Behemoth
Several people screamed. Nighthand drew his knife and bellowed, ‘Everyone into the house! It will kill on sight!’
There was instant pandemonium. Men in robes and women in gowns were sprinting up the lawn towards the palace. The al-mirajes and their horns were colliding with running legs, and the borometzes bleated madly on their tendrils.
Nighthand was at the far side of the garden, running with his knife in hand.
The flash came over Christopher like a body blow.
It struck at his heart and radiated outwards.
The heat and light of it was in his skin, his bones, his lips.
He felt – so clearly it was almost visible – a quivering green-golden thread surge into life between himself and the creature.
It was a thread of thought and eager meaning, energy condensed and lengthened into light.
The behemoth’s feet dug chunks from the lawn as it halted.
‘Stop!’ Christopher cried. ‘Nighthand, don’t hurt it!’ There was a dizzying roar in his ears.
Instinct, not knowledge, pushed him forward.
Christopher sought the eyes of the beast. He tried to bend himself, body and intellect, towards it.
He felt, for one fleeting second, the behemoth’s mind surging through the green-gold thread.
It reached him disjointedly and in chaos: its aggression, curiosity and confusion.
Most of all he felt its huge, urgent animal pain.
And the pain swept around Christopher, enveloped him.
The behemoth did not intend death. It had journeyed for miles in raw terror.
It longed to lay down its vast lumpen body in safety.
‘Come here,’ said Christopher to the behemoth.
Nobody breathed as the beast began to cross the lawn towards him.
A pressure was building in Christopher’s body as he held steady the thread of gold, strange as birth or death, between them. A sweep of vertigo took hold of him and his whole body seemed to tilt.
Someone whispered behind him: ‘A miracle. A gift.’
And another: ‘That’s not natural.’
And another: ‘Shut up. Quiet.’
The behemoth took two halting steps towards him. Light swam in front of Christopher’s eyes and he felt the shattering weight of each second – five, six, seven – the effort of holding the connection forcing him almost to his knees. ‘Hold the thread,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t break it.’
The behemoth bent its head towards him. It breathed, soft and warm, on his face.
And then Christopher could hold it no longer. The thread snapped. He dropped to the grass on hands and knees.
The behemoth’s head jerked upright and it roared as if bereft.
At the same moment, a rope, lassoed at the end, was thrust into Nighthand’s hands.
He whirled the rope over his head and let it fly.
The behemoth bellowed in rage as Nighthand pulled the cord around its muzzle.
It dragged the Berserker forwards, tossing its tusks.
‘More ropes!’ Nighthand called. A dozen ropes flew, and six men together began to pull the beast away. ‘Take it to the walled garden!’
‘Christopher!’ Irian ran to him and pulled him close to her like a mother. ‘You could have died!’ She inspected him, taking his hands in hers. ‘Are you hurt?’
He shook his head. He could not speak. The idea of words seemed strange and foreign.
‘You took a terrible risk, Christopher.’ Irian’s voice was furious, but she did not hide her awe. She was a scholar, a scientist who had studied many phenomena, and she knew a marvel when she saw one. ‘Behemoths can tear apart whole ships, you know that.’
‘It wasn’t a risk,’ he muttered. ‘I knew. The unicorn—’
Anya came hurtling towards them. ‘Christopher! What was that? What did you do? One minute it was charging at Professor Vane, and the next it was looking at you like you were talking!’
‘It’s injured,’ he muttered. ‘Somewhere in the flank. I felt …’ But the words were slurred and his body was beginning to shake. Irian put her arm around him and held him steady.
‘Don’t try to talk,’ said Irian. ‘Catch your breath.’
But Anya was insistent. ‘What happened, Christopher?’
‘A flash,’ he said. ‘Gold.’ And then he turned sideways and was sick on the grass.