by Martin Vine
The bridge creaked ominously in the agonising seconds it took the echo to fade in his ears. Showing them no mercy, another eruption boomed. This time it sounded like stone cracking under the blows of a mighty hammer.
Immediately following the blast, Hopskotch heard a crumbling noise, like a mass of broken rocks tumbling over hard stone. A shower of dust and tiny pebbles began to fall from the sky. The four youngsters threw their arms over their eyes and huddled close to one another.
Fear for Grandpa Rand overriding fear for himself, Hopskotch broke from the group. He shook the tiny stones from his hair and climbed one of the support ropes to see what was going on. Tears streamed down his dust-covered cheeks. He thought of the thunderclap and the relentless ant swarms. Hopskotch imagined the worst.
Now his strength betrayed him. Though determined enough, the panic-stricken Syltling struggled to retain his hold on the sloping support rope. A nearby torch hissed and spat, causing him to flinch. The heat stung his eyes, yet he endured its burning caress, squinting into the distance over the heads of his companions.
Hopskotch’s jaw dropped. His eyes bulged. Back on the great stone boulder, not twenty-five yards distant, played a scene that turned his entire world upside down.
Grandpa Rand stood surrounded by a semi-transparent sphere of crackling white-violet light. Arms outstretched, the old Sylt appeared to be in some kind of trance, standing perfectly still though all around him was thunder and magic.
Hopskotch thought his grandfather looked much taller, or perhaps that was just a distortion of the force field (he could think of no other name for it) that arced over his head and into the ground by his feet. His hair was standing straight up, glowing at the ends as if pure energy was coursing through each strand. The three crests on his head had become blooming fountains of white light. Furious explosions of rock and scree burst from the giant stone before him, launching great plumes of dust into the night sky.
The earth shook all the way from the forest to the V pylons, causing the bridge to rock and creak. Still raised off the planks, Hopskotch felt the hands of another clutching at the strap of his sling-pouch. Someone was trying to drag him back down onto the gangway. He ignored them, strengthening his toehold by entwining his free foot into the rope webbing.
Quite suddenly, the violet light winked out. Grey fog spilled in to fill the void and Hopskotch once more lost sight of the bluff. An unnerving quiet settled across the gorge. The only sound he could make out was the flaming brand crackling and spitting nearby.
Someone called out through the mist. It was Dapple, though the language was completely foreign. A sharp tug on his sling strap sent Hopskotch off balance. The last thing he saw before crashing down next to Flek was a ninety-degree tilted vision of the feather-clad adult trailing Nissa onto the bridge. Slumped against Dapple’s shoulder was Grandpa Rand, dragging his feet as if barely conscious.
From somewhere overhead, Hopskotch heard a familiar cry that chilled his heart. Great gusts of wind beat down upon him, pressing him flat to the wooden planks. His heart stampeded inside his chest.
This can’t be happening again!
Dobbin found himself wedged between the older girl and Bartrem, neither of whom he was overly fond of. A large part of him was still furious at Dapple for forcing him onto the bridge without Nissa.
Madness! Dobbin’s mind screamed. Women and children first: that was the code any noble Sylt lived by.
Madness! Foolishness! Cowardice!
He continued to vent inside his head, silently cursing everyone around him. But the ongoing explosions had set his ears ringing and it was getting harder to hear himself think. Dobbin didn’t care to consider what was behind the explosions. It was too much for the youngster to process. Instead, he set focus on survival.
If he could only get to the far side of the gorge with all limbs intact (and his prize cicada not blown right off his hip), then maybe they’d all have a shot at getting to Witherness before dawn.
A slim hope, Dobbin conceded, but he clung to it like a drowning man to driftwood.
If only he could make it across the bridge. If only he knew Nissa was safe. So many worries whistled through Dobbin’s head, he found it hard to do anything at all. Even staying on two feet had become a challenge. As the bridge swayed beneath him, Bartrem had taken to using him as support, clutching his rucksack and pulling him this way and that, which threatened to send both boys toppling over the edge. The rope webbing rising either side of the wooden gangway was reassuring, but Dobbin was in no hurry to test its strength.
Another explosion erupted from somewhere over his shoulder, the third by his count. Seconds later, thousands of tiny stones began raining from the sky. The bridge shook, and began to sway. Closing his eyes, Dobbin went down, flattening himself to the tilting boards. Bartrem hit the wood hard alongside him and he caught a misplaced knee across his wrist.
Clumsy oaf! The pain made Dobbin’s eyes water. He rubbed instinctively, and for his trouble got dust in them.
Clenching eyelids, Dobbin rolled over, taking another accidental blow from the flailing Bartrem (the knee again, this time catching his shoulder). His rucksack weighed like it was filled with bricks. Not for the first time, Dobbin regretted not hurling it into the gorge when he’d had the chance. As he corrected balance, a pungent stench filled his nostrils. Again, a picture of Bellows appeared in his mind. He grew no closer to figuring out why.
Through the pain, Dobbin forced his eyes open. The night had gone all blurry, a hazy oil painting that rocked and moved about him, punctuated by the blinding orange glow of the flaming torches.
The bridge gave a little on the downhill side. Everything tilted. More explosions echoed from the bluff. Dobbin refused to be drawn to them.
He concentrated on blinking his vision back into focus. The sliver of dust continued to worry his left eye but it was only a minor irritant. He turned away from the bluff and caught sight of Flek’s patchwork jacket a little way ahead. She was reaching out to Hopskotch: the crazy sod had climbed up the bridge’s webbing and was staring back over their heads, one arm slung over the rope railing. It was little wonder the bridge was rocking so.
What the fishmitts is he doing?
Gawking at his friend, Dobbin blinked. He scratched at his left eye again and blinked again, not truly comprehending what he was seeing. The torchlight highlighted slivers of sparkling bronze through Hopskotch’s wavy hair, which in turn had taken on a warmer tint. Curiously, the effect was most pronounced on the three crests (though Hopskotch’s vest appeared as lacklustre as ever, except for the wooden buttons, which had bronzed noticeably). The vision brought to mind an ancient knight, standing tall in the face of danger. It gave Dobbin the impression he was looking at something right out of the glory days of the Delgardian Empire.
But surely his mind was playing tricks. He shook his head and scrunched his eyes shut. When he opened them again, nothing had changed. Here he was, cowering like a frightened kitten when his best friend stood defiant – heroic, even – in the face of danger.
Dobbin felt a pang of guilt bordering on shame. Straightening his rucksack, he resolved to pull himself upright. As he attempted to do so, the bridge tilted again. He went into a crouch to avoid toppling over. Dobbin felt something wet against his back all the way down to his tailbone. Once more, the familiar smell filled his nostrils, now much stronger. As before, he thought of Bellows. This time it clicked inside his head.
Globe lamps!
He recalled the cracking sound when he’d fallen through the hollow of the tree trunk, all the way back in the Deathwood. One of the terracotta globe lamps Bellows had given him had broken – perhaps all of them – and now he was soaked in flammable oil. Dobbin stared up at the naked flames of a nearby torch flickering beyond Hopskotch’s shoulder and shuddered.
A creepy silence had settled over the gorge. No more explosions could be heard. The cicadas had fallen silent. Dobbin stared back down the span, where the lit torches disap
peared into grey fog. As he fumbled with the straps of his rucksack a familiar caw echoed across the gorge, though from which direction he could not tell.
Before he had time to shout a warning, a dark shape filled the sky above Hopskotch’s head.
This time the raven dived straight for Bartrem. He went down with a yelp, buffeted by the downdraught from the bird’s powerful wings. A steely claw raked at his face, missing it by inches. Bartrem clambered backward to escape.
Flat on his back, the panic-stricken Syltling defended himself the only way he knew how: a mostly useless cycling of his legs. The idea that the raven would return was hard enough to process, but that it had chosen him as a target, unacceptable.
Not me! Not me! Not me! he pleaded inside his head. You want him!
Bartrem’s brain stubbornly refused to process what was happening. It must be a mistake. The bird was after Hopskotch, wasn’t it? Part of him rebelled at the thought, but the shame was quickly snuffed out in the heat of battle. Everyone seemed to be screaming at once.
Arms flailing, Bartrem rolled himself over and launched himself upright. The bridge rocked treacherously underfoot, but somehow he kept his balance, ducking under the stab and thrust of the raven’s beak to shove past Dobbin. He could feel vibrations in the wooden planks and the accompanying sound of footsteps growing louder. Bartrem prayed to Aethelron it meant help was on the way. He wasn’t sure it would arrive in time.
Overhead, the raven shadowed Bartrem’s every step. Circling around, it cut off his escape, steadying itself with one great, meaty talon hooked into the rope rail. The beak stabbed at his neck. Bartrem deflected the blow with his right forearm, but the razor edge left a trail of blood from wrist to elbow. A sudden urge to protect his parchment maps overcame him, and he shifted his shoulder pack further around his body. It began to feel as if someone had rubbed lemon juice into the wound.
Bartrem let out a soft whimper. His eyes remained locked upon his foe. He knew he couldn’t defend against another attack like that.
Everything tilted and Bartrem lost track of which way was up. He imagined the wind beneath the raven’s powerful wings was pushing the bridge into a swinging motion. It took him a while to realise he’d actually closed his eyes. Opening them in alarm, he was relieved to see the bird backing away.
For the first time, Bartrem got a good look at the raven. Its blood-coloured eyes shone with an intelligent madness that turned something in the pit of his stomach. Beneath its ruffled throat plumage, the torchlight reflected off the bird’s smooth chest with mirror-like intensity. The flashes of light were almost hypnotic.
Only partly spellbound by the shimmering feathers, it occurred to Bartrem that the raven was not pressing its advantage. As it prepared to dive again, something made the bird break off its attack. Its body angled to the vertical as it began to back away with great downward thrusts of its wings. As grateful as he was for the reprieve, Bartrem couldn’t figure it out.
A sudden and intense heat stole his thoughts. It had become much brighter all around. Removing his eyes from the raven, Bartrem observed the flames lining the guardrails flaring outward. It appeared as though they’d taken on a life of their own, licking at the raven’s feathers like bright orange fingers grasping for prey. Subconsciously, he placed one hand over his parchment-filled shoulder pack.
Bartrem’s brain clicked slowly into gear, grinding its way toward a useful thought.
The torches! he realised. All beasts fear the flame!
Someone yelled from behind, a grown-up’s voice. Bartrem could not identify whose.
Launching himself properly upright, Bartrem slid his shoulder bag round to his rump, clambered up the rope webbing and lifted the nearest wooden brand from its mount. The raven dived again and the downdraught pushed the flames so close he could feel the tips of his ears singe. The heat forced Bartrem to close his eyes, but now he was armed. Now he could fight back.
Clutching the handle in his right hand, Bartrem swung the flaming torch at the raven in a great backhand arc.
Dobbin was struggling to free his shoulder from the rucksack strap when the flying cinders from Bartrem’s torch connected. There was a whoOOOsh! sound, and bright orange fire erupted across the oil-soaked canvas.
“Barts, nooooo!” he screamed.
The flames spread with alarming speed. Within seconds, they’d overtaken almost half the pack, moving dangerously close to Dobbin’s exposed back. Hopskotch screamed something incomprehensible.
Bartrem dropped the torch in shock and covered his face from the heatwave.
“Your back! Your back!”
Hopskotch’s warning finally found Dobbin’s ears. He turned in time to see the fire tracing its way toward his rump. Rolling his body round, the frantic youngster tried to shake off the last strap, yet something held it fast to his shoulder. The material had knotted itself around his sling-pouch strap at the base, and there was no give.
Wriggling and writhing with all his strength, Dobbin twisted his neck around. To his horror, he saw that the blaze was still spreading. The intensity of the heat was becoming unbearable. Dobbin shrieked. A sickening smell filled the air. His eyes filled with smoke.
Rolling into a ball, Dobbin wrapped his arms about himself and began pawing at the smouldering skin of his lower back. Tears streamed down his face. He cursed like he’d never cursed before, wriggling his body – rucksack, sling-pouch and all – along the wooden gangplanks.
“Aethelron, save me!” he whispered: the first genuine prayer of his life. Flames flickered close to his shoulder. It was only a matter of seconds before he was taken completely, engulfed and incinerated in a small, round, squealing fireball.
Dobbin couldn’t imagine a more horrible death. He prayed again, this time that he might pass out before it happened. He thought of the cicada in his sling-pouch, of everything he would lose, the unfairness of it all. He thought of the victory badge he would never get to wear; the podium in Market Square he would never stand upon to receive it. Bindy Sandstep would never get to see the real Dobbin Butterfeld. He would never get to see Bindy again!
Somebody heeeeelp! he screamed inside his head.
Hopskotch roared from some place unseen, “Dobbin! Dobbiiiiin!”
An intense pain at the base of Dobbin’s spine drowned out the sound of his best friend. The fire had reached his skin. An equally scorching pain erupted on his left shoulder, causing him to flinch and buck. The smell of burning hair filled his nostrils.
This is it. I’m dead, dead, dead!
A sudden windblast snuffed out the words echoing inside Dobbin Butterfeld’s skull, the flames brushed aside as if by the power of a Norsteiger blizzard. In a massive explosion of sparks, the flames crashed against the rope webbing.
Tendrils of ice replaced the heat at the base of his spine. Dobbin spun in shock and disbelief. His burning rucksack had been completely extinguished.
What the—
Though he had no idea what had just happened, and how, Dobbin did not intend to waste the moment, the miracle! The fire was gone but the pain remained. Steeling himself against it, he wrenched loose the sling-pouch and cupped it protectively against his belly, before finally freeing himself from the smouldering rucksack. With a sharp kick of his right foot, he sent it rolling into the rope webbing.
Fuelled by the leaking globe lamps, the bag caught immediately on fire again. Dobbin stared at it in alarm. Taking short, sharp breaths, he twisted his neck to see how much of his vest he’d lost. A jagged patch on his lower back had been singed right out of the garment. The charred edges were still smoking. He swatted at them and winced at the sting even a light touch aroused. Dobbin slowed his breathing, struggling to reclaim his runaway heartbeat. He knew he was fortunate to be feeling anything at all.
Importantly, the Red-eyed Onyx was safe. Dobbin coddled the mesh-covered pouch as if nothing else in the world mattered. His head began to swim and his vision dimmed. Inside his throat, it felt like someone had sucked all the
moisture out. He felt a warm touch of another’s hand cupping his. Dobbin looked up through watery eyes and saw his mother. Her face was more beautiful than ever, yet so terribly sad.
But, no—he had to be mistaken.
“She’s not here,” his mind whispered. “She’s far away, so far away.”
It could not be his mother, but—Nissa!
The realisation stilled the confusion in his head. Dobbin’s pain slid away and he felt himself lifted without effort. A battle horn blared in the background and he was taken to a new place, a great wide bay encircled by sands of sparkling white. Overhead, a field of uninterrupted blue filled the sky in shades almost too brilliant to look at. Not a single cloud could be seen from horizon to horizon.
So beautiful!
Sitting low above a rocky peninsula at the far end of the beach, a great circle of white-gold flame hung suspended in the sky. Its piercing rays sparkled across a row of silver spears standing straight and tall beside him.
The horn sounded again, this time much closer. Unfamiliar smells filled his nostrils and a breeze swept in across the ocean, carrying with it a taste of salt. Through misty eyes, Dobbin looked to his left and saw the Dragonriders lined up in a row leading all the way to the water’s edge. Beneath his saddle, his own mount snorted a plume of steam into the dawn air, one clawed forepaw digging at the sand impatiently.
Dobbin raised his right arm. One thousand spears dipped in unison. In the far distance, he heard a beautiful voice singing a song without words.
A smile formed upon his lips as Dobbin’s world folded into black.
It felt to Hopskotch like all his senses were being attacked at once. His ears were ringing, his cheeks were singed, and his nostrils were filled with foul-smelling smoke that had crept also into his eyes, turning everything into a blurry mishmash of orange-grey. But despite the rising wall of flame consuming the bluff-side of the bridge, Hopskotch was certain he’d just saved Dobbin’s life. Muddled and confused, he tried to figure out how.