by Lucinda Hare
Root's other problem was travel sickness. He opened one eye. Bad idea. The world moved. Up, down ... up, down ... Sweat broke out on his brow. He swayed in the saddle as his stomach complained. 'I ...' he panted, on the verge of panic. 'I ...'
'Oh, you'll grow out of it, lad.' Tangnost grinned, slapping him heartily on the back after one particularly bad session. 'I was sick when I first flew too! Ain't natural to be in the air unless you've got wings! Dwarfs are used to having two feet firmly on the ground. In fact our natural inclination is to live underground. Tell you what, my third cousin on my sixth sister's side is medicine man for our clan. He brewed up something disgusting. It helped me.'
And so it did. The noxious brew was so disgusting that Root had to concentrate hard on not being sick when he drank it: before he knew it, the queasiness had passed.
As the nights drew in, they sat in the hay lofts above the warm flatulence of the roosts, and Quenelda taught the gnome hand signals so that when they were flying they could 'talk' to other flyers. Root showed her his growing collection of sketches. Quenelda took some of Two Gulps for her chambers and decided to ask him to paint one of Stormcracker to give her father at the Yule festival. She in turn showed him her weather and star charts and taught him how to use the small brass compass. Then, as the month turned and the mountainsides were buried beneath another heavy snowfall, Quenelda decided Root was ready to take the pilot's seat.
The belfry struck half past the Hour of the Yawning Dormouse. Quester groaned and snuggled down beneath his quilt. The bed ropes creaked as Root bounded out of the bunk below. It was freezing, and with midwinter approaching, it was pitch-dark. The little pot-bellied stoves that kept the dormitories warm overnight had long since grown cold. Shivering, Root quickly pulled on a woollen overshirt, padded jerkin and leather breeches over his underclothes, then buckled up his flying boots.
Quester looked down at him, hair tousled, eyes blinking owlishly in the near dark. 'Root?' he hissed, putting his hand out blindly. 'What on the One Earth are you doing? It's still night time.'
'I'm flying today,' Root whispered. 'I just want to make sure everything is perfect—'
'Dragon's teeth!' Quester sat up, suddenly awake. 'Do you want a hand?'
'No, I have to do this all by myself or I won't be much good to her as an esquire. But thanks.' Root took his friend's clasped hand.
'Good luck,' Quester offered. 'I know you'll do fine!'
'Ready?' Quenelda prompted him. It was late afternoon and the day had been gruelling for all three of them.
Root gripped the reins and kept his eyes screwed tight shut. He touched the carved wood and bead amulets he wore around his neck and kissed them for luck. It seemed like a dream. He, of all people, was in a dragon's saddle, in the pilot's seat! Esquire to Lady Quenelda! How proud his father would have been.
They were perched on a ridge, high on the Dragon's Spine Mountains, with a bitter wind whistling around them. Dark clouds were scudding across the sky, driving the sun towards the horizon. Below their perch, an underground river hurtled out before crashing down into the steep gorge below. Root knew that when he opened his eyes he would be looking westwards, down upon the fifteen miles of the Sorcerers Glen.
He touched his flying harness for reassurance, shifting the unaccustomed weight of the dragonwings, feeling the cord attached to his saddle that would automatically open them if he fell. Satisfied, he opened his eyes a fraction and scratched Chasing the Stars on the withers – the ridge behind her shoulder blades where neck and back were joined – just to feel her reassuring purr. He opened his eyes fully. The distant world below rushed up to greet him.
Scores of tiny galleons and tall clippers, sails plump in the wind, rode the white caps of the sea loch thousands of feet below, their crews just tiny specks in the rigging, lanterns already lit against the coming night. A forest of flagged masts crowded the harbours that ringed the city. Tiny figures and wagons crammed the four causeways that linked the Black Isle to the glen.
Far to the west lay Dragon Isle and the endless Inner Sea that rolled to the horizon like a carpet of slate-blue. Root risked a glance upwards at the yawning expanse of Open Sky, at the scores of dragons to-ing and fro-ing across the glen and beyond, but the moving clouds made the world dip and he felt faint. He hurriedly looked down.
Quenelda's cough broke into his thoughts. 'Any time you're ready,' she suggested. 'It's a little cold to be sitting still up here. Remember, just a gentle kick and lean backwards as she swoops down. That way you won't feel like you're going to fall forwards out of the saddle.'
Root nodded wordlessly and swallowed down his fear. He could feel the power of Chasing the Stars' bunched muscles barely held in check against his knees; her eagerness to fly.
'Come on, girl,' he whispered. 'Don't let me down.' Then he gently flicked the reins and touched his boots to the dragon's shoulders; his other hand, hidden by his cloak, gripped the pommel.
With a terrifying suddenness that still took Root by surprise, Chasing the Stars sprang forwards and took to the air. His stomach rose into his throat as they dropped down for a heart-stopping five seconds into the spray-filled gorge. The water thundered around them. A million tiny droplets misted Root's visor, combining to drip off his nose.
Down ... down ... Root opened his mouth to scream.
'Ooouf!' Knees weak with nerves, he was winded as the dragon's wings swept down and the saddle rose up. He'd lost a stirrup. He was going to fail!
Wind whistled through his open visor and his eyes streamed with the cold. For the briefest moment of pure fear he hung there ... Then the dragon's wings swept up and she dropped again before levelling out. He found the stirrup and took up the reins again.
There were a few moments of silence, then he leaned forwards and touched a hand to the dragon's shoulder; his heartbeat slowed and his vision cleared. The first stars were breaking through the indigo sky above. The crescent moons would soon be rising. Hugging the contours of the mountainside, the dragon swept down towards the loch, rudely scattering a flock of geese, heading for the lights of Dragonsdome. Root felt the joy of flight grip him; felt Chasing the Stars leap forward in response.
'I can fly!' he shouted as the wind thundered in his ears and his spirit soared. 'Chasing the Stars, I can fly!'
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Killing Caves
The witching hour was approaching. As tattered rain clouds swept over the crescent moons, their light was extinguished, hiding the ships swiftly approaching a rocky island far, far out to sea in the Westering Isles.
Galtekerion, surrounded by his elite hobgoblin bodyguard, watched idly from the mouth of a great sea cavern as the two ships anchored in the bay: one was an oceangoing galleon, the other a swifter inshore cutter. His bone-armour breastplate was covered in the trophies of war – rotting skulls and hanks of hair. A necklace with a single huge dragontooth marked his lordship over the tribes.
Using a splinter of bone, Galtekerion was picking his teeth, chewing the last few stringy morsels of dwarf flesh. There was a lack of dragonmeat and his warriors were loudly complaining. Whale and squid were poor substitutes, and the hobgoblins needed better sustenance if they were to survive hibernation and the coming winter. It was bitterly cold. The frost moons were already waning, and some of his warriors were already slipping into the torpor of hibernation, their movements sluggish, their breath shallow. If there was to be a battle, it would have to be soon, before they ran out of food.
The deep sea sucked endlessly at the shingle shore, rattling pebbles as it drew out, only to return, its soft language as familiar to Galtekerion as the salt spray that cooled him. The whole island was a boiling, crawling mass of movement, busy as a termite mound, and with every moment more hobgoblins were hopping out of the sea to flop onto the seaweed-covered rocks. Several hundred were stripping two whales to the bone. There would soon only be skeletons left.
The ships' sails were furled and gangplanks crashed onto the rocks. A smal
l group from the lead galleon disembarked, led by a dark-cloaked figure.
Shivering slightly – and not from the cold – Galtekerion wondered yet again who the approaching sorcerer was. The very air seemed to bend and warp around him; Galtekerion could sense a faint concealed emanation of Dark power – suppressed, hidden – which made his skin itch with foreboding. He knew what this
sorcerer was: a warlock, a sorcerer who had turned to the blackest side of magic. A renegade with a single-minded purpose: to raise the Dark rule of Maelstrom over the world. A renegade who had helped him to rise from petty tribal leader to leader of all the hobgoblin banners, slowly shaping an undisciplined horde into an army. The thirteen tribes had pledged allegiance to him, but he in turn had pledged allegiance to this warlock. But who the warlock was he was no closer to learning.
'Welcome, SSSSorcerer Lord,' Galtekerion hissed, fist on chest in salute, in the manner of his tribe. 'Welcome to the Killing Cavesssss.'
'Galtekerion.' The Grand Master curtly acknowledged the hobgoblin with a brief bow of his hooded head. The sorcerer's clothes were all the shades of night, his face covered by a mask. The eyes behind were pools of darkness.
'You have news, lord?'
The figure nodded his assent. 'The time has come to prepare your warriors.' His voice was low and menacing.
Galtekerion nodded. 'Come then, lord ...' He indicated the cavern behind them.
The entrance was dark, lit only by a few damp fires of heather and dried kelp, enough to see by but unable to banish the frigid air. Above their heads rusty cages strung overhead clanked and swayed in the offshore breeze.
'Perhaps,' the sorcerer suggested, once seated, 'attacking the fortress was too bold a step. The SDS now know that the tribes have united. They grow suspicious, and the Guild fear you as never before. The SDS intend to strike before the tribes swarm again in the spring when the snows melt. They are preparing to move against you in the depths of winter, when the land is locked by snow and the sea is freezing.'
'They will campaign over winter?' Galtekerion was surprised.
The Grand Master nodded. 'When your warriors hibernate in the cave pools.'
'Ssssssssssssssss ...' Galtekerion's chilling hiss of displeasure was taken up by his bodyguard; it spread throughout the caverns. 'What strength will they throw against us?'
'Three full SDS regiments ... and the First Born.'
'Sssssssssss.' Galtekerion sucked his lips. 'The First Born ...'
'No one has ever campaigned over winter. With the storms and blizzards that close the shipping lanes and clog the glens, flying conditions will be extremely difficult. And these islands drift far from any of their support bases, so they believe they will catch you totally unprepared as your warriors emerge from hibernation; they will trap you in the caves and then hunt your army to extinction – or at least break the tribal alliance. But we will reverse the trap. You come out of the sea and surround them. I will bring Razorbacks to bear your warriors.'
'These dragonsss will bear usss?' Galtekerion's doubt was evident. The hatred between dragons and hobgoblins was as old as time itself.
'Yes, my magic has worked well. These Razorbacks ... these dragons are part hobgoblin themselves.'
Galtekerion's tongue flicked out in nervous anticipation. 'But even with your dragons, they could still defeat us. My army is only uneasily united. The young warriors obey, but their discipline is poor. And the older warriors are slow to change their ways, slow to accept my leadership. Each tribal leader bargains hard, holds their greatest warriors back. The tribes have not fought enough battles together. If I am not present, each clan soon fights for itself, each warrior upholds his own honour.'
'That is true.' The Grand Master nodded. 'But the Dragon Lords took heavy losses during their last campaign. Our co-ordinated attacks stretched them thin. They need to rest, refit, re-armour and recruit to bring their regiments up to full strength. That is why we shall lure them out now, three moons before they are ready.'
'And how, lord, do we lure them here?'
'My plan is simple. We will give out that you have died of wounds taken in battle and that the thirteen tribes are gathering at the Killing Caves to choose a new leader. It will be the perfect time for the SDS to strike, ready or not. We shall ensure that their spies learn of this, but only a few will return to Dragon Isle to make the tale convincing. We will bait a trap the SDS commander cannot ignore. They will come to us when we are ready and they are not.'
'When will they come?' Galtekerion's cold bulbous eyes gleamed slightly in the dark. His bone necklaces clacked and rattled.
'When the moons have waned and full dark falls. They will deploy commandos – Sabretooths and Vipers to the centre of the island and the Imperials around the perimeter. They will use dragonfire and the Bonecrackers to drive your warriors out of the caves and into the maws of their cloaked dragons.'
'Sssssssssssssssssssssss ...' The hobgoblins hissed through their ragged teeth, the sound blending with the sucking of the sea. Fire – how the hobgoblins hated fire! Especially the dragonfire that burned slowly and ate them up.
'You will be ready and waiting, concealed deep in the cave pools. I have camouflaged my Razorbacks. When they lie still, they look like rocks on the shoreline. Galtekerion, listen well. I want none to escape this trap. Make sure they all die. Sacrifice as many of your banners as it takes to obliterate the SDS. Let Dragon Isle wonder what has happened to it – the Guild and court will fear you all the more.
'When it is time, when I know when the strike will take place, when I know what they plan, I shall call your warriors as I always have, so that you may prepare. I may have weapons.'
'Weapons? Ssssssorcerer weaponsss?'
The Grand Master nodded.
'My lord, they shall be there at your castle, awaiting your word.'
'And now' – the Grand Master turned his attention to another matter – 'you have had one of my dragons for three moons. Is it well trained?'
'Come, my lord ... ' Galtekerion beckoned. 'Let me ssshow you your dragon. We have kept sssome prisssoners for your entertainment.'
Boom ... boom ...
The tribal drums began, beating out a tattoo on their dragonskulls, their rhythms gradually blending into a single eerie and terrifying sound. All along the shoreline, the mass of hobgoblins was moving as one swarm.
Boom ... boom ... boom ...
Gradually warlord and warlock made their way to a viewing platform attached by rusting chains to the rock face; here a great pit darker than the night sky yawned before them. Its walls rose sheer to three hundred feet from the rocks below, up to where the hobgoblins jostled and pushed to see the entertainment in the Killing Caves. Brands soaked in pine resin and sheep fat flickered and smoked. Their fitful light barely illuminated the cages hanging from great iron hooks driven into the stone, and the rotten wooden platforms that jutted out from the pit walls.
The throbbing of drumbeats pounded out and echoed. Boom ... boom ... boom ...
As he looked down, the Grand Master could see hands reaching out through the bars. Dwarfs. The hobgoblins' hated foes: Bonecracker commandos.
The drums beat to a frantic crescendo of sound, then abruptly stopped.
'Release the prisssonersss,' Galtekerion commanded. 'Make them walk the plank.'
'Walk the plank! Walk the plank! '
The Grand Master could smell the hobgoblins' blood lust growing, the mindless violence barely held in check. So much depended upon the tribes laying aside centuries of conflict and rivalry.
The cages were winched in. As their chains were loosed, one by one the dwarf prisoners were forced to the end of the plank by spears and bone flails. They were all wounded, some of them barely conscious. The dying fell with a silent thud to the floor. Those who survived the fall took up the shields and axes thrown down to them and stood back to back in a shield formation, protecting their injured comrades.
'Releassse the dragon!' Galtekerion cried.
&nb
sp; A sudden hush fell. In the eerie silence, the Grand Master could hear heavy ragged breathing, the scraping of talons on rock, the clink of harness. Two great hobgoblin warriors started to crank a rusting iron handle. Chains rattled as an iron portcullis rose slowly, grating, grinding, setting the warlock's teeth on edge.
A sturdy black dragon the colour of midnight darted into the cave. A hobgoblin reined it in and walked it steadily around the dwarfs. Quietly, calmly, it circled them, ignoring them despite the smell of blood.
Good, the warlock thought. Good. It must have self control. Must hold back until commanded ...
'Attack!' The Grand Master's voice rang out. The hobgoblin relaxed his hold.
Suddenly the dragon hurled itself into the pit. There was a scream as a dwarf's body was flung against the side of the arena. Then the dragon resumed its silent circling. It struck again, but the dwarfs fended it off, their shield wall holding.
The gathered hobgoblins began to shout, to jeer at their prisoners. The pounding of drums resumed. The warriors banged weapons – bone flails, long serrated swords and spiked spears – against their shields.
Boom ... boom ... boom. The rhythm reverberated through the air.
The dragon attacked, this time knocking a shield aside to pluck a wounded dwarf from inside the shield wall. With a war cry, a second dwarf broke ranks to attack the dragon, light glinting on his axe as it arced down to strike. The dragon did not flinch as the blade skittered across its hide but calmly beheaded its attacker with a single swipe of its talons.
This was repeated a dozen times. The dragon was stepping over bodies – joints cracked, skulls burst beneath its weight like dried seaweed. The shield wall dwindled. Finally the dragon was given free rein and one by one the remaining dwarfs met their wretched end.