Flight to Dragon Isle (23 page)

The dwarf frowned, shaking his head. ‘Hush up, lads!’

‘Hush! Hush! Listen!’

Silence slowly spread through the mine.

‘We can hear them!’ a voice cried! They’re still alive! Some of them are still alive!’

A ragged cheer went up, and was passed through the choked shaft by word of mouth. Everyone who could wield an axe or lift a boulder set to with renewed frenzy.

‘How can you hear anything, lad?’ the foreman asked as he accompanied Quenelda outside. ‘You must have hearing like a bat.’

‘No. Like a dragon,’ Quenelda realized as she turned to lead Stormcracker outside for the last time. ‘I have a friend to tend to on the beach.’ She looked upwards towards a sun smothered by smog. She had no idea what time it was. ‘We all need a rest.’

Malachite stood and watched as the massive dragon followed her down to the sea, his powerful tail cutting a swathe through the layers of debris. He turned thoughtfully back to his men. They had a rescue mission to complete.

Two bells later, the impenetrable dust-choked sky was rapidly darkening. Braziers and still smouldering fires lit the wreckage like the aftermath of a major battle. Stormcracker was outside, drinking from a pool of water that had leaked from the broken rock face. Suddenly a cry went up.

‘They’re alive! They’re safe!’

Word rapidly passed from mouth to mouth as family and friends flocked forward to greet the survivors emerging from the ruins of the mine. Flaming brands flickered across the strange scene that met them outside – a huge dragon, with Quenelda astride him.

‘Owe it to the lad, there,’ Malachite said gruffly as the ragged cheers died down. ‘And the dragon. Without his strength we would never have reached you.’

The foreman offered Quenelda his hard, callused hand. When she gave him hers, he frowned, puzzled, and turned it over, his thumb rubbing the hard scale on her palm; but then he remembered his manners.

‘Malachite Thornaxe of the Wildcat Clan.’ He bowed. ‘I and my family are for ever at your service.’

Quenelda nodded, and tried to take her hand back. The dwarf let go reluctantly, eyes travelling from her palm to the huge dragon. ‘You can have your battle-dragon and welcome, lad, though there is no saddle or bridle so I do not know how you will control him. But we can give you dry cloaks, such food and water as we have for you and him.’

Malachite accompanied Quenelda as she and Stormcracker made their way slowly through the rubble to where Root was curled up beside I’ve Already Eaten. Still dazed and groggy, the gnome looked up as the huge, skeletal battledragon collapsed in the sand before him. He tried to get to his feet, but fell over too.

‘Is that …?’ Root rubbed his eyes as if the knock on the head was making him see things. ‘An Imperial? Here?’ Mouth open in disbelief, he took in the dreadful state the battledragon was in. Then he looked at Quenelda, noticing how distressed she was. He stared at the dragon. ‘Quenelda. It’s not …?’ he began uncertainly.

‘It’s Storm,’ she said simply.

Horrified, Root struggled upright. ‘Storm? But how? Why is he here?’ He could not believe that this pitiful, broken creature was the Earl’s battledragon. He moved round to where the dragon’s head rested on the sand.

Puzzled, Malachite watched Root tentatively reach out to touch the battledragon, then turned his gaze back to the exhausted boy.
Had he heard right?
he wondered.
Quenelda? Wasn’t that a girl’s
name …? Malachite glanced about him. Quenelda bent forward to hear his soft words against the raucous cries of carrion crows and seagulls.

The dwarf hesitated. ‘May I know your name, lady?’ For despite Quenelda’s gear and appearance, he recognized the manner and quiet confidence that came with rank and privilege.

‘And ask how you come to be here today?’

Quenelda was so exhausted that she did not notice that her disguise had been unveiled. In all the chaos she had almost forgotten her mission!

‘Quenelda … My name is Lady Quenelda DeWinter. I—’

The dwarf’s brown eyes had widened. Quenelda! He had heard the story of the Earl’s daughter and the Cauldron. Who had not? Rumour said that her brother had poisoned her battledragon and that the girl had died with him. Disappeared, folk said, like her father. Sleeping, said others. But who else could she be? Her voice alone should have forewarned him; this, and the fact that she looked like a boy.

He stepped back to search her face, his voice husky with emotion. ‘We were all your Lord father’s men here, Lady Quenelda. No matter what the new young Earl says, or commands.’

Quenelda nodded and gestured to the dragon. ‘S-stormcracker … Stormcracker.’ Her voice cracked, and hot tears finally flooded her eyes, tracking down her dirty cheeks. ‘H-he’s … He was my father’s.’ She stopped to swallow. ‘My father’s own battledragon.’

The hard-bitten dwarf was stunned. This was the Earl’s own mount? ‘Abyss below!’ He raised horrified red-rimmed eyes to hers, which suddenly blazed in the growing dark. Malachite’s heart was racing. He knelt in the sand.

‘Forgive us, Lady. We were attacked by hobgoblins two moons ago. Caught them tunnelling into the lower levels, riding the water that fed into our aqueducts. All our cave dragons taken or killed. With marauding war bands, more and more dragons are being taken each day – there are none to be had. The Grand Master’s galleons transported three Imperials and a dozen others in the dead of night in a wild storm. The dragons just appeared as if out of nowhere. The men wore the badge of the striking adder, but they bore the seal of Dragonsdome. They had written orders from the young Earl, sealed orders. Said the dragons were rogue, but rather than killing them, they had bound them into servitude. The other two Imperials died of their wounds long since.’

‘But the law forbids it!’ Quenelda protested hotly. ‘Battledragons are turned loose in their wild roosts and eyries when they are too old to fight. And Imperials – they are banned to all save the SDS!’

‘Lady’ – Malachite urgently raised his hand to stay her anger as sparks played about her fingertips – ‘they said that after what happened to the SDS, the Guild no longer forbade it; that we had to find dragons where we could. Said the Grand Master’s brimstone mines in the north were flooded or damaged, and his army and the Nightstalkers needed our brimstone urgently. By whatever means.’

Quenelda nodded dully. She could barely take in his words. The day had been one horror after another, and now it seemed as if her brother and the Lord Protector were behind each and every atrocity. It wouldn’t have happened if her father were alive. The world had gone mad. She had a horrendous headache from the heat and stench in the mine. Her throat was parched, her stiff clothes heavy with the weight of ash and dust. She swayed.

Malachite put out a steadying hand, compassion in his eyes. ‘Are you unwell? I’ll call a healer …’

Quenelda shook her head. ‘No, they are all needed by your people. I’m just tired …’ She had come for a purpose. She tried to gather her thoughts. The bell tolled the Hour of the Wild Boar, but dark was already falling, the sun a faint red haze through the thick smoke.

‘Here …’ The dwarf unslung his bottle and uncorked it. ‘Go on.’ He urged her as the young girl hesitated. ‘Go on. Drink!’

Taking the flask with shaking hands, Quenelda raised it to her lips. A fruity fizzy drink washed down her throat. It was followed by a warm glow that spread out from her stomach.

‘Dwarf cider.’ Malachite grinned at her surprised reaction. ‘Go on, lass – drink some more.’

Quenelda gratefully gulped the golden liquid down, feeling some strength return to her limbs. Then she tried to focus.

‘Tangnost Bearhugger, Dragonmaster of Dragon Isle, sent me. I bear a message from him too dangerous to entrust to a courier.’ She pulled out the leather thong about her neck to reveal Tangnost’s ring, then searched for the letter. It came out rather soggy and crumpled and barely legible.

‘Messengers from Dragon Isle disappear, the SDS no longer knows whom to trust. Tangnost wanted me to warn you, but I was too late. The explosions across Dragonsdome and royal mines this year … Dragon Isle … They believe the Lord Protector is behind them – not hobgoblins.’

‘Neptune’s Beard! His soldiers have been all over the mine in the last week. They came with orders from the young Earl. Said that they had heard of trouble; that they were here to protect us; that their presence would deter any hobgoblins.’ The dwarf looked around, frowning. ‘Haven’t seen none of ’em since the explosion. Thought they were all dead. But maybe we won’t find them amongst the bodies either.’ Quenelda swayed on her feet. ‘Sit, lass, before you fall,’ Malachite ordered. ‘Grackle! Reaver!’ he shouted to a group of dwarfs who were tending the injured. ‘Round up those who are still on their feet. Set a guard about the mine. There’s mischief afoot. This was no accident!’

He turned back to Quenelda. ‘My thanks, Lady. No one will get past my lads now. They’ll be spoiling for a fight after so many deaths. Tell Tangnost not to worry. Two weeks ago some of the lads opened a new gallery: a rich seam and not too deep. And we’ll put the word out to the Wildcat, Weasel, Capercaillie and Red Squirrel clans. Our kindred will come, and when the ore’s mined we’ll escort it overland ourselves. This will be one shipment you can depend on.’

Quenelda nodded wearily and turned to Stormcracker. She looked as if she were sleepwalking.

‘I’ll send a healer, Lady.’ Malachite touched her shoulder, concern in his eyes. She was so young; too young for this nightmare. First her father, next her dragon, and now the most famous battledragon in the Kingdoms found languishing in his mine.

‘I’ll fetch you some food, you must eat too.’

But Quenelda wasn’t listening any more. She had already turned her attention to Stormcracker, who had collapsed on the sand, his damaged lungs sounding like foundry bellows. She stood, trying to reach out to heal him, but he was so big and she was so tired. The light in her eyes faded, and with it her remaining strength.

‘I have to get Stormcracker away. He needs to breathe clean air – this dust will kill him. He’s on his last wings.’ Quenelda shook her head in frustration. ‘I don’t know if he can even fly, but we must get him to Dragon Isle and their battle surgeons.’ She divided the last honey tablets from their saddlebags between the battlegriff and Stormcracker, who gulped the morsels down. ‘He’s half starved,’ she explained to Root, ‘but if he eats too much it will kill him.’ She turned back to Malachite. ‘We have to try to get him away from here – now, when there are none of the Lord Protector’s men to see it.’

Malachite nodded. ‘That you do, lass. Who knows when his ships will return?’ He looked at her doubtfully, unwilling to voice his thoughts. Could this broken creature actually fly? Could a mere child fly in the dark?

Quenelda tried to ignore the doubt and compassion in the dwarf’s eyes. The dragon had barely been able to stretch his wings during his captivity. And the hollow, light dragon wing-bones, the caratack bones, were notorious for breaking in elderly and ill dragons. But, no – she gritted her teeth. This was her father’s battledragon. Even if they could never return home to Dragonsdome, he could at least be cared for in the roosts of Dragon Isle for the rest of his life. And if he died … better to die under the Open Sky than the in shackled depths of a mine.

‘We have to try.’ She bit her lips.

However, if the Grand Master was behind the massacre of the SDS, it would not do to be caught with her father’s battledragon, to betray that he had been found. Many might not be able to tell one Imperial from another, but the Lord Protector most certainly could. She had no idea if Stormcracker had the strength to cloak himself with invisibility, but she doubted it. The marks of binding and captivity might have gone, but his power had been drained by them.

She looked at Root, who had slipped into an uneasy sleep. His face was white with fatigue and pain, his dark hair bleached by ash. Could he help her? She roused him.

‘We’ll have to fly by night and rest up by day,’ she said, watching him anxiously for his reaction. ‘Do you think you could manage to fly solo on I’ve Already Eaten at night? We have to leave here, now!’

Root bit his lower lip. The battlegriff was not his own gentle Chasing the Stars, and had a wickedly sharp beak and piercing eyes, but I’ve Already Eaten looked as bedraggled as he was, and would protect his rider to the death. He nodded.

Come, Stormcracker
… Quenelda urged the dragon to unfurl his wings fully. Carefully climbing up between his damaged tail plates, she first checked his upper wing-bones for injuries, paying particular attention to the great shoulder blade, wing-carpus, and the fragile hollow bones of the six metacarpels and phalanges. It was hard to see in the flickering light of the pine-resin torch, but she realized that the dragon’s skin was stretched parchment-thin over his ribcage; his once powerful muscles were cruelly wasted, his tendons standing out in taunt relief, ready to snap.

Fly for me, Stormcracker, warm your wings
…

His first attempt at flight ended in miserable failure. Wings stiff with neglect and crusted with ore-dust would not respond, and the half-starved dragon was barely strong enough to even lift them. When he could, the air flowed straight through countless rips and tears. A shudder ran down his armoured spine and along the wings, and his injured hind leg collapsed a second time.

Quenelda almost cried with frustration as the once proud dragon’s head drooped. She was still standing there hopelessly when miners and their families flocked down onto the dunes beside her, lanterns flitting like marsh flies through the haze. She watched in amazement as, with buckets of water and brushes, they washed away the accumulated weight of dust and debris, tenderly cleaning Stormcracker’s wounds and sores, then patching them up with heavy canvas and pitch. Children ran up to the huge dragon, tentatively reaching out to offer titbits of food with tiny hands – smoked fish and haunches of goat, dried strips of reindeer and elk, a brace of hares, a pheasant – before running away again, overwhelmed by his size. Stormcracker gulped it all down gratefully with the tip of his tongue.