When at last they were safely down, he stopped whistling and stared back up, unable even to see the crevice where the climb had begun. How long had it taken? Somewhere between hours and centuries, it seemed.
He looked at Wren, her expression one of awe. She hugged his neck.
Patch took her from his shoulder and gently set her down.
“We made it,” he said, falling to his knees. Then he spent ten minutes retching, his last prison meal forced out of him in a thin stream of bile.
Where to now? signed Wren, when he’d stopped being sick.
Patch wiped the spittle from the side of his mouth. “Erner’s letter, remember?” he said. “We go to Marwheel Abbey, to find a way to cure you! Unless you’ve decided to remain a rodent?”
No chance of that, she signed.
Now that the climb was over, Patch noticed how cold he was feeling. Tiviscan always enjoyed a mild winter, but his meagre prison clothing wouldn’t do much to keep him warm. “I wish I had my coat,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Are you cold too?”
I’m all right, signed Wren. Being furry comes in handy.
“Well as long as we keep moving, I should be okay on the journey to the Abbey.” He pointed to the trees ahead. “We go that way through the forest. We have to get far from Tiviscan without being discovered. I’m an escaped prisoner now, Wren. I have to be cunning and resourceful! A day’s walk will take us to the Penance River, which we can follow north.”
And after I’m cured, what about you? She pointed to his waist, where the Mask was tied. You’re the last person to see the Hamelyn Piper alive. Perhaps you’ll be famous!
Patch shook his head, untying the Mask to take a proper look at it. “Obscurity is all that I want, Wren. If Rundel Stone found out I was alive, he’d make sure I went back to the dungeons.” He held the Mask closer, peering at it. The parts that seemed damaged simply popped back into shape after some prodding, although the lock itself was beyond repair.
Every inch of the Mask’s inner surface was covered in symbols that reminded him of the ancient magical textbooks in the Tiviscan library. He wiped it to see the runes more clearly, and was astonished at how much cleaner the metal was where he’d wiped. What he’d taken for tarnish seemed to be merely dirt. “The Mask came off the Hamelyn Piper’s head just before the dragons took him,” he said. “I don’t even know why I picked it up. I should just drop this here and be done with it.” Studying the metal, he could see that it wasn’t welded together. It was made from overlapping pieces connected with joints, similar to the ones that allowed it to hinge shut over the wearer’s face. He tried to move some of the pieces against one another, at first without success, but then parts of the Mask seemed to fold up. He tried again with another section, and this time the entire Mask flattened down into a rectangle the size of his hand.
He looked at Wren. “Interesting,” he said. “Should I keep it, do you think?”
She nodded. A souvenir, she signed. Of when you saw the most evil man in history finally get his reward!
“I’m not sure that watching a man die is something I want a souvenir of, Wren,” Patch said, but then it occurred to him – Wren hadn’t heard what the man had said. I’m the only one to know the Hamelyn Piper’s last words, he thought. If I should even think of him by that name any more! Suddenly the knowledge was a terrible burden: the prisoner had suffered a great injustice, if those last words had really been true, and worse – it would mean that the real Hamelyn Piper must still be free.
And if that was the case, surely it was Patch’s duty to tell the Council? They’d lock me up again, he thought. Whether they believed me or not, I’d spend the rest of my days rotting in a cell.
He tied the folded Mask to his waist. He would need money soon enough, he reckoned, and strange magical objects always had value.
He put Wren on his shoulder and made his way through the light vegetation at the forest’s edge, then through thicker bushes until they were in amongst the vast pines. By the time the first hint of predawn twilight was visible in the sky, they were far enough from the base of the cliff – and from Tiviscan – for Patch to breathe easier.
A little further on, the undergrowth became more challenging. The sky was brightening rapidly, letting Patch look further ahead to spot the clearest path. He could see a much brighter area beyond a thicket. “Is that a clearing?” he said. Wren shrugged, but as they got closer they could see splintered treetops high up, and a dark shape on the ground ahead.
The messenger? signed Wren.
Patch paused. Surely the dragons wouldn’t just have left their fallen comrade? Yet as they got closer, they saw that it was the messenger, broken and still. The dragons had abandoned their sole casualty of the battle. “I don’t understand,” said Patch. “Why didn’t they retrieve the body?”
That’s really sad, signed Wren.
“This poor soul was attacked from the rear,” said Patch. “Seeing that happen made me ashamed to be a Piper. But now this lack of respect from his own kind!” He scowled, surprised by how angry he felt. “It’s not like dragons at all. During training I learned quite a bit about their culture. When a dragon dies, the body is taken by members of the Order of the Skull – the most ancient and secretive part of their religion. The body is buried deep, in total secrecy, the location never revealed.”
Wren frowned. So a dragon’s family don’t even have a grave to visit?
Patch nodded. “It’s been that way for thousands of years. Mind you, humans have always thought various parts of a dragon have magical properties. There are plenty of idiots who’d buy any old potion if you pretended it had powdered dragon tooth in it. Can you imagine the trouble that’d be caused if there were dragon graves to rob?”
When Patch had first seen the messenger he’d noticed an odd discoloration on the scales, which suggested terrible old wounds; now, he could see the same thing around its closed eyes and mouth. The snout seemed misshapen, and was presumably broken. The wings were limply spread out, and one had a long bleeding tear near its base.
“A proud creature, reduced to this,” he said. “Meeting its fate after showing true bravery, yet ending up mourned only by us, Wren. An escaped prisoner and a cursed rat.”
He stepped closer. It wasn’t very large for a dragon, he realized, its head perhaps four feet long and two across. Something nagged at him about the markings, especially those on the wings.
Couldn’t we do something? signed Wren.
“Well, we couldn’t exactly bury him,” said Patch. “Unless we had a week or two to spare.”
You could say a few words, she replied.
Patch nodded. He thought back to what he’d learned of their culture, then cleared his throat. “Today, we ask the Gods of Fire and Scale to look to the ground, and see this fallen warrior, that they may bring him to the Mighty Flame and—”
At that moment, Wren tapped his cheek. He glanced at her, irritated that she would interrupt such a solemn occasion, but she was pointing furiously towards the dragon. He turned his gaze to see what was bothering her.
The dragon’s eyes were open, and looking right at him.
“Could you stop all the mumbo jumbo, please?” the dragon said in a deep voice. “I’ve already had a terrible day, and the last thing I need is religion.”
It took a few seconds for Patch to get his mouth to work. The sudden reality of standing next to a living dragon, especially an injured and obviously irritable one, had quickly pushed him close to panic. He racked his brains to remember the most respectful form of address, and came up with seken – roughly the equivalent of sir. “I’m glad to see you’re alive, Seken!” he said.
The dragon eyed him carefully and grunted. “Don’t call me that.”
Patch’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, I thought it was the correct term—”
“Oh, yes, it’s the correct term,” said the dragon, sitting up. “For a dragon. But I’m not a dragon, and after today I suspect I’ll have nothing mor
e to do with the pig-headed idiots.”
“Not a—” began Patch, then his voice trailed off. He looked again at the creature, and those nagging feelings he’d had before resurfaced. Aside from the obvious tear, the wings were discoloured in places; the snout was misshapen, but he’d thought it had been badly injured in the fall and not looked at it too closely. Now that he did look closely, he saw a snout that ended in a hooked shape more reminiscent of a beak; he saw wings that were covered in the stubs of cut feathers, as well as areas of the thick leathery skin that dragons had. There were stubs of feathers around the snout too, but those were charred.
Now that the creature was sitting up, Patch could see that the legs each had densely packed brown feathers running down them. And while the front claws were very like those of a dragon, the rear were more like the feet of some enormous falcon, or…
Well, thought Patch. Of course! A smile crept onto his face as the truth dawned on him. The creature in front of him seemed to grow even more irritated because of the smile, but Patch couldn’t help it.
Some features of a dragon, and some of a griffin. “You’re a dracogriff!” he said. He glanced at Wren and saw the confusion on her face. “Half-dragon, half-griffin!” he told her. “I’m sorry, it’s just I’ve never met a dracogriff before. Actually I’ve never met a dragon before, not really, or a griffin come to that, but when it comes down to it they’re two a penny! A dracogriff, though! Now that is an honour.”
Why is it an honour? signed Wren.
The dracogriff sat up suddenly, looking at Wren with astonishment. “Your rat can talk!” he said, wide-eyed. “I know Merisax hand speech when I see it! I’ve spent the last seven years as a bodyguard-for-hire in the Islands of the Eastern Seas. Merisax came with the territory. Is talking the nature of its curse?”
“Curse?” said Patch.
“Yes. As you approached, you referred to yourself as an escaped prisoner and a cursed rat.”
Patch blinked. He looked at Wren.
Oh great, she signed. We’ve only been fugitives for a few hours, and we’ve already given ourselves away.
“Please,” said the dracogriff. “You have no need to fear that I’d hand you over. I’m certainly no friend to Pipers. Even if you are one.” Patch stared at him, open-mouthed. “I also heard you say that what they did to me made you ashamed to be a Piper.”
“I did?” said Patch. “I did. Damn. I need to be more careful what I say in future. Being an escaped convict is harder than I thought.”
“As I said, you’ve nothing to worry about from me,” said the dracogriff. He held out his front claw. His hand, Patch corrected himself – that was what dragons and griffins called them, and it seemed impolite not to think of them as such. Patch offered his relatively tiny hand out in return, and they shook. “I’m Barver. Barver Knopferkerkle.”
“Barver Nop-fur-ker-kill,” said Patch, trying to get his mouth around it.
“That’s it,” said Barver. “Dragon surname, griffin forename. Your turn!”
“Patch Brightwater,” said Patch. “Imprisoned a week ago, now free and hopefully presumed dead. This is my friend Wren Cobble, a girl cursed by a Sorcerer into the form of a rat. I taught her some hand speech when we met so that we could talk. She’s a quick learner.”
Barver looked closely at Wren. “Your markings are pretty,” he said. “I especially like the red rings on your tail.”
Thanks very much, signed Wren with a smile.
“A Sorcerer’s curse, eh?” said Barver. “It always saddens me that Sorcerers are such awful people. Think of all the good they could do if they were nicer!”
Tell me about it, she signed.
Barver turned his attention to Patch. “Aren’t you a little young to have been imprisoned?”
Patch felt himself bristle. “I’m thirteen,” he said, as imposingly as he could manage. Wren suppressed a laugh, and he glared at her.
“I meant no offence,” said Barver. “It just seems harsh, to experience such adversity so young.” He looked up through the trees. Patch and Wren followed his gaze, and could clearly see the damage to the Castle through the branches. “I saw the flames burn brightly as the Hamelyn Piper was executed,” said Barver. “I heard the screams as other prisoners fell to their deaths. Yet you lived. It seems fate has plans for you!”
“I hope not,” said Patch. “I’d rather just find somewhere I can earn a living and get some peace and quiet. I reckon I’ve earned it.”
“How did you survive the fall?” said Barver. “Humans must be hardier than I thought.”
“I climbed down the cliff,” said Patch. “How did you survive the fall? I heard the crunch when you hit the ground!”
“It was a bad one, I admit,” said Barver. He slowly folded his wings up along his back and stretched his legs, wincing.
“Are you sure you should be moving anywhere for a while?” said Patch.
“I’ll certainly not be flying for a few weeks,” said Barver. “But apart from that it’s just bruises.”
“Incredible,” said Patch. He and Wren shared an amazed look, and both raised their heads to the sky, through the broken treetops, thinking about how far Barver had plummeted.
“How much do you know about dracogriffs?” said Barver.
“That they’re rare,” said Patch. “Beyond that, not much.”
Barver nodded. “There are two broad kinds. One is called a higher. The other is called a lower. Highers have a blend of the prettier aspects of dragons and griffins, but they’re a bit delicate. Lowers have a blend of the more durable qualities. We’re ugly, but very hard to kill. Naturally, dragons and griffins prefer the pretty ones, but I know which I’d rather be!” He grinned, and as he did his strange blend of features suddenly seemed to make sense. Wren and Patch both found themselves grinning too.
I like him, signed Wren.
“Me too,” said Patch.
“So, my new friends!” said Barver. “Where are you headed?”
“The Penance River flows through the forest,” said Patch. “Following it will take us to the Collosson Highway, and then to Marwheel Abbey. We’ve heard that someone there can help lift Wren’s curse.”
Barver grinned. “Then we should set off at once!”
“We?” said Patch.
“You don’t mind if I tag along? I seem to have been abandoned, and I’ll not be able to fly for quite a while. The company would be appreciated.”
Patch looked to Wren.
Why not? she signed.
“Why not indeed,” said Patch. “Although I have to say, Barver, you don’t seem all that cross about the dragon army leaving you behind. I think if I was you, I’d be seething!”
Barver waved his hand like he was swatting a fly. “I won’t waste my anger on that lot,” he said. “They weren’t very keen on me accompanying the army when we left the Dragon Territories, but it seems they were even less keen on me going back with them.” He shrugged. “As I said, dragons prefer the pretty kind of dracogriff. They tend to look at me as some kind of unfortunate mistake.”
Wren was outraged and signed some things that made quite clear what she thought of the dragons.
“You should mind your language,” said Patch, wincing. He noticed that the scroll of demands Barver had read out was still tucked into his harness. “When I saw you approach the Castle, I’d assumed sending you to deliver the demands must have been some kind of honour.”
“I volunteered when nobody else came forward,” said Barver. He frowned. “Makes me wonder if they all knew something I didn’t.” He shook his wings a little and stretched again. “Anyway, enough of all that! Which way is the river?”
Patch pointed towards an overgrown area of bushes that looked worryingly thorny. “That’s the most direct way, so if we head over there –” he pointed towards a more accessible route – “it should be easier going.”
Barver nodded and trotted off towards the wall of thorny bushes, flattening a path as if it was nothing more
than tall grass.
Patch smiled at Wren, shrugged, and followed.
They could hear the soft murmur of flowing water as they approached the river. Barver paused and turned. “Can either of you smell something?” he said. “Bears, maybe? Or wolves?”
“Bears?” said Patch. He looked at Wren and she gave him a frightened glance, but following in Barver’s trail made Patch feel about as safe as he’d ever felt in his life. “Oh, I don’t think we’ve much to worry about on that score, Wren,” he said.
“Actually, not a bear,” said Barver. “Something dead.” He lifted his snout high and sniffed deep and long, turning his head this way and that. “Over there,” he said. “Human,” he added, then led the way to a small rise covered in ivy-choked trees. He stopped and pulled at the ivy.
The corpse underneath was revealed. The skull grinned out at them, ragged remains of flesh clinging to it. It wore a long coat, which was torn in several places – gashes from sharp claws. Within the coat, little but bone remained.
Patch stared at the skull, and couldn’t help imagining his own skull there instead. “Have I mentioned how glad I am that you’re here, Barver?” Wren, who was also staring, nodded in agreement.
“It’s at least a few months old,” said Barver. “Probably a bear attack. A gruesome enough death, but quick.” He pulled at more of the ivy, and discovered a hardy shoulder-slung leather bag, similar to Erner’s satchel. “What do we have here?”
Patch picked up the bag and untied the fastening strap. Inside was a simple cotton tunic, a sheathed knife, a firesteel, a small waterskin, and the mouldy remains of an old hunk of bread – which he took out and discarded. “He just carried the basics of survival,” said Patch. “Perhaps the poor soul travelled along the river, in search of a new life.” He shook out the tunic. It was a little musty, but basically clean, so he set Wren on the ground before taking off his coarse prison shirt and putting the tunic on. It was a vast improvement. He gave the torn coat a sorrowful look. “Shame about that,” he said. “It seems well made.”
A Darkness of Dragons Page 10