Hell's Chimney

by Derek Smith

  They sorted out in three heaps what they thought they needed. It was still too much and they cut back.

  ‘Absolute necessities,’ said Far.

  Toby was holding a long length of rope. It was heavy, but who knew what they might meet on the High Ridge? He bound it round his waist. Blankets of course, a cooking pot, flint and tinder, a plate between them, a knife each, a water jug. Make it two.

  Hammer and nails?

  Toby had decided on the hammer and was counting out nails – when there was a shout across the field. All looked up and saw a man running towards them gesticulating. Their gear lay scattered on the ground. If they ran off, they would have nothing.

  They waited. Toby gripped his knife.

  The man was middle-aged, stocky. His arms were bare and thick and he was shaking his fists as he ran down the hill towards them.

  ‘Say as little as possible,’ hissed Toby.

  ‘What you doing in my field?’ yelled the man.

  He was on them now, breathing hard.

  ‘Just tidying the load, master,’ said Far quietly, trying to calm the man down.

  The man looked at all the gear on the ground, at the three heaps.

  ‘You’ve got a strange way of loading,’ he said. He looked from one to the other. ‘This stolen?’

  ‘No, master,’ said Toby.

  ‘So why have you come right into this corner? Why not at the gate?’

  He stood hands on hips, challenging, disbelieving. Toby thought, he’s strong. Can we rush him?

  ‘You illegals?’

  They did not reply.

  ‘Show me your permit to travel.’

  Far took it out, hoping the man couldn’t read. The man snatched it.

  ‘It says two. There’s three of you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Far, ‘that’s why we had to get off the road. The soldiers…’

  ‘But you’re dumping this gear. What’s going on?’

  There was no answer they could give. They would have to jump him, thought Toby. Maybe kill him.

  The man rounded on Orly.

  ‘Alright, Miss. Tell me – are you Tobards?’

  Orly hesitated. Too long.

  Toby drew his knife. ‘Yes, we’re Tobards.’

  The man laughed. ‘You’re the first I’ve heard admit it before torture.’ From inside his coat he drew out a bill-hook. He wetted a finger and ran it down the long sharp blade, all the time looking at Toby with narrowed eyes. ‘I don’t know how good you are with that.’

  ‘Do we need to find out?’ said Orly. ‘You go, and we’ll go.’

  The man spat.

  ‘I’ve no reason to love the Queen,’ he said. ‘But you can’t be too careful.’ Then he stuck the bill-hook in his belt. ‘Zeke’s raiders killed my two sons.’

  ‘He’s after us,’ said Far. ‘We have to get off the road.’

  The man nodded. ‘Makes sense.’ He glanced at the horse and wagon and the bags and jetsam lying about. ‘So what you doing with everything?’

  Toby put his knife away, sensing the danger had passed. ‘Dumping it. Taking just what we can carry.’

  The man pulled at his chin.

  ‘Don’t know what you done. Doesn’t have to be much these days.’ He held up his open hands. ‘Don’t tell me. But I’ll buy your horse. Can’t afford your wagon.’

  ‘It’s yours,’ said Far.

  ‘Let’s go up to the house,’ said the man.

  Chapter 56

  An hour later they were away. They had taken the horse and cart to the farmer’s house. There the farmer had unharnessed the horse and mixed it with the half a dozen he had already. Much of the gear in the wagon they burnt, the herbs, the sacks, the clothing. The rest, knives, plates, bottles he simply mixed with his own. None of it was at all special. As for the wagon, the farmer planned to swap the wheels with another of his.

  His wife made them some food which they ate on the way: bread, cheese, some apples. And gave them a loaf for the journey. The farmer paid them for the horse in small coin.

  ‘Much easier to spend,’ he said.

  They wrapped their gear in blankets and tied them to their backs with rope. And then they left. The farmer led them across his land, which increased in slope as they made their way towards the High Ridge.

  At last by a stile, he stopped and shook their hands.

  ‘Tell me nothing more,’ he said. ‘But I wish you all the luck in the world.’

  They thanked him profusely, but he waved away their thanks. He pointed out the way up to the Ridge. And they parted.

  The farmer walked back down the valley. And they continued upwards. The sun was setting, the climbing was stiff.

  ‘Has he died yet?’ said Orly, stopping for a few seconds to adjust her straps.

  ‘I do hope so,’ said Toby.

  ‘He is at least dying,’ said Far. ‘And painfully.’

  ‘If that’s so, then his men may already be after us,’ said Toby. ‘We must get as far as we can before it’s too dark.’

  Quite soon they were scrambling up scree. Up so high, the sun held out a little longer for them. But soon it set. A chilly wind scoured the rocks. There remained sufficient daylight for them to go on a while longer, but by the time they reached the High Ridge, it was completely dark. And too dangerous to continue. It would be too easy to break an ankle or fall over an edge.

  In the shelter of some large rocks, they settled down for the night.

  Chapter 57

  They slept badly. The rock was hard on their backs, and the cold nibbled through their blankets. At first light they set off and ate a little food as they walked. They were grateful for the morning mist, even though it was chilly. It seemed to keep the world away. In a while though, the mist cleared with the warming sun and then the bells began.

  At first from one distant spire, but then they began to sound from here and there in the valley below as if there were a contagion of bells. Deep sounding bells, high bells. Every church it seemed was ringing its bells to a different tune. A cacophony of chimes from every village and town.

  ‘What’s going on?’ exclaimed Orly.

  ‘At least while they’re ringing, they’re not chasing us,’ said Toby.

  ‘Every church, every bell everywhere,’ said Orly looking over the valley.

  ‘I know what it is,’ said Far.

  They turned to him.

  ‘Someone has died. Someone important.’

  And no more needed to be said. But it gave an urgency to their march. They tried to keep to the middle of the Ridge, less likelihood of them being spotted from below, thought it was not always possible, and then, at the edge, they stooped low.

  Toby wondered who would be mourning. The country might wear black, and priests might intone Zeke’s princely virtues from the pulpit. Choirs might sing and crowds line the way as his coffin went by. But amongst all those bowed heads, amongst the profusion of wreaths and flowers, there would only be one true mourner. A woman with a yellow jewel about her neck.

  She would howl. And heaven help anyone who caught her eye.

  From their high vantage point they could see a number of roads. And dust clouds flowing down them. And knew there were riders, carrying terror from town to town. Hunting two healers, and a word, a nervous glance could cause a head to leave a neck.

  ‘What would they do if they caught us?’ said Orly with a shiver.

  ‘Every torture you can imagine. And then some you can’t,’ said Toby.

  At times they had to scramble, at other times they found a path for part of the way. And sometimes had to climb up and down the rocks that stuck out of the ridge like the teeth of a monster. Early afternoon Far dropped a jug that held half their water. It shattered on the rock. There was nothing that could be done; they would have to carry on with just the one jug. But a few hours later, they ran out of water. They shared the last few drops and sat down to rest and consider what they might do.

  On either side of them was a sheer drop. The
re was water, they could see it several hundred feet below – and the difficulty getting it was certainly one of the reasons why there were no others on the High Ridge.

  But they must have it. And Toby was the climber.

  He tied the empty jug around his neck, and set off down the face. There were no ravens here, and the climb down was easy enough with the power of his bracelet. His fingers and wrists relished the challenge of hanging in the tiniest fissure. Once down at the stream, he drank himself and then filled the jug, and set off back up. He could see Orly and Far looking down on him. He waved, they waved back. The sun was shining brightly. He would enjoy the climb back to them.

  True, there were no ravens, and the sun shone out of the bluest sky. But a half-crazed heart had sent her creature. Toby was about halfway up the rock face, when the dragon came.

  Chapter 58

  It was perhaps fifty feet long with wide thrashing wings. Purple with a white underbelly, and spikes that began just behind the head and increased in size along the mid back, dying off near the tail. The front paws were short with three toes and talons the length of a short sword and as sharp. The head was elongated like a horse’s, scaly with red bulbous eyes below two straight horns. Its tearing teeth left no doubt as to its carnivorous nature. And the smoke issuing from its nose and between its teeth left the impression that it often grilled its food before eating it. But in spite of its size, the dragon could be remarkably silent, soaring in on Toby on an air current, wings at full stretch to make the most of the updraught.

  So silent was its coming that Toby was unaware of it. His total attention was on the cliff face, finding the slight indents for fingers and toes to hold himself as he slowly rose upwards, in a fashion that was ridiculed in the flight of the creature that had him in its sights. If he had turned, he would have seen it homing in, its throat swelling as it built up the spurt of fire that would begin and end its attack.

  Not that Toby could have done much if he had seen it. He needed three points to hold him to the cliff face, and what could a knife do against thick scales, ignoring the talons and its mouthful of knives? True, he had a quart of water – but it would be better to drink it himself then attempt to quench the dragon’s fire. On the ground, the best thing to do would be to run. Find shelter. On a cliff face he was not offered that possibility. Toby was a hundred feet up and if he let go he’d smash into the rocks below. Should he survive, a remote possibility, with every bone broken – he could only wait helplessly for one possible end. A dragon’s meal.

  A voice in his head said, ‘Toby, a dragon coming, from below.’

  Far was using the Voice.

  And Toby looked for the first time at his adversary. And shuddered with fear. It was a few hundred feet away, a little less high than he was, and drifting in on a current of air which shortly would take it close to the cliff face. And to Toby.

  A couple of small rocks flew over the cliff face. Orly and Far were throwing them. Toby knew they were useless; even if they hit the dragon, it would barely notice. Quickly Toby rejected his own options. Forget the knife, forget the water.

  His hands through were strong, and if he had any chance, then it would be them that would save him. He watched the creature, and hoped it would treat him as a helpless thing, like a bird going for a caterpillar on a leaf.

  Its throat was bulging, ready to blow. The great wings held steady, rippling slightly in the waves of air holding the giant up. The current was drawing it closer to the rock face. The creature was perhaps twenty feet below him, dark smoke issuing from its nostrils and running like twin ropes up the cliff. Toby held fast and waited. He would have but one chance.

  The dragon was almost close enough to reach out with its talons. It opened its cavernous mouth, and took in a huge breath to blast its flame…

  Toby dropped.

  A torrent of fire and smoke shot out. The small plants on the cliff face charred and fizzled. Toby felt the heat of it, but was already below the blast as it came. And half a second later was on the dragon’s wing.

  He almost slipped off but was close enough to grab a back spike. He hung on, his body dangling down the dragon’s side. And pulling hard, he drew himself up the back and into the saddle between two spikes. And clutched at the one before him for all he was worth.

  The dragon knew he was there. It raged and roared, and tried to snatch at him with his claws. But Toby was just out of reach. Several times it tried, the talons coming within a couple of feet, but its front legs were just too short. Toby knew he was also safe from fire here. The dragon would not want to burn itself. But he knew too what else to expect.

  The dragon would try to throw him off.

  It began writhing and wriggling, bucking and throwing its body. Toby bumped up and down, his legs splayed out but he held fast, fingers entwined round the spike. The dragon was in a frenzy. And, like a horse trying to throw a rider, it thrashed and tossed, the great muscles of its body contorting it and throwing it up and down like an animated whip.

  The thrashing came thick and fast. Toby had the strength to hold on, but the dragon was trying to unbalance him, catch him with the shock of a throw. The creature writhed like a hissing snake and Toby hung on for his life, for all the dragon’s antics were high in the air, the cliff on one side and hard rock below.

  The bucking stopped. Toby could feel the blood pumping through the dragon’s body. It was tired but no less angry. And rage would make it try again. And again. While he had little choice but to hang on.

  The dragon began to fly upwards, its great wings surging, thrusting the air behind to gain lift. Higher and higher until the Ridge was way below. Toby could just make out Orly and Far looking up at him like two tiny dolls.

  And then came the dive.

  This was far worse than the climb. The air screamed past his ears, the water whipped off his eyes, the blast stretched his arms to their fullness. And still the speed increased as the dragon zoomed into the rock of the High Ridge. Rushing towards him came the ground and his stomach threatened to fly from his body.

  At the last moment, the dragon turned. Did a half circle and then flattened out. Toby was sick and weary but he knew the dragon was exhausted too. The blood was thumping through its arteries and torrents of smoke pouring from its mouth. It was wheezing and the creature’s head was rolling. Badly in need of a rest before its next surge.

  And there would be one. The beast would never give up.

  Toby’s arms ached, his legs were bruised. How much more could he take? A swift unexpected throw, and he’d be off. He was fairly close to the wing. Just below it, he could see a sinew that tied a muscle to the bone. If he could cut it. Then perhaps… He must get in closer. The dragon was resting on an updraught which made it easy for Toby to shuffle over a couple of spikes and get as close to the wing as he dared.

  He examined the sinew. He would need to hack in as hard as he could in one blow, because as soon as the dragon felt him chopping then it would resist – and one glance of the wing could knock his head off.

  There was also the problem of height. If it worked then the dragon would fall – but if from too great a height, then Toby would fall to his own death. It had to be judged finely. And without too much delay, as the dragon was renewing its strength to have another go at him.

  Toby took out the knife and gazed keenly at the cutting point. There, one hack, where the muscle stretched from the bone. Choose the moment, and chop true and hard into the bite of the sinew.

  The dragon drifted lower, still a little high, but he might not get a better chance. And he threw all his strength into a swinging chop. And then quickly pulled back.

  Just in time, as the pain angered the dragon and the wings thrashed like a great sail in a hurricane. The dragon buckled and roared; flame spat from its mouth. And Toby thought – it hasn’t worked, I’ve made him angry as a bee. He’ll have me now. As the dragon writhed in pain and wild fury.

  But then there was a snap, a crack like a tree just about to fal
l. And the wing he had worked on swung to the creature’s side, useless. Toby hung on like mad. This was it. Nothing can fly on one wing, and down dropped the dragon like a rock.

  Its massive body hit the ground with a thump. Toby was thrown back up, off its rubbery flesh. Down, then up again, as the thump echoed and re-echoed, throwing all the breath from his body. But the dragon’s fleshy vastness had cushioned Toby. He lay still, the body underneath him not moving, splayed out flat on the top of the High Ridge.

  Chapter 59

  That night they stayed in a shallow cave. It was hardly longer than their bodies, and so low they could only kneel within it. But it kept the bitter wind off. The second jug had broken too. Now they had no water, nor anything to carry it in. They had a little food left, bread from the farmer, but without water they just nibbled a little.

  Toby said he would go back down in the morning. He’d have to go to a village or farm and buy a jug and supplies. A dangerous thing to do, but there was no option.

  Outside their low cave, perhaps twenty paces away, the great dragon lay slumped on the ground. And as it grew darker, its silhouette was like a mountain crest, with evenly spaced peaks along the rim.

  In the middle of the night it rained heavily. There was a puddle just outside their cave. Orly went out to drink from it but it tasted of blood. And so did others all about. Obviously blood from the beast, contaminating the area around. They had no vessel to catch water, but caught it in their palms as it trickled off the outside of the cave. Quenched a little, they ate some more and then quenched themselves again.

  Water ran into their cave. They could do nothing about it, glad at least they could not see its redness. They crouched at the back, arms round their knees, feet and backsides in water, shivering under their wet blankets.

  It was a miserable, long night with sleep out of the question. The time had to be got over. There was nothing to be done but bear it. Toby ached with stiffness from his battle with the creature. He shuffled all night, making himself even wetter.

  At first light they rose. It was a dawn of absolute redness; the red and orange of the sky and clouds, and the puddles of dragon’s blood painting the rocks. Other colours battled in vain to be seen through the wash.