Barver shrugged. “It’s not beyond saving. And a good wash in the river will shift much of the smell.” He gave Patch a look. “Speaking of which…”
“What?” said Patch.
“Go to the river, Patch Brightwater, and scrape the dungeon stench from your skin. It makes my eyes sting even more than the odour of this corpse.” He turned to the gnawed jumble of bones on the ground and looked at it, thoughtful. “In the meantime I’ll see what can be done with that coat.”
Cold, was it? signed Wren.
Patch tried to nod in response, but it was hard because he was shivering so much. He’d stripped off and jumped into the river, but the water had turned out to be rather more chilly than he’d expected. Half-screaming, half-whimpering, he’d cleaned himself as quickly as he could before leaping out and returning to Wren.
He’d already untied his blanket parcel, leaving its contents on the fallen tree trunk next to Wren, so that he would have his blanket ready to wrap round himself. He dried off as best he could, then he dressed and put his meagre belongings back into the damp blanket. Wren hopped onto his still-trembling shoulder, and they returned to where they’d left Barver.
To Patch’s amazement, Barver was holding the dead man’s torn coat, stitching up the rips. Patch had never imagined that the clawed hands of dragons and griffins were capable of much dexterity, but Barver wielded a needle and thread with the skill of an expert.
Barver reached into his harness and produced another reel of thread. He smiled when he saw them nearing. “A few large slashes and a couple of minor tears, that’s about it,” he said. “I’ll be finished shortly.” He looked closely at Patch, his expression suddenly concerned. “Should your lips be quite that shade of blue?”
“The w-water was a b-bit c-c-cold,” Patch said. “I’m not k-k-k-keen on being c-c-cold.”
“My apologies, I should have thought!” said Barver. He set down his sewing and took a few steps forward, then with a broad swipe of his tail cleared an area of the ground down to the soil. He made a small mound of earth at the centre. “Stand back,” he said, lowering his head to the mound. He opened his mouth wide and a gurgling noise came from his throat. He coughed and thumped his chest a few times. “Hang on, I’ll get there,” he said, and opened his mouth again.
This time, an intense flame poured from his throat, flowing over the mound of earth. It sounded, Patch thought, like a blacksmith’s forge with the bellows being pumped. The heat reaching him was already significant, and very welcome.
Barver kept the fire coming until the earth started to glow, stones within it audibly cracking. “There you go,” he said. “Get yourself warmed up!”
Around Barver’s half-griffin muzzle there were blackened stubs, one of which was currently on fire. Patch licked his finger and thumb and reached out, pinching the stub to extinguish the flame.
“Thank you,” said Barver. “My dragon and griffin features don’t always work together. Griffin feathers on a fire-breathing face, for example. They don’t last long, trust me.”
Patch sat and let the heat fill him. On his shoulder, Wren stretched her paws out to the warmth. Barver held the coat up, examining his work. “I’ll wash it when I’m done,” he said. “Shouldn’t take long to dry on a heated boulder.” He returned to his stitching.
Patch and Wren watched him with an obvious bemusement. It wasn’t long before the dracogriff caught their expressions. “Anything wrong?” he said.
“Sorry,” said Patch. “But it’s just…well, the sewing?”
“My mother taught me,” said Barver. “For my wings.” He unfurled his left wing a little. Patch and Wren looked, and saw that the tear they’d seen when they’d first found Barver was now neatly stitched. Barver traced his fingers along the line of the injury. “I treat my wings terribly,” he said with a gentle melancholy. “Always have. They’re about as hardy as those of a typical dragon, but I’m used to the rest of me being so much more resilient.” To underline his point, he picked up a thick fallen branch from the ground and smashed it over his own head. “See? I was a clumsy youth and my wings often got torn. They heal better when stitched, and my mother got tired of having to keep doing it, so she made sure I learned. And I’ve had plenty of practice, believe me.”
For a few quiet minutes, Barver stitched the coat while Patch and Wren warmed up near the glowing mound of earth. Patch opened out the blanket he’d used to dry himself, setting his belongings to one side and holding the damp blanket up to the heat.
Oh, show him the Hamelyn Piper’s Mask! signed Wren, pointing at it.
“I don’t want any fuss,” mumbled Patch.
Barver had seen what Wren had signed, though. “The Hamelyn Piper’s Mask?” he said.
Patch shrugged. “I was in the cell next to him. Like you, I saw him die, although I was much closer. His Mask fell off him before he was pulled from his cell. I picked it up.”
“The actual Iron Mask of the Hamelyn Piper?” said Barver, fascinated.
Patch picked up the Mask and demonstrated how it unfolded. He tossed it to Barver.
“Astonishing,” said Barver, turning the Mask over in his hands. He reversed what Patch had done and the Mask folded up again. “We’ve seen history made today. A dark and evil thing, finally brought to an end.” He shook his head slowly and gave the Mask back to Patch. “Well, the sooner I get this coat washed and dried, the sooner we can set off again.” He picked up the coat and made his way to the river.
Patch put his belongings into the traveller’s leather bag, and looked at the small pile of bones that was all that now remained of him. “This traveller was heading for a new life,” he said. “Hopes and dreams, all brought to a terrible end.” He shook his head. “Looking at those bones makes me think,” he said, wistful. “However bad things have been, we’re alive; we’re luckier than that poor soul.”
It makes me think, too, signed Wren.
“What?” said Patch.
Wren grinned. Stay away from bears, she signed.
They made good pace alongside the river, and Patch was glad of his new coat. Barver had managed to clean it well, and although a slightly odd smell still clung to it, the warmth it provided was more than enough to compensate. Spring wasn’t far away now, but the air still had a deep chill to it.
As evening approached, Barver found a secluded clearing for their camp. Exhausted, Patch put up his little tent and lay down for what he thought would be a short rest before eating.
When Wren woke him with a loud squeak in his ear, night had fallen.
Patch came out of the tent. Barver was sitting by a small fire, holding a spit over the flames – rabbit, Patch saw. His mouth watered.
“Awake at last!” said Barver. “Wren was telling me all about your exploits, yours and hers both. She told me the story of Patterfall and of her own curse, and I gave her some tales of my adventures in the Eastern Seas.” He took the spit away from the fire and sniffed the rabbit, then handed the spit to Patch, who tore off a piece of meat and ate it. It tasted sublime.
“That’s amazing,” Patch said around his mouthful.
“A few common herbs to bring out the flavour,” said Barver. “Now, Wren… Shall we finish our game?”
Wren nodded and scampered over to where – Patch now saw – the Fox and Owls board was laid out. I taught him, signed Wren to Patch. He picked it up pretty quickly.
Patch ate his rabbit and watched the game, which was hard-fought by Barver. Wren’s victory came in the end, but it was much closer than Patch had ever managed against her.
In the warmth from the fire, with his belly full, he realized with a degree of shock that he had a future to look forward to. Barver’s mention of the Eastern Seas had made him think. The Islands of the Eastern Seas were mostly outside the influence of Tiviscan and, as such, uncertified Pipers could still work there if they were careful.
He could work there.
Of course, the Islands were also overrun with pirates and criminals, but
it was something for him to consider: a future as a Piper, even if it wasn’t the one he’d always dreamed of. But there was one thing he would need to do before even that future was possible.
He would need to make himself a new Pipe.
He’d already noticed plenty of mature boxwood bushes in the forest, so it wouldn’t be hard to find some suitable branches that he could use.
A new Pipe, for a new life.
That night, he slept well.
The next evening, as dusk approached, they reached the Collosson Highway – a rather grand name for what amounted to a slightly-wider-than-normal muddy road. They were confronted with another smell in the air, but one that was rather more pleasant than a dead traveller: the smell of food cooking.
“Beef stew,” said Barver, his eyes half-closed. His stomach gave a rumble so loud it echoed.
“Fresh bread,” said Patch, his mouth starting to drool.
There must be an inn nearby, signed Wren.
“It’s a shame the dead traveller wasn’t carrying any money,” said Patch, mournful. There was a curious tinkling sound to his left, and he turned to see a glorious sight. Barver was grinning, and in his hand was a small purse.
“Let this be my treat,” said Barver. “Since I returned from the Eastern Seas I’ve not known many I’d care to spend time with, and now I meet a condemned criminal and a cursed rat and find them to be honest, decent and agreeable company. What do you say? We’ll have a feast, and I insist on getting you a proper bed for the night. Then we’ll reach Marwheel Abbey fed and rested.”
A bed, thought Patch.
A proper bed. He almost wept.
The inn lay round the next bend in the road, and it looked as perfect as it smelled.
The innkeeper was petrified the moment he saw Barver, but soon enough Barver’s friendly manner – and his money – smoothed things over. “A feast, if you please,” said Barver, offering up a shiny golden coin. “And beds for the night.”
“Will the smaller of our stables do you for sleeping, my large friend?” asked the innkeeper. “It’s clean and warm, and you’ll have it to yourself.”
“Sounds perfect,” said Barver.
The innkeeper spotted the rat on Patch’s shoulder and frowned. Wren gave him a wave and bowed.
“Trained rat, eh?” said the innkeeper. “Clever.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” said Patch.
The innkeeper showed them to a table at the back of the inn. Patch had a tankard of small ale brought to him; Barver had a bucket of the same, and insisted on a thimble for Wren, the innkeeper delighted by the level of training this “pet” rat displayed.
Patch looked at Barver’s bucket. “I would’ve thought you’d drink something stronger,” he said. Small ale was a very weak brew of barley and oats, tasty and thirst quenching with hardly any alcohol.
Barver shook his head. “Anything strong irritates my fire ducts,” he said. “This is just about right for me.”
Patch nodded. “A toast,” he said, raising his tankard. “To you, Barver, and to you, Wren! Only days ago, I was alone and in despair. Today, I’m happy and with friends!”
“Thank you,” said Barver. “But I’d rather we raise a toast to my mother. She was the reason I recently returned from the Islands of the Eastern Seas, and it is her gift to me that is paying for our meal. To my mother!” He raised his bucket. “May she rest in peace.”
Wren’s face fell, and so did Patch’s.
Oh, Barver! signed Wren, distressed.
“It’s good for me to talk about it,” said Barver. “In the dragon tradition, she left me what’s called a Vanishing Gift – the money now in my purse. In her honour, I must spend it all within one month.” He shook his head, his eyes moistening. “But I’d not spoken to her in years. We’d fallen out, which was why I left for the Eastern Seas in the first place. If my father had still been alive things might have been different, but me and my mother never spoke again. By the time word reached me that she was dying, it was too late. Her funeral ceremony had happened, and the Order of the Skull had taken her body to its final secret home.”
They fell into silence for a moment.
“Then we must raise a toast to your mother,” said Patch. They raised their ales and took a drink. “I’m so sorry, Barver.”
Barver nodded, grateful. “She left a letter for me. I’d hoped there might be some kind of apology for the way she’d acted, but instead it was instructions for a last wish. I feel overwhelmed by it all. Things have been so rushed, you see. The day after I got back to the Dragon Territories, they began raising the army to claim the Hamelyn Piper. My mother had always been fascinated with him – an obsession, really. It seemed fitting that I should volunteer, and see with my own eyes what happened. I think she would have been appalled at how it turned out. Revenge is such an unpleasant thing.”
Why was she obsessed with the Hamelyn Piper? asked Wren.
“She was an advisor to the Dragon Triumvirate. Highly respected. Even her relationship with my father hadn’t tarnished her reputation, and dragons are very touchy about one of their kind falling in love with a griffin, believe me. She’d first taken an interest in the Hamelyn Piper when the human children vanished, but when the dragon children were stolen her obsession was complete. And while the other dragons wanted war with the whole of humanity – as if it was their fault! – she was a voice of reason. Without her guidance, I think another war might have been unavoidable.”
“Then we have much to thank her for,” said Patch.
“True,” said Barver. “But it was that same obsession which drove such a wedge between us. She became ever more distant, and was often cold to me. One question burned within her, the most important question of them all! Why had the Hamelyn Piper taken the children?”
Because he was insane, signed Wren. Me and Patch saw him, remember? We saw his eyes! Crazy!
Patch felt his cheeks redden, and wished above all else that he could just forget what the prisoner had said. He wanted to tell his friends the truth, but he also knew that doing so would lead to trouble. It was easier to pretend that the Hamelyn Piper had been mad, and so anything he’d said at the end was meaningless. “Did your mother ever suggest an answer to that question?” he said.
“Some claim the children were taken to a mysterious and beautiful place,” said Barver. “To show that humans and dragons could live in harmony, and prevent wars from ever happening again. Fairy-tale nonsense! It’s a miracle it didn’t start a war at once, instead of preventing them in future. No, my mother didn’t think any of the popular theories made much sense. If she had her own ideas about it, she never shared them with me.” He took a drink of ale and sighed. “Then again, she stopped sharing anything with me. That was why we grew apart.”
The food was soon brought out, and it was impressive. A pair of roasted boars at its centre, the table soon strained under the weight of cheese and bread and cake, nuts and fruit and bowls of spiced porridge, soups and stews and biscuits and salted fish.
Barver’s table manners were almost a shock to Patch. He’d expected the dracogriff to consume the feast one vast mouthful after another, but instead he took his time and ate with delicate care. He didn’t hold back on praise for the wide variety of dishes that had been cooked for them.
“Living out in the Islands of the Eastern Sea, you get used to decent food,” said Barver to the delighted innkeeper. “This is all superb!”
They continued with the meal, Patch and Wren eating until they were almost in pain. Patch looked at his own plate, tempted by the various bits and pieces that were left on it. The idea of not eating everything he’d taken was unthinkable to him, but it would be a few minutes yet (and probably a belch or two) before he could fit anything else in.
He delved inside his bag and pulled out several pieces of boxwood that he’d cut from bushes as they’d walked. He studied the wood and chose the best pieces, straight and free of awkward knots. Before long, he’d planned
out the new Pipe in his mind. The knife the dead traveller had carried in his bag was a good one, and Patch set about stripping the bark.
What are you working on? signed Wren.
Patch smiled. “A Pipe,” he said. “I don’t quite feel whole without one.”
You’ve done this often? signed Wren.
“Twice before,” he said. “Not everyone makes their own, but making it yourself lets you get to know it right from the start.” He blew away some shavings. “I’ll need some fine woodcarving knives, though, before I can really get to work.”
I can’t wait to hear you play it! she signed. She sat back and patted her stomach. You know, after this meal I’ll probably sleep for a month.
Barver nodded. “It’s a very welcome feast.” He let rip with a thunderous burp that seemed to last for ever. Done, he gave a satisfied smile, while Patch and Wren laughed.
Barver started loading his platter up with food again, two-thirds of the feast now gone.
Patch mopped up soup with some bread. “What will you do, Barver?” he asked. “When we go our separate ways?”
“I’ll fulfil the last wish of my mother,” said Barver. “Her letter gave me instructions – there is a place I must go, and a second letter to open when I’m there. After it’s done, I’ll return to the Eastern Seas. There’s nothing for me in the Dragon Territories. I’ve always been a bit of an outcast, but I think I prefer it that way.” He smiled, and nodded to Wren. “And you, an outcast from your human form, but not for much longer! What will you do when the spell is reversed?”
I’ll go home, she signed. I miss my parents terribly, but I refuse to go back to them until I’m cured.
“And you, Patch?” said Barver.
“Once Wren’s free of the curse, I’ll see her safely back to her home. Then—” He set down the stripped boxwood he was holding. “I’m making this Pipe because I feel incomplete without one, but I’ll never be a true certified Piper. I’m an outcast, too. I can make a living, but it must be far from Tiviscan. Far from its dungeons.”
A Darkness of Dragons Page 11