Moon Crossing - A Fellhounds of Thesk Story

by Farr, Cathy;

  ‘And Gisella?’ thought Wil.

  His heart quickened slightly as Phinn’s own concern merged with his – but Wil could sense that the Fellhound knew she was still alive.

  Desperately worried, Wil drew his cloak tight around him. Despite her scales, the Redback felt warm beneath the cloth. The baby dragon was tucked down behind her wing on the other side of her bony spine. Wil did the same and was surprised how much of the bitter wind flowed over, rather than through him. He pictured Lord Lakeston’s sad eyes and his own father’s pathetic headstone; he thought of Mortimer galloping towards Grizzledale – to safety…and Tally…

  The barn smelled of clean straw and sweet hay. Lady Élanor was standing in the stable doorway. She was deep in concentration. There was no sign of Tally but the sound of movement in the soft straw in Tanith’s stable told Wil that Lady Élanor’s pegalus had returned to Lovage Hall safe and sound.

  The merging moons, now almost one perfect sphere, cast a silver-white beam that flowed into the unlit stable through a window set high up in the wall. The tranquillity was touchable. Tanith’s gentle breath fogged the crisp night air and Wil could feel the pegalus’s teeth as if they were his own, grinding down on the glorious meadow-fresh hay, untarnished by its winter storage.

  Lady Élanor did not move – she was watching.

  A bright beam crept across the straw. It brushed against one of Tanith’s golden hooves. The pegalus stopped grazing.

  ‘It is time,’ whispered Lady Élanor. She glided into the stable, stroked Tanith’s velvet muzzle and wound her arms around his neck.

  ‘Good luck,’ she whispered. Then she walked to the open window and looked out.

  The Moon Crossing formed one perfect circle of pure gold. The stars dimmed. Tanith, suddenly sweating, pawed at the straw; a golden moonbeam hit his mane. He reared, opened his wings and… exploded into flames.

  Lady Élanor opened her arms to the light. Tears were streaming down her face but she did not look around. The flames burned orange, then blue, then bright green, then pure gold. Wil tried to scream. He wanted to run, to raise the alarm. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. He opened his mouth to shout but the only sound that came was a feeble, rasping whimper. No one heard. No one came. Tanith’s stable blazed. There was no sign of Lady Élanor. Blinded by the smoke and gasping for air, Wil made for the window. But just as his hands reached out for the timber the wall of the stable gave way and he crashed forward. He gasped a lungful of ice-cold air and opened his eyes.

  The little dragon was eying him suspiciously. The night air was so cold that it was difficult to take in any more than tiny shallow breaths – so cold it burned. Wil shook his head. He had been dreaming again – or, more likely, having a nightmare!

  Ahead of them Wil could see the telltale pink edge of dawn and wondered how Armelia would cope when the Wraithe Wolves came down from the Fells. He remembered the vision of the wolves streaming down from Tel Harion when he and Gisella had been waiting for Mortimer and Curtis, the night they lost Leon. He shook his head to get the terrifying image out of his mind.

  Beside him the little dragon started to wriggle – he was hungry and very soon, Wil knew, he would start to make that dreadful sound again!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Not So Happy Landings

  At almost the same moment that Wil realised it was feeding time yet again for the baby dragon, he realised that Mortimer’s plan had a serious flaw – how on earth was he going to get the boat safely back onto the ground without it being smashed into pieces as the dragon landed? He’d never seen a dragon come in to land other than the Ridge Creepers up by Ewes Seat. But they all landed on craggy ledges – usually a very long way from the ground. Getting more concerned with every beat of the Redback’s wings, Wil recalled the swans landing on East Lake; their wings smacking on the water as they slid to a halt – although, how that might work for Gisella and Phinn, Wil decided not to contemplate!

  Somehow he had to persuade the Redback to fly low over a stretch of water without landing. If he could get down into the boat, he could cut the rope just before the Redback touched down and they would be home and dry – hopefully.

  They were soaring now high over The Black Rock, inky in the dull, pink dawn – about half a day’s ride by horse from Saran – but Wil had no idea how far by dragon.

  Wil was pretty sure that the nearest stretch of water was the river leading onto Esk Falls. But he was forced to dismiss that thought. It was way too far from Saran to drag a boat with an injured Fellhound and Fellman and way too dangerous if he misjudged the drop!

  No, somehow he had to get the dragon to fly slow and low over somewhere flat. That way he could cut the rope when they were close enough to the ground and hope that the boat came to a halt before it smashed to pieces – after all, Mortimer had said that it had survived being dragged up from the mill – hadn’t he?

  As Wil deliberated the various potentially fatal options open to him, the baby Redback resumed its whinging – and like before, the noise very quickly turned into a full-blown wail. Wil could feel the Giant Redback’s anxiety building and she began to swoop and weave in search of food for her hungry baby. Wil’s mind swam – suddenly he felt very sick.

  The night was slowly giving way to the encroaching dawn. Below, Wil could see dark shapes dotted on the ground – rocks, he guessed. He wondered briefly about East Lake. There were likely to be some tasty sheep on Peachley Hills by now – if he could just get the message through to the Redback; but then again it was too far from Saran and Wil had no idea how much time Gisella had left. The words on the Brindy goose-down label had said ‘get experienced help as soon as possible’, and the only experienced help that Wil knew was at Lovage Hall – unless you counted Old Dulcie over in Little Howarth. But while her turnip linctus, renowned across the Hills, was great for curing anything from a sore throat to sheep scab, Wil wasn’t sure it could help with a through-and-through bolt wound.

  At the thought of Gisella’s life ebbing away, Wil felt like someone was dragging their nails inch by painful inch across his heart.

  Beside him the hungry dragon’s pitiful cry was rapidly sending its mother into a frenzy. She swept across the open ground, hunting the frozen wasteland of the upper Fells. Wil knew it was only a matter of time before she spied the deer they had seen on their frantic gallop across to The Black Rock, and that would only mean one thing – she would go in for the kill. He had no choice. He had to get into that boat and get ready to cut the rope.

  Keeping his head up and his eyes on the gathering clouds, Wil took a deep breath and slid down into the crook of the Redback’s wing. Here, her vast ribcage was clad with leathery scales that proved fairly easy to cling to; they also acted like a natural ladder. Wil inched back until his legs dangled. Bone-chilling air ripped across the top of his boots; he was sure that at any second they would be swept into oblivion. Trying not to fall to his death, Wil made one valiant effort to persuade the Redback to slow down only to discover that the rushing air between his legs made thinking about anything other than survival impossible.

  Gingerly, he scraped his toe against the dragon’s flanks and found a ridge of scales that gave him a foothold; if he could just keep a grip he was pretty sure that he would be over the boat enough to let go and drop to join Gisella and Phinn. But what would happen if he missed the boat – or landed right on top of Phinn or Gisella and hurt them even more?… or–

  An ear-splitting roar burst from the Redback’s throat. The scales down her ribs vibrated violently. He knew without looking – she had spotted food and was going in for the kill.

  Against every instinct that was making him cling on to the only thing that was stopping him from plummeting to the Fells below, Wil let go. The leathery scales whipped away from under his fingertips. He dropped.

  As he slammed into the boat’s gunwale Wil felt his arm shatter. But other than the snap of the bones, he felt nothing. He had fallen in, not past the boat. Phinn and Gisella
were tucked down in the hull but Wil had no idea if they were conscious. The dragon’s wings were hawked back. In the distance, standing proud on a broad sweep of moorland Wil could see a lone stag – antlers like fingers grabbing at the sky. The Redback had found her quarry.

  Knife in hand, Wil forced himself to wait. He had no idea how high they were. Then the top of a tree whizzed by – he cut the rope.

  The boat glanced off a lone hawthorn tree, smacked onto the ground and bounced high across a grassy ridge. Terrified rabbits scattered in all directions. Wil buried his face in his crumpled cloak and put his hands over his head, shouting for all he was worth.

  ‘STOP! STOP! STOP!’

  As if in answer, the little boat smacked into something very solid; the bow exploded into a thousand pieces and Wil’s mind went black.

  The first thing Wil became aware of when he woke up was that he was wet – very wet. With icy waves crashing over his face, he was pinned to the hull of the boat by his soaking cloak.

  The second thing to attract his attention was a loud scraping sound, interspersed with the odd muffled knock and an occasional bang.

  He also realised he was alone.

  The boat must have crash-landed into water after all. Gisella and Phinn… they must have been thrown out! Wil tried to move, to get up to have a proper look. But a bolt of pure agony took his breath. Another wave of spray smacked into his face and filled his lungs. He choked.

  ‘Wil! Was that you? Are you alive?’

  Gisella appeared above the gunwale. The scraping sound had stopped.

  ‘Look, Wil, I didn’t have a choice!’ said Gisella testily, but a nasty coughing fit prevented her from saying any more. Wil used his good arm to haul her cloak back over her shoulders; she was getting even wetter than she was already. The rain – not waves, Wil had discovered – was lashing across the Fells in great sheets. It was impossible to tell where they were.

  ‘Yes, but pulling a wrecked boat halfway across Thesker Fell!’ said Wil, over Gisella’s coughing fit. ‘What are you trying to do – finish the job The Jackal started?’

  Gisella finally stopped coughing. The rain on the back of her hand briefly ran scarlet.

  ‘Phinn was doing most of the pulling,’ she said, wiping her eyes with her soaked cloak. ‘Honestly Wil. I’m a Fellman – we’re trained for this kind of thing!’

  ‘Oh, right-oh! I suppose you crash a lot of flying boats on a moon chase do you – after someone’s tried very hard to kill you!’

  ‘I’m alright, Wil,’ Gisella insisted. But Wil was even less convinced than Gisella sounded – her death mask face a stark contrast to her lips that had gone a very odd shade of blue. Cross as Wil was, he decided that now wasn’t the time to pick a fight.

  ‘Look Giz, you must be exhausted. Why don’t you take a turn to rest? I’ll help Phinn.’ He peered into the sheeting rain. ‘We really can’t be too far now – how long has it been light?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Gisella. ‘It was already light when I came to. I don’t know how long Phinn had been dragging us.’

  Wil tried hard to banish the nagging thought that Phinn didn’t really know the way to Saran. The poor hound was limping badly. The wound on his shoulder had opened up again and, by the blood down his leg, had been bleeding for quite a while.

  ‘I don’t suppose you managed to grab any food?’ said Wil.

  Gisella shook her head.

  ‘It was all I could do… to get your bag and… the bolts.’

  Wil didn’t speak. The only sound in his ears was Gisella’s fight for breath – the last time he’d heard that sound was just before The Jackal died.

  Ignoring the biting agony of his own broken arm, Wil swept Gisella up into his arms and tried his best not to drop her back into the remains of the boat.

  ‘What the…’ gasped Gisella.

  ‘Sorry, Giz, no time. We need to get back to Lovage Hall. You…you’re freezing and if we’re not careful we’ll both end up with pneumonia!’

  She moved to get out. Wil held up his palm.

  ‘No, Giz. You are going to stay there if I have to tie you down. Phinn and I will get you home. Now, for the last time – stay where you are!’

  Gisella opened her mouth to speak but another coughing fit robbed her of any words. She sat back, defeated, and by the look in her eyes Wil could see she was also frightened.

  ‘I’ll get you home, Giz,’ he said. ‘Trust me.’

  She bit her lip and spoke again in a voice broken by her battle for air.

  ‘Have you got any of that… potion we gave… Mortimer…You know… the stuff for… blood loss?’

  Wil looked down at Gisella’s blood-stained cloak and tried to fix his face into an expression that didn’t betray his alarm.

  ‘You’re not... are you… is it–’

  Gisella gave a weak smile.

  ‘For Phinn,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, yes! I… of course. For a moment then–’

  ‘Wil! Give Phinn some of that… potion! If he’s going to get us home… he’s going to… need it.’

  Then she sank back against a wooden plank that ran as a seat across the centre of the boat – behind the seat the boat no longer existed.

  ‘Oh, right. Yes. I’ll do that now. I’ve got it here somewhere,’ Wil lied. How could he tell Gisella he’d given her the remains of the potion back at the castle?

  After a little searching, he found the little silk bag. It had been wedged up under the transom – during the landing, Wil guessed. He moved away before he sought out the bottle that he knew was empty; although he needn’t have worried – when he looked back Gisella’s eyes were closed.

  ‘Don’t die,’ he whispered and turned away.

  From behind him, almost lost in the wind, he just caught her weak reply.

  ‘I’ll try not to.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Sights for Sore Eyes

  Poised to start dragging the boat – or what was left of it at least – Phinn had one end of the silk rope clenched in his huge jaws. With one useless arm, Wil quickly realised that the only way he could help was by winding the other end around his waist. In the middle, the rope was still attached to a ring on the bow – one of the few things that hadn’t come off during the landing.

  Between them Phinn and Wil made fair progress. Downhill was relatively easy once they got up a bit of momentum over the waterlogged ground; although twice they had to dive out of the way as the battered hull overtook them down a particularly steep slope.

  As if determined to make the journey as unpleasant as possible, the gusting wind smashed the rain into them again and again. Wil abandoned any attempt to wring out his cloak. Instead he took it off. Without the extra weight of the drenched wool the going was a little easier; although his leather jerkin was no match for the thin rope that quickly rubbed painful blisters across his chest and cut into the flesh under his arms.

  Crimson rivers trickled down Phinn’s shoulder again. Wil did his best with what was left of the Brindey goose down dressing but with no food and very little sleep for almost two days, he wasn’t sure how much longer any of them could go on.

  Every now and then Wil made Phinn stop to check on Gisella. Each time, her gasps were more desperate. A small voice in the back of Wil’s mind nagged at him to send Phinn ahead; but another argued – if Phinn got lost too, Wil would have no hope at all of getting Gisella home.

  The pain in his arm was bearable as long as he didn’t move it, think about it, or touch it. As they ploughed on into the sweeping rain he did his best to ignore the numbness that had started in his fingers and was very slowly creeping up his wrist. The cold was also getting to his cracked cheekbone. It throbbed with every step. ‘Well, Phinn,’ he called into the wind, ‘we left in the rain and we’re going back in the rain – and it was miserable both times, too!’

  At Wil’s ironic laugh, Phinn moved closer to shield his master from the worst of the weather and, heads down into the wind, they tr
udged on together.

  Wil had no idea when he fell, or indeed how he had fallen, but the next thing he knew someone was lifting him up. He screamed out in agony.

  ‘Argh! My arm! Argh!’

  His head was pounding.

  A soothing voice floated across the wind and flowed through Wil’s veins like warm honey.

  ‘Let me see.’

  Soft hands gently lifted his injured arm. He winced again but this time managed not to cry out.

  ‘Get me two branches, Bryn. The straightest you can find,’ said Lady Élanor.

  Wil kept his eyes shut tight against the rain and braced himself. Lady Élanor pressed on the shattered bone – the pain in Wil’s arm and cheek eased.

  ‘Hmm, a bad break,’ she murmured.

  ‘’Ere you are, my lady. A nice bit o’ beech. ‘ll make a fine splint ‘til we get ‘im back,’ said Bryn. Then the gamekeeper’s voice came from a little further away. ‘Good job Seth found Phinn – I still carn’t believe ‘e found ‘is way back. Miles off the path! Blinkin’ lucky ‘ey din’t fall into Hester Beck in this weather. Done Gisella no good at all – this rain!’

  Wil opened his eyes.

  ‘Where is she, where’s Gisella?’

  He sat up with a jolt and shoved Lady Élanor hard with his good arm. Caught completely off balance she toppled backwards.

  ‘Leave me! It’s Gisella – she needs your help, not me!’

  Lady Élanor got to her feet and brushed her muddy hands down her cloak. Her calm face made Wil angry – Why wasn’t she tending Gisella? If Gisella was much worse than him, why was she wasting her time on his broken arm?

  Lady Élanor spoke again in a tone far kinder than Wil deserved.

  ‘Seth has already taken her, Wil. Tally is with them. Now please, let me set this splint. You can see Gisella as soon as we get back to Lovage Hall.’