Flight to Dragon Isle

by Lucinda Hare

We will give you something for the pain.

  Something tugged at Armelia’s skirts. She looked down in horror to where a small black and white dragon was trying to eat her dress. ‘Get it off! Get it off!’ Her voice rose an octave to a high squeak.

  ‘Shoo! Shoo!’ Her ladies flapped ineffectually, hitting it with their fans. Armelia kicked it. It scuttled out of reach and trilled angrily at her.

  Just then Quicksilver Dewdrop collapsed sideways, chest heaving, knocking Root and one of the stable hands to the floor with her flailing tail. Ignoring the red welt the tail had raised on his cheek, Root helped the ostlers get the almost unconscious dragon into the cradle, amazed at her weight.

  Quenelda was rolling up the sleeves of her embroidered shirt when Quester returned, cradling a mortar and pestle so as not to spill its steaming contents. Carefully he strained the contents into a wooden bowl and handed it to Quenelda.

  ‘I need you to give her the infusion a little at a time,’ Greybeard instructed Quenelda.

  The dwarf turned to the stable hands, who were already moving forward with a pulley and harness. ‘Lift her – gently now,’ she warned as they raised the dragon.

  Meanwhile Armelia was glaring at the small black and white dragon, which had returned for a second helping of lace. One of her more adventurous ladies bent forward to pick the hatchling up, but it scuttled off into a pile of hay, seeking out its parents. The mare stepped forward to protect it. The ruff about her head raised up, and her tail waved warningly. Unfortunately Armelia was blissfully ignorant of animal behaviour, and was not able to understand the body language. The mare was small and did not look threatening, and so, checking that no one was looking her way, Armelia drew back her foot, ready to kick again. Her movement caught Quester’s eye.

  ‘Nooo …’ He lunged forward. ‘Don’t touch—’

  Too late! The mare ducked under Armelia’s boot and swung her hindquarters round to face her. Back feet treading the hay up and down with gusto, she raised her quivering tail. Foul-smelling liquid sprayed over Armelia and spattered her companions. They fled, shrieking, abandoning their mistress – all save one, who fainted.

  The stench was truly overpowering. Armelia stood there, her mouth opening and closing, coughing and spluttering with outrage. There was a brief intake of breath as everyone at work in the neighbouring stall stared at her, but then the pregnant dragon moaned and they immediately turned back to their allotted tasks.

  In the course of her cosseted life, Armelia had never been ignored. It was a new and unpleasant experience – as unpleasant as the liquid that dripped from her hair and nose and chin. Her cheeks burned with humiliation. Turning on her heel, trampling the prone body of her companion in her haste, she collapsed onto a bale of hay.

  In the stall, Quenelda was soothing the dragon as the stable hands gently raised the canvas cradle, lifting the mare to her feet.

  ‘Truckleloam balm?’

  A gnome apprentice stepped forward with a pail of thick ointment. Scooping up a handful, the Roostmistress rubbed it generously over her forearms. Standing beneath the cradle, she reached up under the dragon’s tail.

  No! Surely she’s not going to …? Feeling nauseous, Armelia’s fragile determination wavered and she staggered out into the yard, seeking fresh air.

  Nearly … nearly, Quenelda reassured the mare. The dwarf was straining against the dragon, her arm in as far as it could go. Sweat was running down her face. Quenelda was soothing the agitated dragon while trying to watch what the Roostmistress was doing. A sudden gush of blue blood splattered over the pair of them.

  ‘Here …’ Someone rammed a bucket into Armelia’s hands as she stood on the threshold of the stables. Her flustered ladies were feebly attempting to remove the offensive stains from brocade and silk without getting any of it on themselves. The dirty liquid in the bucket spilled over, splattering Armelia’s skirts and filling her dainty pointed boots. ‘Tip it into the gutter and get some fresh water – from that well out in the courtyard,’ the stable hand commanded, pointing outside. Nobody was allowed to stand idly by in the nursery roosts at a birthing. In a daze, Armelia wobbled over to the well and looked at it hopelessly. Water was normally brought to her, chilled in crystal goblets.

  ‘I – I—’ she stuttered to no one in particular. A goblin mucking out another stall looked at her and turned back to his task, shaking his head.

  ‘Lady?’ Quester approached her carefully, not reacting to the dreadful stench that kept her servants well away from her.

  ‘Allow me,’ he said kindly, and he let the bucket plummet down into the hidden depths of the well. A splosh echoed up, and the esquire began turning the handle with easy strength. ‘Your first birthing?’ he asked sympathetically.

  Armelia could only nod wordlessly. She was on the verge of hysteria.

  ‘It’s always difficult the first time,’ he offered kindly, trying not to wince at the awful smell. ‘I threw up.’

  Armelia looked at him faintly. ‘Did you?’ Somehow that made her feel much better. ‘I thought …’ She started dredging up what little she knew of dragons. ‘I thought all dragons laid eggs.’

  ‘Oh no. Some do lay eggs like snakes and birds, but many give birth to live young, just like most other creatures. It depends on the breed.’

  They headed back into the roost. The sawing breaths of the dragon were growing weaker. Armelia followed Quester into the steamy darkness as he strode ahead with the bucket.

  ‘W-w-what is her name?’ she called after him.

  ‘Quicksilver Dewdrop.’

  ‘That’s a beautiful name,’ Armelia said, swaying.

  ‘Here,’ Quester offered, coming back towards her. ‘Let me get you a seat.’ He pulled a big three-legged stool from the shadows and dusted off the cobwebs with his shirt cuffs. Armelia sank gratefully onto it and fanned her face.

  The dragon was keening now – a dreadful wailing sound.

  ‘Come on, girl,’ Quenelda whispered. ‘Just a little more …’

  Roostmistress Greybeard suddenly withdrew her arm. There was a splatter of mucus, and a gelatinous sac spilled out onto the hay with a wet slap. Within moments, another – and then another – fell into the waiting arms of the apprentices. A rush of rancid air rolled across the stall.

  Armelia’s eyes fluttered. She felt sick. And for the first time in her life, she genuinely fainted, falling unnoticed over the back of the stool into the straw, feet and frilly bloomers in the air …

  She swam slowly back to consciousness. She was lying down but her mattress was prickly and she felt sticky. There were anxious voices, but puzzlingly they were not clustered around her. Nor did she recognize any of them. Someone was washing her brow, but the cloth was rough and scratchy. The water was syrupy and she could feel it gumming up her eyes. She tried to open an eye and found she couldn’t, and when she wiped the goo away, a little face was peering enthusiastically at her through sea-green eyes. Its nose was pointed and it had two horns. They were attached to a small yellow dragon, fat as butter. A yellow forked tongue flicked out – a tongue that felt like hot sandpaper. With a squeak, Armelia scrambled to her feet, dumping the baby dragon on the floor. It fled for the safety of a far roost, chirping furiously.

  Around her, Quicksilver Dewdrop’s roost was a hive of activity, everyone cradling a baby dragon, trying to draw life from the limp scraps in the straw.

  ‘Here …’ As Armelia staggered to her feet, Quenelda thrust a tiny dragon into her hands. ‘Rub her,’ she ordered. ‘Get her circulation going or she’s going to die …’

  The tiny dragon lay cold and limp in Armelia’s arms, curled up like a hibernating hedgehog. She opened her mouth to ask what she was supposed to rub the dragon with, then shut it again. Laying the little bundle of scales gently down in the hay, she bent down and tore the hem from one of her petticoats. She gathered the tiny creature in her skirts, then rubbed it tentatively.

  Nothing. The baby dragon remained unmoving in her hands. ‘Live,’ she
whispered. ‘Live …’ Looking up helplessly, she saw how robustly the others were rubbing, and redoubled her efforts.

  ‘Yes! Look!’ Quenelda triumphantly handed another baby to one of the grooms; he laid it down in the straw next to the exhausted mare, who gathered it to her beneath a spread wing.

  Armelia rubbed with renewed vigour, anxious to show that she too could coax life from the bundle in her hands. ‘I …’

  There was a small hiccup. Then another.

  The infant dragon’s scales fluttered in and then out. The tiny tail twitched. The baby sneezed to clear its nostrils, spraying blue mucus over Armelia’s bowed face.

  ‘It’s … it’s breathing,’ she said tremulously, holding up the little dragon, swaddled in petticoats. ‘It’s alive!’ she cried triumphantly. ‘It’s alive!’

  *

  The dragon mare lay on a bed of fresh hay with eleven babes suckling contentedly. With a warm glow, Armelia gazed down in wonder.

  ‘Is she … Are they all going to live?’

  ‘Yes.’ Quenelda smiled, teeth white against brimstone dust and grease. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

  Armelia found herself smiling back. Not bothering to locate her perfumed lace hanky, she wiped her filthy hands on her clothes just as Quenelda had done.

  There was movement outside.

  ‘Armelia?’ Darcy’s haughty voice rang out. ‘Gods! What is that awful stench? Your servants said you were in here …’ Stepping into the dark roosts, he looked past Armelia and Quenelda into the stall; then his gaze slowly returned to take in the ripped petticoats, the goo … the stench …

  ‘Armelia?’ Darcy’s tone was one of sheer disbelief. ‘What are you doing in here?’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Spring Forward

  ‘It’s so cold!’ Root shivered as he buckled up Chasing the Stars’ saddle, stamping his feet on the icy cobbles to get some warmth in them. Comfortably wrapped in her padded winter tack, his dragon nuzzled at him, searching for the honey tablets she knew he would be carrying. Root had been warned by Tangnost that his beloved mount was looking a little plump, and as he eased out the girth strap one notch more, he had to admit the Dragonmaster was right.

  As the Month of the Wolf Moon drew to a freezing close, the snow had finally stopped falling. Dragonsdome and the Sorcerers Glen wore a thick mantel of white, the roads and viaducts of the glen were blocked, the loch frozen. Today the overcast sky had cleared, and it seemed as if, after months of confinement, everyone in the kingdom was out and about. But for Root and Quenelda and their dragons, the only place to be was in the air! Snow crunched beneath Root’s feet as he took his eager mare to meet Quenelda, who was leading Two Gulps out of the warmly glowing battledragon roosts.

  Soon they were swooping above the crowded ice-locked harbours, and speeding over the loch towards the thick woodland that skirted the northern shore. The air was thick with dragons, griffins and hippogriffs. Seeing a dark opening beneath the snow-covered trees, Root and Chasing the Stars darted in. There was a strange breathless silence beneath the icy canopy, disturbed only when a branch weighted with snow snapped, or a pheasant called. Root and his mount deftly wove between the great pines, startling a herd of deer in a clearing. He could hear the cracking of brittle branches as Two Gulps battered his way through the trees behind them.

  ‘Root?’ Quenelda’s voice was muffled. ‘Root, where are you?’

  Taking hold of a laden spruce branch, Root softly urged his dragon behind a huge pine. With a snort of smoke, Two Gulps crossed the little clearing, and then pursuing dragon and rider were almost upon them. Letting go of the branch, Root dodged out of the way as Quenelda and Two Gulps flew smack into a wall of snow. As the dragon collided with the branch, the pine tree shivered in protest, and more snow and frozen needles cascaded down, forcing them to land. Two Gulps shook his head and flamed to show his displeasure, melting more snow and drenching them. Quenelda shook her wet head, cursing as lumps of ice melted and trickled down her back. She could hear Root whooping with delight.

  ‘Right,’ she fumed as a large pine cone bounced off her head. Gathering up her reins, she urged her battledragon upwards in pursuit.

  Catch him, Two Gulps! Catch him …

  I am trying … came the short-tempered reply as Two Gulps struggled through the pine trees. As they failed to spot their elusive quarry, Quenelda belatedly realized that she might have a fearsome and highly trained battledragon of her own, but cave-dwelling Sabretooths did not have the manoeuvrability or the speed of a Widdershanks. She and Two Gulps took to the ground, and he stormed forward over the dense pine needles that coated the forest floor.

  ‘Arghhh!’ she screamed as the familiar magenta-blue dragon darted in front of her, and then, in the blink of an eye, vanished between the tree trunks. She looked up, then behind, then to her left, just as Chasing the Stars shot round Two Gulps’ starboard flank and disappeared again into the gloom.

  Hot on her tail, Quenelda and Two Gulps thundered out of the woodlands into blinding sunlight reflected from banks of snow. Chasing the Stars continued to torment and tease the slower battledragon. She circled and spun in the sunlight, darting about as she had done in the Cauldron, until the clumsier Sabretooth was exhausted. As Chasing the Stars swung beneath him yet again, the bad-tempered battledragon flamed.

  ‘Oi!’ Root protested as he felt the warmth brush against his cheek and kiss his mare’s flank.

  ‘Oh, Two Gulps!’ Quenelda’s heart was not in the reprimand. She too felt like swatting the annoying Root out of his saddle. He was as bothersome as a cloud of midges.

  ‘Let’s race,’ she suggested. Two Gulps could do with letting off some steam after a long confinement in the roosts, and so could she. And of course, she always won, so – that would take Root down a peg or two.

  Root’s eyes lit up. He was eager to show off his new-found ease with flying. ‘Where to?’ The young gnome still had to think about the geography of the Sorcerers Glen. Everything looked so different in the air, and there were so many other things to consider – tops of trees, gusts of wind, bridges, and collisions with other dragons, or bad tempered eagles.

  ‘The Old Broch,’ Quenelda suggested.

  Root nodded. He could picture the ruins of the ancient circular tower that lay atop a knoll several leagues west of them.

  ‘On the count of three: three … two …’ Now, Two Gulps! she whispered, to give her mount a head start. ‘One … GO!’

  Chasing the Stars exploded into action. Despite his head start, without the help of a dragonpad, Two Gulps struggled to gain height and speed. The broken tail wasn’t helping either. As they piled sideways into another deep snow drift after rounding a stand of rowan trees too swiftly, Quenelda realized with disbelief that she was going to lose. By the time she arrived at the Old Broch, the other pair had landed and Root was leaning nonchalantly against his mount’s flank, chewing on a frosted blade of grass.

  ‘We won!’ he pointed out – rather unnecessarily, Quenelda thought as she brought Two Gulps down beside him.

  ‘But, Two—’

  She opened her mouth to tell Root that it had not been a fair contest; that Two Gulps was handicapped by his broken tail. Then, with an effort, she bit back her protest. Kicking her feet free of the stirrups, Quenelda slid to the ground on her mount’s blind side so that Root couldn’t see her face. Rummaging in her saddlebags for a flask of bramble juice, she tried to understand why she was feeling as grumpy as Two Gulps.

  The answer didn’t please her at all. She was jealous! It was a new emotion; no one had ever beaten her! No one! Flying dragons was what she did. It was an unpleasant experience, and fleetingly brought sympathy for the countless esquires she had humiliated and belittled for not keeping up with her. That feeling passed swiftly, however: Quenelda was not one to dwell on setbacks.

  As Root and Chasing the Stars rubbed noses in mutual congratulation, Quenelda realized that the gentle dragon had changed as much as her m
aster. They both had a new confidence since they had come to her rescue at the Winter Jousts. She had fulfilled her pledge to her father and more: she had taught Root only too well, she reflected wryly. Not that she was going to reveal that to her esquire, or anyone else. Quenelda moved round her battledragon and slid her helmet off.

  ‘Congratulations!’ She smiled, clasping Root’s hand in a military grasp. Not entirely convincing, but it was a good effort, and Root only smirked a little.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Confession

  The Grand Master relaxed as he saw the brightly coloured spires of the Sorcerers Guild crowning the city skyline of the Black Isle. Now it was time to rest briefly before the Guild meeting tomorrow to discuss supplies and equipment for the XIII Stormbreakers’ fortress in the Howling Glen. He was elated but exhausted. His plans were complete. Right now the hobgoblins and their Razorbacks would be nearing the Westering Isles.

  Having summoned the Maelstrom, he had for the first time successfully conjured a stable vortex from its dark depths; a whirling tunnel through the darkness that had allowed him to travel the huge distance from Roarkinch to the Brimstones in a fraction of the time it would normally take. Now he could reach and fight in the coming battle and return before any noticed his absence. His power continued to grow, but it had left the taint of the maelstrom on him; his hands shook and he felt sick and dizzy. His addiction to the elixir was growing; he needed it more than ever.

  But as he flew closer, he could see the unmistakable outline of a fully armoured Imperial at rest on the Guild dragonpad. The battlebanners of the SDS and the DeWinters hung limply in the still air, although the Lord Hugo would have recognized that particular dragon anywhere. Then, as he was about to land on an empty pad, he felt it – barely, the faintest prickle on his skin … A ward had been cast about the Guild. It was Battle Magic without a doubt; subtle, barely discernible, but very powerful. Without the power of the Maelstrom he would have failed to detect it at all. The Earl Rufus was expecting trouble.