Flight to Dragon Isle (18 page)

‘I
do
know,’ she repeatedly stubbornly. ‘And I can help!’

The surgeon shook his head in despair. ‘You are too young, Lady, to know what is impossible. This is beyond us. All knowledge of the Maelstrom has long since been forbidden. We do not know how to treat such deadly wounds.’

‘Let me at least try,’ she urged Tangnost, her dragon eyes flaring, drawing a gasp of amazement from the surgeon.

Remembering the Heartrock, and hearing the ancient certainty in her voice, Tangnost reluctantly released her and prayed to his gods that the blood and power of the Elders truly ran in her veins.

‘Bearhugger!’ The surgeon was aghast, tried to prevent the young girl without touching her.

‘Shardlake, this is the Earl Rufus’s daughter. Let her stay. She may be able help.’

The surgeon searched the dwarf’s face. ‘Very well,’ he conceded, reluctantly allowing Quenelda into the roost. He had heard the tale of the Heartrock, but like many did not know what it truly meant. ‘If it were any man but you asking, Bearhugger …’

Quenelda gently moved forwards. Head bowed, she blew gently on the colt’s nose, calming him.

I am burning, Dancing with Dragons! Burning … burning
… The dragon’s flanks were heaving.

‘Where did he fall sick?’
Why did I ask that?

‘Off the Isle of Midges.’ The battle surgeon frowned. ‘Why?’

The ice! Drifting icebergs … The ice is poisoned. The residue from the battle of the Westering Isles, from the Ice Fortress … it still kills … how long after the battle?

‘It’s the icebergs. They’re tainted.’

Tangnost’s eye narrowed in thought. He nodded. ‘That’s it, lass! You’ve put your finger on it.’

Root looked lost.

‘Frost dragons are scouts, lad, in the frozen north. They fly huge distances across the Westering Ocean by landing on icebergs,’ Odin explained.

Tangnost agreed. ‘With such a dreadful winter, sightings have been logged as far south as the Isle of Midges.’

‘We’ll tell pilots at the next briefing not to set down on the icebergs. It means we’ll lose our long range reconnaissance capability in the north west, but—’

Hush
… Shutting out their voices, Quenelda reached out a splayed hand to touch the damaged scales; they were achingly cold. She snapped her hand away and raised her left hand. The scale from Two Gulps pulsed warmly, its golden glow spreading.

Hear me
…

Memories flooded her as she spoke the ancient language of the Elders with power, so that her words reached every injured and exhausted dragon throughout the great fortress.
Be calm … be rested and at peace
…

The struggling battledragon suddenly quietened beneath her touch. Throughout the fortress and on the high cliffs above, in the tilting yards of the Academy, the dragons fell still. Eighteen leagues away the Lord Protector shivered as the pulse of magic swept the glen. Somewhere there was a shift in the magical field, he could feel it. What could it mean?

Hush
… she whispered to Winter Wingwraith,
now I’ll take away the pain
… Quenelda’s fingertips tingled, then a pulse of magic blossomed about her hands, swathing the dragon in a healing cocoon of spun sorcery, a radiant swirl of fierce white energy, bringing with it a release from pain. The Frost dragon shuddered, and his frantic panting slowed as Quenelda drew out the corrosive smoking poison. The darkness fought against her, but as it crackled about her hands she clenched her fists and it was gone with a clap, banished back to the Abyss. The dragon’s sweat-drenched muzzle drooped, and he sagged in the cradle as Quenelda sagged into the strong arms of Tangnost.

‘Steady, lass, steady,’ he rebuked her gently. ‘Don’t try too much too soon …’
Legend says Whisperers are healers
…

‘He’s asleep,’ the surgeon said, stunned, ‘and the wound, it’s clean!’

Trembling with exhaustion, Quenelda let Tangnost and Root help her to her feet. There was a thud as one of the esquires keeled over, the battle surgeon immediately at his side. He looked up.

‘Lady?’ There was a wealth of hope invested in that single word.

Quenelda knelt beside the shuddering body. The boy was barely older than she was. He was all skin and bone, his pale skin was blotched with sickly green sores that wept black ooze. His eyes had begun to cloud over. She focused on him with a desperation borne of weariness; knowing immediately he was beyond her help, but determined to try.

Laying a hand on his chest, she frantically searched for the dying spark of life, but she had no strength left and the enveloping dark surged forwards, searching for another victim. Her strength was drained, her knowledge exhausted, it was too much for the young girl. She broke the bond and fell back with a cry.

‘I – I can’t!’ she cried, distraught. ‘He’s too ill … It’s too late! I don’t have the power,’ she wept in Tangnost’s arms.

‘Peace, Lady,’ the Surgeon comforted her. ‘We all knew the price, and thought it worth the risk.’

‘Come,’ Tangnost commanded Root as he guided Quenelda away.

‘Sergeant?’ The Surgeon beckoned a soldier over, tears spilling down his cheeks.

Root hung back, unwilling to leave. ‘But – but you can’t just kill him,’ he was crying too.

Loki pulled the boy away as the sword arced down. ‘Carrock was his only remaining son!’

Twenty-three bells sounded, the Hour of the Creeping Lynx. Deep within Dragon Isle it was hard to tell day from night any more, and Quenelda was worn out. She was learning to ignore the countless whispers in her head, to focus on those dragons that mattered most at each moment of time, but the effort left her with blinding headaches. And when she finally fell into bed exhausted, sleep did not come easily, and brought with it the same relentless nightmare that she could not shut out.

Darkness closed around Quenelda. The familiar walls of her chamber faded. Now it was cold and dark, but she slowly made out glowing orbs of light inset into the rough-hewn walls. The air was thick with brimstone dust, clogging her eyes and nostrils, thick on her cracked tongue. She was shackled and chained and starving, the weight of cold iron heavy about her neck. Her limbs burned; her wounds wept into the dust. She felt the grating misery of starvation and captivity and a longing for Open Sky had driven her to the edge of madness.

Dancing with Dragons
…

The shared whisper was so faint that she could barely hear its anguished plea. She reached out.

Who are you? Where are you?

But the mind faded beyond her reach, and each time it grew weaker, and Quenelda felt a sense of unbearable desolation and loss.

So cold
…

So alone
…

Tangnost sighed. The world as they knew it had changed. The impossible had happened. The SDS had been annihilated, betrayed by a sorcerer who now ruled the kingdoms in all but name, and none but a handful knew the truth. North of the Old Wall, all but one of the SDS fortresses had fallen to the hobgoblins. Amidst all the ruin and despair, there was one spark of brightness to offer the fatherless young girl Tangnost now took under his protective wing. As they arrived at the maternity roosts, he prayed to his gods that he was doing the right thing.

Only cave-dwelling dragons were raised on Dragon Isle itself – ancient home to Imperials, and now also to Sabretooths and Spitting Adders. The roosts deep inside Dragon Isle were dark and warm, the tang of raw meat overlaid by brimstone and phosphor. Tangnost led Root and Quenelda to where a Sabretooth mare was lying on a bed of broken rock and shale; her litter of nine a faint gleam of talon and scale in the darkness, that slithered and flamed as they played and pounced on each other in mock battle.

‘When were they born?’ Quenelda’s question was a whisper, as if everything depended upon the answer, which it did.

‘Five weeks ago.’ The elderly roost master Tam Brandywine glanced curiously at the Earl’s daughter.

Root could see her hands shaking. He moved up next to her to shield her from curious eyes.

‘Are they …?’ Quenelda barely dared to breathe. These small fiery Sabretooths could only belong to her beloved dead Two Gulps. Why else had Tangnost brought her here?

‘Yes,’ Tangnost said huskily, tears welling.

Quenelda put out her hand to clasp his strong hand in silent thanks. Root realized that she, too, was crying, and decided to put his arm about her as well.

The roost master studied them surreptitiously in the gloom, dwarf and gnome and girl: the legendary Bonecracker and Dragonmaster who had defied the Lord Protector to spirit away a girl who was now his daughter in all but name; the dark-haired gnome who had somehow been raised from commoner to esquire; and the dead Earl’s daughter who had wanted to fly in the SDS since she was a babe. An unlikely trio, yet their deep affection and love for each other were obvious to any who saw them together.

But
– he sighed –
it just wasn’t normal
. The ruling sorcerers never mingled with commoners, the different peoples of the One Earth never mixed, save here on Dragon Isle, and girls never flew with the SDS. Everyone had their place and their allotted tasks: it had always been thus. To challenge such social strictures, to attempt otherwise, would only end in grief.

Quenelda stepped over the wall and raised her gaze to the Sabretooth mare. So this was Two Gulps’ mate. She bit her lip.

Firestorm Bright Eyes – may the wind sing under your wings
…

Dancing with Dragons
, the young mare acknowledged.
May you dance with the stars
…

Your litter-pack are strong and many
…

My mate was strong
…

Quenelda closed her eyes, unable to stop the tears from falling. The mare moved forward, surprisingly delicate, picking her way through her squalling fledglings to where Quenelda stood, her brow gently coming to rest against the girl’s. Quenelda placed her hands on either side of the scaled head and blew softly. The Sabretooth blew gently back, ruffling her hair.

‘Odin’s beard!’ Tam was stunned. ‘Ain’t never seen nothing like it, Dragonmaster.’

My mate was proud to bear you into battle to save Thunder Rolling over the Mountains… Now your scales are hard – you will take revenge on those who took his life …?

I swear it
… Quenelda’s eyes flared gold in the darkness.

Root found that he was no longer afraid, but the roost master stumbled backwards with a cry, tripping over a cauldron of coal and falling heavily to the floor.

Ignoring him, Tangnost in turn reached up to hold the mare’s bridle, blowing softly on her muzzle.

One-Eye
… He could not hear the mare’s welcome, but she blew softly back.

Head resting against her, Tangnost spoke, his voice muffled. ‘We decided to breed from Two Gulps early; since he became your mount, your Lord father wanted his pedigree bloodline for the battlefield as soon as possible, so he was put to stud with the best mare we have.’

He lifted his head, lantern-light catching his craggy face as he looked down at Quenelda. ‘Your Lord father was going to give you the pick of the litter to train; the rest were destined for the Academy and esquires to raise. The Commander says the pick of the litter is still yours as your father wished, and I’ll teach you how to train him for battle as your father intended. Only now he will be your mount, so choose wisely.’

Quenelda nodded, knowing what a tremendous privilege was being granted to her. With so many dragons injured and dead, the SDS were nonetheless still allowing her to choose the best fledgling. She considered the little dragons that were mock-fighting, tumbling and cuffing each other at her feet. Small bursts of flame lit up the dark warmth as she knelt down.

‘In you go, lad.’ The roost master beckoned a roost-hand forward. ‘Fetch him out.’ He pursed his lips with satisfaction, and nodded knowledgably at Tangnost. ‘Pick of the litter for ’er ladyship.’

The stable hand put on some heavy leather gauntlets and moved into the roost beside Quenelda, talking soothingly to the mother all the time. ‘There, Bright Eyes … Just having a look at your young ’uns … there …’ He waded through the mass of small scales and talons, armour clicking as they came into contact with his ceramic plates. There were grunts and excited squeaks, and a few hastily smothered oaths, before the boy emerged with a small dragon struggling furiously in his arms. It was trying to turn its head so it could flame him. Another was enthusiastically hanging onto the bottom of his armoured leather kilt. A third was being dragged along upside down, its teeth firmly clamped around the boy’s ankle. He had lost a gauntlet, which was being eaten by a plump pear-shaped fledgling in the far corner of the roost.

‘Aye, they’re a feisty bunch,’ the roost master said proudly. ‘Going to do us proud, they are. Fighters one and all. Well,’ he amended, muttering darkly in the direction of the plump baby dragon, ‘most of ’em, anyhow … Time that one was culled.’

The stable hand brought the struggling fledgling over to Quenelda, cheerfully wiping the blood from his nose where it had managed to catch a sharp little talon.

‘This here’s the one for – for you, miss — Ouch! Gerroffmyear … Strong lower back, powerful hindquarters, long toes – he’ll crunch a hobgoblin or two. Well – ouch! – developed jaw! And look at these teeth, Lady. OUCH! Letgoofmyfingerssssssss …’ The stable hand smiled gamely through gritted teeth. ‘Ow!’

As soon as he released it, the fledgling barrelled away to attack one of its litter-mates, and the pair rolled and spat fire at each other under their mother’s proud gaze.

But Quenelda’s eyes were fixed elsewhere – on the dragon slowly waddling over to her. Fat as a butter barrel, it had finished the gauntlet and was coming over to inspect what she was offering on her outstretched palm.

‘Oh no, Lady.’ Tam was horrified at her choice. ‘I thought she was a good judge of dragonflesh,’ he muttered to Tangnost behind a hand. ‘No, Lady,’ he said more loudly. ‘That one’s no good. Doesn’t fight, just eats. Too lazy. Too heavy.’