Rise of the Shadow Dragons

by Liz Flanagan

  ‘No one cares about that now,’ Joe told him gloomily, chasing the last crumbs on his plate. He hated the self-pity that crept into his voice.

  ‘What if we do?’ Asa suddenly reappeared, at Yannic’s elbow. ‘You are a Norlander, after all. Those blue eyes don’t lie.’

  They obviously didn’t know who he was or what he’d done. They wouldn’t be so friendly once they found out. ‘What does that matter?’ Joe asked clumsily. ‘What’s so great about Norlanders?’

  They laughed as if he’d said something funny.

  ‘We celebrate our heritage here,’ Asa told him. ‘We sing Norlander songs, eat Norlander food, tell the folk tales of our homelands.’

  That sounded harmless enough. Joe nodded, but he hadn’t finished.

  ‘We are keeping the old ways alive, that’s all.’ Asa’s face took on a flinty look now. ‘So they don’t get lost, with everything else …’

  Now Joe had eaten, he felt more alert. With a jolt, he noticed something he should have seen immediately: Yannic and Asa and about half the people in the room were wearing tattered black clothes. Some had cloaks or jackets over the top, so he hadn’t noticed before.

  They were wearing the old army uniform, the one from before. The one from the old duke’s reign. Suddenly he knew exactly who these people were and what he’d stumbled into – they all belonged to the Brotherhood! He cursed himself for his woolly-headedness earlier. He tried to keep his face steady.

  ‘What’s been lost?’ he asked, hoping he sounded curious, not suspicious.

  ‘Ah, we’ve all lost something, Jowan Thornsen,’ Yannic said slowly. ‘Time’s coming for us to take it back.’

  So they did know who he was! Joe flushed with shame. He knew the Brotherhood wanted to cause trouble for his sister and the duke. Would they hurt him to get to her? He focused with difficulty on what the men were saying.

  ‘We were in the last duke’s army, in the old days, when this island was properly run, with Norlanders in charge,’ Yannic said, puffing up his chest.

  And just like that, the warm friendly atmosphere vanished.

  Joe didn’t answer. Milla had told him how hard it used to be, for anyone who wasn’t Norlander. She’d said the old days had been unfair and unequal.

  ‘Not this shambles we all saw yesterday,’ Yannic went on. ‘A woman can’t be a general – we all saw her fail to restore calm.’

  ‘That was my fault, not my sister’s!’ Joe felt hot and squirmed uncomfortably on the hard bench. Everything took on a sinister light now he knew he didn’t belong. Exactly what were they doing here? What were they planning?

  ‘Not so,’ Asa growled.

  Joe waited. What would they do, now they knew who he was, now they knew he was only a – what had Noah said? – a halfie? Now Joe thought of him, Noah did sound a bit like the Brotherhood, always going on about the old days and how important Norlanders were.

  ‘You had the courage to speak up,’ Asa said to Joe. ‘Then and now.’ He paused a beat. ‘We value that skill.’

  Hardly listening any more, Joe looked around the room, trying to work out how he could escape. The back window would be his best route. He’d only have to get past more than a hundred people who had reason to resent him, first.

  Asa was watching him, his blue eyes glittering in the lamplight. ‘Right, that’s enough for your first visit.’

  Joe felt trapped in that gaze. What were they going to do with him?

  ‘We’ll only bore you, with our reminiscing,’ Asa said smoothly. ‘You don’t want to hear old men talking about better days.’

  Joe shivered. Better days? Better for whom? He hoped he looked less alarmed than he felt.

  ‘Leave us now.’ Asa’s tone changed, turned commanding. ‘But think about what we’ve said. We could use a lad like you in the Brotherhood.’

  Joe’s head shot up, surprised. Use him how? Against his sister? How could they even think he might want to join them? Then he recalled how they’d watched him yesterday, at the ceremony.

  They’d seen him at his worst and seen someone they wanted to work with.

  While he was having these thoughts, he found himself hustled to the door. He half heard their muttered comments as he passed:

  ‘Why they letting him go?’

  ‘Better use if he’s willing.’

  ‘You sure that’s the one?’

  Then the guards returned his knife and bundled him into the street.

  Joe tripped and fell hard, grazing the burns on his hands so they seeped blood and a pale ooze which he wiped on his half-dried clothes. Alone again. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere. He was a fool to have thought anything else, lulled by good food and strong ale.

  He was engulfed by a wave of exhaustion, and it was hard to think through the pain in his hands.

  There was only one place he could go now.

  Joe got up and limped through the streets, till he found one he recognised. He took a long route to be sure he wasn’t followed and slowly wobbled his way back towards the cave.

  Crossing the west beach nearly finished him: the sand seemed to suck at his feet, and he almost sank down into it, but he didn’t know if he’d have the strength to rise again. His legs felt leaden now, but he forced them to keep moving.

  He made it to the first cave, where he’d left his lantern. With shaking fingers, he managed to squeeze a spark from the flint and light the wick.

  He stumbled in the gloom, heading deeper into the caves. He came to the steps and realised dimly that he hadn’t checked his lantern properly. The flame guttered and went out.

  It was the last straw, yet more proof of his stupidity, as if any were needed. Only a fool would have walked into a meeting of the Brotherhood without realising.

  He cursed himself and threw down the lamp in fury, listening to it clank down the steps in the near darkness, spilling oil as it went.

  ‘Well done, Joe,’ he muttered to himself. ‘That really helped.’ He sighed and started trudging blindly after it.

  Several things happened then, one after the other: Joe’s heel slipped on the spilt oil. He went flying down the steps. His head flew back and slammed down hard.

  Everything went black.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Time passed strangely for Joe. He knew two states: pain or sleep. It was dark and he was dreaming. Dragons were searching for him, soaring low over black water, coming closer, closer, closer.

  Finally he woke with a gasp, clammy and cold. His fingers moved first: he was lying on a bundle of roughspun fabric. It stank of old sweat, oil and grime. He found a flask next to him, and he fumbled for it, tugging the cork free and sucking the water down till his aching throat could take no more.

  His head felt as if Iggie had sat on it, and his right shoulder burned when he moved. He twisted round and tried to prop himself up on his left side instead.

  He moaned in pain, then bit it down.

  Where was he? Who had brought him here? What was going on?

  His thoughts cleared a little and he looked around for clues.

  Joe was lying on a dusty black cloak in a small rocky cave. On a ledge above his head, an old-fashioned lamp burned low – no more than a little pool of oil in a large clam shell with a crude wick poking out one end. It would soon burn out, so he made the most of the light while he could. The cave was small and dry and otherwise empty.

  Joe found that moving his head made him feel dizzy and sick, so he tried to keep as still as possible. Slowly, slowly, he got to his hands and knees. Then he realised this was tricky too, as his right arm wouldn’t take his weight. Leaning on the left and shifting very gradually, he shuffled himself to the cave mouth and peered out – it opened into one of the long straight tunnels, with a flight of stone steps leading up to the left.

  He struggled to his feet with effort, took one step. Another.

  Purple clouds began blotting his vision. Sweat poured down his back. Then Joe was falling through darkness again.
/>   Twice more Joe woke, tried to move and passed out.

  The next time, he woke to find a blurry face peering anx­iously down at him. ‘Hello,’ it said.

  Joe managed something between a grunt and a moan.

  ‘Hurt badly?’

  Grunt.

  ‘Drink this. Should help.’ A strong hand tilted his shoul­ders forwards, and a cup was brought to his lips.

  Joe gulped, and then retched at the bitter taste of the liquid. He wondered if he was being poisoned, but then he found he didn’t care because the pain was blotted out by a beautiful blanket of nothingness.

  When he woke again, his mouth tasted like a rat had died in it, but the pain was less and he could think straight.

  He opened his eyes and struggled up onto his left elbow, and found himself staring at Winter, the Dragonless, the girl he’d seen at the ceremony. The ghost who haunted the island.

  Winter was even taller than him and desperately thin, with very straight black hair which fell down one side of her face like a curtain. She had large grey eyes and her mouth was wide, twisted now into a kind of smile.

  ‘You’re back,’ she said. ‘Better?’

  ‘A bit,’ Joe managed. ‘Did you …?’

  ‘Drag you here? Yes. Bring you water? Medicine? Yes. Yes.’

  She must be stronger than she looked.

  ‘Thanks. What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Hit your head. Wasn’t sure if you’d make it. Tried to clean it.’

  Joe reached up and winced as his fingers explored the back of his head, finding matted hair and dried blood. Pain exploded again.

  ‘Bad idea. Going to be sick?’

  But Joe swallowed down the nausea and concentrated on breathing: in, out, in, out. He was broken. But not alone.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said again. ‘I’m Joe.’ He knew that much, but other things were still hazy. He had a strange sense of dread, as if something awful was going to happen, if he could just recall what it was.

  ‘Winter,’ she replied.

  Joe didn’t say that he knew. How must it feel to be Winter and have everyone always knowing who you were and why?

  ‘Do you live down here?’ he asked instead.

  ‘Sometimes. Like to keep moving. These tunnels let me do that.’

  So that must be why people mistook her for a ghost. The tunnels must have other exits, Joe thought. ‘How long have you known about the tunnels?’ he asked her.

  ‘Since …’ One word was enough. Her sorrow seemed to fill the air like mist.

  Since her dragon, Jin, had died in the Great Loss two years ago. Joe didn’t know what to say to that.

  A memory was dislodged: seeing Winter on Hatching Day. And, with a horrible rush, all the events of the last few days came flooding back and Joe remembered everything. He sank back down and closed his eyes, breathing through the pain. He put one arm over his face as if he could blot it all out: what his anger had done. His parents’ shame. What everyone knew.

  They stayed like that for a while, till Joe’s stomach gave a loud growl. How many days since he’d eaten properly?

  ‘You must eat,’ Winter said, holding something out to him. ‘It’s been three days since I found you.’

  ‘Three days!’ Joe took it and shoved it in his mouth – some kind of fried meat in a dusty flour wrap – and gulped the food down. ‘Thanks.’ He felt stronger almost immedi­ately, his thoughts flowing more clearly.

  Four days then since he’d seen his parents. He’d never been away from home for so long before. Missing them felt like a pain in his chest, taking his breath away. He slumped forwards.

  ‘What is it?’ Winter asked.

  ‘My family. I miss them.’ He’d have to get better at managing that, in this new life he’d chosen. ‘But I can’t go back … not till I’ve done something, something good,’ he finished clumsily.

  Pity flickered across her face. ‘There’s a rumour.’

  ‘What rumour?’ What else did people think he’d done?

  ‘Ship went down. In the storm.’ She spoke in strange short bursts. ‘With you aboard, they think.’

  ‘People think I’m dead?’ Joe began shivering hard.

  Winter nodded. ‘You were seen. At the harbour.’

  ‘But no one would take me!’ he cried. Then he realised: perhaps it was better this way. He couldn’t go back and hurt them again. He couldn’t make it worse. He couldn’t shame them any more. He rubbed his face with his hands and winced at the pain in his shoulder and in his burns.

  ‘How are you?’ Winter reached over and touched his forehead. ‘Just cold and shock. Not fever.’ She seemed satisfied.

  ‘Why are you helping me?’ Joe asked, sitting up again and wiping his face. ‘I mean, I’m grateful, I am – thank you!’ But what was in it for her?

  ‘I found you.’ Winter’s eyes gleamed brightly in the wavering lamplight.

  Joe studied her. In her dark cloak, she reminded him of a blackbird maybe, or a starling: hopping, peering intently, ready to fly away.

  ‘Why should you die? If I can help?’ Winter said. Under his gaze she suddenly grew agitated, as if she’d used up the day’s supply of words and needed to be gone to find more. Tilting her head in that birdlike way, she said, ‘I must go. Find a blanket, find more food.’

  ‘Wait!’ Joe called. ‘Please. Did the boy live, the one who was crushed on Hatching Day?’

  She was already backing away, muttering as she went down the corridor. ‘Yes. He lived. Now you must.’

  The lamp went out. Joe lay there in complete darkness, full of relief at that news. There was nothing else he could do now – he was stuck, suspended in the dark. His old life was over. He’d messed it up spectacularly, but it was finished. He couldn’t hurt his parents any more. This was the new start he’d been looking for. He would begin again, and he would learn to tame his anger, so he didn’t hurt anyone else.

  It was like the night watchman Gabriel had said: Joe’s parents would be better off if he were dead. And now he was. That would be his gift to them. Until he had become someone his parents could be proud of, he would stay dead.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Joe and Winter fell into a kind of rhythm. Winter would bring food: simple, but good – cheese, bread, sardines, pears. Joe ate and slept, recovering slowly. When he woke, sometimes Winter was there, changing the bandages on his burned hands, keeping his head injury clean. More often, he was alone. He had no idea how many days passed: night and day were the same in this cave. He lost great swathes of time to strange unquiet sleep. Sometimes he woke up scream­ing and beating at himself, thinking he was on fire. Slowly, slowly, he let his old life slip away, grieving for it in dreams and nightmares.

  Finally, one day, he found he could stand without sway­ing. His shoulder would take longer to heal. In the end, Winter tied his arm in a sling, and Joe tried to forget about it, focusing on walking further down the corridor each day, determined to get better, till he could even tackle the steps: one by one. The top still seemed very far away.

  Even when she was there, Winter didn’t like to talk for long, Joe realised. She could manage a short sentence or three before she got that hunted look and she’d need to fly away.

  Joe’s questions multiplied in the hours of solitude. He planned his words carefully in the spaces when he was alone, polishing them into small shiny nuggets to be ready for Winter’s return.

  ‘Do you know all the tunnels?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet. Exploring slowly,’ she explained. ‘Didn’t want to get lost.’

  ‘How far do they go?’

  ‘Far.’

  ‘What are they for?’

  She shrugged. ‘Escaping.’

  Did she mean them, or someone else? Joe wanted to ask more, but she was already eyeing the passageway and getting up to leave.

  One day, he was very bored, and his head was itching terribly. He decided to explore, but his legs collapsed half­way up the nearest flight of stone steps. Joe crawled back
to the cave just as Winter arrived. He was ready to scream with pain and frustration. He heaved himself into the cave, slumped against a wall and put both hands over his mouth so he couldn’t let out his anger. It was like fire. And like fire, he had to control it, or contain it. Otherwise it would destroy him and damage others. This was his new start and he would not wreck it. He breathed in and out till he was sure he could speak without raging against the pain.

  Winter just stood there looking at him in her quiet way.

  Suddenly he needed to know more about her too. What did she want? What did she do? She’d seen his worst moment, on his birthday, and yet she’d still helped him.

  ‘You know when I saw you before,’ Joe said, ‘at the hatch­ing ceremony?’ It burst out before he could stop it.

  He waited for Winter to pull away, to show her disapproval of what Joe had done.

  ‘Yes?’ Winter said, holding his gaze. One of her feet was drumming on the floor as she spoke.

  ‘Well, I’m not like that. Usually. I just lost my temper.’ He braced himself for her next words. For her dismissal. ‘I didn’t mean for all that to happen.’

  Nothing came. Again.

  ‘Look at us, both without a dragon.’ As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. How could he think of compar­ing them? She’d had a dragon, but he had died.

  A shadow passed over her face, but she didn’t react.

  ‘Sorry! Sorry, I don’t mean we’re the same. It’s just … I was wondering. Most of the Dragonless left. Except you … Why did you stay?’ he asked, as gently as he could.

  She only looked at him, unblinking.

  It was Joe who looked away first, cheeks burning at his awkward attempts to get to know her. He shouldn’t have pushed her. She’d tell him when she was ready.

  Winter laid down her parcels of food and left.