by Lucinda Hare
She was exhausted, driven on by her inner voice.
Cold, so cold … How I long to see the stars again …
On the fifth day, the military road branched and they turned north, away from the coastline, following the Great Northern Way for a further three days. As they reached the lower slopes of the Brimstones, the great forest began to thin out. Soon the terrain was punctuated by steep ravines and gullies, and the heavy smell of sulphur permeated everything. The air grew steadily colder.
The next morning, they couldn’t see a thing. Tired, irritable from lack of sleep, Quenelda was not in the mood to allow any further delay just because there was no longer a road to follow.
‘You can still navigate can’t you?’ she snapped unfairly as Root tentatively asked if they were going to wait till the fog thinned. ‘You’ve got a map and compass, haven’t you?’
Reluctant to let her down, Root simply nodded miserably. He had been studying hard, but theory and practice were two different things. They took to the air; it was thick as pea soup. Root desperately wished he had one of the SDS navigator’s helmets, that he had the three years training it took to fly Imperials. Without it they were virtually flying blind!
Then a wind rose in the gullies and ravines, buffeting them from side to side, pushing them up and sucking them down. Root began to feel airsick again, but manfully gritted his teeth. He could take it! Quenelda needed him to be tough!
The haar thickened.
‘Aahh!’ Root couldn’t help crying out loud as a branch nearly knocked him from the saddle. Without realizing it, they had lost height and had almost collided with a ragged pine tree split by lightning. Quenelda herself was more than a little scared – not that she was going to admit that to Root.
Alone … so alone …
The battlegriff too was becoming increasingly grumpy. He hadn’t been cared for well for many moons, and was out of sorts before they even set off from Dragon Isle. Drenched from beak to hoof, he badly needed a groom and to hunt a tasty beaver or two to pick his spirits up.
‘I’m not sure if we’re still on course,’ Quenelda tried half a bell later in an offhand tone of voice, hoping that Root would suggest they put down before she had to admit her stupidity.
‘No, no,’ Root chimed up cheerily, waving the compass at her and nodding manically. ‘We’re still headed in the right direction!’
Quenelda cursed inwardly, and encouraged the reluctant battlegriff on.
The wind rose further.
‘Rather rough going,’ she finally ventured over the banshee shriek.
The battlegriff agreed wholeheartedly. He was flapping for he it was worth now; only an ignorant fledgling would be out flying on a day like this. He was exhausted, although he certainly would not be admitting that to Dancing with Dragons.
They might, Quenelda thought half a bell later, still be flying in the right direction, but before long she was no longer certain that they were making any headway. She had the sneaking suspicion they might even be being pushed backwards. The head wind was wicked.
Root had the sneaking suspicion that they were going backwards. He wasn’t certain, but Quenelda hadn’t said anything, so it must be his imagination.
Then the haar briefly thinned, revealing a lightning struck pine tree that looked all too familiar.
‘Err …’ Root began, pointing to starboard.
‘We’ve been here before,’ Quenelda finished for him as a unexpected gust gathered them up.
‘I’m putting down,’ she shouted over her shoulder. ‘This is getting too dangerous.’
She fought to control the battlegriff as they dropped height into a deep ravine, not even sure where the ground now lay. Root cried out and gripped his saddle pommel as a vicious cross wind caught them and spun them about like a sycamore seed.
‘Gently, boy, gently does it,’ Quenelda’s heart was in her mouth as she coaxed the stallion down, petrified he might break a limb or a wing. Why on the One Earth had she made such an unwise decision? Her stupidity might yet kill them all.
Boulders loomed darkly out of the mist and the wind howled like ghosts. Talons extended, the indignant battlegriff landed in a shallow depression beneath a stand of bent pines in a flurry of soggy feathers. Kicking his stirrups, Root slid down his flanks onto his knees where he retched miserably into the scrubby grass.
They slung their hammocks on the lower branches of a great pine tree with the battlegriff roosting below. During the night, the wind rose even more so that their hammocks swung and dipped. Root was petrified, flinching at every creak and groan of the trees, the uncanny yelp of foxes and the plaintive call of the curlew bringing back memories of the night he had spent alone in the forest after most of his family and the entire warren had been slaughtered. He fell into an uneasy sleep.
‘Hide …’ he was burbling. ‘I must hide …’ Sweat poured from him as he twisted and thrashed in his sleeping roll. The sound of the creaking branches turned into the cry of his mother as she had tried to protect his brothers and sisters. The shriek of the wind became the savage cries of the hobgoblin warriors as they sent their young into the burrows and hunted down everyone throughout the warren, flushing them out into the open where they were set upon. The bramble thickets caught on his clothes as he tried to burrow beneath their protective thorns. He was caught, he couldn’t move. Something was emerging out of the shadows, reaching out for him …
‘Root?’ Deep in shadow, Quenelda was perched on the branch above the gnome looking down on him. ‘Root?’
Root jerked awake to see a pale hand reached forward. He screamed, batting it away.
‘Root! Root! You’re safe! It’s just a nightmare! You’ve had a nightmare.’
The youth shivered.
‘Here.’ Quenelda reached for one of her blankets. ‘Listen, I’ll light the lamp.’
And as she watched her friend nurse a drink of mulled cider, Quenelda realized how selfish she had been, bringing him on this journey. She had never given a moment’s thought to his fears, he had seemed so confident.
‘I’ll keep watch,’ she promised, as Root’s head finally nodded. How would she feel out here if most of her family had been massacred by marauding hobgoblins? She wasn’t the only one with nightmares.
The dense cloud was, if anything, worse the following morning, but the wind had dropped. Cautiously they took off, Quenelda flying as low as she dared so that she could at least see the ground, even though that increased the risk of collision. The drenching moisture weighed down their flying cloaks and their spirits. But within two bells there were more problems.
‘Quenelda, I don’t know where we are any more.’ Root looked at his compass but the needle span as the first drop of rain fell.
‘It must be the brimstone …’ He pursed his lips. ‘Tangnost warned me the ore would make the needle go crazy, but I’d hoped by then we’d have landmarks to sight by.’
Huddled miserably together beneath the battlegriff’s outstretched wing, the rain drummed down and the moisture laden air soaked through their heavy cloaks and sleeping rolls. Root tried to start a fire with his flint and tinder, but couldn’t coax a spark. They shared cold food and mugs of rainwater. Huddled together against the flanks of the battlegriff they pulled their capes about them and tried to rest, but the desperate whispers Quenelda kept hearing were louder now and she could not sleep.
Who was it calling out to her? What did it mean?
Lonely … lonely …
So cold …
So dark …
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble
They woke to a bright cold morning and the sounds of birds in the trees. The yellow fangs of the Brimstones rose up into the brilliant blue sky. Overhead, huge mountain buzzards were slowly rising on the thermals. Root climbed a rocky outcrop to get his bearings.
‘There it is!’
As Quenelda joined him, he pointed to the expanse of water that should lead to the mine. ‘We’
re close,’ he guessed, checking the lie of the loch against his crumpled map. ‘Very close now. Perhaps a half-day’s journey?’
Flying low, they skirted the mountain. Soon there were no trees – no vegetation of any kind; just the stark chalkcoloured stone of the lower slopes sweeping down to the sea loch, threaded through with saffron-yellow seams of ore.
Shortly after the Hour of the Irritated Bumblebee, Root lowered his telescope and tapped Quenelda on the shoulder. ‘Ships …’ He indicated a cluster of distant sails gleaming in the low sun beneath a yellow haze. ‘They must be taking on cargo. Maybe all is well.’
As I’ve Already Eaten drew closer, the northeast wind carried faint shouts and roars, and, beneath it all, a sound like rain falling on a tiled roof: the steady hammering of mallet and pick on the rock face. As they drew closer, the noise grew louder and louder.
Whips cracked. Voices shouted. Metal screeched. Commands were bellowed. Pulleys swung and chains rattled. The noise was so loud it rattled Root’s teeth.
The Cairnmore mine was shaped like a crescent moon cut deep into the mountainside, and it was covered in scaffolding. A group of miners’ huts lay in the dunes to the left, down by the long wooden jetty. Behind, amongst the marram grass, half buried by sand, was a large graveyard. Root shivered. Mining brimstone was obviously hazardous, even for mountain dwarfs.
Seven ships were anchored inside the curving stone harbour wall, five of them Guild merchant galleons, with two armoured SDS battlegalleons providing an escort. Two clippers, a half-league out in deeper water, were standing watch as the six galleons lying deep in the water weighed anchor. They flew the Lord Protector’s new coat of arms: the coiling red adder on a black background, slashed with a golden unicorn on russet.
‘He has no right to the royal coat of arms!’ Quenelda began furiously. ‘He’s not married the Queen yet! He—’
Lonely … so lonely …
So dark …
No stars …
The voice drew her back to where a dozen mine shafts, framed by scaffolding and ladders, burrowed into the cliff face. Crude metal rail tracks snaked from the vast entrance down to the jetties, where teams of old and injured dragons were hauling great wagons loaded with heavy ore down to the ships. Others were dragging the empty wagons back. It took Quenelda a moment to work out what was wrong. It was the breeds. In utter disbelief, she turned I’ve Already Eaten towards the jetty for another pass.
‘They’re using old battledragons in the mines!’ Quenelda was outraged.
‘What?’ Root shouted. He had turned in his stirrups and was watching the mine as they swung upward in an arc. Figures were running out of the cavernous entrance. He could faintly hear shouting. Then the ground convulsed. Panic rippled outwards as more and more miners turned to flee, jumping from the scaffolding in their haste.
‘Look! Look!’ Root pulled on Quenelda’s arm. ‘Something’s going on.’ He unbuckled his helmet to hear better. ‘Look. I think—’
There was a huge muffled boom followed by an earsplitting crack! The hillside rippled, then part of the quarry face blew out in billowing clouds of splintered wood, boulders and ash. Vast chunks of burning rock arced into the sky.
‘Aaarghh!’ Quenelda screamed. Everything around her turned bright white, then yellow, leaving her stunned and blinded, with a pink after-image imprinted on the backs of her eyes. Next second, the rippling aftershocks of the explosion tossed the big battlegriff and his riders sideways. Then they were swept away like driftwood on a storm-lashed beach out to sea.
Root’s helmet was blown out of his hands. A hot wind hit him like a bunched fist, and then everything went black.
Quenelda felt her tether rope snap, then the breath was punched out of her as she hit the water. Battlegriff and girl thrashed around in the churning tide as debris rained down on them. Stinging salty sea water poured into her mouth. Fingers frantic with haste, she tore at the strap of her helmet, while trying to free her feet from the stirrups.
‘Root!’ Quenelda spluttered when she surfaced among the freezing waves and called to her friend. Her ears were ringing, and she the sour taste of sea water was in her mouth. Her flying harness was getting tangled in her mount’s claws. Quickly slicing through the leather with her flying knife, Quenelda flung herself over the saddle and groped for the gnome’s safety line. It was no good; she couldn’t get a grip … then it came away in her hands.
Yellow dust hung in the air like a choking haar. She couldn’t see anything beyond a half-dozen arm spans. Flaming chunks of ore and rock were raining down about her as she searched for her friend. Taking a mouthful of dust-choked air, Quenelda plunged down into a sea of turmoil. Noises hammered against her head, amplified by the water. Bubbles rose noisily, disorienting her. The water churned and sucked, then boomed as the merchant galleys in the harbour broke up and sank with a tearing of timbers. It was as if time itself had slowed and she was swimming through treacle.
Root … Root. Where was he? Fronds of dark kelp wrapped about her. She pushed it away from her face. There! Root’s distinctive red jerkin stood out against the shingle like a bright red fish. Blood was clouding the water about him. Kicking with all her strength, Quenelda tried to make for the unconscious gnome. She wanted to reach down to him, but somehow, despite her flying gear, her body wanted to float to the surface. It was like swimming against a strong current. With a final effort, Quenelda tugged at Root’s harness and managed to grab his hair braids. Desperate now for air, she kicked upwards. Stones and boulders were still raining down as she surfaced, churning the water; she realized that one had gashed her forehead, spilling hot blood down her face. Salt stung her eyes.
The galleons anchored at the stone wharf were all on fire. One was already sinking, its caulked timbers ripped open by the tons of exploding brimstone in its hold. Shredded sails and blazing rigging fell to the deck, spilling bodies into the sea.
Trying to keep Root’s head clear of the waves, Quenelda struck clumsily shoreward towards I’ve Already Eaten, gagging on the water that slapped into her mouth and up her nose. There was a second explosion from another burning ship as the fire reached its cargo of brimstone.
Boom!
Sea and sound raced outwards. The concussion deafened Quenelda; waves smacked her face, more sea water went up her nose and into her mouth. Her head rang. Shrapnel fizzed and popped over her head like a swarm of hornets, peppering the beach with a lethal storm. The sea was so cold. The weight of her flying cloak and boots was dragging her numb limbs down. There was a dull second boom, and a huge boulder crashed down, sending a massive wave over Quenelda’s head, driving her under again. She panicked as her legs became tangled in the kelp beds. She had to let go of Root for a moment.
Kicking frantically, Quenelda released her brooch, and the weight of the cloak fell away into the clouded water. Grabbing Root again, she struck out for the shore, but she was exhausted. Then a foot touched rock! Quenelda sighed with relief. She could stand now. Roughly hauling Root by his flying harness up onto the dunes, Quenelda turned back to the panicking battlegriff, who was in danger of drowning as his feathered wings became waterlogged.
‘Softly, I’ve Already Eaten.’ She calmed him with her hand, trying to keep those lethal claws from injuring her. Hush … hush … Hanging onto a stirrup, she urged the creature onto the shore. Hooves struck rock, and the animal surged out of the water. Gently – you’re safe now. Trust me …
Sailors were coughing and retching about them as Quenelda dragged herself, Root and her mount up onto the sand. Tethering I’ve Already Eaten to a bleached tree trunk washed up on the beach, she collapsed and lay there, shaking.
Waves tugged at her boots as the tide slowly withdrew, taking the badly injured and dead with it. Ash floated down like yellow snow. Her ears were bleeding and she couldn’t hear properly. Chest heaving, Quenelda blinked, trying to clear the after-image from the back of her eyes. She retched, hot liquid spurting up to burn the back of her throat. Her limbs were t
rembling with exhaustion, but she had to get moving.
Root … Root … how was he? Was he badly injured?
Scant feet away, a seagoblin collapsed noisily on the sand, but not before Quenelda had spotted Root lying motionless beneath him. He was still breathing as she pulled him out from beneath the cursing goblin, but blood was coursing from a head wound. Examining it, Quenelda found a nasty bump and a long shallow gash just above his hairline. Searching through the pouches of her flying belt, she picked out a small jar. Her leaden fingers fumbled with the lid, but eventually she managed to paste some of the thick ointment over the wound. That should stop the bleeding and prevent infection.
Behind her, I’ve Already Eaten was shaking out his wings, preening with beak and claw, tearing out smoking feathers. Back on firm ground, he ignored the shouts and explosions – he was accustomed to them and wouldn’t panic now. Quenelda swiftly checked him over too, treating a deep gash on his left flank with the same ointment.
Untying a sodden saddle blanket, Quenelda dragged Root until he was sitting upright against the battlegriff’s flanks, sheltered by a hind leg and an outstretched feathered wing.
Protect him, she commanded the battlegriff, wrapping the boy in the wet blanket and then staggering up the steep dunes. The sand clung to her boots and breeches, slowing her down. Before her she saw a scene from the Netherworld: crying children were stumbling aimlessly around the small cottages that clustered near the outer rim of the mine. Somewhere, a bell was tolling urgently.
Terrified mountain goblins, trolls and dwarfs emerged from the mushrooming cloud of choking dust that hung over the devastated mine. Only their red-rimmed eyes and the dark gashes of their mouths were visible beneath the thick layer of yellow ash. The stench of burning flesh reminded Quenelda of the hospital roosts. Were there no healers? No Mages amongst the miners’ families?