by Lucinda Hare
Tying her flying scarf around her mouth and nose, eyes streaming, she staggered towards the screams. She was immediately plunged into a world of madness.
An injured cave dragon was stampeding, crushing everything and everyone lying in its path. It pounded down the sand dunes and disappeared from sight. Quenelda headed to where shouts and cries filtered dully through the smog.
The mine entrance was gone. In its place was a gaping hole in the mountainside filled with chalky ash that coated hair, eyelashes and tongue. Smoke, thick and oily as sheep’s wool, brought Quenelda to her knees. Miners stumbled out, tripping, falling, crying, abandoning equipment as they fled. Grabbing what looked like a cone-shaped mask, Quenelda experimentally put it over her nose and mouth, and immediately began to breathe more easily. Wiping away the blood that still streamed from the cut over her eye, Quenelda managed to tie on the mask as fleeing miners bumped and jostled her.
The passageway she clambered through was chaotic. Timbers that had shored up the ceiling and sides were reduced to splinters. Spars lay on the ground, their ragged edges snagging at Quenelda’s boots. To one side, the metal rails running into a tunnel were buckled and bent. Water gushed down from broken flumes and aqueducts, quenching fires as it pooled. A dead dragon lay crushed beneath the debris. Checking for a pulse between the great splayed toes, Quenelda moved on, the voice whispering desperately in her head.
Climb … climb … climb …
Where are you? Where are you? she called desperately, searching through the smoke. The chill of the day outside was a memory; deep in the mine the air was searing hot. Lungs burning, Quenelda paused for a rest at a junction where several mine shafts met. Sweat prickled inside her sea-soaked clothing. Flames and tarry black smoke poured out of a dozen fissures in the fractured rock face. Two of the tunnels were blocked; others had partially collapsed. Water was gushing from a cracked trough, raising clouds of steam as it quenched the hot stone. From one wide tunnel Quenelda heard the lash of a whip and a bellow, and followed the sound. The ground sloped gently down into a huge central cavern with seams radiating outwards like the spokes of a wheel. A group had gathered about a blocked shaft.
Traces were slung round a huge boulder. Grunting, sweating miners, mostly trolls and dwarfs, hauled on ropes, their hands and shoulders raw. Meanwhile an overseer lashed a bellowing cave dragon – Quenelda noticed that one of its hind legs was broken. Three other dragons lay dead or dying in the rubble, their traces cut away. The boulder was barely moving.
‘Show pity!’ she shouted, her voice raw, as she saw the severity of the cave dragon’s injuries. ‘Show pity!’
In answer, a troll swung his heavy pit mallet and the bellowing ended abruptly.
A broad-shouldered dwarf in a singed leather hauberk was shouting orders. He wore a battered miner’s helmet and carried a great mallet slung over his shoulder. His hair was singed, and half his face glistened where the cheek-guard of his helmet had been torn away by the explosion.
‘Odin give me strength,’ he cursed as he took a gulp from his water bottle. ‘I can’t be in three places at once! Gimlet, get down to level ten and see what damage has been done. Get a team down there. Targe’ – he turned to a dark-haired dwarf beside him – ‘go and check the water troughs. I want to know if the aqueduct is intact there. We have a lot of fires to put out.’
‘Aye, Malachite.’
‘Well?’ the dwarf foreman snapped suspiciously to the masked stranger who appeared out of the dust. ‘Who in Odin’s name are you?’ Without waiting for a reply, he turned away. ‘Follow me. Be quick about it. That’s six shafts down and two hundred miners trapped or dead, and those good-for-nothing animals won’t move the rubble. The whole world’s wanting brimstone, and there’ll be hell to pay if we don’t get another shipment out.’
Quenelda opened her mouth, then closed it again. Maybe she could learn more if they didn’t know who she was. Picking up a fallen globe lamp, she followed Malachite down a gallery blasted to smithereens by the explosion, and on into the burning heart of the mine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Lonely, So Lonely …
Climbing … climbing …
At first she didn’t see it beneath the choking clouds of dust and the mounds of shale. The creature’s thoughts were rambling and confused. The explosions and sulphurous smoke had triggered old memories of battle.
Climbing …
Quenelda peered through the roiling dark, her hearts suddenly racing. Sucked up by the main airshaft, black smoke poured out of a cracked seam, making it impossible to see clearly more than a dozen strides in any direction. Flames licked out of dozens of fissures, feeding on precious air. Even with her mask on, Quenelda was struggling to breathe. The floor was covered with semiconscious miners, thrashing around and gasping like fish out of water. Ten heartbeats passed while she stood frozen to the spot.
Lonely …
So lonely …
Quenelda’s head jerked up. ‘Stormcracker Thundercloud?’ Her whispered words were barely audible beneath the crack of hammer on stone, the lash of whip and the bellowing cave dragons.
‘Stormcracker!’ The cry of love leaped across six lonely moons and an ocean of loss. ‘Stormcracker!’
The dragon managed to lift his weary head a half-dozen feet from the ground before the cruel bit cut into the soft scales around his mouth. His scales were dull and caked with dust – dozens were cracked or missing, leaving raw ulcers oozing beneath the dirt. His folded wings looked parchment-thin. Quenelda could see the blue blood in the dragon’s veins moving sluggishly. And he stank dreadfully: of fear, and loss, and a longing for Open Sky.
‘Stay clear of that one,’ the foreman warned, seeing Quenelda step forward. ‘That’s a battledragon. Dangerous he is – won’t let any near him. Waiting for the nearest Mage to slaughter him.’
‘Slaughter him?’ That stopped the girl in her tracks … What? Why?’
‘We don’t have the power to kill an Imperial. Few do, save the Mages, and only a handful of them. He’s dying anyway. His mind and body are broken.’ Malachite sighed and shook his head. ‘’Twill be a kindness in truth – Oi, come back!’ he shouted. ‘Come back, you crazy fool.’
Clambering awkwardly over the jagged spoil, ignoring the knocks to her shins and knees, Quenelda stooped down to touch the rasping skin. It was hot and flaking.
‘Oh.’ She stood stock-still, hot angry tears pouring down her cheeks unnoticed. So this is where her father’s dragon was – condemned to a lifetime of servitude in an ore mine. For Quenelda had no doubt: this was indeed Stormcracker Thundercloud III, her father’s beloved battledragon. The dull gold eyes opened, but it was clear that he saw nothing save his inner thoughts.
‘Come back.’ The dwarf had climbed after Quenelda while she stood motionless. Laying a heavy-gauntleted hand on her shoulder, he pulled. The leather knot unravelled and Quenelda’s mask fell off. Malachite blinked, then rubbed his eyes with sooty knuckles as if he were seeing things. He tentatively reached out his hand. ‘But you’re just a boy! What are you doing here, lad? You shouldn’t be here. Come away …’
Gripping her elbow he tried to pull Quenelda away, but she twisted free, and he fell, his spurs striking stone. At the familiar hated sound, the dragon hissed a blast of foul odorous breath that nearly knocked Quenelda off her feet. Several of his teeth were broken and rotting; others were missing altogether, leaving decaying bone and gum. The dwarf fell again in his haste to get away, his helmet bouncing away across the rocky spoil.
The dragon’s mind quested out blindly through the smoke-filled air and the bedlam around him. Lonely … so lonely …
Quenelda placed her hands against the dragon’s hot dry muzzle.
Stormcracker, she cried, grief-stricken. It’s me. Oh, Storm! She knelt in front of the great dragon and leaned her head against the filthy weeping muzzle and hugged him.
‘Stormcracker,’ she wept out loud. ‘What – what have they done?’
; Malachite watched with amazement. Who on the One Earth was this young boy?
What have they done to you? she whispered, the power in her voice finally reaching through the dragon’s starved indifference.
Dancing with Dragons? The tendril of thought was so faint, Quenelda could barely sense it. Is it truly you? Why has it taken so long for you to come for me? I called and called and called. All these lonely seasons in the dark …
His face and back were seamed and scarred with the lash, but Quenelda laughed for sheer joy as the stinking black viperous tongue flicked out and licked her. The massive tail unravelled, armour plate rattled against chains. Boulders bounced into the pit of the floor. Scooping her up gently, the dragon slowly lifted Quenelda in his coiled tail, higher and higher, till she hung above his massive withers.
‘Thor’s Hammer!’ Malachite breathed in growing disbelief as a single tear rolled down from the yellow eye, dropping into the rubble.
Behind him, dwarfs and trolls were running for weapons mounted on the wall, and a deep horn sounded the alarm. Its blast echoed and re-echoed over the background boom of explosions. Gravel and dust vibrated. Some miners were arming themselves with dragonspikes and whips, as if such puny weapons could harm an Imperial Black.
Straddling the dragon, Quenelda could now see the powerful marks of captivity and servitude moving through the cold iron collar that had dulled Stormcracker’s senses and blunted his magic. And in recognizing them, she knew with certainty that an Arch Mage had sold this SDS dragon into servitude; someone with great power had committed this crime. Only in her lifetime had the practice been banned, but many had yet to change their ways. But this was a DeWinter mine. There should be no battledragons enslaved here!
She flinched as another section of tunnel collapsed on miners trying to clear it. Cries and shouts rang out as everyone turned from the dragon to rescue their comrades. Stormcracker’s head swung round, searching for fresh air.
Hush … An idea had just struck Quenelda as she soothed and calmed him. I am going to buy your freedom.
Freedom? Open Sky?
Open Sky, Quenelda promised. And home, Stormcracker. Home to the roosts of Dragon Isle …
Home …
She pulled off her mask. ‘This dragon can help,’ she shouted, trying to be heard above the chaos. She coughed as a wave of dust choked her throat. ‘I – I know he can. But in return’ – she stared fiercely at Malachite, willing him to agree to her bargain – ‘I want his freedom. You must pass ownership to me.’
‘Help? How can he help?’ The dwarf ran a hand through sweat-soaked hair. ‘He’s no use to anyone.’
‘I can ask him to help.’
‘Ask?’ scoffed a huge troll holding a dragonspike, his voice muffled by his mask. ‘How are you going to do that, boy?’
‘Like this. Flame!’ Quenelda commanded. Flame …
The dragon roared a primordial scream of rage and fear; a throaty liquid rattle. Feeble flames licked out through his muzzle – but enough to set tar-soaked timbers alight. They all ran then, tumbling breakneck down the shale, crowding into the mine shafts. All except the dwarf foreman, who stood his ground. A veteran, Quenelda suddenly realized. Was he a Bonecracker? Surely she could appeal to him? Bonecrackers formed lifelong bonds with their dragons; they protected one another in battle to the death. Surely …
Stormcracker coughed, a wrenching, jarring cough that rattled his ribs and shuddered through his bony frame. She had to get him out of here. She had to get him home to Dragon Isle. He was dying.
‘Strike his chains,’ Quenelda screamed. ‘Strike his chains.’ A rage was burning through her like a fever. ‘Then I promise he’ll work for you!’
Strike! Strike! the dragon echoed feebly.
‘He’s a brute,’ Malachite shouted back. ‘He’s wild. Unchain him and he’ll kill us all! A rogue, we were told by the Lord Protector’s men. That’s why he was delivered here.’
‘You’re the brute, not him. Strike his chains.’ Quenelda was weeping now. The dragon hissed at her distress. ‘He can help. He can help clear the rubble, those boulders. Save your miners.’
The dwarf paused, considering the offer. He shrugged and nodded. Things couldn’t get any worse than they already were. Overriding a chorus of protests, he gave the order.
Grunting and sweating, cursing and trembling, dwarfs and trolls swung their mallets down upon the pegs that locked each link. The sound of steel on steel rang out, but it was too slow. Too slow!
Sorcery thrummed through Quenelda. Her fingers tingled and white sparks crackling with energy played about their tips. With a surge of power and an angry gesture, Quenelda brought her fist down. There was a blinding flash. The chains broke with a loud crack, fragments of metal ricocheting off the walls. Miners screamed as they were caught in the hailstorm. The baleful magic in the links earthed, and the binding spell was gone, leaving cold iron.
The dragon shifted and shuddered as the chains of captivity fell away. Deep inside, suppressed magic flickered weakly back to life and seeped through his blood into his body. Slowly, tentatively, the broken battledragon unfurled his great wings, the pain making him hiss in distress. As his wings spread, Quenelda could see why. The membranes that webbed his wings between each finger-bone were torn and ragged. The armoured plates were crazed with fractures. A broken yellowed radius bone stuck out, and several wing talons were missing. Huge lesions were clearly battle injuries; others the result of mistreatment and brutality. Bones cracked, and tendons stiff with disuse creaked as the dragon found his balance. Clouds of dust rose into the choking air as he moved forward.
Miners scattered. A few kinder souls, mostly the dwarf veterans of the war, stood their ground and cheered. Malachite stood stunned by what he had just witnessed; the boy had broken a spelled collar! Only a powerful sorcerer could do that, and the binding of this one had been particularly potent. Balancing astride the dragon’s spinal plates, unaware of what she’d just achieved, Quenelda now fought to undo the huge buckles that strapped the cruel dragon-muzzle in place so that Storncracker could not feed from the ore he hauled. It was crusted with filth and stuck fast, fuelling her rage. Once again sparks began to arc from her fingers. A brimstone mine! How could they? They were starving the dragons in a brimstone mine! How else could they control Imperials? The Seven Sea Kingdoms needed brimstone above all else, but at what cost? How dare Darcy! Her father would never have allowed this. Her eyes flared liquid gold, and smoke threaded from her nose, mingling unseen in the dust saturated air.
Her rage communicated itself to Stormcracker. The injured dragon hissed. Malachite swallowed, gagging as the rank breath rolled over him. He opened his mouth to shout – to tell the boy to stop; to point out that the muzzle contained twelve-inch incisors and a bite in excess of forty thousand pounds of force. But then shame made him hesitate. He had never been easy with battledragons being sold into servitude and shackled after a lifetime of service, had never agreed with the young Earl’s command. Shaking his head at his own madness, the dwarf stepped up to help.
Feeling ridiculous, he unsheathed the great knife strapped to his back, slicing through the dirty brittle leather that the boy couldn’t reach. The enormous jaws beside him opened achingly wide, revealing rotten stumps and an ulcerated tongue. Then, to his shame, Malachite fled, tripping and stumbling down the shale, certain that jaws that could bring a mammoth down would have no problems devouring a morsel like him. If his chains were struck, might not the Imperial unleash its magic upon the mine? But the dragon was only interested in the brimstone, gulping down every lump within reach of his sinuous neck.
Slowly … Don’t eat too much … Quenelda had to use all her powers of persuasion to stop the dragon gorging on the ore. You’ll be ill if you eat too much … You will be fed again soon … You’ll never go hungry again. I swear it, Stormcracker! I swear it! She clenched her fist. A tendril of magic shot sideways to earth on a miner’s axe. The dwarf was blown off his feet. Malachite swallowed. Wha
t had he just unleashed?
Reluctantly the dragon raised his head.
Slowly, Stormcracker … Quenelda cautioned as he slid down the shale. You are ill and weak … gently … The dragon’s legs gave way and he slid down amongst a cloud of rubble and dust.
The foreman stepped out of the way of bouncing rubble to move up beside her.
‘Water,’ she coughed. ‘We need water.’
‘Over there.’ Malachite pointed to where an underground river was channelled through a series of runnels and troughs carved into the bedrock.
Quenelda led the stumbling battledragon to drink, scooping up cupped handfuls to splash over her face, washing away layers of choking yellow dust. Then, lifting a ladle, she too drank her fill, clearing her raw throat.
How do you feel, Storm? she whispered as the dragon lifted his dripping maw. Do you have enough strength to do as I ask?
We fly to our home roost?
Soon, she promised. Soon …
‘A harness!’ Quenelda shouted. ‘We need to hitch a harness …’ She slid to the ground, burning the skin from her palms on Stormcracker’s dry, abrasive hide. ‘Down, Stormcracker, down.’ The dragon sagged to the ground.
‘Hitch the traces,’ she said to the foreman. ‘He won’t harm you.’
Several of the more powerfully built trolls hitched the heavy chains to the great metal mine harness. Dwarfs swung irons around a huge boulder and clipped the two together.
‘Up, Stormcracker, up. Pull.’ Remounting, Quenelda urged the battledragon on. Stormcracker, pull.
Step by hesitant step, the dragon threw his weight forward, away from the blocked tunnel. Nothing moved. The harness creaked. Then dust sifted down from cracks in the ceiling.
Then – ‘It’s moving! Boss, it’s moving,’ yelled one of the dwarfs. Almost imperceptibly, the huge boulder shifted; then, as Stormcracker got into his stride, it broke free. A pile of collapsing rubble followed.