White Wind Rising

by Dan Davis

  Weaver whispered from the corner of her mouth while Pym was talking. ‘We are not letting this happen.’ Archer gave a tiny nod. He glanced over at his bow. It was a long way away.

  ‘But then when I crept up on you in the morning,’ Pym was saying, ‘and I sees you had a dragon. I knew old Pym’s luck was changing. Never thought I’d see one, they’re supposed to be all gone, hundreds of years ago, in the days of King Arthur, probably. First I thought you had some sort of giant bat but when he breathed fire after you fed him cabbages, then I knew, then I knew I was finally to make my fortune. So now, you hand him over. No more mucking about.’

  ‘No,’ said Keeper, ‘never! He’s my friend!’

  ‘Oh yeah, friends is it? Why you got him chained up then? Stop him flying away, right?’ Pym said. ‘Now, I don’t know much about friends but I does know friends don’t chain up friends.’

  ‘We can’t take them off, they’re magic,’ Keeper said, ‘I’d take them off if I could.’ He was crying, clutching Burp tightly round the neck.

  ‘Alchemists trick, is it? Magic chains? Well, I’ll find me a blacksmith who’ll get them chains off in no time,’ Pym said, ‘magic or no magic. Now hand him over.’ Pym growled.

  ‘No!’ Keeper was crying.

  Pym’s voice got louder and angrier. ‘Don’t make me threaten you again. I would rather not kill you, boy. And if I kill one of you, I’ll have to kill all of you.’

  Archer spoke up. ‘He’ll breathe his fire on you if you try anything.’

  Pym hesitated. ‘That’s what I was afraid of, son. That’s why I been following you, watching you. How I see it, he only breaths fire after he’s eaten, yes? That’s how you light your camp fires, which is a nifty trick, I must say. And I do believe I just shot your last cabbage.’ Pym bowed. ‘So I reckon I’m alright.’

  Archer was so angry he did not know what to say. He felt tears in his eyes from the frustration and that only made him angrier. He did not want to appear weak to this man.

  ‘Don’t feel bad, son,’ Pym said. ‘Many a better man than you has been cheated by old Pym. See, I looks stupid and I sounds stupid but really I’m a savvy old cove. Now you all back off ways and I’m going to take my prize. Go on,’ he said. None of them moved. ‘Go!’ Pym shouted and stepped towards them.

  Archer held up his hands and started to argue but Pym came at him faster than he would have believed and kicked Archer in the chest, hard. Archer fell back into the mud, the wind knocked out of him.

  He could not breathe.

  ‘Now, the rest of you move back or you’ll get worse than he’s had,’ Pym shouted at them.

  Archer struggled for a single breath. He watched as Writer and Weaver backed off away from Burp. Keeper had thrown himself over Burp’s back, his arms round the little dragon’s neck. Burp was hissing, his tail flicking back and forth.

  ‘I won’t let you take him,’ Keeper was saying, ‘I won’t let you take him.’ Keeper was sobbing as he spoke.

  ‘You asked for this,’ Pym said and Archer watched in horror as Pym brought the butt end of his musket down on Keeper’s back. Keeper screamed in pain and shuddered from the impact but he held on to Burp. Burp hissed and snapped his tiny teeth up at Pym.

  Pym raised his musket again.

  Archer wanted to cry out to stop but he had no breath. Pym smashed down onto Keeper’s neck and shoulder and Keeper fell off, limp.

  ‘No!’ Writer shouted.

  Pym raised his boot and stamped down on Burp’s back, pinning him to the ground.

  Weaver rushed forward with her tiny knife raised but Pym whipped his musket round and pointed it right I her face.

  ‘You stay there, missy, or you’re done for,’ Pym said, Burp under his heel hissing and snapping his jaws.

  Weaver dug her heels into the earth and slid to a stop. ‘You’re going to regret this,’ she said, glaring at him.

  ‘Not as much as you will,’ Pym said, ‘if you don’t drop that blade and back off.’

  ‘Do it, Weaver,’ Writer called. ‘Trust me. You want to do as he says.’

  Weaver dropped the knife and stepped back toward Writer. Archer gasped in a few sips of air.

  ‘Now come here, you ugly little brute,’ Pym said to Burp and grabbed him by one wing. Burp shrieked at Pym and snapped at him. ‘Get out of it,’ Pym said and he kicked Burp in the belly. Burp screeched, a noise Archer had never heard him make before.

  Archer struggled to climb to his knees, still trying to catch his breath.

  Pym grabbed Burp’s wing again, yanked him up and dragged him a few steps back across the clearing. Burp’s head whipped round and he sunk his tiny teeth into Pym’s hand. Pym yelled and hit Burp round the head with his musket. Blood welled out of Pym’s hand and he growled angrily and yanked a dazed Burp up by the wing again. ‘Knock it off or I’ll have you stuffed,’ he said.

  Archer got onto his knees and judged the distance across the clearing to his bow and the arrow lying on the grass. It was at least ten long steps away from him and Archer knew that Pym could easily shoot him before he got to his bow. Even then, Archer would need time to pick it up, nock and draw, aim and release. And even if he did get the arrow off then he risked hurting Burp.

  Writer was chanting a spell.

  He glanced over. She had the spell book open, holding it awkwardly with one long arm and waving her spare hand in the air in some complicated pattern.

  ‘Shut it,’ Pym said, letting go of Burp to point his musket at her, ‘you stop that alchemist nonsense right now, girl or I’m going to shred your cabbage good and proper.’

  Writer glanced up at him but did not stop.

  ‘Right, well, that’s it then,’ Pym said, ‘on the count of three, I shoot you dead.’

  Writer did not stop.

  Archer knew Writer needed more time to finish the spell, and he meant to give her that time. Even if it meant getting shot dead.

  ‘One,’ Pym said. ‘Two.’

  Archer ran for his bow.

  Time slowed.

  There was Pym, swinging his musket from Writer toward Archer in a wide arc through the air. His face twisted in fury.

  Writer clutched her book awkwardly to her body, one hand tracing a pattern in the air. Her lips moved as she read aloud, her bright blue eyes on the page before her.

  Between Archer and Pym, Keeper climbed carefully to his feet, holding his head and looked this way and that for Burp.

  Weaver was on her knees, her hands shoved through the grass and leaf litter into the earth halfway to her elbows.

  Archer ran for his bow, moving slowly, as if the air was as thick as water. The bow was still some steps away. The musket swung toward him. He was not going to make it in time.

  He slipped.

  The ground smashed him in the face, knocking him senseless. He fell stretched out on the wet earth. He looked up across the clearing.

  The black circle on the end of the barrel of Pym’s musket pointed right at Archer’s face. Pym’s twisted face loomed behind it.

  There was a bang and white smoke billowed in the air.

  Archer watched as the ball whipped out from the cloud of smoke heading toward his eye, growing larger and larger.

  This is it, Archer thought.

  This is the end.

  White Wind Rising

  Somewhere inside him, something stirred.

  No, it said.

  There was a feeling of ice-cold air rising deep within him. Freezing and yet searing at the same time. It rushed outward from his chest, like a breath that did not stop. It rose through his skin and the outside air came rushing in to fill him up.

  The white wind lashed out of him and the air slapped sideways into the musket ball, just a foot away from his face.

  There was a crack and a pain in his head and he found himself lying on his back looking up at the leaves and grey sky above. He reached up and felt the side of his head where it hurt. When he took his hand away, it was covered in blood. The blood ran
freely through his hair and into the mud beneath.

  There was a shout, a cry of dismay. It was Pym shouting.

  Archer rolled over in time to see the earth under Pym’s feet rise up like a giant molehill, throwing him back off his feet. The rumble of it thrummed through the soil. Pym lifted up and fell heavily onto his back, his musket knocked from his grasp.

  Burp, freed from Pym’s boot, crawled away from the mound of earth as fast he could, towards Keeper. Keeper was still dazed from the blow he had taken and was crying out for Burp.

  Writer still chanted her way through one of the Alchemist’s spells.

  Pym grabbed up his musket and rolled back onto his feet quicker than Archer would have thought possible. As Pym stood, his boot sunk deep into the softened earth. The buckling of the earth had softened it and Pym sank up to his knee. He could not pull it out again.

  Archer climbed to his knees.

  There was a great cry. A throat-tearing, harsh and furious cry. It was Weaver and while she cried, she charged across the clearing right into Pym and stabbed her knife deep into his thigh.

  Pym roared and smacked Weaver in the side of the head with his musket. She span about and went flying to the ground flat on her face, not moving.

  Writer had stopped her chanting.

  Archer struggled to his feet blood pouring down his neck from his wound, whatever it was.

  Writer was just standing there, staring at Pym. He was yanking at his leg, trying to free himself from the earth and gingerly touching the hilt of Weaver’s little knife.

  ‘Finish the spell!’ Archer shouted at Writer.

  ‘But I did,’ Writer cried, her eyes wide. ‘Nothing happened!’

  Archer staggered over to his bow and snatched it up, and the arrow with it. His bloody fingers made the arrow slip out of his grasp.

  Eventually, he got a grip and he pulled it back, pointing it at Pym.

  Keeper was in the way.

  ‘Burp!’ Keeper was calling. ‘Burp, where are you?’ Archer realised the blow he had taken must have blinded Keeper. He was probably still seeing stars. Burp crawled towards Keeper’s feet, almost within arm’s reach, hissing in distress.

  Pym yanked Weaver’s knife out of his thigh in a spray of blood that splashed over down his leg into the ground. He worked his foot up out of his boot and stood tall on the solid earth again, looking round at them in a blind rage.

  Pym raised the knife over his head, to throw it at Keeper, or at Burp.

  Archer had his arrow pulled back, he knew he could hit any part of Pym’s body from such a close distance but Keeper’s stocky body was swaying this way and that between them.

  ‘Keeper, move!’ Archer cried. ‘Move aside.’

  But Keeper was insensible and stayed where he was, arms out before him, calling for his friend.

  Archer felt the cold, white wind rising in his chest again. It flowed up and out of him and out and out and he loosed his arrow and it flew straight and true right at Keeper’s head.

  The white wind caught the arrow in flight and pushed it sideways just a few inches around Keeper’s head. The wind still had the arrow and Archer pushed it back the other way and guided it right to his target just as Pym was swinging the knife overarm at Keeper.

  The arrow pierced Pym’s forearm. Pym screamed and dropped the knife and his musket and staggered back, away from them and leaned on the tree trunk, gripping his right arm.

  Keeper shook his head and staggered forward to Burp. He threw his arms around the little dragon.

  Pym leant on the fallen tree and grasped the shaft of the arrow and snapped it off near the fletches, crying out in pain. He pushed the remaining shaft through his arm, then gripped it on the arrowhead side and yanked the whole thing through and tossed it aside.

  ‘I’m sorry, Burp,’ Keeper was saying. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll never let anyone hurt you ever again.’

  With his left hand, Pym pulled his second pistol from his belt sash and pointed it at Archer. Archer had no more unbroken arrows, so he dropped his bow and called on the air to come to him again.

  The white wind would not answer.

  Archer threw up his hands. Pym smirked.

  Weaver was barely conscious on the grass but she was sort of moving so he knew she was not dead. Writer was stood across the clearing with the Alchemist’s spell book but there was nothing she could do. Her attempt at magic had failed. Keeper has his hand on Burp’s head. They stared at Pym with red-hot fury.

  Archer had no arrows but then it looked like Pym’s weapons only had a single shot each before they were useless. Archer had to try something and make Pym miss with his last shot.

  He looked about him for something he could use, anything.

  ‘No you don’t, lad,’ said Pym, breathing heavily. ‘You lot put up a good fight, I’ll gives you that. But it’s over now. And I can’t let you get away with doing this to old Pym, now, can I?’ Pym was pointing the pistol right at Archer’s chest. ‘What if you tell someone how a group of little kits savaged old Pym so? No, no, you got to go. You first, Archer.’

  Burp made a strange coughing, gargling noise in his throat.

  Pym looked over, keeping his pistol on Archer. ‘Hold up, there, little dragon,’ he said, taking half a step back, ‘you just hold on to yourself, there.’

  Keeper was whispering something that Archer could not hear. The fire was bubbling up in Burp’s throat and then a weak, short flame shot from Burp’s mouth.

  Pym yelped in surprise and jumped back. But when he saw that the flame had only just singed the grass a little he started to laugh.

  ‘Ha ha! Good effort, little dragon, I give you that much. You are going to make old Pym very rich.’

  Pym stopped laughing and aimed his pistol at Archer again. ‘Now, where was we?’

  Keeper crouched down and placed the palms of both hands firmly on Burp’s back. Burp opened his mouth and from the dragon’s throat came the roar of the furnace and a great jet of fire arced out across the clearing toward Pym, who screamed and jumped backwards, flinging himself over the great oak trunk. The fire – somehow, impossibly - curved sideways in the air to follow Pym’s flight but instead of hitting the man, it lashed into the rotting tree and burned it the bark black.

  Then Pym was up on his feet on the other side, batting at his sleeve. It was on fire.

  Archer’s heart sunk. He had hoped the fire would finish Pym off but the outsider had dodged and avoided most of it.

  Archer willed the air to answer but it was as if it was just not inside him anymore. He felt empty and weak and all he wanted to do was give up. The others, too, seemed done in.

  Keeper was urging Burp to try again but the dragon curled up in a ball at his feet, hissing.

  Writer was sitting cross-legged, flicking through the spell book with a look of confusion on her face. Weaver was on her hands and knees, her head hanging down.

  Pym leapt up onto the tree trunk. He still had his pistol in his hand.

  ‘You shot me with an arrow,’ he said, panting. ‘You stabbed me. You set me on fire. You all had a go at me, all except you,’ he pointed at Writer. ‘And not none of you could kill old Pym. Well, now it’s my turn and you—’

  A streak of grey dashed out of the undergrowth behind Pym.

  A wolf.

  It jumped up and sunk its teeth into Pym’s calf.

  Pym shrieked and twisted out of the wolf’s grasp and fell from the trunk, his arms wheeling in the air. The wolf stepped back, growling. Pym was immediately up on his feet and he hobbled off away from it.

  Another wolf shot out from the trees from the other side of the clearing, running straight at Pym.

  Pym shot it with his pistol.

  The wolf collapsed in a heap and rolled to a stop. Pym struggled toward the trees through the cloud of smoke, bleeding from both legs and one arm.

  But another wolf and another came charging in. Pym threw his pistol at one, drew his long knife, and sank it up to the hilt into another
wolf before being brought down to the ground by three, then four wolves at once. Pym screamed and flailed his arms, screaming.

  But his screams did not last long.

  Archer watched as two wolves gripped Pym’s boots with their jaws and dragged him away into the trees. He was not moving.

  Some wolves helped the two wounded ones back to their feet, pushing them with their muzzles and supporting them from the side. All of them left but one.

  That one wolf jumped up onto the trunk stayed behind for a moment at the edge of the clearing and looked at them all. It looked at Archer. Staring into those yellow eyes, he knew it was the same wolf that visited before.

  Archer nodded his thanks. The wolf turned its head and looked for a long moment at Burp, who sat up as straight as he could and stared back.

  And then it turned to Writer.

  ‘Thank you,’ Writer said to the wolf. ‘Thank you coming. Thank you for saving us. I am so sorry about what people are doing to your forest.’

  It held her gaze for a moment longer and then wolf turned smoothly and slunk away, moving like water. And then all the wolves really were all gone and so was Pym. The wind rustled in the leaves. It was like the wolves had never been there at all. Almost.

  Archer went and helped Weaver to her feet. She was dazed and had a large swelling on her head and cheek and her eyes were unfocused.

  ‘Are you alright, Weaver?’ Archer asked her. She had a great lump on the side of her head and her eyes were glazed.

  ‘Did I get him?’ she asked, slurring her words.

  ‘You got him, alright,’ Archer said, squeezing her shoulder with the hand he wasn’t holding to his bleeding head.

  ‘Is he dead?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Archer said. ‘If he’s alive he’s probably not feeling very well.’