At the far end of the lake the forest rose sharply. “That must be the ridge,” cried Erner. “Safety lies on the other side!”
“You hear that, Barver?” said Patch. “Head over that ridge, and you’ve saved us all!” He looked back and grinned at Erner. They both put their Pipes back in their pockets and unhooked their feet, holding on with their hands again.
“They thought they had us,” said Erner. “But we’re almost clear! Just the ridge to go!”
Patch froze, his blood turning to ice as Erner’s words sank in. The words of the prophecy.
They thought they had us. But we’re almost clear. Just the ridge to go. What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong?
He looked to Wren. She had one paw over her mouth, horrified. She shook her head slowly, back and forth.
Patch could hear Alia’s warning: There will come a time when you hear these words! A mouth that speaks them is a traitorous mouth, and will betray you to that which you fear most! When you hear them spoken, get away as quickly as you can! Run!
It can’t be, thought Patch. It can’t be.
A moment of hope came to him: Erner hadn’t said all of it, not yet.
“What’s wrong with you?” said Erner, baffled.
Patch shook his head, not wanting his friend to say anything else; not wanting him to complete the prediction.
“What’s wrong?” said Erner.
It was done. The traitor Alia had warned them of was Erner, however much Patch wanted to deny it. A terrible emptiness filled his heart as he realized what he had to do. Erner was watching him with utter confusion.
“I can’t do it,” said Patch, his vision blurred with sudden tears. “I can’t.” But he had no choice. “I’m sorry,” he said, desolate. He gave Erner a sudden shove, sending his friend flying off Barver’s back and into the lake below.
Barver started to circle back. “What happened?” he yelled.
“Keep going!” shouted Patch.
“We can’t go without him!” said Barver.
“Leave him!”
Barver turned his head to look directly at Patch, and he saw that Patch meant it, even if he didn’t understand. He faced front and, jaws clenched, turned towards the far shore of the lake and the ridge beyond it, flying harder than he’d ever done before.
Patch looked at Wren, clinging to Barver’s harness. She was glaring at him, eyes wet, shaking her head and trembling, but there was nothing he could say to her. He glanced back and saw Erner swimming towards the lake shore.
There was movement just inside the trees. The dragonhounds had made up most of the ground they’d lost.
“They’re closing on us,” said Patch.
“I know!” cried Barver.
“You need to go higher!”
“I know!”
It would be tight. If they were going to beat the hounds to the ridge, it wasn’t going to be by much.
“I can’t get the height,” wailed Barver.
“You can do it!” said Patch.
Wren squeaked at him. Your Pipe! she signed. Get ready to hit those dogs with something!
Patch took out his Pipe and hooked his feet under Barver’s straps again. He started to build another Push.
They reached the shore. The hounds were heading for the peak of the ridge. Barver was almost screaming now, putting all his might into squeezing out that last drop of height and speed. Wren and Patch watched the hounds.
The ridge: closer, closer.
The hounds: gaining, gaining.
The Push was ready. Patch held it, seeing the hounds get slightly ahead, watching them bound up the elm trees in front of them, and then…
Barver saw them leap, and swung right. One dragonhound had managed to jump higher than the other, and it was almost on top of Patch when he loosed the Push. The Song hit the beast hard enough to stall its trajectory, and it fell just under Barver, howling as it flailed with its claws and plummeted out of harm’s way.
Breathless, Patch turned to see what had happened to the second hound. His heart sank – it had found purchase. Its jaws were clamped around Barver’s neck, and it was shaking its head violently to work its teeth under the scales. Its back legs were fending off Barver’s arms, stopping him wrenching the hound away. Blood was already flowing. Barver roared with pain, but he was managing to stay in the air.
The trees vanished under them. Suddenly they were past the ridge and over a deep gorge. Patch raised his Pipe again, but he wasn’t sure what he could use without risking Barver too. He decided to try something more direct: beside him, tied safely to Barver’s harness, was his bag. He undid the fastening strap and took out his knife, putting his Pipe inside before fastening it again.
“Hold on tight,” he told Wren. He unhooked his feet from Barver’s straps and lunged past her, gripping Barver’s harness as he swung the knife at full stretch, thrusting it deep into the dragonhound’s paw. The blade went through until it scraped Barver’s scales.
The dragonhound yelped. Livid, it pulled its jaws from Barver’s throat and snapped towards Patch, snarling with rage, gobbets of bloody froth flying from its slavering mouth.
It was the respite Barver needed. He pulled higher just in time and they reached the other side of the gorge, skimming the treetops. As Barver gained a little more height, the hound clamped its jaws around his throat again and they veered suddenly to one side.
Patch’s grip wasn’t quite enough. He slipped forward and the hound swiped at him with its injured paw. The claws caught on Patch’s shoulder and yanked hard.
Patch fell. Above, he saw that the dragonhound still had its grip on Barver’s throat. Wren, barely managing to cling on, stared forlornly after him, just as they had watched Erner plunge barely a minute before.
He braced himself, but the first branch he hit took all the wind from him and knocked the knife from his hand. He knew there would be plenty of other painful branches before he reached the ground.
Patch stood as quickly as his shaky legs and rattled head would allow. He was in agony from head to toe, but nothing seemed broken; without the branches to slow his fall, he would certainly have fared much worse.
Although he’d been preoccupied with plummeting, he was certain he’d heard a crash nearby. He reckoned the battle in the air had lasted only a few more seconds after he’d left it.
Ahead, the tops of the trees had been broken here and there. He feared terribly for Wren and Barver. There was no noise, not even birdsong. Aware of every breath, every step, every crunch of leaf and snap of stick underfoot, he started to walk.
The treetops showed more and more signs of damage as he went. Then, there it was: a massive oak, once tall and proud, had been ripped apart by a great impact. The top third of the trunk had fallen to the ground, and the next third had been shattered. At the base, covered in broken branches and blood, was the still figure of Barver.
Patch remembered the first time he and Wren had met their friend, and how they’d assumed the dracogriff was dead, but this was different. The wounds on his neck glistened with fresh blood, and his head was twisted at an angle that filled Patch with dismay.
Yet the greatest fear of all struck him when he noticed one other detail.
The dragonhound was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly Patch realized that his own breathing sounded horribly loud. He held his breath and listened; the only thing he could make out was his heartbeat. Something small hit him on the head. He looked up and saw nothing, but another object came out of nowhere and got him square on the nose. This time he saw it hit the ground: an acorn.
“Wren?” he whispered, squinting to see if there was any sign of movement above him. He raised his voice a little. “Wren?”
He heard a distinct squeaking from above and peered harder, shading his eyes from the sun that was coming through the leaves. Nothing there…nothing there…
There! He could just about see Wren on a high branch, waving frantically.
“It’s all right, I see
you!” he said. His reassurance did nothing to calm her down. “I’m okay! A little bruised and battered, but—” He stopped, sensing something. Wren’s squeaking grew even more urgent, and he realized that what he’d taken as waving was actually pointing.
A little whimper came from his throat when he heard the sound of the dragonhound’s harsh panting behind him. He turned his head to see.
It was ten feet away, its muzzle soaked in Barver’s blood. There was red on its flanks from open cuts. He turned fully to face the massive beast, its head higher than Patch’s own. A vicious growl started up in the creature’s throat as it edged closer to him.
He felt oddly calm as he watched slobber drip from the jowls of the massive dog. Its eyes narrowed, and the growl became even more sinister. The animal was preparing to devour him. The calmness he felt was the expectation of death.
He hardly noticed the high-pitched squeal from above, even as the squeal grew louder and louder, nearer and nearer…
As one, Patch and the hound looked up to see a small shadow falling from the sky. Wren flopped onto the confused dragonhound’s head and clamped her teeth deep into the fleshiest part of its ear.
The hound let loose a terrible yowl and shook its head this way and that with greater and greater violence, trying to dislodge the insolent rat. Wren’s grip was firm, however, all four little claws clinging to the beast’s sparse fur, her mouth dripping with the hound’s blood just as the hound’s had dripped with Barver’s.
Back and forth the hound swung its head, yelping and angry, gnashing at the air. Patch backed away and watched in awe. The hound moved closer to the nearest tree and swung its head hard at the trunk, trying to catch Wren in the middle, but Wren was too quick, jumping to the other side of the head just in time. Without her tooth-hold on the ear, though, she was struggling to keep hold of the animal’s fur.
The hound sensed she was in trouble and quickly spun for another attempt at crushing her against the tree. With a howl it smashed its head at the trunk once more.
Patch closed his eyes, unable to look, but when he opened them again he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. The hound was motionless, its head pressed against the tree trunk, while Wren was on the back of its neck jumping up and down with her arms in the air.
Celebrating.
Then he saw: jutting from the beast’s neck was the sharp end of a broken branch, still attached to the trunk. Blood started to gush from the wound. The hound gasped, and its legs buckled, but it remained skewered to the tree. A final sigh came from the dragonhound as it died. Wren took a well-deserved bow, and Patch applauded the monster-killer rat. Nobody messes with Wren! she signed, before her triumphant expression turned to concern. Patch, you’re bleeding!
“I’m fine,” he said, but the encounter with the hound had made him forget the all-over pain he’d been feeling after the fall. His shoulder was the worst. Wren was right, he saw – there was blood seeping through his shirt. He put his hand to his shoulder blade and felt where the dragonhound’s claw had caught him. He pulled his hand back and saw the bright scarlet that covered it.
He wasn’t good with blood at the best of times, but when it was his own, he was absolutely useless. “Oh,” he said, and fell away in a dead faint.
Patch came round with Wren on his chest, squeaking at him.
Get up, she signed. We need to check on the big guy.
As he sat upright, she climbed up to his uninjured shoulder. He stood and started walking towards Barver’s motionless form, and each step felt like the ringing of a death knell. He could see the fear on Wren’s face, too.
Please let him be okay, she signed. Patch didn’t even attempt to reassure her. Things were bleak, and he didn’t think there was any chance at all that…
Barver sat up with a start and raised his arms defensively. “Yaar!” he yelled, his eyes still half-closed. “Where are you, foul creature?”
Wren squeaked with relief.
“Hello there!” shouted Patch. “We thought you were a certain goner this time!”
Barver blinked. “Where is it?” he said. His eyes settled on the dragonhound’s corpse. He flinched, then realized that the beast was dead. “Wow. How did that happen?”
“Wren killed it,” said Patch.
A slow grin spread across Barver’s face. He looked at Wren, and she told him the story of the dragonhound’s death. All hounds shall tremble when they hear me squeak! she signed.
Barver let out a delighted laugh. “I’ll make a legend out of you, Wren!” he said. He stretched, turning his head from side to side; a great crack came from his neck joints, making both Patch and Wren wince. The blood on Barver’s neck looked appalling.
“Hold on, Barver,” cried Patch. “You should lie still for a while yet. You’re badly injured!”
“What, this?” said Barver, gesturing to the wounds. “This is nothing. Looks much worse than it is, believe me.” He turned to the massive tree he’d collided with, and whistled. “Now that’s impressive! Luckily my head took the full force of the impact.”
There was no answer to that.
It seemed somehow wrong to Patch. There he sat, while Barver – covered in a ridiculous amount of his own blood – treated the gouge on Patch’s shoulder, using the ointment Brother Duffle had given him.
“I can’t believe that jar survived,” said Patch, as Barver packed the ointment away again.
Barver smiled. “I’m very careful.” Patch couldn’t help but look at the smashed oak beside them. Barver ran his hands over his own blood-soaked neck and winced.
“How is it?” said Patch.
“It smarts a little,” said Barver. “But I heal quickly. My wings and shoulders have always been the exception. If the hound had gone for those instead of my throat, it would have been a very different result.” He stretched out his wings and gave them an experimental flap. “They seem fine,” he said. His expression grew serious. Patch could see something in his eyes – a question that he’d known was coming. “I think it’s time you told me,” said Barver, grim. “What happened with Erner?”
With a heavy heart, Patch explained about Alia’s prophecy. Wren sat next to him, gloomy and silent.
“A tragic thing,” said Barver when Patch finished. “I always thought I had a good sense of people. On our journey from the Abbey I had no such inklings about Erner. Still, you two knew him far better than I did. Could the prophecy have been wrong?”
It was very specific, signed Wren. Every word he spoke was as Alia predicted.
“And his betrayal, Patch?” said Barver. “What could that have been? Would he have sent you back to the dungeons, did you think?”
“I didn’t have time to think,” said Patch. “In my mind I could just hear Alia’s instruction to get away as fast as possible. Now that it’s done, I don’t know if it was the right thing.” He hung his head. “It certainly doesn’t feel like it.” In his mind, he could see Erner swimming to the shore, and wondered if his Pipe had been lost as he fell. If so, he’d surely been captured by the mercenaries; what fate lay ahead for him?
“We must move on,” said Barver. “We can fret about such things later, but first we must decide on our plans. What are we going to do now?”
Wren explained everything that had happened when she and Erner had seen Underath.
“Then our course is clear,” said Barver. “I pledge myself to bring Underath’s griffin home. And you, Patch? Will you join me?”
“Of course,” said Patch.
I’m grateful, signed Wren. But not until you’ve completed your mother’s last request, Barver. I know how heavily that weighs on you. And then we must rest, for several days at least, before we set off to find the griffin.
“It might be longer than a few days,” said Patch. “We’ll need time to prepare. And more money.” He reached into his bag – still tied to Barver’s harness – and took out the Mask. “Should we head to the Islands, Barver? We’ll arrange to sell this as soon as possible.”
“And so a plan emerges,” said Barver. “To the Dragon Wastes for my mother’s last wish, and then on to the Islands of the Eastern Seas. Sell the Mask, cure Wren, and have adventures along the way!”
“Some safer adventures would be appreciated,” said Patch.
Barver grinned. “Understood! I’m sure we can manage that.”
Wren suddenly scampered up to Barver’s neck and gave him a hug.
Thank you! she signed. I thought you two were going to take me to my parents and make me stay behind!
“Leave you behind?” said Barver. “Unthinkable!”
Patch nodded, putting the Mask back in his bag, and as he did he noted Erner’s bag was still tied beside it. He could hardly even look at it. They had left Erner behind, and the thought made him feel sick. Never again.
“We stay together,” he said, “whatever happens.”
The flight to the Dragon Wastes was a revelation. Without the need to race ahead of certain death, Barver could take his time, making use of rising heat and wind coming off hills to maintain his height. The speeds they reached seemed impossible to Patch, travelling in a single day what might have taken months on foot. By nightfall they had landed at the coast, overlooking the sea from a high cliff.
The sea crossing would be the most dangerous part of the journey, a hundred miles without a place to land. With the sun setting behind them, the darkening waters ahead looked ominous.
They camped, and foraged some berries before the last of the light had gone.
Patch and Wren were anxious as they set off over the sea the next morning, but the weather stayed calm and the air was warm. For hours they soared, and at last the land came into sight. Vast cliffs rose out of the water, the rock a mixture of oranges and reds.
“The Dragon Wastes!” announced Barver. “Rock and desert, a bleak wilderness. We fly on until we see the Hands of the Gods. There, we’ll stop and locate the Sun Canyon.” He was in his element, relishing the updraughts as he glided effortlessly above the dramatic and barren terrain. Soon, shapes rose on the horizon: features that dwarfed everything else in the landscape.
A Darkness of Dragons Page 21