by Lucinda Hare
Storm, fly …
Quenelda was intent on Stormcracker, coaxing the sick dragon forward. Desperate to get back as swiftly as possible, and to avoid any possibility that the lone uncloaked Imperial would be sighted, she chose to strike out as the crow flies over unknown country away from the military roads to avoid detection. But within a bell, as the trees thinned, giving way to open moorland, the great dragon had begun to tire and falter. They were lost, and Root could barely stay in his saddle let alone navigate. Weakened by battle, starvation and brutal confinement, the battledragon’s flight faltered.
I must rest, Dancing with Dragons …
I will find a place …
‘Root? Quenelda called. Root do you know where we are?’
‘Wha-what?’ The young boy started awake. He had fallen into an uneasy sleep, trusting the battlegriff to follow Quenelda. He squinted at the stars but was still seeing double and nearly fell from his saddle.
‘Root, we are going to have to put down soon. Storm’s exhausted.’ Quenelda searched the moor below, trying to find a suitable place to put down. She had been too hasty taking off as dark fell, and she knew it. Why hadn’t she waited for dawn?
Then her heart thumped as a ripping sound rent the air. The canvas and pitch patches were giving way one by one! Dark league after dark league of moorland and stands of pine trees passed below them as Quenelda fought to keep as much height as possible above the treacherous bogs and marshes. If Storm put down there, he would sink into the mire and they would never get him out again. This must be what it was like trying to land after a battle, Quenelda realized, with an injured and exhausted mount. She bit her lip. Once again she had assumed that because she could fly, that would be enough. When was she going to learn?
Then a memory came to her from her other self; from her dragonworld memories. Long, long ago in the Elder Days, there had been Imperial dragoncombs in the glen ahead – combs rich with yellow seams of brimstone and cold pure water from the glacier. This was why she had chosen this way!
‘Root, head for the larger of the two glens. There are dragoncombs there.’
The boy was too injured and exhausted to ask how she knew. He nodded his head and then wished he hadn’t, as a wave of sickness took him. He clung on miserably as the mountains rose up on either side of them.
Quenelda knew the combs were there, but her memory came from long, long ago when winter lay permanently over most of the land. As a girl she had never been to this place before. How could they find the right waterfall in the dark, steep-sided valleys below? Quenelda wondered. She looked up at the rising moons sailing behind a latticework of clouds, and tried to take her bearing from the handful of stars still visible. But the stars too had travelled across the heavens since she last stretched her wings. Then one of the moons rose higher, and the river below leaped out like a pale scar on the black landscape, all milk and dark moonshadow. And suddenly she knew where she was. There it was: a glittering shower of foam that burst out of the mountainside, to crash down a deep gorge in a spill of liquid froth.
With a gentle thought, she turned Stormcracker towards it as yet another wing patch began to tear.
‘We’re going down, Root,’ she shouted. ‘Hang on and follow us! I’m making for the waterfall!’ With her dragon eyes, she could see I’ve Already Eaten’s silhouette above her against the sky, but the boy had been slouched forward in his saddle and might not have heard, so she sent the thought to his battlegriff, bidding him follow her.
Then Stormcracker’s wings gave way completely and battledragon and girl were whirling round and round, spiralling out of control. It ripped a scream out of her lungs. She knew in her heart of hearts that if they crashed Stormcracker would not survive the impact, let alone fly again. Her fingers tingled, sparking as bright magic gathered in her hands. Hot fire rose in her throat, but panic drove coherent thought from her. Fiery red bolts spun about her as she flamed her anguish. Parts of the mountain exploded in shards of rocks. Gorse bushes went up in flames.
Root clung on for dear life as I’ve Already Eaten followed the flaming, plummeting forms of Quenelda and Stormcracker towards the waterfall.
Storm! Storm! Fly! She commanded him, but it was no good. Stormcracker had no magic or strength left to give. The ground reached up to greet them.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Dragon Down
Then a golden nimbus of light blossomed about Quenelda. Fire flowed through her veins. Arcing from her fingers, it struck out like a huge spider’s web, strong as steel, light as a feather. It cushioned the great dragon in flames that did not burn, slowing their dizzying descent, and cast them gently through the waterfall.
The freezing water instantly doused her fire. Combs and darkness closed in around them, and Stormcracker collapsed, throwing an exhausted Quenelda over his withers onto the floor, driving the breath from her lungs.
Root ducked as a final fireball scorched past him … and then … and then icy spray embraced him, water battered him, drowning his scream, and they were through, and it was pitch black, and he was deafened and soaked and shivering with cold and fear. Weakened and tired, I’ve Already Eaten barely managed to avoid Stormcracker but caught a hoof on the spines of his tail. Claws flailing, hooves skidding on the wet rock, the battlegriff came to a halt scant strides from where Quenelda struggled to her feet.
Root spat out water and knuckled his streaming eyes.
‘Are you all right?’ he shouted in the darkness as he dismounted. ‘You’re not hurt?’ The battlegriff was already fluffing up his feathers and stamping his hooves to keep warm.
Storm? Storm? Quenelda quested as she got to her feet, but there was only silence. The effort of landing had used the last of Stormcracker’s energy. He had collapsed into unconsciousness. She stumbled around the battlegriff to where the dragon lay unmoving. He was shuddering, his mind wandering again down a nightmare of endless dark tunnels. Laying her hands against his cheek, Quenelda bowed her brow and, to Root’s consternation, began to weep.
‘Quenelda?’ The gnome moved hesitantly to her side. ‘What is it?’ he asked gently. ‘What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Is it Storm?’
‘He – he c-can’t fly!’
‘But he just did.’
‘But it took every last ounce of his strength. He’s unconscious. I asked too much of him. He’s dying, and it’s all m-my fault!’
‘Let me light a fire,’ Root suggested. He felt dreadful, but he still took charge. ‘To get us warmed up. Then we can have a look and see how he is.’
He found sodden kindling and heather in the battlegriff’s saddlebags. Getting out his flint, he struck a tiny spark, which danced in the damp dark, then died.
‘The wood’s too wet!’ he muttered. This rescue was all going so terribly wrong. ‘Everything’s soaked. It’s not going to light.’ He struck the flint again.
Fire. Without thinking Quenelda formed the simple elemental rune in her mind. The wet wood smoked, burst into reluctant flame, and then suddenly blazed up.
‘Whoa!’ Root rocked back on his heels as the rising heat almost singed his nostrils. ‘I must be getting good at this!’ He was impressed with his efforts – he’d never managed to start a fire like this before! With him around, Quenelda need never worry about these mundane tasks.
Lighting their last pitch-soaked brand, Root went over to inspect the dragon. Stormcracker’s breath rattled in his lungs, plumes of breath condensing in the freezing air. He looked like a bag of bones, shiver after shiver running through his wasted body. Lifting the brand, Root carefully moved round behind him, appalled by the damage that had been done to the mighty creature. The tranquil black water of the cavern lake behind them flared to gold, then faded back into greater darkness. High above, the ceiling reached down with sparkling needles that dripped with the slow seconds of centuries. Dark tunnels yawned around the cavern’s edge in every direction.
Root filled the kettle, then brewed some dandelion tea, throwing in some nettle for st
rength, and motherwort for protection, from his pouch. The hot tea brought some colour back into Quenelda’s cheeks, but she still miserably acknowledged the truth.
‘He can’t fly any further. I’ve asked too much of him, Root. He’s never going make it back to Dragon Isle. He’s never going to fly again!’ She wiped away tears. I should have recognized his voice calling! I should have rescued him sooner. We’re too late!
‘But—’ Root opened his mouth to protest, to comfort her, then saw the terrible certainty in her eyes. She had lost Two Gulps. Now, when she had finally found him, her father’s battledragon was dying, his injuries beyond her fledgling powers.
Quenelda was crying quietly. ‘He’ll have to be put d-down. He can’t be left to suffer like this.’
‘I’ll fly back to Dragon Isle,’ Root offered, keeping his clasped hands behind his back so that Quenelda wouldn’t see them shaking, hoping she would put the wobble in his voice down to the cold. ‘I’ll fetch Tangnost. He’ll know what to do!’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
When the Wind Blows the Cradle Will Rock
As the grey of early dawn revealed the mountain ridges and glens, it also showed the state of I’ve Already Eaten. The battlegriff was clearly tiring and in distress. His feathers were scorched, and spattered with congealed blood; his right wing had been badly burned by falling brimstone and, to Root’s alarm, scorched wing feathers kept falling out. His left hind leg had also been peppered with splinters of wood, scoring deep furrows across his once glossy flanks. Exhausted, Quenelda had no healing power left to treat the battlegriff before they had left the sanctuary of the combs. Root and I’ve Already Eaten were on their own!
Root had been plagued by doubts ever since they had taken off. What if they got lost? What if the battlegriff hit one of the pine trees whose tops they were barely clearing? What if he had misunderstood Quenelda’s instructions? What if the Lord Protector’s men intercepted him? Without map or compass, Root was no longer sure where he was; he only knew that the Brimstones were slowly fading away behind him. But was he heading for the Sorcerers Glen?
‘Oh, tooth and claw!’ Root mumbled the litany over and over again. ‘Earth guide us safely home. Please …’
A pearly dawn mist hugged the floor of the glen as he took out his telescope and anxiously searched the sky, dreading to see the red adder on black. A few clouds and a scattering of dragons, but nothing nearby – no sign of the SDS arrow formations.
‘Come on, boy, we can make it!’ Root encouraged I’ve Already Eaten, saying the words out loud to bolster his own confidence. But his voice sounded thin and weak in the silence, and only served to emphasize how alone he was.
Gnome and battlegriff had to put down almost every bell to drink and rest. I’ve Already Eaten caught a pigeon and an inattentive heron, and Root scavenged a handful of blackberries and some hazelnuts. The Dragonspine Mountains of the Sorcerers Glen loomed slate-blue in the far distance. As dark trees and white frothing rivers passed slowly below, Root knew that he might not reach sanctuary for many days, perhaps weeks, even if the weather held. Would Stormcracker survive that long? The picture of Quenelda sobbing beside a dead dragon made him sick with worry as he urged his stricken mount up into the air once again.
Then a sudden gust of wind caught them and the battlegriff was blown sideways. The air warped, and a huge Imperial Black shimmered into view just above him, great talons curled barely strides above his head. Root almost fainted with relief.
Quenelda wept until exhaustion took her. Magic never worked out the way she intended. It was as if the harder she tried, the more elusive and uncontrolled her fledgling powers became. She simply did not yet have the strength or knowledge to heal her father’s battledragon’s many wounds. Bound by baleful spells these many moons, the dragon’s own magic was exhausted. His injuries were too great and he was too weak. Nestling within the curve of Stormcracker’s neck, she slept deeply on through the night and into the next day. She woke, bleary-eyed and dry-mouthed, to find a fading yellow sliver of daylight streaming in through the fissure on the far side of the cave. She ate some of the salmon and oatcakes donated by the miners, and drank water from the freezing lake. Stormcracker hadn’t moved, but his eyes were open. Quenelda fed him the last meagre meal of brimstone then sank down beside him.
She lost track of time. Daylight. The dark of night again. Sleeping, waking, sleeping …
Fading daylight seeped through the cavern. Torchlight flickered dimly on the cave walls behind her, growing with the sound of footsteps … and voices – Root’s, and the deeper vowels of Tangnost, and a third Quenelda couldn’t identify. Then she remembered, and the tears began again. She had found Storm, only to lose him again. They were coming to put him down. She stood, head pressed against the dragon’s, listening to his shuddering heartbeats until Root ran over to her, enfolding her in a hug. His head was bandaged, but he was warm and had colour back in his cheeks.
‘I did it!’ Root was jubilant. ‘Quenelda, I did it! Tangnost’s here. The SDS are coming too! They let me fly ahead on a scout dragon by myself, just like my father! I’ve brought some field rations for Storm too – here.’
His joy was extinguished when he saw Quenelda’s pallor.
‘It’s all right! They’re not going to kill him! They are going to take him back to Dragon Isle! They have a cradle …’
‘A cradle?’ Quenelda turned in confusion as Tangnost arrived. ‘I don’t understand.’ She was ready to weep again.
Whatever Tangnost had been going to say died on his lips when he caught sight of the exhausted dragon, and even in the gloom of the cavern Quenelda could see the colour draining from his face. Instead, he only said, ‘Yes, he will be carried in a cradle by four Imperials. They are outside, at the foot of the waterfall. Do you think he could manage to glide down to where they are? We have a surgeon with us.’
Quenelda nodded.
‘Then we must cover his eyes. If he has spent ten moons in the mine, even the afternoon light will blind him.’
His companion, a young dwarf scout, beads braided in her dark hair, held up a heavy canvas hood with leather straps, as if asking Quenelda’s permission.
‘You will have to guide him.’ Tangnost added.
They will cover your eyes, Storm. To protect them from the light …
But I do not want darkness …
One-Eye says you may damage your eyes if you do not cover them, and then it will always be dark. This is only until we reach the combs of Dragon Isle … We must go through the water one more time, but I will guide you … Can you open your wings one last time so that we may glide down to where they await us?
The great dragon raised his head wearily. I will try, Dancing with Dragons …
Root watched in horror as the injured dragon burst through the waterfall. Quenelda was struggling to raise Stormcracker’s head to prevent a headlong rush to destruction upon the boulders below. He knew she would be using her growing powers, but they were not yet strong enough to come to the battledragon’s rescue; he tumbled down as awkwardly as a new-born fledgling, before landing heavily on the ground.
Exhausted, Quenelda looked around the wide glen; at the grey slabs of craggy rock that jutted out from the base of the mountains, and the scree-covered lower slopes. Yellow gorse hedged the margins with a splash of colour.
With a chirrup of greeting and two swift bounds, a smaller Imperial darted forward to wrap Stormcracker’s lacerated body in her own. Crooning softly, Soft Footfalls in the Air entwined her neck around his, raising his ruined head from the ground. The suppurating sores that marred his dull hide looked hideous compared to the brilliance of her scales; a sight that moved even the battle-hardened SDS troopers to tears of outrage.
Tangnost looked at the dragon with horror and doubt as they struggled to get him to his feet and furl his crumpled wings, wondering if he would ever grow strong enough to shed his old skin. If he couldn’t, he would never fly again.
‘Here …’
The dwarf wrapped Quenelda in a warm cloak. ‘Come and look.’ He led her over to where a dozen engineers were unloading heavy equipment.
An SDS Major strode over, his armour blending into the growing shadows. ‘Major DeMontfort.’ He saluted Quenelda. ‘Third Battalion Queen’s Armourers. If you’ll accompany me, Lady, I’ll show you what we’re going to do.’
Seeing her quizzical look as his crew rolled out a huge net and clipped it to four heavy chains, the major explained that it was a spider dragon net. Quenelda was still confused, and shook her head, trying to shed her own cobwebs. ‘I don’t understand. What are you doing with it?’
‘We call it a field cradle,’ the major went on. ‘It’s an idea your father came up with for returning injured dragons who could not fly from the battlefield, making use of your idea for critical-care cradles. It will be clipped onto a special harness on the escort Imperials.’
He led them over to the four dragons resting on the ground, pointing out the unusual harnesses and traces. ‘I suggest you just rest with Stormcracker until we’re ready for him.’
Quenelda nodded, and returned to the dragon’s side: the surgeon was feeding him some field rations from a nosebag. Chirruping softly, Soft Footfalls in the Air urged him to eat more, cleaning his wounds with her rasping tongue.
The surgeon smiled at Quenelda. ‘He’s as ready as we can make him. Can you command him forward?’
Stormcracker followed Quenelda blindly into the padded centre of the net, his lowered nostrils almost tickling her head.
‘I’ll stay with him, keep him calm,’ she said. Dusk was not far off now – she could hear the blackbirds calling in the thickets, and the cry of hunting wolves further down the glen.