by Philip Reeve
On Henwyn’s shoulder little Nuisance flapped and squeaked.
“Look!” said Henwyn. “I think he’s got the scent of something! Is it food, boy? Can you lead us to the larders?”
The dragonet took flight, whirred once around Henwyn’s head and shot across the hall and through a low, open doorway in the far wall. A moment later he reappeared, hovering just inside the door and squeaking at the companions as if to say, “Follow me,” before darting out again.
“I’m sure he understands every word we say!” cried Henwyn. “He’ll lead us to food and water.”
“Take care!” called Ned, as Henwyn hastened after the little dragon with Skarper at his heels. “Don’t get lost!”
“We’ll be all right,” said Henwyn. “You said yourself – nothing lives here.”
His words went whispering away up staircases and chimneys into the highest parts of Clovenstone; into the ears of the ones who waited there.
Evening was already falling in the world outside the Keep. The three sorcerers, who did not fancy spending another night alone at Westerly Tower, were making plans to leave.
“We have to assume,” said Fentongoose sadly, “that our friends were all eaten by those bog creatures.”
“Poor Princess Ned,” said Prawl sorrowfully.
“Poor Henwyn,” sighed Carnglaze.
“Poor what’s-his-name,” said Fentongoose. “You know, the little one with the tail. . .”
“Poor us,” said Carnglaze, “left alone and defenceless in this fearful place.”
“I don’t think we are cut out to be evil sorcerers, brothers,” said Fentongoose. “If we were truly evil, we would not feel such sorrow at the deaths of our friends. We would just go, ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ or something. I think we should leave this place and take our chances on the moors. With luck we shall find a southerly-bound barge at Sticklebridge and be back in Coriander by the turning of the month.”
And so they crammed what provisions they had rescued from the wreck of Princess Eluned’s ship hastily into their packs and went hurrying out through Westerly Gate with the low sun in their eyes, bidding a glad goodbye to Clovenstone.
Clovenstone, however, had other ideas. As they passed beneath the shadow of the gate-arch, something landed heavily on the road in front of them, straightened up, fixed the startled sorcerers with a beady yellow eye and growled, “’Allo!”
More goblins landed all around, swinging down on greasy ropes or just jumping out of windows and down from nearby roofs. A red-capped Chilli Hat jabbed Fentongoose in the bottom with his three-pronged spear; a Blackspike Boy knocked Carnglaze’s pointy hat off.
“That’s enough of that, lads,” growled a gruff voice, and King Knobbler himself swaggered out in front of the sorcerers, picking his teeth with the point of Mr Chop-U-Up. Six of his biggest goblins stood close behind him, idly swinging flails and brandishing complicated axes with home-made eye-gouging attachments.
“We come in peace,” said Knobbler. “And you lot will come in pieces,” he added wittily, “unless you does what we asks. You’re coming with us.”
“But where?” they all wailed, as grimy goblin paws seized hold of them. “But why?”
“Grab ’em and gag ’em, lads,” called old Breslaw, from a safe place at the back of the goblin mob. “Quick, before they can do spells and stuff on us.”
Fentongoose opened his mouth to protest that he couldn’t really work magic, but instantly a grimy goblin sock was shoved into it, and one of Knobbler’s lads hoisted him on to his shoulders. The other sorcerers, kicking and struggling, were treated likewise. “Your magic’s going to get us into the Keep,” Knobbler explained, and the goblins set off towards the Inner Wall.
“But we don’t have any magic, it’s all a mistake!” Prawl tried to say, but all that came out through his gag was a muffled murmuring.
“I know what you’re doing,” said Knobbler, waving his fearsome sword at the sorcerers. “You’re trying to work spells, in’t you, and turn us into frogs or logs or something? Well, save your magic for when we get to the Keep. If I hear another peep out of you before then, Mr Chop-U-Up here will be getting acquainted with your squelchy bits.”
In their chamber near the top of the Keep, the Dragonbone Men had been waiting for a long, long time. For most of it they had not even been aware that they were waiting. They had slumped in those narrow niches in the walls like forgotten dolls, not sleeping, for they did not sleep, not dead, for they had never been alive. But there were windows in that high place of theirs, and even through the scales of lychglass that had grown across them the pale light of the new star had crept. It lit reflections in the flakes of slowsilver which served the Dragonbone Men for eyes, and they awoke. When they heard the voices of Henwyn and Skarper and Princess Ned come drifting up the Keep’s stairways they had roused themselves and paced with solemn, birdlike steps to the flue which rose through their floor, and opened the door in the side of it, and climbed in, one by one.
The glow of the lava lake so far below shone through the thin sheets of stuff that they were made of, and showed the shadows of their dragonbone skeletons beneath. They were so light that the heat coming up the flue was almost enough to buoy them up – almost, but not quite. They spread their capes of dry skin like paper wings and descended slowly, following the scent of men down this branch and that of the immense system of flues which spread through the Keep like a copper tree.
Skarper and Henwyn made their way meanwhile down dusty corridors, up little stairs, through armouries and guard rooms. Racks of armour stood in rows. Helmets watched with empty eyes as the intruders passed. Skarper helped himself to an old leather tunic, made for some human warrior; it was scratchy and musty and it came down past his knees, but it felt good not to be wandering about nude any more. Henwyn found a pair of leather gauntlets and put them on. The dragonet was flying excitedly ahead of the companions through the lofty rooms, but every few minutes it would loop back to land on Henwyn’s wrist and nip his fingers, urging him onwards.
At last Nuisance screeched and came to a stop, flapping in mid-air outside a low, half-open door. Henwyn and Skarper hurried towards it.
“Is this the larder, boy?”
“Maybe there’ll be honey! Honey keeps!”
But it was not a larder. It was a mews where hawks and hunting birds had been kept back in the Lych Lord’s time. Jesses and lures hung from hooks on the ceiling, lit by the evening sunlight filtering through the scabs of lychglass on the window. Empty perches lined the walls, and plumed hoods stood in a row on a shelf above. One of the great copper flues passed through this room from floor to ceiling, and the air tasted warm and dry.
“There is no food here,” said Henwyn. “Come on, little Nuisance. Larder. Where’s the larder?”
He turned to leave, but Nuisance would not let him. With a mewling cry the dragonet darted in front of him and flapped its wings in his face, driving him back into the room, then whisking away to hover and mewl above a long wooden tray which rested on a stone shelf beneath the window.
Skarper and Henwyn went closer. “Eggs. . .” said Skarper.
“A dozen. Do you think they’re fresh? We could scramble them. . .”
“Don’t be soft!” said Skarper. “They’re dragon’s eggs. Well, dragonets’. Probably poisonous or magic or something. Look: that one’s bust. Maybe it’s the one little Nuisance hatched out of. . .” He looked up, and the Lych Lord’s star winked in at him through a crack on the lychglass which sealed the window. “Look! That must be where Nuisance squeezed out. . .”
“Could we get out that way?” asked Henwyn.
“Never. We must be halfway up the Keep by now, and we can’t fly like a dragonet can. There’s nothing outside but a long drop to a sticky end.”
Henwyn, who had been working at the edges of the crack with his swordpoint, stopped. “I can’t widen it an
yway,” he said. He felt an odd sort of relief. It was thrilling to be exploring the Keep at last; he was almost glad that there was no way out.
Nuisance mewed again, fluttering to and fro over the tray of eggs. Henwyn looked closer, and saw several of the eggs give small movements. He thought he could hear the dragonets squeaking and struggling inside. “Well, I hope they don’t hatch,” he said. “It’s bad enough having Nuisance nibbling and pecking at me all the time; I don’t want his eleven brothers and sisters having a go, too.”
Skarper picked up the shards of Nuisance’s eggshell. Thick, it was; not eggstone-thick, but nearly. “Maybe he wants you to help them,” he said. “I ’spect in olden days there was mother dragonets or men or goblins or something to look after this place and help the dragonets to hatch. Look; that hammer hanging on the wall. . .”
Henwyn looked. Sure enough, a little hammer dangled there, but before he could reach for it strange sounds filled the room; a rushing and a rustling; a slither and a scrape.
Skarper and Henwyn looked at each other. By the time they realized that the sounds were coming from the flue it was too late. They turned in time to see a copper hatch swinging open, and the Dragonbone Men stepping out.
There were four of them. Their hollow bodies had been folded out of sheets of dragon-skin parchment; their arms and legs were brittle arrangements of dragonbone. Inside their chests, stiff leather cogs revolved. Their heads splayed into wayward points, like tall crowns. Behind the eyeholes of those parchment masks there was a glint of slowsilver. They made little ticking noises, like clinker cooling in a grate. Their tiny feet, which were made from dragons’ claws, went scritch and snick as they stepped from the flue, and their dry capes settled around them like corn husks.
Henwyn raised his sword. Nuisance squeaked with alarm and fluttered up to hide in the folds of his cloak. Skarper just stood and stared as the creatures surrounded them.
“What are they?” he hissed at Henwyn.
Said Henwyn, “I’m not sure. But I think. . . In the old, old tales the seven sorcerers who raised this place made seven servants for themselves. Dragonbone Men, brought to life by magic. They were the most dreadful of the Lych Lord’s warriors. But towards the end the magic left them, and they became just mannequins again. That’s why they were not there to help him at the Battle of Dor Koth.”
“Well, they look as if they’re brimful of magic again now,” said Skarper.
“Adherak!” roared Henwyn, suddenly and at the top of his voice. The noise scared Skarper and Nuisance, but it did not seem to trouble the Dragonbone Men, who just stood and watched as the cheesewright swung his sword at them. One caught the blade as it descended; another lashed out at Henwyn with a hand like a bundle of ivory hooks. Henwyn let go of the sword and leapt backwards just in time to avoid being ripped open, and the slashing claws ripped his clothes instead.
Back to the egg-tray, breathing hard, he waited for the next blow, but it did not come. The Dragonbone Men stood still again, and watched him. Their eyes glimmered with something more than the reflection of the star outside. They stared at Henwyn; at the bare white skin which showed where his torn tunic hung open. They stared at the grim, winged face of the amulet staring out at them. The mouths of the Dragonbone Men were slots; their tongues were dried-up knots of dragon tendon which they rattled inside their hollow heads to make rustling, clattering noises like rattlesnake tails.
The rattling sounds formed words.
“Welcome,” whispered the Dragonbone Men.
“We have waited. . .”
“So long. . .”
“What are they talking about?” asked Henwyn in a whisper.
“That’s Fentongoose’s amulet you’re wearing!” Skarper hissed back. “They think you’re him! The leader of the Sable Conclave! The Lych Lord’s heir!”
“I didn’t know!” whispered Henwyn. “I found it in the ruins! I’d forgotten I even had it!”
“Well don’t tell them that,” Skarper warned. It seemed to him that amulet had saved their skins. If these Dragonbone weirdies wanted to treat Henwyn like the Lych Lord come again, that was fine by him.
“Come with us,” clattered the Dragonbone Men. “Come with us. Let us lead you to your throne of stone.”
The sun had set, and the Lych Lord’s star was blazing in the top of the sky like a squib that never went out as the goblins carried their captives through the gateways of the Inner Wall, past the shabby glasshouses where the Chilli Hats’ peppers grew, and up the last steep streets to stand at the foot of the Keep. It was the first time since the Fall of Clovenstone that so many goblins had been seen all together in one place and not fighting each other. Grimspikes and Growlers, Slatetops and Chilli Hats, Blackspikes and Browbeaters. As the host tramped up the final weed-choked ramp to the black gate they sang the old goblin marching song:
Goblins come!
Goblins come!
From Clovenstone with horn and drum!
To the Lands of Man with fire we come!
Over the mountains,
Over the moor,
Goblins are marching,
To war! To war!
. . .which wasn’t entirely true, because this was a raid on the Keep, not the lands of men, but they hadn’t had time to think of a song about the Keep, and it was certainly true that they had fire, in the form of scores of flaming torches, and horns and drums, which they used to accompany their singing, making a horrendous din. Anyway, if Knobbler really could open the Keep, maybe the man-lands would be next. Even goblins knew that there were meant to be powerful magics in there along with all the treasure. Maybe King Knobbler’s goblin armies would be able to conquer the whole world. . .
At the front of the army, old Breslaw stepped up to the gates and thumped thoughtfully on them with his teaching mallet. They let out a low bonging sound, muffled by the sheath of lychglass which covered them like cataracts on an old goblin’s eye.
King Knobbler watched him. The king had put on his new fighting hat, a huge dark helm which he had captured from the king of Growler. It covered his head like an upturned bucket. In fact, it was an upturned bucket, but it was a very fancy one, with a spike on the top, a bull’s horn stuck to each side, and a long slot cut across the front like a letter box, through which the king’s mad yellow eyes blinked out. He motioned to the goblins who stood behind, and they dragged the battered, frightened members of the Sable Conclave out of their ranks and dumped them among the nettles at the king’s feet.
“Go on then,” Knobbler growled. “Open it.”
The three sorcerers clung together, trembling and making little eep noises.
“OPEN IT!” bellowed Knobbler, so loudly that the echoes slamming off the gates blew the sorcerers’ hair and beards out behind them like a gale while the goblins standing nearby all levelled spears, swords, pikes and spiky egg-whisk things at them.
“Very well,” said Fentongoose, although he had never felt less capable of doing magic in his whole life. He raised his hands, shut his eyes, and said in as loud and commanding a voice as he could manage:
“OPEN!”
The Keep narrowed as it rose, and a stairway spiralled through the heart of it, up and up again, winding about the warm branchings of the copper flues. Doorways opened off the stairs, some leading out on to lofty battlements where catapults and war machines stood beneath bubbles of lychglass like museum exhibits in dusty cabinets. Others led into rooms in whose shadows, dimly shining, Skarper saw chests of coins and precious stones, golden idols from far Zandegar, the skins of leopards, bears and hippogriffs. He saw curtained anterooms where harps and viols stood waiting for the ladies of the Lych Lord’s court to return and stir them into life with long, pale fingers.
Skarper’s goblin senses prickled; his paws itched with the desire to gather up these precious things and stuff them in his pockets. But the Dragonbone Men allowed no t
arrying, and whenever Skarper slowed or tried to turn aside into one of the rooms they would come rustling round him, plucking at their clothes with dragon-claw hands, their dry voices rattling and buzzing in their wasps’ nest heads, urging him on and up.
Once Henwyn tried to stop too. “Princess Ned will be afraid for us,” he said.
“That does not matter,” whispered the Dragonbone Men.
“Where are you taking us?”
“The time has come,” rustled the Dragonbone Men. “The star is risen and the Stone Throne waits.”
Skarper didn’t much like the sound of that, but there was nothing he could do, only let the Dragonbone Men hustle him on up the stairs. Nuisance was still cowering under Henwyn’s cloak, and Henwyn wondered if it might be possible for the little dragonet to slip away and go winging back down to where Princess Ned waited, carrying a warning. Ned needed to know that dreadful things were loose inside the Keep . . . but he could not think how he could make Nuisance understand that, and before he could come up with an idea another staircase joined the one which he and Skarper were climbing, and up it came another group of Dragonbone Men, three this time, leading Princess Ned.
“I am so sorry,” she said, when she saw Henwyn and Skarper. Her hair had come down in a tumble of grey; she blinked at them between its strands. “They came out of the chimneys and there was nothing I could do. I am forever being captured these days. It isn’t like me at all. You must think me such a silly princess.”
Still they climbed, and still the Keep narrowed, and the doors they passed were mostly tight shut now, and made of bronze or iron, not of wood. Then, quite suddenly, there was the brightness of moonlight above, and they came up into a huge chamber; the very top of the Keep. The roof was one great misshapen dome of lychglass. Through it Skarper and Henwyn could see the weird towers and horns of the Keep’s top jutting towards the moon, the black stone of them all glittery with veins of slowsilver. Moonlight spilled in through the lychglass and lit the floor of the room, which was made of many different sorts of metal, arranged in curious, intricate patterns. There were patches of platinum, swirls of gold, broad fields of copper, green with verdigris. But the moon was not the only light they had to see all this by, for in the middle of the floor there was a round opening, fifty feet across. It was the mouth of a great copper flue, into which all the other flues that carried the warmth of the lava lake up through the Keep must feed. A faint silver light came out of it, and a haze of magic rippled the air above. A thin stone bridge arched out over it to meet a slender pinnacle which rose from its very centre, the top of a craggy stone claw which jutted through the flue’s side, further down.