Azrael's Twins

by V. J. Mortimer

  ‘Come with me, Niamh,’ Ms Pussywillow whispered to Niamh before striding off down the range towards the target area. ‘Your job today will be replacing the targets as they get worn out from the girls firing at them,’ said the teacher, gesturing at a pile of cane-like round discs sitting inside an open shed at the side of the range. ‘The object for the girls is to try and score as many dragons-eyes as they can – that’s the solid red circle in the middle – by casting firebolt spells at the targets.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ said Niamh. ‘That’s just like the bullseyes we have back at the archery range near where we lived at Avalon’s End. Mum and Dad used to take us there as a treat.’

  ‘Well then this should feel quite familiar to you, shouldn’t it!’ said Ms Pussywillow. ‘Now, all you have to do is to stay inside that shed until we call for you to come out and replace the targets. You’ll know when it’s just about time as you’ll hear me call out “Wands Down” to the girls. This is the top spell casting team in the school, so they all know the drill.’

  ‘Do you have competitions against the other schools?’ asked Niamh.

  ‘Oh yes. Along with dragon racing and broomstick biathlons it’s one of the big three school sports. The teams all compete for the Crystalbrook Chalice which is an ancient heirloom of the kingdom. Rookwood hasn’t won it for years but we’re hoping it might be our turn this time round.’

  ‘Ready Miss!’ came a voice from the far end of the range. Standing in a line thirty metres away from the targets were all the girls in the team. They had each donned a leather glove on their spell casting arm that extended up their arms to about the elbow. Along with the gloves they wore tunics which buttoned up around their neck like a fencer and every girl wore goggles which wrapped around their eyes.

  ‘Come on, Niamh. Time to get you out of the way. Hold on you lot. Wait till I say so.’ Ms Pussywillow hustled Niamh off to the shed. ‘Put on these goggles, please,’ she said, producing a pair just like the big girls wore from her pocket. ‘Remember – stay here till I say so. Then you need to come out and take down the used targets and replace them with new ones. Understand?’

  Niamh just nodded as she put on her goggles and stepped into the shade of the shed. On the side facing the top of the range there was a narrow slit that she could just peek out of to watch the girls. All of them had tied their hair back in a ponytail so that it was hard to tell one from the other – they all looked just about identical. Niamh thought they looked like soldiers rather than a school team. Ms Pussywillow donned a pair of goggles just like Niamh’s and then made a complicated gesture in the air with her wand as if weaving a web. For a moment nothing seemed to happen but then a bloom of gold behind the targets rose up into a fine net, stretching high above and around both sides of the range forming a spider’s tunnel almost back to where the girls stood. Niamh gasped as the tunnel formed. ‘Just a safety net, Niamh. Can’t have stray firebolts whizzing round the school grounds now, can we! Stances everyone, please,’ boomed Ms Pussywillow’s voice back up the range. She strode back up to the team and stood behind them. The girls turned side on to the targets with feet about shoulder width apart. Most of the girls stood with their left shoulders facing forward while a couple stood facing with their right instead, wands in the opposite hand. Leaning back they raised their wands to about head level pointing forward at the targets, hands about level with the back of their heads and the tip of the wand just behind their ear. ‘Three shots each in your own time, please,’ said Ms Pussywillow. ‘Ready? Cast!’

  At once each girl whipped her wand round in a semicircle at the target. The air sizzled as eight bolts of fire leapt from the end of the wands and sped down the range. Niamh’s eyes barely registered them as the brightly coloured balls hit the targets making a dull thump, exploding with puffs of dust rocking each of the targets slightly. Each of the girls took a moment to see whether they had collected the coveted centre of the target, but only one had the satisfied look that comes with success.

  ‘Good shooting, Aurelia!’ said Ms Pussywillow. ‘Not bad, the rest of you. Again please!’

  The girls resumed their poses again and unleashed another volley. Again the sizzling blast of multicoloured spells hammered into the targets followed quickly by another volley. Ms Pussywillow quickly called a halt. ‘Wands down,’ she said in a strong clear voice. ‘Helena – your arm is too high when you are making your cast, drop your arm slightly and remember, no higher than your shoulder when the spell leaves the tip.’ A dark-haired girl with olive coloured skin and emerald green eyes nodded and smiled back at the teacher. Ms Pussywillow went on to the next girl. ‘Karalina – your aim is off because your wrist and arm aren’t lined up when you cast. Your wrist is twisted; make sure it’s a line all the way from your shoulder through your wrist with your thumb pointing right down the wand. You were meant to be practising that during the holidays, weren’t you?’ said Ms Pussywillow, a touch accusingly.

  ‘Yes, Ms Pussywillow,’ said Karalina, looking at her feet and shuffling uneasily at being caught out.

  ‘Well if you don’t get some extra practise in soon there’s plenty of girls on the second team who are pushing for places, so let’s see you work at it my girl.’ Team member by team member Ms Pussywillow worked her way down the line giving each girl advice or praise for their first round of casting. Finally she arrived at the end of the line and turned back to the team. ‘Alright, another round now from everyone. On my mark ... cast!’ Again and again the bolts whistled down the range striking the targets with increasing force. Bolts of blue and red and gold thumped into target after target. After this onslaught the targets started to smoulder, faint wisps of smoke spiralling up in the light afternoon air. Again another round of instruction and suggestion from Ms Pussywillow and finally another round of spells.

  ‘Wands away!’ yelled Ms Pussywillow. The girls dropped their wand arms, relaxed a little, and with a flick of their wrists retracted their iWands.

  ‘Now, take a moment while I sort out Niamh at the targets,’ said the teacher.

  Niamh poked her head out from behind the screen and peered at the targets. All of them were starting to smoke much more heavily now after the last round of firebolts the team had sent down at them. Looking back up the range Niamh saw Ms Pussywillow trotting down to her. As she stepped out from behind the screen, the teacher arrived puffing very slightly from the run.

  ‘What did you think of that, Niamh?’ she asked, with a smile on her face.

  ‘That was excellent!’ said Niamh excitedly.

  ‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ said Emmy. ‘And now it’s time for you to do some work. Follow me.’ Niamh trotted out behind her teacher towards the targets. ‘Each of these targets needs to be replaced with a new one. They don’t last long if you give them too much of a beating and it’s better to replace the fibres sooner rather than later.’

  ‘What are they made from?’ asked Niamh.

  ‘Crushed dragon scale, Niamh,’ said the teacher. ‘Nothing else can take the pounding from the firebolts. Over the centuries they’ve tried all sorts of things – unicorn hair impregnated with fire resistant spells, phoenix feathers compressed and stuck together with elf glue. But nothing worked as well as crushed dragon scales.’

  ‘Don’t the dragons get upset at having to give up their scales?’ asked Niamh.

  ‘Oh no, of course not!’ said Ms Pussywillow, laughing. ‘I forget there’s so much you don’t know, Niamh. Dragons grow almost as fast as you do so they are always shedding scales and growing new ones underneath. It can get very messy when they are going through a growth spurt. And there are so many dragons that there’s never a shortage of scales. Now – grab some of those targets from the shed and follow me.’

  Niamh could only lift two of the targets at a time – the dragon scales were obviously heavier than they looked. ‘Can I not use some magic to help lift them out?’ she asked.

  ‘Well it would hardly be a detention if you could do that, Niamh,’ said Ms Pussywil
low. ‘One by one please – take down the old target off the frame and replace it with a new one. Put the used targets down by the door of the shed.’

  Niamh did as she was told but struggled to lift off the old targets. By the time she had replaced all eight of the bullseyes she had worked up a good sweat. After another hour of practice, running along the target lines and back to the sheds she felt as though her arms were ready to fall out of their sockets. Finally Ms Pussywillow dismissed the girls from training and came back to see Niamh, who by now was plonked down cross-legged by the shed.

  ‘Had enough?’ said the teacher. Niamh didn’t have any words and just sat with her arms folded trying not to get angry. ‘Thought as much,’ said Ms Pussywillow. ‘Just one more job for you to do tonight.’ Niamh looked up almost on the verge of tears. She was so tired she didn’t know what more she could possibly do. Ms Pussywillow could see Niamh was at the end of her tether. She squatted down beside her, pulled a banana out of a pocket, and offered it to Niamh. ‘Don’t worry. I think you’ll enjoy this. Have you got your iWand with you?’

  Niamh shook her head as she took the banana. ‘I left it up in my desk. I didn’t think to bring it for detention.’

  ‘Well never mind. Get your bag and your normal wand out and come with me.’

  Niamh picked herself up off the ground and munched on the snack as she followed her teacher back up the range. When they reached the top Ms Pussywillow pulled from her bag a tunic and armguard like those the other girls in the team had been wearing. ‘Put these on. I want to see what you can do.’

  Niamh’s eyes widened in delight. She had hoped this might happen but hadn’t dared to ask. The gloves on the armguards looked much too big but as she pulled them over her hand and arm the fabric shrunk to fit until it seemed as though the gloves had been custom-made for her.

  ‘Elf-made,’ said Ms Pussywillow before Niamh had a chance to ask. ‘This is a world where one size really does fit all, Niamh,’ she said, smiling.

  Niamh took the tunic and, as she put her arms through, felt the straps click together by themselves. The whole outfit felt snug and protective as Niamh flexed her hands and shoulders.

  ‘Grab that wand of yours, Niamh and let’s start. Come over here to the range line and stand side on to the target just like you saw the other girls do.’ Niamh did as she was told. The wand in her hand seemed to be trembling slightly as she stood facing the target. ‘Relax, Niamh,’ said Ms Pussywillow, sensing the tension in her student. ‘This is meant to be fun. Now breathe in and out a few times and feel the wand in your hand. Focus everything on the target at the end of the range.’

  Niamh tried to do as she was told but it looked so far away.

  ‘When I tell you to Niamh, I want you to cast a firebolt at the very centre of the target. Just close your eyes for a moment and see the bolt in your mind racing away from the tip of your wand like a tiny ball of light, and see it crashing into the target, dead centre ...’

  Niamh closed her eyes and tried to see everything her teacher was telling her. It wasn’t easy but she could feel the magic ready to burst from the wand.

  ‘Okay Niamh, wand at the ready, lean back, front leg straight, wand tip by your ear and arm bent just like the other girls. On the count of three Niamh, cast your firebolt ... One!’ Niamh set herself just like the other girls had. ‘Two!’ Concentrating on the target Niamh tried to block out everything else around her. ‘Three!’

  With a flick of her arm and wrist Niamh felt the surge of magic as the firebolt she saw in her mind shot from the tip of her wand ... straight into the side netting of Ms Pussywillow’s magic tunnel before ricocheting off the other side, into the roof, and finally burying itself into the ground halfway down the tunnel with a thump and spray of dirt.

  ‘Ohhhhh ...’ said Niamh, with disappointment painted all over her face.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Ms Pussywillow. ‘There’s a real art to getting this right. The trick is feeling where your wand is and letting the spell go at just the right time. Try it again and don’t get too upset if you don’t get it right.’

  Niamh settled herself and tried again and again. Each time was better than the last but she was nowhere near the target. As time ticked on she realised she needed a lot more practice at this. Thank goodness it hadn’t been so hard when Reg and his gang were after Grady. Her brother would have been scraped off the tree if she hadn’t been so quick – and accurate – when she needed to be.

  ‘Last round for tonight, Niamh,’ said Ms Pussywillow. ‘It’s a great start but you’re tired and you’ve done well for your first time.’

  Niamh couldn’t hide her disappointment. She had hoped she’d be better than this, if not for herself than at least she could have done it for her teacher who was trying so hard to help her. Turning back to the targets and setting herself again she tried one last time. Suddenly a smile crept onto her face. She relaxed for a moment, grinning at her teacher and then closed her eyes, leant back into her stance, and got ready to cast.

  ‘In your own time, Niamh,’ said Ms Pussywillow.

  Niamh stared down the range and then whipped her hand round in a dazzlingly fast blur. A bolt of blue fire unlike any of the others she had cast rocketed down the range. The tunnel glowed brightly with the intensity of the bolt. The impact into the target was the loudest noise Niamh had heard all day. The dragon scale target exploded as if shredded by a million angry demons. The stand it had rested upon was likewise obliterated by the impact. As the remains of the target fluttered down to the ground Niamh stood open-mouthed before whooping with delight. ‘Yeeessssssss!’ she said, punching the air.

  ‘I think we can leave it there for tonight, Niamh,’ said Ms Pussywillow, looking every bit as stunned as Niamh. ‘Just one question for you. Ummm ... how... ahhh. Ummm. Yes ... well, how did you do that, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Oh, it was so simple in the end. All I had to do was imagine Reg’s head was the target and it was easy. I had no trouble hitting him and his gang when they were trying to hurt Grady so I figured if I just imagined him on the target, I could do it again!’ said Niamh happily.

  Ms Pussywillow gave Niamh a startled and slightly shocked look. ‘Well I think you’d better keep that little secret just to yourself. I’m not sure Ms Maladicta would want to hear one of her students was aiming firebolts at the imagined head of another student.’ Around them the remains of the target fluttered in the breeze before falling to the ground.

  Niamh lifted her head and giggled as the pulverised dragon scales drifted down like snow. Detentions couldn’t get much better than this!

  Grady also found himself surrounded by the remains of dragon scales but in his case he was shovelling them, and some other dragon ... remains, off the floor of the school dragon pens. He had been sent off to find the new dragon keeper – Hector McHavering – for a lesson aimed at expanding his knowledge of dragon care. Inexplicably, no one had mentioned that might involve shovelling dragon dung. For creatures that didn’t eat much besides coal, and absorbing some magic, they managed to process it into some quite stunningly smelly manure.

  ‘Come on laddie,’ said Mr McHavering in a broad Scottish accent. Thick locks of auburn ringlets framed a face, smiling down at Grady, that only a mother could love. And it would have to be a forgiving mother as well. McHavering was almost as broad as he was tall and while he was no giant he seemed to fill up much more space than he should have.

  ‘That lot’ll make the gardeners very happy, y’know. There’s naught like dragon dung mixed into the compost t’give the snapdragons and roses a kick tae their growth!’

  Grady gave Mr McHavering a look as dirty as the load on his shovel before dumping it into the wheelbarrow beside him. The steaming pile in the barrow matched his smouldering mood as he turned back to heap up another pile of the magical manure.

  ‘Dinnae look at me like that son. T’learn aboot dragons y’need to start at the bottom, right at the bottom if ye get ma drift,’ he said, ch
uckling. ‘And detentions were nae meant t’be fun so keep yer head doon and shovel up and the job‘ll be done soon enough,’ he added, laughing again before walking away humming to himself.

  There were almost no dragons in the pens while Grady was engaged in his drudgery. The only creature left in the stonewalled building was a squat, ugly-looking little brute of a dragon with mean-looking eyes. As Grady worked the little beast never took its eyes off him except to reach down for another piece of coal before slowly crunching it, all the while staring at the boy who muttered away to himself while shovelling. ‘I bet Niamh doesn’t have to pick up poo for her detention.’

  The pens were built just like those up at the castle with no glass in the walls and stone practically everywhere else. One by one the pens had emptied out as the riders in the dragon racing teams saddled up their mounts before leading them outside and nimbly leaping astride them before the beasts raced away and leapt powerfully into the sky. The dragons all had similar looks to the palace dragons with long sleek necks and designs spiralling down their flanks, but none of these beasts were in the same class as Roland’s. There were thirty-two dragons in the pens, some bigger than others. They were broken up into four teams for the girls and four for the boys. Mr McHavering had tried to explain everything to Grady who had struggled to get used to his accent.

  ‘There’s four riders in each team wi one backup or substitute. The top teams ride the biggest beasties, though there’s nae a lot tween them.’

  Grady thought that none of the riders were very big but as Mr McHavering had said, ‘Y’ll nae goo fast wi a sack a lard on yer back. The key tae a good dragon rider is being light and having a good feel for the beasties. That and also being good at avoiding the spells the other lads and lasses are blasting at ye as ye scoot round yon course.’

  ‘Blasting spells!’ said Grady. ‘That doesn’t sound fair!’

  ‘Ach dinnae fash laddie,’ said McHavering. ‘They can only use the iWands and the spells are weak as pi... as weak as something that’s very weak. That’s why ye can only use iWands fer the games – those sissies who make up the rules say it’s too dangerous tae let them use any old wand. They reckon someone might get hurt. Not like the old days, lad. Used to be yd get a broadside from a stunning spell and wake up in the hospital a week later with two black eyes and a headache like a giant had played drums on yer head. Those stands yonder are the start and finish line. Y’ see the tall pole in the middle wi a cross arm on it?’ The burly dragon master gestured towards the two long gallery stands not far away from the pens. The stands stretched for a hundred or more metres opposite each other with rows and rows of seating. At the top of each stretched a huge blank wall nearly as high again as the stands and a third as long. Between the stands stood a tall pole as high as the stands themselves. With its cross beam it looked just like a ship’s mast. ‘The cross arm’s where the big prize hangs. As y race roond the course y’ve seven poles just like this one wi two silver hoops dangling from them. Y’ve a need to get as many hoops as y’can while racing the course – and avoiding the blasting spells – and then get back here and over the line first. The hoops on course are worth fifty points each but this one here is worth two hundred. So, ye may have got more hoops than t’other team but if they get back here first and get the final hoop ye may still lose.’