A Darkness of Dragons

by S. A. Patrick

  Barver squeezed through the entrance and looked around. “We should search the whole castle. If Underath has gone, there must be clues as to his whereabouts.” He sniffed the air, and moved towards another set of doors, flinging them open. The courtyard lay beyond. He pointed to a stone building within it. “The griffin’s stable,” he said. “There may be things we can learn about Underath there.”

  Erner nodded. “Patch, stay with Barver. You two take this half of the courtyard, check the various doors and cellars. I’ll take Wren and search the other half.”

  “Agreed,” said Patch. Barver hurried across the courtyard towards the stable. Patch let Wren climb onto Erner’s shoulder, then went after Barver, finding him inside the stable hunting through shelves of the griffin’s belongings. “You see anything interesting here?”

  “Plenty of books,” said Barver. “Alkeran was an avid reader. Mostly tales of adventure, but some philosophy too. Wait, look!” He moved to one wall and lifted some kind of large ring from the floor.

  Patch realized what it was: a locking collar, to which was attached a formidable iron chain. “Did Underath use that for his griffin?”

  Barver shook his head. He raised the chain to show that it was short, and not fixed to anything. “Presumably all that remains of a much longer chain,” he said. “No, Alkeran was not a prisoner here. Griffins and Sorcerers are a good fit for each other, Patch. Both prefer isolation, and they can provide one another with a degree of safety. Alkeran and Underath are colleagues – perhaps even friends. The rust on this collar suggests it has not been in use for many years, yet Alkeran keeps it in his home. Interesting.”

  Patch nodded. “I’ll start searching in the courtyard. I’ll call if I find something.” He left the stable and went to a nearby hatchway in the side of the castle. He opened it up, and there was coal inside. He looked to the stable again and saw a chimney, so the coal was presumably for the griffin’s fireplace. Across the way, he could see Erner and Wren getting on with their search.

  The courtyard had been out of bounds for Wren while she’d been living in the castle, so there was little advice she could offer Erner. They came to a row of doors, and Erner tried the first. It was locked; Erner took out his Pipe and played a rapid high-pitched Song. The lock thudded open.

  Wren applauded, impressed. I’ve not seen Patch do that kind of thing, she signed.

  “Thanks,” said Erner, bowing his head. He opened the door and a terrible stench of rot came from within. Inside were barrels, from which liquid was seeping. He closed the door in a hurry.

  These must be the food stores, said Wren. Underath magically restocked the kitchen from them, and the stores were charmed to be cold. Not any more.

  Erner frowned and went to the next door. Again, it was locked; again, Erner played to unlock it. He opened the door and entered.

  A yelp came from one corner, and Erner stepped to the side instinctively as something shot from the shadows and thudded into the door frame, a puff of some kind of powder coming from it when it hit. Wren looked to where the object had fallen – it was a small leather pouch. She looked over to the corner, and there, wearing his favoured elaborate robe, stood Underath, terrified. He carried a bag filled with bread. Wren clenched her paws into little angry fists at the sight of him. She noticed how scruffy he seemed, his face and robes grubby, the hair on his head uncombed. He had always prided himself on his clean-shaven face, but now a ragged beard had grown.

  Underath was distraught. “A Custodian Piper! Forgive me, I thought you were a brigand come to murder me! You caught me by surprise!” At that moment, he noticed Wren on Erner’s shoulder. His face fell. “Oh dear,” he said. “It’s you, um, maid-person.”

  Wren scowled the deepest scowl she’d ever managed.

  “Her name is Wren,” said Erner. “I assume you are Underath?”

  The Sorcerer nodded.

  Erner glanced down to the pouch that Underath had thrown. He gave the Sorcerer an angry glare. “A Kaposher Pouch, eh?” said Erner. “If you’re going to use that, you can’t afford to miss!”

  Wren had read about Kaposher Dust in one of the many books she’d pored over in Underath’s study. It was a sleeping powder, difficult to make and highly prized by thieves – throw a Kaposher Pouch at an unwary victim, and they would be rendered unconscious in moments by the dust that puffed out.

  “I am Erner Whitlock,” said Erner. “I represent the Pipers’ Council in an important matter.” He rummaged in his shoulder bag, then held up the jar containing the little box that had poisoned Rundel Stone. “We shall discuss Wren’s situation in a moment. First, tell me everything you can about this.”

  Underath took it, wary. As he examined it through the glass, Erner reached into his bag and produced a cloth; keeping one eye on Underath, he gathered up the Kaposher Pouch in the cloth and placed it carefully in his bag. “In case you get any ideas,” he said.

  Underath waved dismissively. “I have others.” He removed the lid of the jar and sniffed. After a moment, his eyes widened. “Oh no, this is a very nasty little thing. A death puzzle. Quite a complicated one.”

  “And did you make it?” said Erner.

  “Absolutely not!” said Underath, sounding offended. He replaced the jar’s lid and passed it back. “I don’t make such weaponry. It’s clumsy and brutal.”

  “I’m assured your style of magic is very similar,” said Erner. “And remember, Sorcerer. I am here on Council business. I could make life difficult for you if you don’t help.”

  “Make life difficult for me?” said Underath, with a sneer. “As if it’s not hard enough already!” He glared at Erner, but soon bowed his head. “Very well. Look to the far north. Near Ygginbrucket, where a Master once lived. I was his pupil, and this death puzzle has his hallmarks. Hence the similarity to my magical style.”

  “The Master’s name?”

  “Sagharros. Died fifteen years ago. This box is of recent construction, so it definitely wasn’t him. It may have been made by another of his students.”

  “And you’re sure the box has nothing to do with you?”

  “I swear it!”

  “Mmm…” said Erner, stroking his chin. “Perhaps I will trust you more, once you undo the cruel curse you set on my friend here.”

  Underath looked back at them, pale. “I can’t, I’m afraid,” he said. “I’m somewhat indisposed. I have no magic to spare.”

  “We saw the state of your castle,” said Erner. “What happened here?”

  Underath scowled. “My wife happened,” he said, venom in his voice. “She’s long gone now. She took my griffin and left!” He looked at Wren. “Did you notice anything odd about her? For example, did I mention her name at any point?”

  Wren thought for a moment. She shook her head.

  “There’s a reason for that,” said Underath. “I don’t know her name. Isn’t that strange? I know nothing about her. I don’t think I ever did. There I was, off on a trip somewhere, and the next thing I know I’m married, and happy, and not thinking straight, with no memory of how it happened.”

  Erner raised an eyebrow. “Did you drink much wine on this trip of yours, by any chance?”

  Underath looked at him with scorn. “If only it was so simple! That woman hexed me! I still don’t know how she did it, but she got the better of Underath. She stole my heart.” He sagged, shaking his head in misery.

  “Pull yourself together!” said Erner. “So you lost out in love! You must still make amends to Wren!”

  “That’s not what I mean,” said Underath. He reached to his robe and unbuttoned it at the front. “She stole my heart,” he said. He pulled his robe apart and exposed his chest. “Literally.”

  Erner and Wren gasped. In the middle of Underath’s chest was a big hole, charred around the edges. “Nasty!” said Erner. The hole wasn’t empty, though. “Is that…is that a shoe?”

  “Yes,” said Underath, seething. “She took my heart and thought me dead, but I had a little li
fe left in me, and magic enough to keep death at bay. The shoe was a hasty replacement. All I had handy, really.” He looked down bitterly at the hole in his chest, with its oddly pulsating shoe. “It takes every scrap of magic I have merely to keep going day by day. Slowly, the wound will close and the shoe will transform into a new heart, but it will take a year, perhaps longer.”

  “So you’re refusing to undo Wren’s curse?” said Erner.

  “Look at me,” said Underath. “I’m a wretch. I haven’t the power to craft the undoing of a curse. Especially such a fine curse.” He moved towards them, and reached out to Wren. She squeaked, and gnashed her teeth at him. “The circle around your waist… I see someone’s had a go at fixing you already. Some kind of morphic deflector, I’m guessing. Interesting work, but not really a long-term solution.” He looked up, a sly smile on his face. “There is one way I could help, however. For a price.”

  “What price did you have in mind?” said Erner, wary.

  “My griffin,” said Underath. “Get me my griffin back.”

  “If your griffin was happy to leave with your wife, then it’s not for me to interfere.”

  “Happy?” said Underath. “Happy? Alkeran was her target all along. She told me as I lay there with my life’s blood draining away. ‘It was your griffin I wanted, Underath, not you!’ For what purpose she wanted him I do not know, but that’s why she took my heart – there is an old, dark spell to give control over a griffin. A spell that requires the heart of a friend, kept in a box and tied around Alkeran’s neck…” There was a look of genuine loss in Underath’s expression, a look that Wren had never seen or expected to see on the Sorcerer’s face. In all her time in this castle, she’d never known that Alkeran was anything more to the man than just a handy means of transport. “He’s a troubled soul,” said Underath. “Nightmares plague him, of a time long ago when he was held captive. He’s never told me more than that, but it’s easy to see his pain, and his fear. I promised to keep him safe and I’ve failed him. So remove my heart from around his neck and free him. Bring my heart to me, and I can quickly regain my powers, but you must bring my griffin back too if you want me to create a cure.”

  Erner looked to Wren. “Can we trust him?” he said.

  Does it matter? she signed, disheartened. He obviously hasn’t the strength to cure me, and we’re not going to be able to bring back his griffin. I’m doomed!

  “Nonsense,” Erner told her. He turned to Underath. “Do you have any idea where your wife may have gone?”

  Underath frowned. “None, I’m afraid,” he said. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to gather some food and get back into hiding.”

  “Hiding?” said Erner. “Hiding from what?”

  “From the mercenaries, of course!”

  Erner’s face fell. “What mercenaries?”

  “Nastiest bunch of hired soldiers I’ve ever laid eyes on,” said Underath. “My wife had some kind of deal with them. Gave them the castle when she left. They’ve made a terrible mess of the place. Didn’t you notice them?”

  Erner and Wren stared at him.

  Patch searched a room storing equipment for horses – saddles, martingales, bridles. It looked as though no one had been in there for decades. He came out and walked over to the largest of the doors on this side of the courtyard, and as he reached out to open it something ripped through the air. It pierced the sleeve of his shirt and the strap of his shouldered bag, pinning him to the door.

  A crossbow bolt. He stared at it, gobsmacked.

  “Aw, look at that,” came a voice from behind him. “See, your aim’s way off!”

  Patch turned his head as he desperately pulled his arm, and saw a mean-looking pair of men clad in well-worn leather armour. One of them smiled, showing off a mouthful of broken teeth. “We’ll be with you in a jiffy, mate,” he said to Patch, leering. He turned to his colleague. “Come on, get that reloaded.”

  “I’m harmless!” said Patch. “Just looking for Underath, that’s all!”

  “The old Sorcerer? He’s dead, mate. Like you’ll be in a second. This is our castle now. You’re trespassing!”

  Patch yelped and pulled as hard as he could, but he couldn’t free himself.

  “I can’t get the bolt in,” complained the man with the crossbow. “Why do they make these things so hard to reload?”

  His colleague scowled. “You need to pull that lever back more.” There was an audible clunk as the mechanism fell into place. “There you go!”

  “Ta!” said the mercenary. He turned to Patch, who was still frantically trying to get free. “Right then, just you hold still while I murder you.”

  Patch whimpered and closed his eyes. A moment later the unmistakable sound of roaring flame filled the air, accompanied by hearty screams. When Patch looked again he saw two smouldering corpses on the ground. Behind them, Barver was grinning.

  “That was a bit brutal, wasn’t it?” said Patch.

  Barver shrugged. “They caught me in a bad mood,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, Wren,” said Erner. “Patch will be safe. He’s with Barver.” He turned back to Underath. “We didn’t come across anyone in the castle. How many mercenaries are there?”

  “A hundred, maybe. They have dogs with them.”

  “Dogs?”

  “You know,” said Underath. “The big ones mercenaries love so much. War dogs.”

  “War dogs,” said Erner, looking anxious.

  Is that a problem? signed Wren.

  Erner looked to the door. “We have to warn them.”

  At that moment, they heard a roar of fire, and screams. Erner ran out into the courtyard, Wren clinging tightly to his shoulder. Behind him, Underath hurried to the door and locked it, his muffled voice coming through the thick wood. “Good luck with that!” he said.

  Barver came over to Patch and pulled the crossbow bolt out, freeing him.

  “Thanks,” said Patch. “That was a close one!”

  The door the bolt had lodged in now started to swing open very slowly. The smile on Patch’s face crumpled as he saw what lay in the large room beyond.

  A long table, filled with bottles of ale and rounds of cheese, surrounded by benches on which dozens and dozens of unconscious mercenaries were slumped.

  One of them snorted and opened his eyes. “Wha—?” he said. He looked at Patch. He looked at Barver. Then he looked at the smouldering corpses of his colleagues. “Awaken, lads!” he yelled. “There’s trouble!”

  Patch backed away as the mercenaries began to stir. He reached for his Pipe. He could try some battle Songs and take out a few of them, he knew.

  “Oh don’t worry,” said Barver. “I can handle this lot!”

  Then the growling started.

  From the shadows within the room, two vast dogs emerged, almost as tall as the men around them. Their grey skin looked as tough as leather and much of it was without fur, giving them the appearance of being riddled with mange. Saliva was starting to drip from the mouths of both dogs. Their teeth were horribly long.

  Barver was staring fearfully at them. As Patch watched the massive dogs approach he knew the odds were firmly in the mercenaries’ favour.

  War dogs hadn’t actually been bred for war, originally. It had been for hunting, and the prey they’d been bred to hunt gave them their other name.

  “Dragonhounds,” said Patch. He heard a shout and turned to see Erner running across the courtyard.

  “Time to fly,” said Barver. “Quit fiddling with that Pipe and get on my back! I’ll grab Erner and Wren on the wing.”

  “Are you sure you can carry us all?”

  Barver frowned. “We’re just about to find out,” he said.

  Patch jumped on and held tight to the straps of Barver’s battle harness. Barver launched himself into the air, straining hard to get speed. Ahead of them, Erner braced himself, arms raised. Barver grabbed him around the midriff and gained height immediately, setting Erner on his back.

  “Where’s
Wren?” cried Patch, and then he saw her head poking out from Erner’s robe. He took her and set her by Barver’s neck, where a notch in the harness would give her some protection. She put her arms round a strap and held tight.

  The dragonhounds prowled in the courtyard, and the mercenaries readied their bows. A bolt shot past them, and Barver attempted to get higher. Up they went, until they could get over the castle wall to the forest beyond, but below them the mercenaries opened another gate and allowed the hounds out.

  “Tenacious, aren’t they?” said Erner.

  “We, um, killed two of their colleagues,” said Patch. “I guess it annoyed them.”

  “Ah,” said Erner. “I suppose it would.”

  “Where should I head for?” panted Barver.

  Wren started to sign frantically, and Patch relayed the message. “See the lake in the forest?” he said, pointing. “If we fly over it, a large gorge lies on the other side of a ridge. They won’t be able to cross it.”

  Soon they were flying just over the treetops, but the hounds were closing fast. If the dogs got ahead, it would only take them two leaps up a tree and Barver would be within reach.

  “Go higher, Barver!” yelled Patch.

  “I’m trying!” yelled Barver.

  Erner took out his Pipe and tied his bag to Barver’s harness. “Patch, we should ready some defences! If the hounds jump for us, a Push Song should be enough to deflect them! Hook your feet under the harness like this.”

  Patch nodded and watched Erner slide each foot under parts of Barver’s harness straps. He tied his own bag to Barver and did the same as Erner with his feet. It was uncomfortable, but it gave him both hands free to Pipe. He set about building a Push Song, a simple defensive force that was the first battle Song any Piper learned.

  Barver roared and picked up the pace, his great wings straining. On his back, everyone was watching as the hounds narrowed the gap, those frothing jaws even more horrible from such a short distance, the snarls terrifyingly near.

  Then they were over water. Barver roared again, this time in triumph. Wren cheered and Patch laughed with relief. The hounds barked with rage for a moment before pounding along the side of the lake, but by now they were so far back Barver could just keep his current speed.