by Lucinda Hare
More …? it asked hopefully.
Quenelda emptied her pockets, and the little dragon emptied her hand. Its distended stomach rumbled and it burped happily. Behind Quenelda, Root, Tangnost and the roost master all ducked behind the roost wall as a toxic flame rolled over them.
‘Phew!’ Root nearly gagged. ‘What’s it been eating?’
‘So far today: scale oil … the lamp … a leather apron …’ The roost hand thought about it … ‘a pair of claw clippers …’
They risked a look. Quenelda hadn’t moved. Although her jacket was smouldering in several places, not a single hair on her head was singed, causing the roost master to rub his eyes in disbelief, and Tangnost’s one eye to narrow in thoughtful speculation. Root beat out a spark on her jacket that was threatening to take hold. Quenelda appeared not even to have noticed. She had eyes only for the fledgling.
This baby Sabretooth was the one. Quenelda knew it; had known it from the moment she saw him. He was so similar to his sire. He bore the same red blaze behind the left eye as Two Gulps had, the same oversized canines. Her eyes travelled over scale and claw. The same large golden scales in a mosaic pattern tapering to the tail … And no – it wasn’t possible. Quenelda drew a sharp breath.
‘What?’ Root frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘The tail …’
All eyes looked at the stubby little tail currently being used by the baby Sabretooth to try and lever himself out of the pen to get at the brimstone scuttles stacked nearby. He jumped and bounced off the wall, big feet in the air, crooked tail thrashing helplessly.
There was a short silence, broken by Tam.
‘Aye, born with a crooked tail to boot, lady. Another reason why you don’t want this ’un. Runt o’ the litter, ’e is.’
Both Tangnost and Root ignored him. He looked at them in bafflement. All three of his guests were staring fixedly at the fledgling’s crooked tail.
The little dragon gave up the impossible task of escaping and waddled over to the empty brass scuttle, sniffed it and began to eat it with apparent relish. There was the sound of crumpling metal. Root winced.
‘Is there anything he doesn’t eat?’ Quenelda asked.
The roost hand shook his head. ‘Don’t think so, miss,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Will he ever get airborne?’ Root asked dubiously.
‘Don’t think so, sir.’
‘Wing-to-weight ratio …’ Root nodded knowledgeably, earning him a surprised glance from the roost master.
‘I want him.’
‘Lady?’ Tam was taken aback. ‘But, Lady—’ he began, till Tangnost squeezed his arm warningly and nodded.
‘I want him,’ Quenelda repeated defiantly.
A quiet smile played over Tangnost’s lips. He had been right. This fledgling was most like his sire, Two Gulps and You’re Gone. ‘What are you going to call him?’
Quenelda grinned, making his heart ache.
She looked back down at the plump fledgling.
‘Two Gulps Too Many …’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Call of the North
And so the hours merged into days, and the days into weeks, as Quenelda and Root worked in the roosts, helping surgeons and dragonsmiths, healing the injured and tending the dying; and for the first time since the Battle of the Westering Isles, the number of battledragons available for operations exceeded the number in the hospital wing. But there was that other voice, that other desperate appeal for aid that didn’t come from Dragon Isle; the voice she constantly heard in dreams, that now haunted her every waking moment.
Lonely … so lonely … The faint whisper filled her head, with its desperate song that yearned for wind and rain and Open Sky.
So dark … so dark and cold down here … Darkness all around …
Where are you? Quenelda cried. Who are you?
But no one answered.
‘What’s happening? What’s wrong?’
Echoes from the harbour bell were fading as Tangnost, followed by Quenelda and Root, walked along the north jetty in the great harbour cavern. Two merchant galleons flying the DeWinter banner had limped in with deep gouges in their caulked timbers. On one, the mizzen mast was smashed, rigging tangled, rails splintered. The bolt-throwers mounted on the stern and aft castle decks of both galleons lay empty, evidence of a desperate battle. The wood of the port hulls was scorched and still smoking. The injured were being carried down the gangplank as cranes swung in to lift the precious cargo of ore from the holds.
‘All that remains of another brimstone convoy from the DeWinter mine at Cairnmore,’ the harbourmaster reported. ‘A patrol found the survivors at daybreak and escorted them home.’
‘Razorbacks?’ Root asked, wide-eyed.
‘Razorbacks,’ Tangnost agreed. ‘The shipping lanes are becoming unsafe.’
Loki arrived, metal-shod crutches sparking on the stone wharf as the ship’s Captain walked wearily down the gangplank.
‘We were attacked by hobgoblins, with those cursed demon dragons of theirs.’ The Captain ran his hand through salt-stiffened hair, and spat. ‘Abyss knows where they found those foul creatures. We lost ten ships in the night. Two just went straight down. There one heartbeat and gone the next.’ He nodded gruffly at Tangnost. ‘Your idea to carry a Sabretooth on board saved us. Those slimy maggots weren’t expecting that when they swarmed over the side. But we need to metal the hulls, for they nearly fired the brimstone in the hold!’
Their words were drowned out as nets opened to pour brimstone into the huge waiting cauldrons. Loki picked up a lump of dusty ore and hefted it in one hand, expertly examining its colour and weight before handing it to Tangnost. ‘High-grade amber, but still a fraction of what we need.’
Tangnost nodded. ‘Times are desperate.’
Loki nodded. ‘Worse than you think, cousin. A courier arrived at dawn. There have been two more explosions at royal mines.’
‘Two! Thor’s Hammer!’ Tangnost exploded. ‘It’s sabotage, no matter what the Lord Protector says!’
‘What does he say?’ Quenelda asked coldly, hostility evident in every syllable.
‘With so many mines to the north of the Old Wall overrun by the hobgoblins, we have to delve far deeper than before,’ Tangnost explained. ‘The Lord Protector says that the lower seams are more dangerous to mine. That the dust builds up in the deep galleries.’
‘Since when did a Sorcerer Lord know anything about mining?’ Odin spat. ‘I doubt he’s been anywhere near a mine, and it is our folk who are dying!’
Tangnost nodded. ‘We need to discuss this. Even with so few dragons operational, things are becoming desperate.’
Maps were spread out in the Dragonmaster’s quarters. A few had brimstone mines marked on them in Tangnost’s careful hand.
‘These here are DeWinter mines’ – he pointed – ‘marked in red. So far there have been no accidents, though output has dropped. Royal mines are clustered here, here and here, and to the north, and these are on Clan lands belonging to my people. The two nearest us, south of the Wall, are now damaged by explosions.’
‘And these ones?’ Root asked, pointing to the far north.
‘Those belong to the Lord Protector and are beyond the range of the Howling Glen. They are all infested with hobgoblins, he claims,’ Loki said.
‘Or not …’ Tangnost said darkly. ‘He claims that only three of his mines remain operational, and thus he requisitions ore from the Royal mines. But I wonder … I think he is stockpiling ore.’
‘Why?’ Root asked.
‘There is only one reason,’ Tangnost said grimly, drawing on his pipe. ‘To put an army in the field. War!’
‘Do Razorbacks need brimstone to survive, like normal dragons do?’ said Root.
Tangnost shook his head. ‘We don’t think so, lad.’
Root shivered. His encounter with a rogue dragon at the Winter Joust had been terrifying, recalling his childhood fear of dragons. To have such great creatures
as your friends was scary enough. To encounter dragons whose only desire was to eat you – whose dark smoke dissolved you like acid …
Quenelda was peering intently at the map. ‘This is Cairnmore?’
Tangnost nodded. ‘The quality of its ore is first class. It’s one of the few mines in the area that hasn’t been attacked by hobgoblins, or suffered an “accident”.’
‘But output has dropped drastically,’ Loki told her.
‘Can you not bring it overland?’ Root asked.
‘We could, lad,’ Loki said. ‘The problem is that ore is heavy – heavier than gold. This dreadful weather makes many roads impassable; even the military roads have collapsed under the weight of ice and flood-melt, and the refugees’ wagons get bogged down to their axles. And it takes time, lad, a lot of time, to bring in a brimstone convoy, which makes them easy targets for the hobgoblins.
‘But’ – Quenelda frowned – ‘the military roads are still protected by forts, aren’t they?’
‘They are mostly garrisoned by the Lord Darcy’s or the Lord Protector’s men,’ Tangnost explained. ‘Convoys are still attacked by hobgoblins or mercenaries, or so they say. So few convoys to Dragon Isle get through.’
‘My nephew is foreman at Cairnmore,’ Tangnost said. ‘We have sent a dozen couriers warning him to be on his guard against sabotage. I suspect none of our dispatches are reaching him.’
So lonely …
so cold …
A fading whisper of thought, light as a cobweb, touched Quenelda’s mind and was gone. Soon it would be too late. Soon the voice would be silenced for ever. She had to act now!
‘Let me go,’ Quenelda said suddenly.
Root stared at her. ‘Let us go!’
Tangnost looked at her, careful not to show any pity. The Earl’s daughter was still too pale, too thin. Her bruised eyes had a haunted look more often seen in battlefield veterans – which was no surprise after what she had been through. She needed something to do, something to believe in once again.
‘Let us go, Tangnost,’ she repeated, on the verge of tears. ‘No one would notice the two of us. I – I don’t know why, but I need to go north …’
‘This dream of yours?’
She nodded. ‘Someone is calling and calling to me. The answer lies out there, I know it does. Please, please let me go. I have to go, Tangnost.’
He knew it would have happened anyway one way or the other. She was stretching her wings.
‘Do you think you could manage on your own? It is further away than you think. And yes, the highways and the Northern Way at the heart of the kingdoms are again secure, but you would have to leave them to reach the mine. You have never stayed out overnight in the wilds, never had to forage—’
‘I have,’ Root chimed in, his voice quietly determined. ‘We – my warren – moved camp with the seasons, taking what we needed from the land as we went. I can find food and water wherever we are,’ he added confidently, as Quenelda shot him a grateful smile.
‘We can manage, Tangnost, I know we can,’ Quenelda pleaded.
‘You can go, but’ – he held up his hand – ‘you must take a battlegriff, and both of you must be disguised, so that none recognize you, or link you to the SDS or Dragon Isle. Should the Lord Protector’s men find you, none would dispute his right to take you into his household. Wear old clothes and old tack; carry nothing that points to Dragon Isle. That way you should be safe. Many visit the mines at the behest of their Lords. With a helmet on, no one outside of the Sorcerers Glen would know you. Quenelda. Cut your hair short and you will pass for a boy.
‘We must prepare. Root, go to the map room and put your recent learning to good use. Memorize your route, the forts and way-stations for food for you and fodder for your mount. Quenelda, come, we have much to plan.’
So lost … so alone …
But this time she could answer.
I’m coming … I’m coming for you …
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Beyond the Sorcerers Glen
Root swallowed down his apprehension as he studied the maps and his brass compass. His family had been slaughtered by a hobgoblin war band when he was six, and until he came to Dragon Isle he had never left the safety of the Sorcerers Glen. Eighteen leagues long from east to west, where it met the Inner Sea, it had been his whole world. The Brimstones looked very far away; it might take weeks if the weather was bad. He swallowed nervously.
Since his father had died, Root had had to overcome his fear of dragons and had befriended the gentle Chasing the Stars. Together they had fought a rogue dragon intent on murder, and then he had fled Dragonsdome for sanctuary on Dragon Isle, forced to leave her behind. But he had not had to confront his fears and nightmares out in the wide world beyond the Sorcerers Glen. He gritted his teeth. He wasn’t the same helpless boy he had once been, and Quenelda needed him, now more than ever. Ignoring his worries, the young gnome studied the map, re-checked his calculations and plotted their journey.
Although she had left the Sorcerers Glen many times, Quenelda had always flown with her father on Stormcracker. Twice, when she was ten summers old, she had accompanied him as far as the Isle of Midges, where the dwarfs had been building an eighth fortress, abandoned since the ambush that had killed her grandfather. But no further than that. How many times had she dreamed of such an adventure; dreamed of coming to the rescue of the SDS? This furtive departure was not what she had imagined.
Quenelda longed for the solace of Open Sky. It was where she belonged, and yet she still held back, dreading taking to the air without her beloved Two Gulps. He would have loved to fly north to battle. Root, increasingly anxious about the fate of Chasing the Stars, silently let her know that he understood her inner conflict only too well.
Quenelda raised her palm and flexed her hand, amazed at the gorse-yellow scale that armoured it. Although her battledragon was dead, she knew he was still part of her. His strength was now her strength; his dreams invaded hers. She looked at herself in the mirror. She had grown taller over the last six moons since the SDS fell in battle, but she was still painfully thin, the bones of her cheeks and slanting brow more visible. And the eyes that gazed back at her seemed those of a stranger.
But there were still some who would remember the Earl’s daughter in boy’s clothes. Lifting a knife, she took a hank of hair and sawed at it until it stuck out, short and ragged, about her head. Few people, even her brother, would recognize her now.
The battlegriff, I’ve Already Eaten, was being prepped for takeoff. He no longer looked as if he came from the SDS stable. Tangnost had chosen a dappled grey with subdued blue colouring, and gave orders that he should not be groomed for a week. Due to a poor diet, his wings and flanks had already lost their normal sheen; now he looked rather grubby and was unlikely to attract any unwanted attention. The tack, found in a dusty storeroom, was battered and much repaired. Old saddlebags and gear were tied down sloppily in a tangle of ropes.
Both Root and Quenelda wore patched breeches and jerkins beneath faded old hooded cloaks. Root reflected that this was just what he had worn all the time before he was made up to esquire. He had chosen a helm with cheek pieces and nose guard; Quenelda a half-visored bronze helmet padded with leather.
Root checked through their hammocks and bedrolls, all wrapped in a layer of waxed leather hide. Water flasks … Travelling stove … He glanced up to where the fodder bags and honey tablets were stowed out of reach of the battlegriff’s questing beak. The dragonwings strapped to the rear of each saddle were patched and faded. Military rations for a month, to which he had added gnome scones, crab apples and oatcakes. Finally they were ready.
‘Here, hide it well.’ Tangnost handed Quenelda a barkscroll for his nephew. As she hid it in the folds of her jacket, he gave them their last instructions. ‘This warns my nephew, Malachite, to be on his guard against the Lord Protector’s men. I have asked that he raise the clans to escort the next load overland. It will take far longer, but it will b
e harder for the Lord Protector to divert or seize it on a busy military road: too many witnesses, and he will not risk open war with the clans. Keep it hidden, and hand it to no one save Malachite himself.’ Tangnost pulled a ring of red gold from his finger; it was fashioned in the shape of a bear’s paw. ‘He will recognize this token of your true intent.’
Quenelda nodded. The ring was too big for any of her fingers so they strung it on a leather thong about her neck, and she tucked it in beneath her jerkin. At last they were ready to leave.
‘Take care,’ Tangnost warned them as he adjusted the battlegriff’s girth strap. ‘Don’t draw attention to yourself.’ He clasped them both a final time and gruffly bade them farewell.
As dawn tickled the far horizon, the travellers took to the air. They would be clear of the Sorcerers Glen by the time the sun rose.
The battlegriff was very like Chasing the Stars to fly. As they rose into the crisp air, Root longed to see his companion again. One of Tangnost’s homing eagles had arrived at Dragon Isle just before they left, bearing a message from Quester informing them that Root’s beloved dragon was well, but pining for him. Other news was not so good: Darcy’s behaviour grew ever more reckless. He was squandering a small fortune on balls and banquets, dragon fights and hippogriff-racing; and he was neglecting duties owed to the Crown as the Earl of Dragonsdome.
As they approached the expanse of the Inner Sea, Root looked back. Dragon Isle, with its hangar decks, its battlements and towers, was fast disappearing into a blue haze. Only the great spires and copper domes of the castle stood out, gleaming in the early morning sun.
With the raised cobbled military road to their left, they followed its straight lines for three days as it crossed open farmland. Despite the good weather, the military road was already clogged with refugees heading for the safety of the Sorcerers Glen before the passes were closed and true winter set in.
As the crescent moons grew fat in the night sky and the weather held fair, Quenelda decided to keep flying later and later into the night – anything to shut out the nightmares. The battlegriff wasn’t used to night flying, and they had collided with an owl and a flock of bats before Quenelda agreed to Root’s hesitant suggestion to put down for the night. Root noticed she hardly ate anything now, and he heard her restless tossing and turning each night, crying out to the voice in her head. No wonder she had a headache all the time.