The Dragon Whisperer

by Lucinda Hare

  The stirrup was too long, so standing on tiptoes, she gave the gnome a hearty shove which nearly had him out of the saddle on the other side. 'See? It's quite easy and not so different to the wooden dragon. Now, do it again, except this time sit in the pillion saddle.'

  Root sat there, squirming, his short legs sticking out at ridiculous angles on the broad-backed dragon. The stirrups were so far out of sight he could barely see them.

  Quenelda moved along the dragon's flanks. 'So now we need to adjust your stirrups,' she said as she pulled the strap up to its shortest hole. 'Comfortable?' She moved round to the other side and adjusted that. 'How does that feel?'

  Root nodded cautiously, not trusting himself to speak. How was it supposed to feel? Mounting might be all right but, unlike its wooden counterpart, this dragon was breathing, its deep ribcage rising and falling beneath him. His heart felt as if it was about to burst, and his knees were knocking against the saddle.

  Quenelda mounted and turned to speak to him. 'You just sit and relax. Hang onto the pommel or me – and don't look down. Look at the horizon. Look at the mountains, not up nor down. Ready? I'm going to take us on a slow circuit of Dragonsdome.'

  She gathered up the reins. 'Remember there are three reins,' she told Root. 'The pitch bridle, the yaw bridle and the roll bridle. I'll teach you about them once you're ready to fly yourself. Meantime don't worry about them. Now, brace your legs ... No, no – just grip lightly or the dragon will think you're giving an instruction ... Lean forward slightly ... relax. Chasing the Stars will do the rest.'

  Root closed his eyes, feeling sick with fear. He could feel the dragon's hind legs gathering beneath him for takeoff, the whisper of her wings as she spread them. This was something the lifeless wooden dragon couldn't prepare him for. He gripped the pommel with all his might, and then he felt the dragon launching herself into the air.

  Quenelda kept her word. They flew so low that the dragon's wings brushed the wet bracken, her undulating tail powering her over fences, in between trees, braking, stalling, climbing, banking this way, then that. Root rapidly found out that height wasn't his main problem.

  Up ... down ... the dragon's leathery wings flapped. Rising ... falling ... rising ... falling ... The world wouldn't stop moving. He bounced in the saddle. The upward and downward motion was making him decidedly travel sick. It was as if his entire body was aware of the dragon's wing beat and nothing else. Even his heart appeared to beat to that rhythm. He watched the tendons that supported the leathery wings ripple beneath smooth skin as they swept around the great metal ribs of the training cage.

  'Root! Root!'

  'Maiden flight, Root! Way to go!'

  There were whoops of encouragement from inside the great glass and iron cage as Quester and a group of esquires spotted their low-level flight. Root plastered a sickly grin on his face and tried to straighten up and wave, and then they were past and he sagged miserably in the saddle.

  Unused to flying, he was already tiring with the effort of hanging on. His muscles were aching, burning. Sweat broke out on his forehead. His stomach was trying to tell him it wasn't happy. He burped. He felt clammy. Far from easing, his breathing grew ever more ragged. Eyes half closed, he swayed in the saddle. Up ... down. His pallor changed from red to chalk with a faint hint of green. He burped and put a hand to his chest. Up ... down ...

  He is burping like a babe – Chasing the Stars' laughter sounded in Quenelda's head. The dragon's ribcage vibrated beneath Root, making his toes tingle.

  Up ... down ...

  With a flood of self-pity, Root realized he was about to embarrass himself. Snatching up the bowl so thoughtfully provided by Tangnost, he surrendered his breakfast and his dignity.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Deadly Guild of Subtle and Cunning Assassins

  Every city has its slums. On the Black Isle, in the city of the Sorcerers Glen, they were called the Gutters; a ramshackle warren of filthy dark alleyways, crowded hovels and reeking factories down by the docks, where the impoverished and the unfortunate battled to survive. Every known race and creature in the Seven Sea Kingdoms was represented here, and whispered rumours told of other fearsome monsters that lurked in the overflowing sewers beneath the apothecaries' factories – twisted creatures created by the magical fallout that leaked out. Certainly, those who ventured into the sewers that honeycombed the island never returned to tell their tale. The city watch rarely ventured into these narrow streets and alleyways where life was held so cheaply, and money could buy anything, including murder.

  In one anonymous street amongst many, where the rickety five-storey buildings leaned so far over that they almost kissed their neighbours, was a dark dirty doorway. But unlike other doors here, this was set about with powerful wards and webs of concealment. For those who passed beneath this portal entered a hidden world that lay below the city: a labyrinth of secret corridors, rooms and cellars.

  In one such room, behind a desk, a dark-haired man sat with treason on his mind. Over the last thirty years he had perfected the business of murder – unofficially, of course. A rare talent for assassination had seen him rise quickly from the slums of the Gutters through the ranks of the Deadly Guild of Subtle and Cunning Assassins, a powerful and shadowy organization whose roots reached out like a canker into every aspect of life. His prodigious talent soon caught the eye of the Guild's Master of Assassins.

  With the hidden but deadly hand of the Guild behind him, he had entered the Sorcerers Guild as a novice and his gift for sorcery immediately caught the attention of the Grand Master. Within the year he was the Grand Master's novice and friend to Rufus DeWinter, son of the greatest Earl in the kingdom, and the secrets of the SDS were his.

  Then he found it: an ancient grimoire bound in dragonscales, in the distant recesses of Dragonsdome's great library, high in the ancient keep. All Guild novices were taught the dangers of forbidden Dark Magic. How Battle Mages who practised Maelstrom Magic in the Second Hobgoblin War, before its powers were truly understood, wreaked havoc and destruction. Initially wielding Dark Magic in defence of the kingdom, each in turn became corrupted by its all-consuming power, their minds eaten up till they became a danger to all and everything they had previously sworn to protect. It was the ultimate weapon of war – that was why it was named Maelstrom Magic, and those who practised it became warlocks.

  Turned to utter madness, warlocks were hunted down and killed like rabid wolves. The cost of the Mage Wars that followed was catastrophic – the weakened SDS nearly fell prey to the hobgoblin hordes overrunning the Seven Sea Kingdoms.

  But this did not deter young Hugo Mandrake: he opened the brittle pages of the grimoire and tasted the promise of true power. His meteoric rise to Grand Master was marred by mishaps but these were, at least initially, put down to the impetuousness of youth. After that he was more ... careful. He was charming, and his good looks opened every door. Soon he was being courted by high society. Women were spellbound by him. Men told him their secrets. Slowly, subtly, those who opposed him were discreetly threatened, bribed or removed. Within five years he had risen to the highest office of all, apart from the monarch. But he wanted more. Much more. His ambition knew no bounds.

  He soon tired of the petty politics of the Guild and began to explore the dark side of sorcery. Not for him the weak inept magic practised by the enfeebled Guilds, but the raw, unfettered magic of creation itself: the forbidden Maelstrom Magic, the very crucible from which the One Earth itself was forged: powerful predatory magic, always seeking dominion ... always seeking out susceptible minds. Like hobgoblin minds, empty of anything except the base urge to fight, to eat, to swarm like locusts across the land. Treacherous ... greedy ... susceptible hobgoblins ...

  And now, beneath the guise of friendship, he sowed dissent. Young Darcy was spoiled and inept: he would pose no threat once his father was dead. Indeed, the new Earl would owe him a debt of gratitude. The most powerful earldom in the Seven Sea Kingdoms and its magnificent drag
onstud would be his!

  The Grand Master of the Deadly Guild of Subtle and Cunning Assassins smiled. For once, the smile reached his dark intelligent eyes. He had nearly made a bad mistake, Galtekerion betraying too early that the hobgoblin tribes were now fighting as one. But it had turned out for the best. He now had two opportunities to destroy the Earl and the SDS.

  It was time to fetch his new dragon from the Killing Caves of the Westering Isles. Come darkfall, on the turn of the tide, he would set sail.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Flying High

  Filling a small fodder bag with tablets, Root made his way along the great paddock avenues, scanning the dragons on both sides, finally spotting Chasing the Stars resting on a roostpillar, wings fully spread, sun warming the delicate membranes of her wings.

  Root quietly opened the paddock gate and crossed to where she was perched. 'I've ...' The little gnome bit his lower lip and tried to stop his hand from shaking. 'I've brought you some tablets – dragon tablets, that is – dried thistle, molasses, um, and other tasty things ... I mean, tasty to a vegetarian dragon. Er, I'm a vegetarian too.' Nerves made his tongue run away with him and he found himself burbling nonsense, but couldn't seem to stop. 'Er, all gnomes, ah, we're all vegetarians. Just like you!'

  Approach slowly, head down, hands upturned, keeping eye contact to show you mean no harm. No sudden movements or noise. Then gently blow on their nostrils. They're very sensitive, Quenelda had told him. That way they'll learn to recognize you by smell. Then, if they like you, they'll rub against you, marking you with scent glands on their muzzles. It's their way of greeting you, of claiming you as a friend.

  Looking Chasing the Stars firmly in the eye – not that he would have dared to look away – Root moved towards the dragon, hand held out, palm up.

  'Steady there,' he said softly, as much to calm his own nerves as hers. 'S-steady, girl ...'

  His heart skittered and he squeaked as the dragon gave a single flap of her wings and swooped down to consider him gravely with bright, piercing eyes. Stepping forward and taking a deep breath, Root very gently blew on her velvety nostrils. They flared as she breathed in his scent. Then she blew gently against his upturned palm in return. The warmth travelled up his arm, turning to goose pimples that shivered across his neck. Root wriggled, partly with nerves and partly with pleasure. The dragon's breath was sweet and musty, like new-mown hay. Feeling a little more confident, he blew again.

  Chasing the Stars returned his blow, a little harder this time. Root blinked in surprise as a cloud of fine spray enveloped him. He blew again, harder, worried that he was not getting the message across.

  Chasing the Stars blew once more. Root shook his head and blinked as gooey saliva dripped down his face. He was about to blow again when an amused voice intervened.

  'You could be here all day just saying hello if you keep that up!'

  Root jumped in the air. 'Quenelda!' He glared at her. 'What a fright you gave me.'

  Quenelda grinned as she lounged against a paddock post. 'Every time you blow she's obliged to blow back. It's considered very discourteous if she doesn't.'

  'Oh.' Root felt a little silly.

  Quenelda snorted with laughter.

  He looked at her. 'What?'

  'Look at your boots. She's desperate for those tablets, but she can't take them until you invite her.'

  Root looked down: the dragon was drooling all over his new flying boots. 'Oh! I'm sorry.' He thrust his other hand forward. 'Here!'

  Chasing the Stars' tongue gratefully flicked out to scoop up all three tablets in one go. She crunched loudly and rolled her eyes, letting him know her appreciation. Her soft muzzle lipped at his hand. Root watched her, wide-eyed, until one of her stomachs began to rumble. Instinctively the gnome stepped away before remembering that Chasing the Stars was a herbivore.

  'She's purring,' Quenelda said. 'She likes you.'

  'She's what?' Root asked. 'Dragons purr? I thought that noise was indigestion ... or ... well, the battledragons make a noise like that when they're about to flame, don't they?'

  'No, silly! Listen!' Quenelda told him. 'Just listen ...'

  Root stood motionless as the rhythmic rumble that began in the dragon's belly worked its way up to her throat, where he could see the pulse beating. The sound rose and fell as she breathed in and out.

  Relaxing, Root smiled and shook his head in wonder as Chasing the Stars reached forward for more tablets. 'Dragons purr!'

  The flying lessons continued.

  Quenelda proved to be surprisingly patient, as if the gnome's success were the most important thing to her other than the time she spent with her father; and Root, once he got over his initial fear, found himself relaxing around dragons – at least around Chasing the Stars.

  Tangnost watched with approval as Quenelda set about teaching Root. Rarely had she been so disciplined. Normally tempestuous and headstrong, she managed to replace impatience with patience, recklessness with care and consideration. For the first time in her life she had to think about flying, think about dragons, and in doing so, although she didn't know it, she was learning a good deal too.

  Root quickly learned how to groom Chasing the Stars with coarse brushes that removed any parasites and sloughed off itchy loose skin. The mucking out, feeding and watering that he'd once thought of as chores had now become a source of pride as he began to compete with the other esquires.

  He gradually learned that Chasing the Stars liked to be tickled and scratched, especially between her wings where she couldn't reach very easily. Quenelda taught him how to pare her dark blue talons and oil them to stop them cracking in the cold weather. He spent hours rubbing in special birch balm – an unguent made from honey, birch sap and stag-toad spittle – that stopped the mare from getting cold sores and kept her skin supple.

  But his education didn't stop there. As an apprentice he'd already learned a little about tack – how to care for, clean and mend it – but he'd never actually had to put it on. And he'd learned the basics about husbandry – how to muck out and feed domestic dragons – but he'd never had to handle a dragon, had never even been close to one on his own. Now Quenelda introduced him to a whole new world.

  Slowly Root learned about a bewildering array of bits, each for a specific purpose or a specific breed of dragon; about bridles and the different types of saddle that were used for training, flying, jousting or warfare; and about dragon armour. A crinet, Quenelda taught Root, was made from overlapping plates of steel that protected the dragon's neck. The peytral was a single huge piece of hammered armour that protected the dragon's chest, while the shaffron was a piece of armour moulded to protect a battledragon's or battlegriff's head. Each and every piece was tailored for a specific dragon, which was measured in the deep dragonarmour pits with great callipers and leather tapes.

  Soon Root was lavishing all his spare time on the little dragon. On only their second week together, he was thrilled to find that when he called her, she came with eager bounds to nuzzle him affectionately, searching for titbits. He quickly learned that she had a passion for mushrooms and wandered through the woods with a sack slung over his shoulder. Best of all she liked nutsquash mushrooms, large thick chocolate-capped mushrooms with a nutty flavour that grew in the deep forest.

  With each passing week, gnome and dragon forged a closer bond. Once, when she had a mild dose of colic, Root insisted on slinging up his hammock in the roost with her until she was well again. Soon Quester was teasing him about the amount of time he spent in the dragon roosts, and Tangnost, noticing the gnome begin to put some weight back on and gain some colour in his cheeks, was quietly satisfied. Unlikely though it had seemed, it was clear to anyone watching that the Earl's daughter and her esquire had found friendship where they had least expected it.

  By now, whenever Quenelda wasn't studying with the esquires, they were flying out in the Sorcerers Glen; almost every day she and Chasing the Stars took Root a little higher and a little further from
Dragonsdome.

  'It feels strange.' Root had nervously shifted under the shoulder straps as Quenelda buckled his flying harness up for the first time.

  She nodded. 'It will do to start with, but if we fly high in Open Sky you'll appreciate it. Right,' she said, tightening one last buckle, satisfied the harness was a good fit. 'Now your equipment. Flying knife ...' She handed him a small sickle-shaped knife. 'It clips on here. Next, water bottle ... Always make sure it's full: fill it up at the water pump, or get some myrtleberry juice from the kitchens. It clasps on there, like mine. Compass into one of those pouches; telescope, a distress flare, some dragon tablets.' She grinned, handing over a pouch. 'Make sure you hide them well from a certain dragon. And finally, I just raided the kitchens for some spiced scones – those are for you. And we'll need these ...' She went over to where brightly coloured bundles hung from pegs.

  'What are those?' Root had seen them slung on saddles but had never known what they contained.

  'These are your dragonwings,' Quenelda explained, unpacking one and shaking out the crumpled contents. 'They're made from the shed skins of juvenile dragons – attached to a willow frame and bound with runes. You put them on like this, buckled up, and then you can clip this ring onto your saddle. So if you ever fall – although of course Chasing the Stars won't let you – your wings open automatically. Or you pull the cord yourself, like this.'

  Root sprang back as the wings snapped into position, pulling the dragonskin taut. They made Quenelda look like an oversized fruit bat.

  'But ... but,' Quenelda repeated, seeing the gnome's horrified face, 'it won't happen. You won't need it. Honestly, you won't fall.'

  It wasn't easy. Whenever the dragon dipped or turned – or, worse, when she suddenly climbed or banked – Root's instinct was still to lean the other way.

  'Ride with her.' Quenelda leaned forward behind him and gripped him firmly by the shoulders. 'Always ride with your dragon. Lean into her. Trust her to find the right balance ... relax. Find the rhythm so that you're moving with her, as if you are part of her. Right now you're getting thrown to and fro; you've no control. You're bumping around all the time. No wonder you've got saddle sores. And lean forward as her wings go down, back as they go up. She'll look after you.'