Or perhaps that was not his intent at all. Perhaps he had much worse in mind…
Gabriella tried to scream through the layers of sleep. She switched on the frozen ground, kicking off the cloak she had covered herself with. Featherbolt awoke. He withdrew his head from beneath his wing and peered at his sleeping companion. She moaned and tossed by the light of the goblinfire, her hair falling over her face.
"No…," she muttered. "No, Goethe. Get out of the black light. You're just a shadow, a shade. You're dead. Don't…" She shifted plaintively, her moans growing panicked, her voice clearing, turning gradually into shouts. "No, Goethe! It is Merodach! He dabbles and despoils! Don't make them puppets of the black light! No! NO!!"
And yet she did not awaken. She rolled fitfully onto her side and let out a long, diminishing moan. Tears wet her cheeks. Shortly, however, her restlessness subsided. Her breathing became even again. The tension leaked out of her sleeping face.
Featherbolt watched this intently. He hopped closer, moving into the light of the fire, and stood near Gabriella's shoulder. The dream had spent itself for now. He clicked his beak and shook his feathers.
He did not sleep for the rest of the night.
In the morning, Gabriella dug in her pack, seeking any crumb of food that might be left. She found the acorns that she had tucked away earlier, the ones that had come in the mysterious pile of berries. She ate them. They were extremely tough and tasted like mouldy parchment, and yet her stomach attacked them eagerly. A small surge of energy fanned out in her veins, making her feel slightly light-headed.
She turned the energy towards walking.
The sun burnt through the clouds as it rose, turning the snowy hills into a sparkling tableau. Gabriella crossed this doggedly, aiming for the distant mountain peaks.
Her mind wandered. Daydreams of her youth preoccupied her for unknown lengths of time. In them, she thought of her mother. Gabriella was a small child sitting on her mother's lap and listening to stories. Her mother turned the pages of the storybooks, and the colourful drawings seemed to come alive. Happy green dragons flew off the paper and carried her away, lifting her into gold-rimmed clouds and warm, blue skies. Her mother's voice followed her, telling the tale, and Gabriella realised that she was remembering the sound of her mother's actual voice, something she believed she had long ago forgotten.
Her feet plowed onwards, drawing troughs through the snow, and Gabriella came back to herself as if from a long distance. There were tears standing in her eyes. Hunger was making her faint, and the faintness was taking the form of delirium. She did not fight this. The visions were better than the constant trudge of her footsteps or the frustrating monotony of the snowy hills.
The mountain peaks remained as far away as ever.
"I have to make it," she panted to Featherbolt as he wheeled overhead. "I have to stop Merodach. If I kill him, it will be over. His armies will stop. Camelot will stand. Everything will be saved. Everything will be saved…"
She repeated the mantra to herself, forcing herself onwards, defying the growing weakness of her body. Time was running out, she knew. Merodach's armies may well have already reached Camelot. If she did not find the warlord and kill him very soon, then all would be lost. Darrick and Rhyss would be unavenged, and those that remained would be hunted down and killed. Camelot would fall, and everyone she loved would die.
Thinking this, using it like a whip on her weary body, Gabriella trudged onwards.
Another night. Another spate of fever dreams. And yet, at dawn, she forced herself to continue on.
"He said that I would make it," she breathed, stumbling forwards through the snow. "Coalroot. Said I would confront Merodach. It was… it was my destiny, he said. I won't starve. I won—"
She fell forwards into the snow, and did not know it.
Sometime later, Featherbolt was nuzzling at her, pecking gently at her ear. The warmth of his feathers was pressed against her cheek. Her other cheek was numb with cold, packed into the snow.
She groaned and pushed herself to her knees. Her eyes felt gummed shut with ice.
"Featherbolt," she whispered, rubbing her face. "What happened…?"
He screeched, and she finally forced her eyes open. She looked around and saw the falcon standing on the pale haft of her driftwood torch. Its blunt end was buried in the snow. The goblinfire had been snuffed out.
"Oh no!" she moaned pathetically, reaching for the pale wood. She picked it up, peered at its end. The wood was completely unmarked, cold as bone. "No… no…," she repeated, scolding herself. "How could I have been so careless?"
Featherbolt jumped into the air and landed on her shoulder. He pressed himself against her cheek, as if urging her onwards, but Gabriella merely stared at the cold torch in her hand. It had become a symbol of her quest. It was hopeless. Regardless of what Coalroot had said, she would die on the steppe, starved and frozen stiff.
She dropped the torch and sat back on her haunches. For several minutes, she merely watched the declining sun, chilled so deeply that she no longer even shivered.
Then, simply because she did not know what else to do, she struggled to her feet. Slowly, haltingly, she began to walk again.
The sun lowered until it kissed the western horizon. Gabriella's shadow stretched beside her like an arrow. Featherbolt launched from her shoulder and soared up into the copper glow of the sunset. He would find his own dinner and bring her back half of it. This time, she knew she would eat it if she could.
She trudged onwards.
There was a flicker of movement in a nearby strand of bushes. Gabriella saw it and stopped abruptly, scanning the shadows. The tawny flank of a large hare could be seen through the frosted grass. Its ears were perked upright, and its beady eyes were turned towards her, watching her brightly.
Gabriella barely allowed herself to breathe. There was no chance she could catch the hare, of course. It would bolt at her slightest movement. Still, her stomach growled audibly, painfully, at the sight of it.
She couldn't help herself. She began to creep towards it, biting her lip with concentration.
The hare watched. When she had approached it enough that her shadow moved over the bushes, it leapt. One bounding jump took it out of the weeds and onto the snow of the receding slope.
"Wait!" Gabriella exclaimed desperately, halting and raising her hands, palms out.
Amazingly, the hare did. It stopped a safe distance away, turned, and stood up on its hind legs, its nose twitching.
Gabriella inched forwards. Her breath came in shallow pants. "Please do not go," she pleaded. "Please, just… just wait…"
The hare watched her intently as she crept closer. She hunkered low, trying to make herself small. With deliberate slowness, she reached up and touched the sigil that hung at her throat. She resisted the urge to sob with desperate frustration.
"Just wait," she breathed faintly. "Do not run…"
The hare's nose twitched. Its eyes tracked the motion of her hand as she touched the sigil, felt its secret warmth. Gabriella was nearly close enough to leap upon the creature. Only two more steps… one…
The hare twitched, spun on the snow, and bounded away.
Gabriella watched this, her expression unchanging, her fingers still touching the falcon sigil. The sound of the hare's movements receded into silence as it crested the next hill, leaving only its tracks in the snow.
Slowly, Gabriella lowered her hand. Her strength left her, and she fell ponderously to her knees, and then forwards onto her face. She tried to crawl, pulled herself nearly to the top of the next slope, and then failed.
The wind blew over her, carrying tendrils of snow. It felt so very good just to lie down. She barely even felt the cold any more. Behind her, the sun finally dipped below the horizon. The world turned deep blue, tinged with bronze.
A ripple of disturbed air buffeted Gabriella, but she didn't look up. Perhaps it was Featherbolt returning with a scrap of rodent. She waited.
Instead of the soft nuzzle of his wing on her cheek, however, the ground shuddered with a series of surprisingly heavy thumps, emanating from the slope directly ahead of her. A gust of warm air blew back over the hillside, riffling the icy grass and lifting the hair from her brow.
Gabriella attempted to raise her head. Something very large loomed before her, making a huge, dark blot against the snow and sky. It was approaching slowly, raising and lowering its great, clawed feet, shuddering the ground with its weight.
He's tracked me all this way, she thought blandly. He's come to devour me in my weakness. Let him. Let him eat me and be done with it… Then from another, fevered part of her mind: Perhaps it is the storybook dragon from my daydream. Perhaps he has come to spirit me away to happy clouds and warm sunlight…
A low, gurgling growl arose from the depths of the beast's throat. The strength of its exhalation blew over Gabriella's face. It stank of rotten meat and chemical. She felt its shadow move over her, heard the subtle scrape of its leathery skin. Its jaw creaked as it opened wide.
And then, unexpectedly, a large weight dropped to the ground directly in front of Gabriella. She startled despite her weakness and lifted her head. Her eyes widened slightly. Slowly, unblinking, she pushed herself back onto her knees.
The dragon took a massive step backwards. Its orange eyes surveyed her meaningfully, and a grating rumble uncoiled from deep in its throat. In front of the dragon's feet, lying on the snowy ground between it and Gabriella, was an enormous dismembered leg. It had belonged to one of the chortha, although the trickling blood implied that this was a fresh kill.
The fur was almost entirely burnt off of it. Its meat was already cooked.
There was a flicker of dark wings, and suddenly, Featherbolt landed atop the gigantic flank, fearlessly ignoring the great dragon behind him. He pecked at the singed meat, tore off a strip, and gobbled it greedily.
Gabriella stared at the steaming hunk of beast, then over it, to the waiting dragon. The smell of meat, tainted by the dragon's breath as it was, acted like evil magic on her stomach. It growled eagerly. Was it a trap? A trick? A figment of her delirious imagination? She crept forwards almost involuntarily.
The dragon watched, exhaling great, low gusts of heat.
Gabriella touched the flesh of the dismembered leg. Slowly, casting a glance up at the watching dragon, she drew her sword, cut off a strip of the meat, and smelled it. A moment later, she devoured it. A wave of dizziness and warmth washed over her as the sustenance sank into her stomach.
The dragon observed this stoically. Then it coiled low to the ground, snarled a puff of blue fire, unhinged its wings, and threw itself up into the darkening air. Snow swirled as it swooped overhead and wheeled around in a wide arc. It landed again some distance away, dropping to a strangely disgruntled crouch with its head lifted, watching. After a moment, it furled its wings and lay down. Its orange eyes glowed in the dimness.
Still perched atop the steaming hunk of leg, Featherbolt let out a screech. He bent and tore off another chunk of meat.
Feeling like someone in a very strange dream, Gabriella looked from the dismembered leg to the dragon and back again. The bite of meat in her belly called hungrily for another.
She ate.
Heat and strength flowed into her with astonishing quickness. She scooped handfuls of snow and consumed those as well, quenching her thirst.
When she looked up again, stopping her meal before she overwhelmed her stomach, the moon was high overhead. Stars spread across the sky like silver dust.
The dragon had crept closer. It lay full-length on the snowy hill, its head no more than ten paces away. Snow had melted around it, revealing the dead yellow grass of the steppe. Its orange eyes were half-lidded but opened up fully as Gabriella rose to her feet. A puff of blue flame blew from its nostrils.
Deliberately and carefully, Gabriella approached the dragon.
When she was three paces away, the dragon raised its great head and breathed a long, grating growl, lifting its lips to show rows of dagger-like teeth. Gabriella stopped for a moment. She stared into the beast's orange eyes, and then began to move forwards again.
The dragon arose suddenly, keeping its head low, and drew back a step. A deep snarl rumbled in its throat. Ribbons of smoke began to issue from its nostrils.
A shudder of fear shook Gabriella. And yet she continued to move forwards, slowly raising her right hand, palm out, fingers spread. The falcon sigil swung at her throat. She sensed it there, felt its warmth against her skin.
She touched the dragon's great, scaly snout. It was hot and hard, rough to the touch. Slowly, barely breathing, she stroked it.
"It's all right," she whispered, her voice trembling faintly. "I know how difficult this must be for you."
Gradually, the dragon seemed to relax. Together, the young woman and the dragon stood there in the moonlight. Some distance away, Featherbolt perched on the remains of the dismembered leg, watching with interest, his head cocked to one side.
Eventually, Gabriella drew back. She felt more alive and awake than she had in weeks. She turned her back on the dragon and began to scout carefully around the hills, seeking scraps of wood to use for a fire.
When she was through, she piled them into a small, neat stack.
The dragon lit it.
When morning came, she found that the dragon had distanced itself again. It lay several hills away, making a brownish lump against the dawn sky. Its head lifted as she stood up.
The fire had burnt down to embers, but heat still radiated from it, making a dry circle of dead grass on the hill. Gabriella breakfasted on more of the dismembered chortha leg, then carefully cut and wrapped several strips of the now cold meat. These, she placed in her pack. As she slung it onto her back, Featherbolt screeched once and leapt to her shoulder with a flurry of brown wings.
She began to walk again. She had only gotten a few paces when the dragon launched itself into the air with a great clap of its wings. It swooped low over the snow, racing its shadow, and then landed with disconcerting heaviness directly in front of Gabriella. It lowered its head and stared at her, its orange eyes blazing intently. Heat snuffed at her from its flared nostrils.
"What?" she said, willing herself not to step backwards. Perhaps the dragon had rethought the logic of their strange alliance. Perhaps its violent, bestial nature was reasserting itself. Gabriella swallowed hard. "What do you want? You're… er… in my way."
The dragon growled. The noise of it was like gravel in a deep, muddy well. Its breath hissed, hot as a furnace.
With a force of will, Gabriella moved to walk around the dragon. It watched her piercingly. When she moved past its extended head, the great beast reared up. A gust of flame melted the snow where she had been standing moments before, and Gabriella halted, her hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of her sword. Featherbolt startled and took off. The dragon leapt nimbly but heavily backwards, its claws tearing ragged, dark strips in the hilltop. Once again, it blocked her path and lowered its head to face her.
Gabriella stared at it. If its intention was to eat her, she thought darkly, then it would have done so already. She tilted her head at it and frowned.
Overhead, Featherbolt circled against the brightening sky. He screeched impatiently.
"You want me…," Gabriella mused aloud, "to… ride you?"
The dragon huffed. It did not understand her words, and yet it regarded her meaningfully, as if trembling on the verge of non-verbal communication. Tentatively, she reached out to the dragon's snout again. Its nostrils flared at the scent of her nearness. She touched it, and it flinched slightly, as if fighting the urge to snap her arm off at the shoulder.
She moved aside the massive head, trailing her hand along the line of its shut mouth. Snaggles of fangs protruded up and down along the lips, forming an interlocking mesh. Gabriella touched one of the teeth. Its edge was serrated, sharp as broken glass. The dragon did not move but watched her warily. Slowly, Gabriell
a moved past the head, still drawing her hand along the scaly skin, feeling the bundle of monstrous jaw muscles and the tensed sinews of the long neck. The plates of the dragon's spine jutted up in a line over her, casting her in their shadow. There was a break in them between the beast's shoulder blades. As Gabriella neared this, the dragon hunkered lower, kneeling on the snow and pressing its belly flat to the ground.
Gabriella stopped. She was terrified at what she was about to do, and yet she knew she must attempt it. The dragon was apparently not going to let her pass on foot. If the beast was indeed going to let her ride it, however, she might actually get to Merodach and his citadel in time to stop the attack on Camelot.
Still, she thought fearfully, that is a very big if.
She steeled her nerve and reached up, hooking her hand around the rough edge of the nearest of the dragon's spinal plates. The beast did not move. Holding her breath, Gabriella placed her foot on the dragon's bent shin, using it like an enormous step, and pushed herself up. A moment later, with a heave and a turn, she straddled the dragon's neck, fitting herself into the narrow gap of its spine plates. She was positioned above the very base of the neck. The bony humps of the dragon's shoulders were behind her on either side.
The beast inhaled. She felt the expansion of its chest, the subtle lift of its spine. Then, with a whump of air and motion, the wings unfurled. She sensed the shadow of them fall over her and barely had time to embrace the spinal plate ahead of her before the dragon kicked massively upwards, hurling itself into the air. The wings clapped down, catching the air and tossing snow up in swirling clouds. Gabriella hugged the rough plate of the dragon's back and squeezed her eyes shut. Her stomach sank away as the dragon bore her up, up, accelerating into the cold sky. The enormous, leathery wings pounded the air, making a noise like ocean waves, only faster and deeper.
Ruins of Camelot Page 20