Isle of Dragons

by J H G Foss

  Roztov returned her greeting and pointed at the tobacco. She understood and even offered him her pipe, but he waved his hands and instead picked up a stick. Holding it in his hands, he shaped it with druid magic, twisting it gently until he had a smooth wooden pipe of his own.

  Yewer once more was amazed and even watched with wonder as he packed the pipe and lit it with a snap of his fingers. She then held out her pipe and watched as he lit hers too, fire appearing at his finger tips just long enough to ignite the tobacco.

  Together they sat and smoked.

  ‘I needed this!’ declared Roztov with a sigh.

  After a while, both puffing away contently, they struck up a conversation, in mime mainly as they could not understand each other’s language. She made a sweeping gesture with her hands, and then clasped them to her heart. She smiled and nodded. Roztov understood that she was thankful that they had arrived. They talked for a while, but the tobacco was relaxing them and it was too much effort to be constantly waving their arms around.

  Moletown was different from Vine Street in many ways, Roztov reflected, not just in scale. Vine Street was dark and gloomy, very well hidden and protected from attack. Even so, the people there still seemed to live in constant daily terror, only venturing out when the food ran out. Moletown on the other hand, despite being mostly underground seemed to take its security a lot less seriously, almost for granted. Women mushroom picking in the forest? Doors left open during the day to let out smoke from cooking fires? The people of Vine Street had been gaunt and half starved, these people seemed well fed. Was it purely down to the location or did they really have something watching over them?

  This old woman obviously thought it was safe enough to have a sneaky pipe after breakfast.

  Roztov knew he over-thought everything, his wife and friends told him so, but he had been in so many dangerous situations over the years, and had had so many narrow escapes he tended to assess every situation he got into for dangers, however prosaic it seemed. Once he’d finished smoking, he thanked her again and went to his rooms, to see what the others were having for breakfast.

  In the larger of the underground bunkers that had been designated for them, the sailors were eating their breakfast. It was fried rotrok bacon, rotrok eggs, wild mushrooms and bread rolls made from acorn flour. A jug of water had been fetched from the stream and used to brew tea.

  ‘This bacon is really good, almost like pig,’ said Arrin holding up a piece before putting it in his mouth.

  ‘This is the best we’ve eaten since the ship wreck,’ agreed Salveri.

  Tankle nodded and smiled happily between mouthfuls of hot mushrooms.

  ‘We should stay here,’ said Salveri. ‘I’ve been thinking. Those druids should just fly off and find their boat, then bring it back here.’

  ‘How? Sail it?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Arrin shrugged. ‘Well, we are sailors after all. I’d feel we were letting the side down.’

  Salveri pointed his wooden fork at him.

  ‘Listen. Ophess is better off here right? She’s a danger to all of us out in the forest. And Meggelaine can’t stay, so that means Tankle stays.’

  ‘Hey, why me?’ cried Tankle.

  ‘You’re a wench. I can’t go, because I’m still recovering from that spear. Besides, those druids can fly. They could leave Floran and Broddor here too. Once they’ve secured the boat they can come get us.’

  ‘But Sal,’ argued Arrin, ‘they’ll need sailors to bring it back. Those druids have wondrous powers, but they don’t know anything about ships.’

  ‘Well you go with them then,’ snarled Salveri. ‘Fly up there on Roztov’s back. Just be careful not to fall off!’

  Arrin looked down at his plate, his anger was rising, but he respected Salveri’s age too much to argue back. It was not like Salveri to show cowardice, he’d went out to fight the manhunters after all, but maybe being brought back from the edge of death by Ghene had made him more cautious.

  Tankle sat back from the table and picked at her teeth.

  ‘Would a boat make it down the coast anyway, even with a good crew? A dragon could just come along and set fire to it.’

  ‘The people that live here came here by boat. Sailed right up the inlet as bold as you please.’

  ‘Fair enough. Sounds like a good idea then, you should suggested it.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘When?’

  Salveri stood up from the table. ‘In my own good time, woman. Anyway, are we to be locked up in here forever? I can’t just sit here and turn tea into piss all day.’

  Arrin and Tankle exchanged a glance and decided to let the older man rant on for a while uninterrupted. When they were needed they would be summoned.

  In the end, the decision had not needed Salveri’s input. The survivors of the Red Maiden met for lunch and it was quickly decided that the three druids would go north and scout the chasm, to see if it was passable. They would be gone a few days and the others were to simply wait at Moletown until the druids returned.

  ‘What will we do, lad?’ Broddor asked of Roztov.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. Help out if you can. Just stay out of trouble. Floran, any last advice from the people you’ve talked to here, before we go?’

  Floran, who had been biting his thumbnail, took it from his mouth and looked up.

  ‘Ah. This is an old camp. Most of them are second generation and have never been more than a few miles from the place. Only the older ones remember Stovologard, but they are very much not experts on the north. They know nothing of the chasm, only to avoid it.’

  ‘Right,’ sighed Roztov. ‘Well, keep talking to them anyway. They still seem really happy we are here.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ agreed Floran. ‘They hunger for stories of the world beyond Tanud.’

  With no further ceremony the three druids turned into their favourite birds, Roztov a Stykian sparrowhawk, Ghene a Great Forest goshawk and Meggelaine a Tormwood kestrel, and then fluttered up through the branches of the trees and up above the canopy. The recent snowfall had covered the tall dark pines completely, turning the forest into an undulating landscape of unblemished whiteness. The druids already knew the area from their previous scouting missions and divinations so they swooped down from the hill that Moletown sat on, into a broad valley. It was thick with tall trees down to the flood plain of the frozen river. The three birds swooped down to the river and glided along it, following it north. The snow lay deep along the riverbanks of the meandering river as it flowed through the hills and the forest covered mountains beyond. The sky was overcast and dark, what light penetrated the clouds was frigid and blue, giving the landscape a ghostly pallor.

  Late in the afternoon they arrived at the fringes of the gorge, a huge chasm that bit through the unnamed mountains like a huge scar. The trees were a little thinner up here and the snow thicker, the druids felt exposed and when the shadow of a dragon crossed over them they instinctively flew down into the shelter of the forest.

  They landed, and then hopped along the forest floor for a few paces before turning into their natural forms.

  ‘Did you see the size of that thing?’ said Roztov smoothing back his windswept hair. ‘I near soiled myself when it went overhead.’ He spoke Peret, the language only known to druids.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ agreed Ghene in the same tongue.

  ‘I don’t think this is safe,’ said Meggelaine gathering her little cloak around her body. ‘The big ones have all sorts of magic. They could already know we are here.’

  ‘They may do, but do they care?’ replied Roztov. ‘Shall we at least try and get some sort of vantage point? I want to get a look over the edge at least.’

  They turned into foxes and scurried north, upwards, keeping to the deepest parts of the forest until they reached a windswept hilltop which was home to a few trees and a lot of snow. From here they could see a ridge of mountains ahead of them and off to the west the black pit of the go
rge. They could only see the sides of it, not into it, but from this hill, in order to get there on foot, they would have to travel back down into a valley. The valley had more trees in it, but from there they would see nothing and the other slope, the one that lead up to the lip of the gorge, was barren. It would offer them no shelter at all.

  The foxes padded quietly into a stand of a dozen or so pines and turned back into their natural forms.

  ‘Probably as close as we should get today then,’ said Roztov as he knelt down by a tree and looked out across the mountains.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Ghene. ‘Let’s watch from here until nightfall and then make camp down in that valley.’

  They could see dragons flying up and down the top of the gorge, some flying high before swooping back down and out of sight. They were of all sizes, large and small, and of many colours.

  ‘It’s difficult to get a sense of scale isn’t it?’ said Meggelaine as she snuggled in beside Roztov. ‘It looks like they use it like people use a road.’

  ‘You’re right. Up and down they go.’

  From where they sat they could see about two miles of gorge. Together their eyes followed a massive red creature, clearly visible against the snow, as it slowly made its way from west to east.

  ‘What business do they have do you think?’ said Ghene with a smile. ‘What takes that huge beast from where it was, to where it goes?’

  ‘Popping down the shops to get some bread and milk?’

  Meggelaine sniggered at Roztov’s jest, such as it was. ‘Maybe he has a job at one end of the gorge but lives at the other end and this is his commute.’

  ‘Yes. He’s knocked off for the day and is away home for his tea.’

  Ghene cleared his throat. ‘You know, I understand that you apply humour to the situation. To this day though I cannot work out whether you humans and torms consider yourselves funny or not.’

  ‘Oh Ghene, just leave it,’ said Meggelaine patting his arm with her tiny hand.

  ‘There is an element of human humour that considers very bad jests to be good?’

  ‘It’s not worth it mate, honestly,’ said Roztov as he continued to watch the dragon’s progress. ‘What do your divinations tell you of the way ahead?’

  Ghene closed his eyes. ‘We are looking at one of two spurs of the canyon that lead to the main gorge itself. It turns more to the north as you follow it to the right and eventually the spurs merge. The main gorge travels north east for about forty miles then splits into two spurs again. The right-hand spur ends at the spire.’

  ‘To the west?’

  ‘This spur we see ends in a series of shattered valleys. A landscape impossible to traverse on foot.’

  ‘I see. I suppose it would make more sense to go east. Better to cross one gorge than two.’

  That night they camped in the forest valley as they had discussed, keeping warm in a druidic hide. First thing in the morning, as the winter sun crept up over the mountains and slowly illuminated the land with its weak light that gave no warmth, they flew east, as close to the gorge as they dared.

  After ten miles of fast flying, the gorge did indeed meet another spur and at this meeting, on the north-west wall of the chasm they could see that a city had been carved into the rock.

  Tall terraces climbed up from the depths of the chasm, each terrace lined with dozens of ornately carved arches. Some of the arches were big enough to sail a ship through, some no larger than a doorway for a man. Much of the stonework looked crumbled away, or clawed away by the passage of dragons and the three falcons wheeled for a few moments, taking it all in. It was still early morning, the city seemed quiet. One of the falcons swooped down into the chasm towards the northern side; the chasm was a hundred yards wide, one of the others hesitated then followed while the smallest one screeched in alarm and turned back to the forest to the south.

  When she landed and found a place to hide Meggelaine said to herself, ‘oh what a pair of fools! They are going to get themselves killed!’

  Being so small she could curl up in-between the wide roots of a nearby birch tree. Here she pulled her cloak around her and her hood over her head. Small and inconspicuous she would have been well hidden but for the fact she was talking to herself.

  ‘They’ll be breakfast when all those dragons wake up. I’m not going down there. Who do they think I am? I’ll jolly well not rescue them if they get into trouble, they can think again in that regard...’

  She kept this up for a while, then about an hour later, just as she was weighing the idea of going to look for them, the two other hawks landed next to her. They did not immediately change into their normal forms so she had to scald them as birds.

  ‘Where the hell have you been eh? I’ve been worried sick! Sick with worry! What was I supposed to tell everyone if you didn’t come back?’

  The sparrowhawk shuffled its feet and looked down at its talons.

  ‘Too ashamed to turn back eh? No wonder, and you!’ she looked at the goshawk. ‘You should have known better than follow him. You’re a Councillor. Councillors think before they act. Him I can understand, but... hey! Where are you going? Come back, and turn into your normal forms, for Etruna’s sake or I’ll pluck your feathers!’

  Roztov turned into a man, then took the little torm up in his arms and gave her a hug. ‘Sorry Meg.’

  ‘I’m really scared Roz.’

  ‘Yes. I know, I’m sorry. I just thought I’d take a quick look before they woke up. This is a really good campsite you’ve found. This is a well hidden glade.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Meggelaine with a sniff as she dried her eyes on her sleeve. ‘What did you see? Did they wake up?’

  Ghene, who was now gathering up some sticks for a small fire put in, ‘they certainly did. We left pretty quickly after that. There are no other birds around here, we stand out a lot. The dragons are mostly huge, which usually means they are old. This place is fine to light a fire, yes?’

  Roztov nodded. ‘Should be fine. It’s a nice little spot this. I wouldn’t have expected trees so high up, but this valley must be warmer than the surrounding mountains.’

  ‘It is like this all the way along the south-eastern edge. It’s like a green road that runs for a hundred miles.’

  ‘Lucky for us. The architecture of those arches was interesting, did you notice it? That was the work of hands, not of claws. No dragon I ever heard of built anything.’

  ‘The columns, they looked of the Dorian order.’

  Roztov shook his head. ‘I knew you’d say that when you saw them. Every bit of ancient architecture you see, you attribute to elves. They could have just have easily been late Inna order. Human.’

  ‘You are very wrong. Dorian capitals curl downwards as did these. Inna capitals curl upwards.’

  Roztov threw down a stick he was about to break over his knee in genuine irritation.

  ‘I know the difference between Dorian and Inna capitals thank you very much Ghene!’

  Meggelaine rolled her eyes and let the dull conversation on classical columns carry on both figuratively and literally over her head. She busied herself preparing the fire, then preparing the food and dishing it out. The meal and the conversation, which was friendlier now, continued.

  ‘So, we agree that whoever carved out that city, it was done over eight hundred years ago and that... Meg will you please stop fussing!’

  Meggelaine was considered rather a pest by her friends when they were eating together. She rarely concentrated on her own food, but constantly policed the eating area, topping up cups, dolling out seconds and clearing away dirty plates, sometimes at the same time as the last mouthful was eaten. She picked up waste as it was made and cleared away the broad leaves that their rolls were wrapped in. Once she had a small pile of detritus from the meal she would take it over to a spot she had designated as a bin, then return to the meal and continue patrolling it, all the time her own meal remaining half eaten.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You know i
t’s a fressle thing. I do it when I’m nervous.’

  Roztov pulled his boots off to warm his feet by the fire. In doing so he came close to knocking over a kettle Meggelaine was boiling for tea.

  The little torm yelped loudly and lunged for it although it had been in no danger of falling. She then sat back fluttering her hand at her heart. ‘Oh mercy!’ she exclaimed then sighed deeply.

  ‘Meggelaine! Will you please stop soiling yourself!’ said Roztov trying to tussle her hair.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ she replied as she darted out of the way of his hand. ‘How can they not know we are here? We are camped less than a mile away from their city.’

  ‘Someone approaches,’ said Ghene.

  ‘Oh don’t even!’ said Meggelaine sharply as she tilted her head at the elf.

  ‘I do not jest,’ continued Ghene as he stood up and looked around.

  ‘If I might warm myself at your fire for a while?’ said a voice from the darkness. It spoke in their language of Peret.

  An old man approached and bowing slightly gestured towards the flames. He walked with a stick, but was tall and looked strong enough. He wore travelling clothes and a long black cloak with the hood down. His hair and beard were white.

  Their camp was tucked in between the side of a large rock and the wide roots of a tree so there was not much space. Roztov shuffled along the side of the rock on his backside to make room.

  The old man laid down his staff and sat by the fire. He held out his hands and warmed them.

  ‘I don’t usually meet people up here,’ said the old man. ‘My name is Mordran.’

  Ghene introduced himself and his friends then said, ‘how do you come to speak Peret?’

  ‘I know many languages, all learned on my travels. When I heard you talking I decided to address you in your own tongue.’

  ‘But how can this be?’ asked Ghene. ‘Where can you...’

  ‘Just leave it,’ hissed Roztov. ‘Leave it for now Ghene.’