as a wagon – appeared between them. Light sparked from its wooden wheels and a woven red canopy covered it. Solon’s heart leaped with pride and wonder to see what he had created.
    Above them, the mud-monster widened its mouth, releasing a gust of fetid air that dropped Carik and Solon to their knees in disgust.
    ‘HROOOO!’
    The Grendel’s eyes caught Solon in their sight, the monster’s gaze burning his skin. It slid forward, muck oozing from its clay-like shell. Any moment now, its jaws would sink down over Solon and swallow him whole.
    Release the handles, Carik!
    Carik threw herself against the double wooden handles of the trebuchet. They popped and wheezed like oversized bellows, released the spring and catapulted lethal quicksilver directly on top of the Grendel.
    The burning mercury seeped through the Grendel’s scaly layers, scorching through the filth to the centre of the beast. The Grendel seemed to melt, screaming and dissolving into the depths of Skinner’s Bog.
    Solon and Carik stood under the rowan tree and stared at each other. Carik’s expression was a mingling of awe and fear.
    ‘You are one who draws? An Animare?’
    Carik pronounced it in such a way that Solon thought it sounded even more magical.
    He nodded.
    ‘I thought so when I first saw you.’
    Avoiding Carik’s eyes, Solon secured his pouch more tightly round his waist, making sure it still held the rowan berries. A faint glow was pulsing in the distance beyond the bog. He hoped it was the peryton.
    Solon’s apprenticeship had not prepared him for this kind of situation. He put out his hand. ‘We should go,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I don’t know what forces brought the Grendel out to hunt, but I don’t want to stay here and find out.’
    She laughed, ignored his hand and set off across the bog by herself, being careful to avoid the place where the Grendel had sunk from view. Solon followed.
    Slogging through the thick mud was difficult enough for the uninjured young monk. For Carik, with her shoulder wound bleeding again and pain slowing her, it was close to impossible. At the far edge of the bog, Solon pulled Carik from the treacherous muck. This time she offered him very little resistance.
    The gleam from the peryton grew stronger, guiding them. As they hobbled towards the soft light, the mud in the bog behind them began to bubble angrily. A monstrous cloud of foul air skirted across the surface of the bog and trailed after them.
    ‘Time to run!’ Solon advised breathlessly. ‘If you can!’
    They scrambled through the gap in the briars as fast as they could. The peryton was on its haunches and ready for them. Carik gasped at the sight of such a magnificent beast, but was too weak and in too much pain to say a word. She collapsed at its feet.
    The peryton