“Let’s go!” Marcus picked up Glee’s reins and led the way into the parkland that surrounded the palace.
The trees were widely spaced, and it was possible to keep the ponies at a steady trot as they threaded their way in and out of towering beeches and oaks and lofty pines. Gracie kept glancing around as they rode; she had a strong sense of something unpleasant close by, but she could see nothing but the trees and ornamental shrubs and bushes.
“The back door of the palace and the outbuildings are just over there.” Marcus pulled Glee to a halt under a gnarled old oak tree. “Why don’t we leave the ponies here for the moment and go the rest of the way on foot?”
Gracie nodded, and they dismounted.
Marcus tied Glee and Hinny to a low branch, then took Gracie’s hand. “Come on!” he said, his eyes bright with excitement. “Let’s go find a dragon’s egg!”
“Shh!” Gracie looked agonized. “Don’t even say it!”
“Sorry,” Marcus apologized. “But it’s OK, Gracie. There’s no one around — it’s just trees!”
Great-Uncle Alvin shook his head. “There’s a lot more to a tree than leaves. Bad mistake.”
Gracie shivered, her skin prickling. “I think you’re right. There’s something listening. I’m sure there is. . . .”
Marcus dropped her hand and strode on ahead, his cheeks flaming. Gracie, a small uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach, followed him. A moment later they were out in the open. In front of them was a low stone wall, to their right an arched gateway. The Niven’s Knowe crest was carved on the supporting pillars, and Great-Uncle Alvin snorted. “Look at that! Used to be dragons holding a shield! And now look at them! All hacked about! Could be anything. Looks more like dogs with a cannonball. Pshaw!”
Gracie was watching Marcus. He was crouched behind the shelter of the wall, beckoning. When she ran to join him, he said tersely, “If we go through the archway, we’ll be in the yard. Where were the dragons kept, Great-Uncle Alvin?”
“Away from the horses,” the bat said. “Tall stone building. Big doors.”
Marcus nodded. “Oh! I know! They use it for the old carriages. Right. I’ll start looking in there. Gracie, why don’t you go and check the other outbuildings?”
Gracie didn’t agree or disagree. She merely looked at him, and although there was no hint of reproach in her blue-eyed gaze, Marcus blushed to the roots of his hair.
“I’m a toad,” he said. “I really am. I’m sorry — come on. We’ll go together.” He took Gracie’s hand, and they ran toward the gateway, Great-Uncle Alvin clinging to Gracie’s shoulder.
As they passed under the arch itself, Gracie staggered and almost fell. Uncle Alvin fluttered into the air, and Gracie put out a hand to steady herself.
“You OK?” Marcus asked. He glanced back at the arch. “That was in the picture in the prof’s book! I recognize it! And there were dragons carved here as well . . . Are you sure you’re all right?”
Gracie nodded. “I’m fine. I just felt a bit weird for a second,” and they ran on.
From the top of the gnarled old oak tree, Carrion was watching them with interest. “A dragon’s egg. Well, I never. Well, well, well, well, well. Old Malignancy’ll be interested in that. Very interested, indeed!” He spread his wings and flew.
Old Malignancy had spent the night perfecting a tempting selection of chocolates for Fedora, and the results lay in a small red velvet heart-shaped box on the kitchen table. Beside it lay Conducta’s work of the evening before: a declaration to the effect that restrictions on entry to the Five Kingdoms were to be lifted by Royal Decree, and, as from the date of signature, all would be welcome whatever their background or personal leanings toward blood, mutilation, and general evil.
As Carrion made his report, the huge shapeless body of his master quivered and grew larger, and the pale eyes gleamed. Alf, swinging on the ivy surrounding the open kitchen window, gulped.
“A dragon’s egg . . .” Old Malignancy wound his long sinuous fingers around and around. “Carrion — do you know what a dragon’s egg can do?”
“Hatch a dragon?” the crow suggested brightly.
Old Malignancy gave a hollow chuckle. “It can do more . . . far more, if it is close to hatching. It can double and redouble my powers. Evil will make its way back to the Five Kingdoms, Carrion, and I shall see that it reaches every man, every woman, and every child. All will be corrupted, and Misery, Hunger, and Vice will prevail. And this egg . . . this dragon’s egg . . . that will be my prize. I will watch over it until it hatches, and the dragon will grow strong in my ways. I shall teach it the ways of Evil, and those ways are all it will ever know. We will stride the kingdoms together, he and I . . . and no one will stop us. No one!” He gave an echoing high-pitched cry of ecstatic anticipation, and the crow made a quick hop backward. Outside the window Alf shivered uncontrollably.
“Ark.” Carrion recovered himself. “Sounds like a barrel of fun and games. D’you want me to keep an eye on the kiddywinks out there?”
Old Malignancy blinked and came back to reality. “Watch, but do not let them see you. Let them find the egg, and then we will strike. In the meantime, fetch my little cankerettes. Drag them from their beds. I have need of them.”
Carrion nodded and flew off to wake the twins. This was not easy; neither had any intention of getting up until they felt like it. They buried themselves under the bedclothes and ignored the crow’s exhortations to rise and shine. Carrion was finally driven to remark that there were two intruders on the palace grounds hunting for a dragon’s egg. “Yer granpappy needs you to sneak and spy. Valuable, that egg is . . . special.”
The twins sat up, alert but suspicious. “What’s in it for us?” Conducta wanted to know.
“Word to the wise. Keep yer granpappy happy.” Carrion let out a raucous caw of laughter. “That’s good, ain’t it? Happy Granpappy! ’Cause let me tell you, ladies — one thing I do know, and I knows it well. If he ain’t happy, he’ll make sure nobody else is neither.”
The twins had seen enough of their great-grandfather to believe this to be true. They looked at each other, then Globula said, “OK. We’ll get up.”
“Good thinking.” Carrion gave her a leering wink. “Now, open this window. I need to check on the young adventurers down below.”
Alf, now hovering in the shadow of the eaves, had only just time to swoop away before the crow flapped into the early morning sunlight. His heart beating hard in his small furry chest, he headed down to find Gracie and Marcus. “Boy!” he muttered as he flew. “Boy! Have I got news! Boy! Have I got big news! Boy —”
He didn’t see Carrion coming. The first thing he knew there was a swirl of air followed by a massive blow that sent him spinning into blackness. Blackness punctuated by tiny stars and, in some dim outer world, a rasping voice. “Out of my way, bat! Gotta job to do. . . .”
Gubble had also gotten up early, and the determined boy got up with him. The troll was not much improved by his night in the ditch; waterweed was draped around his neck, and his face was covered in mud.
“You could do with a wash,” the boy said. He was taken aback when Gubble grunted and splashed water over himself, and even more surprised when the troll stomped into a neighboring field, pulled up two turnips, and offered him one. When the boy shook his head, Gubble grunted again and ate both. Moments later he set off, his eyes firmly fixed on the distant horizon.
“Oi!” The boy recovered his wits and hurried after him. “You’re going the wrong way! You’ve got to come back and sort out my mum’s wall!”
This time Gubble ignored him. He crossed the field and stomped through an apple orchard. The boy helped himself to a couple of apples and went after Gubble. As the sun rose higher, they tramped on and on, across village greens, into and out of a churchyard. On and on, through pig farms, hay fields, potato crops, and meadows where sheep were peacefully grazing. Farmers and shepherds shouted and waved their fists; Gubble took no notice. Seeing the bo
y walking purposefully behind the troll, several local characters with nothing better to do followed suit, urged on by a burly man carrying a pitchfork. “These trolls shouldn’t be allowed,” he announced to murmurs of agreement. “Cause damage wherever they go, they does! Should have been banned along wi’ the zombies and the like.”
It wasn’t until they had left Gorebreath far behind and had crossed into the kingdom of Niven’s Knowe that there was the sound of carriage wheels, and Gubble slowed a little. They were near enough to the road to see that it was Queen Bluebell’s open carriage.
The queen, sitting high behind the coachman, raised her lorgnette to her eyes and inspected the ragged procession. “STOP!” she ordered. “What’s all this? Revolution? Goodness me! It’s Gracie Gillypot’s troll! What are you doing here?”
Gubble, who was capable of ignoring even the Ancient Crones when it suited him, heard the word Gracie and came to a sudden and abrupt halt. “Niven’s Knowe,” he said. “Gubble go to Niven’s Knowe. Palace.”
“Goin’ there myself,” Bluebell announced. She indicated a nervous-looking woman sitting at the back of the carriage. “Found them a cook. Don’t know if she’ll do, but better than nothing. Hop in — I’ll give you a lift.”
Gubble walked around the carriage while he considered this offer. As he got closer, the woman looked increasingly anxious, and as he approached the door, she pulled her bag onto her lap and screamed. Gubble, taken by surprise, stepped backward, caught his foot on a stone, and sat down with a startled grunt. His head, never entirely secure, fell off, and the woman screamed again before gathering up her belongings and jumping over the side of the carriage. “You can stuff your job!” she shrieked. “Keeping company with trolls? I’d rather work with pigs!” And she fled away across the fields.
Queen Bluebell watched her go with an expression of martyred resignation. “Had a bad feeling about that one,” she remarked. “Good cook but no stamina. No stamina at all.” She turned to see whether Gubble had made up his mind and saw that the rabble had taken advantage of his headless state and was surrounding him. The man with the pitchfork was waving it threateningly; only a lack of decision about whether he should skewer Gubble’s head or his body was holding him back. Bluebell rose to her feet in fury — but before she could say a word, the boy had pushed his way forward and picked up Gubble’s head.
“Here you are,” he said, and thunked it onto the troll’s shoulders.
“What did you do that for?” the pitchfork man asked angrily. “We could have done him in! Paid him back for what he did!”
The boy folded his arms. “It’s not fair to attack him when he hasn’t got his head on.”
“Quite right, my lad,” Queen Bluebell said approvingly. “Like your attitude! What’s he done?”
“Ug.” Gubble gave his head a reassuring pat. “Broke down wall. Gubble in a hurry.”
“And that’s not all, Your Majesty!” The burly man pushed forward.
Bluebell gave him an exceptionally frosty stare. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” she remarked in her most authoritative tone. “Am I to understand that you have a grievance against this troll?”
The burly man waved his pitchfork. “I surely do! Walked across my fields, he did — never asked nor nothing. Scared my cows witless!”
“Is that so?” Bluebell’s eyebrows shot up. “And have you asked permission of King Horace to stand right here? I believe this particular field belongs to his estate.”
The pitchfork was lowered while the burly man scratched his chin. “Well . . .” he began. “I can’t say as I have, exactly. Didn’t think about it.”
“And I don’t suppose Gubble thought about it, either.” The queen folded her arms. “Now, run away home, and don’t be a nuisance. If any of you has a genuine claim for damages, you can send it to me at Wadingburn Palace, but you’d better make sure it’s a good one. I’ll have no truck with time-wasters!”
The villagers melted away like snow in sunlight, leaving only the boy remaining.
Bluebell sat down in her carriage and inspected him. “Determined young fellow, aren’t you?”
The boy nodded. “Our wall got broken down, and it needs putting back the way it was, or Amber and Heidi and Ben will be up to all sorts of mischief.” He pointed at Gubble. “He did it.”
“Fair enough. You’re a sensible, plain-speaking boy,” Bluebell told him. “We’ll get your wall sorted out as soon as we can. I’d suggest I send a builder, though. Gubble has a facility for knocking things down, but I don’t think his skills include building them back up again.”
“Thanks, Your Majesty.” The boy gave a brief nod. “I’ll be getting home now that that’s settled.” He turned, then swung around again. “None of my business, but were you looking for a cook?”
“I certainly am.” Bluebell leaned forward in her seat.
For the first time, the boy smiled. “I love cooking. Especially cake. My mum was a cook before she had all of us, and she taught me loads.”
“In that case,” Bluebell announced, “you’ve got a job. What’s your name?”
“Marshling,” the boy said. “Marshling Stonecrop.”
“Hop into the carriage, Marshling, and I’ll take you to meet your new employers. You can cook them breakfast. Gubble, are you coming with us?”
But Gubble had gone. Bored with waiting, he had stomped on toward the palace, taking, as always, the most direct route. Bluebell was just in time to catch sight of his solid figure disappearing into a clump of trees.
“We’ll see him when we get there,” she said. “Coachman! Drive on!”
Old Malignancy was growing in both confidence and size as each minute ticked by. The day had begun well; Princess Fedora had rung her bell early, and Bobby had come hurrying down to the kitchen to say that she wanted a breakfast tray in her bedroom.
“ ‘Boiled egg ’n’ toast and a cup of tea’ is what she says, Mrs. Grinder,” he rattled off. Fedora had said a great deal more about the inadequacies of Prince Tertius and the dangers of gluttony and greed, but Bobby had no intention of passing this information on. The princess was not, in his opinion, her usual self; despite her ranting, she was curiously lethargic and seemed unwilling to leave her bed. Her Handbook of Palace Management was looking decidedly well thumbed; Bobby noticed it was open at a page headed “Unsatisfactory Servants: Constructive Criticism and Ultimate Dismissal.” A faint hope stirred in Bobby’s mind; he whistled as he made his way to the kitchen.
“Egg and toast.” Mercy Grinder nodded and clicked her fingers at the twins. “Lay a tray!”
The twins sullenly obeyed; they were not used to being up so early, and they suspected Carrion, now perched openly in a corner of the kitchen, of having tricked them. It was only when the red velvet box of chocolates was placed on the tray that they brightened.
Seeing their greedy looks, their great-grandfatherabandoned his persona of Mercy Grinder and wagged a finger at them. “Not for you, my little cankerettes!”
As Saturday had been instructed to sweep and dust and polish the main rooms of the palace, Bobby was entrusted with taking the tray upstairs.
“We can do it!” Globula said eagerly — but the finger was wagged once more.
“The princess isn’t used to you, my dears. Remember, Bobby. The prince sends his love with his gift of chocolates.”
Globula, pouting, had had to be content with accompanying the page as far as Fedora’s bedroom in order to hold open the door. A scuffle had taken place as Globula made one last attempt to acquire the chocolates, but when the tray was placed on Fedora’s lap, the little heart-shaped box was still there.
“It’s from the prince,” Bobby explained when Fedora picked it up, and the princess smiled.
“Darling Terty! Maybe I’ll forgive him after all.”
Bobby had collected the dirty dishes from outside her door some half an hour later and taken them down to the kitchen. Seeing him come in, Old Malignancy had seized the box. Fi
nding it empty, he had given an eerie shriek of triumph and held it high. “Gone!” he chortled. “Gone.” When he saw Bobby staring at him in astonishment, his expression darkened. “Get to work!” And as Bobby scuttled out of the kitchen, Old Malignancy threw off his apron and swung around to the twins. “The Mousewater. She must go! My time is coming, and nothing must stand in my way!”
The twins sniggered and got up from the table. “Will we get chocolate if we get rid of her?” Conducta asked.
“You will get what you deserve.” Old Malignancy’s eyes were pebble hard, and Conducta shrank back.
“Come on, Sis,” she said, and she and Globula flounced out.
Their great-grandfather spread his arms wide. “Soon, Carrion, soon the princess will be hurrying downstairs. She will be hungry, hungry for Mercy Grinder’s food, and I will make my request. Three little signatures, Carrion . . . three little signatures, and the Five Kingdoms will be mine! Go and wait in the dining room. The prince is there; the king will join him, then Princess Fedora. Tell me the moment all three are ready for me!”
King Horace opened his eyes and found himself staring into an empty bowl. For a moment he couldn’t think where he was or what he was doing, but gradually thoughts began seeping into his foggy brain. The first was: chocolate mousse. The second was: It’s morning and that’s when I have breakfast. And the third was: I’m hungry. He heaved himself out of his chair and went to ring the bell, but decided it would be quicker to give his order himself.
The Flight of Dragons Page 11