A Darkness of Dragons

by S. A. Patrick

  “They’re all fine!” cried the leader. “Your pals! All fine! Just our little…joke! Yes! A joke!”

  But they weren’t quite all fine. The horses had been seriously scared by Barver’s fiery entrance, and were in a panic – particularly Patch’s, which was hurtling around the perimeter of the clearing, whinnying in terror.

  Patch was barely able to hang on to the reins; Wren was off his shoulder and clinging on for dear life to the saddle. The horse wasn’t slowing – indeed, each time it caught a glance of Barver, the animal managed to go even faster. Patch reached back to his bag, trying to grip the horse with his legs so he wouldn’t fall. At last, his fingers wrapped round his Pipe.

  “Yes!” he cried, almost losing his balance. “Don’t worry, Wren! I’ve got this!”

  There was a Battle Song he knew, one that could be used against cavalry. It slowed a horse down, whatever the plans of the rider or the horse. Patch quickly looped the reins round his left arm and gripped even harder with his legs, leaving his hands free to Pipe. “Hold on tight!” he said to Wren. Her little face grimaced with effort as she clung to the saddle.

  This was no time to be subtle, he knew; he went for it, and built the Song up as fast as possible. Finally, he played the key melody that would slow the horse down.

  It stopped dead.

  Patch kept going.

  Over the horse’s head he went, and the ground came up fast to greet him with a hard, stony welcome. When his head stopped spinning, he sat up and looked behind him. There was his horse, slightly confused; and on the saddle sat Wren, giving him a thumbs up.

  Patch stood, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder and the smarting of his scraped knees. He went to the horse and took the reins, leading it back to Barver and the others.

  All the brigands had abandoned their leader, who was now lying on the ground with his wrists and ankles tied, a gag in his mouth, and Madder’s sword against his throat.

  “So what happened to you?” Patch called to Barver.

  “I had to go,” said Barver, sheepish.

  “What?”

  “I had to go. Brother Duffle’s poultice—” He rubbed his belly. “Sorry about that.”

  Wren jumped from the horse to Patch’s shoulder and scowled at Barver. We thought something had happened to you! she signed.

  “We’re all okay,” said Patch. “That’s what matters.” He looked at the brigand leader. “What do we do with him?”

  Madder grinned, leering close to their captive’s face. “What indeed!” he said. “All your friends have gone. And they won’t be back.”

  The leader tried to speak through his gag. “Mmmpph!” he said. “Mmmph mmmpph!”

  “A few years back I would’ve cut your throat on principle,” said Brother Madder. “But I’m a man of God these days.”

  Tobias kneeled down beside him. “Maybe he can be useful,” he said, pulling the gag down. “We’re here to seek help from the Witch.”

  The leader laughed. “The Witch doesn’t help people,” he said. “Unless they want help to die horribly.”

  “You’ve met her?” said Tobias.

  “None meet her and live!” said the leader. “We stay clear; she leaves us alone. You’d be wise to do the same. I’ve heard things screaming in the trees when I’ve got too close to her territory. You’re idiots if you seek her out!”

  Brother Madder pressed the blade of his sword a little harder against the man’s throat. “Less of the backchat, scum. Is she easy to reach from here?”

  “Follow the path until it splits, and you’ll know which way to take. Trust me, you’ll know…”

  Madder took his sword away from the leader’s neck and forced him to his feet. “You’d best run along now,” said Madder. “Before I decide to kill you anyway. I’m sure God would grant me forgiveness if I asked nicely.”

  “Untie me, eh?” said the leader, his bound ankles making him wobble as he stood. “Please? Dangerous place this forest. Lots of undesirables, you know?”

  Barver strode up to him and brought his head down until he was face to face with the trembling prisoner. For long seconds he studied the man. “You know what they say about the eyes,” said Barver with a grin.

  “They’re the windows to the soul?” said the leader.

  Barver shook his head and put the gag back over the man’s mouth. “Tastiest part of the face,” he said. The leader let out a muffled squeal and started hopping towards the trees, falling over every few hops. Barver watched him go, with a look of pure satisfaction.

  Brother Madder swapped horses with Patch. “She knows me,” said Madder, letting the animal nuzzle him. “And if I take her up to the front of the line, she’ll not panic again.”

  Patch took Madder’s horse, and went to put his Pipe in his pocket.

  Tobias nodded to him. “Let me see it then, lad,” he said. Patch handed the Pipe over, and Tobias examined it. “Your Song was a little stronger than needed, but given the situation it was impressive. Whitlock told me you were talented, and he was right.”

  “I have my moments,” said Patch.

  Barver tutted. “Listen to him! He’s being modest. They offered him a role in the Battle Elite, but he turned it down, not wanting death and destruction to be his life.”

  Patch raised an eyebrow and gave Wren a pointed glance. “Do you share everything I tell you with Barver?” he said.

  Friends don’t have secrets, signed Wren.

  “I too was in the Battle Elite,” said Tobias, and Patch noticed the man’s expression change suddenly, looking almost haunted. “You made the right decision, lad. The scars cut deep, and they stay with you for the rest of your days. And I don’t just mean this.” He gestured to the terrible scar that ran down the side of his face.

  After another hour of travel they came to the split in the path that the leader of the brigands had told them about. On the path to the right, the forest continued without change, and songbirds perched among the leaves and tweeted happily. To the left, the trees were stunted, diseased things, the bushes spiky, and blackened by fungus. The only wildlife Patch could see were crows, sulking in large groups on leafless branches.

  “Well,” said Madder, with a wary smile. “He said we’d know the way to the Witch when we saw it.”

  They took the leftward path.

  The peak of Gemspar Mountain loomed high above them. Patch felt uneasy when he looked at it, as if the sharpness of the rocks was pricking at his eyes.

  As dusk approached, Brother Tobias held up his hand and called for a halt. “We’re almost there I think,” he said, sounding anxious.

  “How should we approach her domain?” asked Brother Madder.

  “The two of us will leave our horses and proceed on foot,” said Tobias. He turned to the others. “The rest of you wait here. We’re taking a great risk, and I can’t say for certain how the Witch will react. We’ll be back by dark.”

  With the horses tethered, Patch and his friends were happy enough to watch Tobias and Madder walk off to meet the Witch, but their nerves grew frayed as the light started to fail with no sign of the monks returning. Moonlight was all they had, lending yet another sinister edge to the forest.

  What if they’ve been killed already? signed Wren, on Patch’s shoulder. Or eaten? Or turned inside out and rubbed with salt and then eaten? While still alive!

  “They’ll be back soon,” said Patch. “There’s no need to worry. Barver will protect us.”

  From behind that tree? signed Wren.

  Patch turned to look. Sure enough Barver was hiding behind a large oak, peering around it fearfully. “Oh, come out here, you big wuss,” said Patch.

  “I don’t like it,” said Barver, edging out from hiding. “All this creepy stuff. I just don’t.”

  A low moan came from the forest ahead of them. Nobody said anything, but Patch stood up slowly and started to walk in the direction of the sound.

  Wren squeaked at him. You’re going towards the sound? she signed.
Count me out. She scurried down his leg and ran to Barver.

  “It might be Tobias and Madder,” whispered Patch. “Maybe they need our help.” He felt for his Pipe, whatever use it might be, then remembered it was in his bag. “Barver?” he said. “Come on!”

  Barver shook his head. “Uh uh,” he said. “Absolutely no way.”

  There was another low moan, longer this time, followed by what could only be described as a cackle.

  “Okay,” said Patch. “So it’s not Tobias and Madder.”

  Two bright circles appeared in the gloom, fifty feet from where they stood. Patch’s legs wobbled. The light from the circles (Patch didn’t want to think of them as eyes, not yet) made it easier to see the shape around the circles, and the two long dark lines on either side of it.

  The shape was that of a bent figure. The two very long lines were about the width of arms, held out as if to embrace. Or to grab.

  Patch backed away. The circles of light went off and came on again.

  “It blinked!” said Barver.

  The next moan was louder, longer, and far more ghastly. The cackle that followed was unmistakable. The dark figure shifted slightly, moving towards them one slow step at a time.

  Patch kept backing off until he bumped into Barver, who was rigid with fear and staring at the wailing thing that was approaching.

  Wren climbed over to Patch’s shoulder again. They huddled together, the three of them, trembling and whimpering.

  And the Witch of Gemspar Mountain drew ever closer.

  The Witch was wearing a black cowl. Its arms, ten feet long, ended in deathly white claws that twitched with each step it took. The disc-like eyes glowed in the midst of a face as craggy as the mountain itself, and under the eyes an oversized mouth gaped open, revealing discoloured teeth like ancient tombstones.

  Patch could feel his sanity draining away, such was the terror he felt, and from the sound of her whimpers Wren was the same. The scariest noise of all, thought Patch, had to be Barver’s hitched breaths: the dracogriff was paralysed with dread.

  Then the Witch let out a hideous screech and Patch decided that no, actually, that was the scariest noise of all. As one, the group answered with their own long, drawn-out scream, which only faded when another voice cut through the air.

  “Alia, stop it! They’re with me!”

  The Witch instantly halted. Without moving her mouth she answered in a voice that didn’t sound anything like the cackling wails she’d been making so far: “Who said that?”

  From the trees to the far left of the cowering group, Brother Tobias emerged, Brother Madder beside him.

  “It’s me! It’s Tobias!” he said. “We need—” He paused and shook his head. “I need your help, Alia. Please. For old times’ sake.”

  The Witch’s long arms slowly lowered until the claws were on the ground. The light in the eyes faded. From behind the Witch, a second figure emerged in a grey hooded robe. It walked in front of the Witch’s still form, then over to Tobias and Madder. Its hands – on the end of ordinary-sized arms – reached up and pulled back its hood.

  Patch gaped. The figure was a woman, and a beautiful one at that. She was looking at Tobias with a defiantly raised eyebrow.

  “Brother Tobias,” she said. “I always knew some day you’d come walking back through my door.” She frowned and glanced around at the trees. “Metaphorically speaking.”

  As Tobias and the woman spoke, Patch looked again towards the Witch, squinting to try and see better in the moonlight. He had a moment of realization, and all his fear vanished suddenly. With one eye on the newcomer in the grey robe, he walked towards the Witch.

  Wren was on his shoulder, and she wasn’t happy. What are you doing? she signed. Stop!

  “It’s okay,” said Patch. “Take another look, Wren.”

  As they got closer, it became obvious. The frightening face was just paper, glue and paint; the terrible claws were jointed wood.

  It’s a puppet! signed Wren. A big, horrible puppet! She hopped off Patch’s shoulder onto the “Witch” and vanished under the black cloth that covered it.

  Barver arrived by Patch’s side. “Never tell anyone about this,” he said. “Not in the Islands of the Eastern Seas, anyway. I wouldn’t live it down.”

  Wren reappeared on top of the Witch’s head. The eyes are lamps, she signed, clearly impressed. There are all sorts of levers back here!

  Barver reached out to one of the long arms and waggled it up and down. It broke off in his hand.

  “Hey, leave that alone!” called the woman. She walked over, Tobias and Madder behind her.

  “Um, sorry,” said Barver. He half-heartedly tried to poke the arm back into position, and when he let it go it fell to the ground. “I didn’t mean to break it.”

  The woman lifted the end of the arm and slotted it back into place. “It’s far more delicate than it looks,” she said, tetchy. She stared at Barver. “And what are you?”

  “The name’s Barver,” he said. “I’m a dracogriff.”

  She turned to Patch. “And you?”

  “Patch Brightwater,” he said. “Uh, human.”

  The woman shook her head, unimpressed, but then she saw Wren sitting on top of the Witch-puppet. “Ah! Now you…you’re a different prospect entirely. Cursed, eh?”

  Wren nodded. I’m here so you can cure me, she signed, but the woman waved a dismissive hand at her.

  “No, no, stop all that,” she said. “I don’t understand a word.”

  Tobias stepped in. “Alia, this is Wren. She’s part of the reason we’re here. Everyone, this is Alia, the Witch of Gemspar Mountain.”

  “Obviously not the original Witch,” said Alia. “So, the rat curse is part of why you came. What’s the rest of it?”

  “I need help with a patient who is close to death,” said Tobias. “A poison runs through his veins, one that is dripping with sorcery.”

  Alia shrugged. “And why should I care?”

  “The patient is Rundel Stone,” said Tobias.

  She scowled at him. “I say again, why should I care?” Tobias said nothing and just looked at her. After a few moments Alia sighed and shook her head, clearly irritated. “Oh all right. Give me a minute to pack up.” She reached under the black cloth that covered the main bulk of the Witch-puppet, and pulled. The arms grew shorter and folded themselves under the cloth. She nodded at Wren. “Do you mind?” she said politely, and Wren hopped from the puppet to Patch’s shoulder. Alia pushed down on the head, which retracted, and then shoved hard against what remained of the puppet. It pivoted down, and Alia gathered up the cloth and shut a lid. The entire puppet was now contained in a wheeled box, like a small handcart.

  Wren couldn’t resist giving a little round of applause.

  “Everyone get your things and follow me,” said Alia. She nodded to Barver and pointed to the cart. “Make yourself useful and push that. Just try not to damage it!”

  She led them through the trees to a forbidding path between high volcanic cliffs. They emerged into a large open area, most of which was desolate. The peak of Gemspar Mountain loomed over them like a constant threat, yet among this desolation, next to the entrance to a cave in the side of the mountain, was an expanse of grass, perhaps eighty feet across, with various fruiting bushes and a vegetable patch, all surrounded by a fence. It looked like the whole thing had been cut out of a different landscape and dropped here.

  Alia saw the bemused looks and smiled.

  “Welcome to my home,” she said. “The cave is ancient, but the garden is my own construction.”

  Tobias was obviously impressed. “Does it not drain you, to sustain this kind of green magic?”

  She shook her head. “The only magic needed for the garden was for the transportation of soil, Tobias. It gets plenty of sun and water, all free.”

  With the horses tied up, she led them into the cave. It seemed extensive, going back into the rock of the mountain for at least a few hundred feet, before bending awa
y out of sight, the true extent impossible to tell. Lamps were burning everywhere, keeping it bright. Simple shelves were filled with glass jars of various contents, some of which were rather grim. Patch made an effort not to look at them too closely.

  Barver still pushed the Witch-puppet, and Alia pointed to a spot by one shelf. “Over there, if you don’t mind,” she said, and Barver did as instructed. “The birds and insects around here are my eyes and ears. It’s easy to tell when there are intruders in my part of the forest. Not very common, these days. My reputation seems to be enough discouragement.”

  “Why do you have the puppet?” asked Barver. “Surely you can just…” He made a spell-casting motion with one hand.

  Alia gave him a warm smile. “Magic is an effort. I save my powers for the work that interests me. Lately I’ve not had need for elaborate magical defences. Witchy there is rather effective at chasing off strays. Also, she’s considerable fun.” She walked across to a large trunk and opened it up. It contained a vast number of little glass vials and bottles. “This is research,” she said. “Out here, I refine my skills in peace.” She gave Tobias a long, pointed glare. “In peace, Tobias. I wanted to be left alone, and never see any of you again. Why have you broken your word?”

  Patch looked from Alia to Tobias and back again, feeling a very definite chill in the air.

  “I kept my word,” said Tobias. “Until I had no choice.”

  “And now you’re here,” she said. “Seeking help from the all-terrible Witch, even though I swore I would kill you if you came. Any of you.”

  Patch frowned, wondering who exactly Alia meant by “any of you”. He shared a worried look with Wren and Barver.

  Alia caught the look on Patch’s face. She narrowed her eyes at him, making Patch’s knees suddenly feel very wobbly. “Do I disappoint?” she said to him. “Did you want to see the old Witch, the mad Witch? I can pretend to be like that, if you want. I can be what the Council thought I was. A seeker of unnatural power, dabbling in things no Piper should touch! Things that even Casimir feared!” She clenched her fists and turned towards the cave entrance. As she went, the lamps within the cave dimmed as one. Patch felt Wren’s claws grip tightly to his coat, and he found himself putting his own hand on Barver for support.