Flight to Dragon Isle (24 page)

Then an off-shore breeze blew, rapidly strengthening, thinning the heavy dust.

Storm, the wind grows … can you try again?

Wumph … whumph …

Eyes narrowed, she watched critically as Stormcracker tested his wings, almost rising from the beach as the breeze took him. She turned back to Root, who was adjusting the battlegriff’s stirrup straps to suit him better.

‘He’s no different from Chasing the Stars,’ she said, trying to reassure him. ‘I’ll guide him. He’s highly trained. He won’t let you fall. You just rest if you can – get some sleep.’

Root nodded and instantly winced. The egg-sized bump on his head was throbbing, and he’d lost his flying helmet in the explosion. The dwarfs had given him the smallest mining helmet they could find, but it was still too big and too heavy for him. It just made his headache worse. He wasn’t happy at the notion of flying a battlegriff on his own, but he knew Quenelda had to ride Stormcracker.

‘I’ll guide both of them …’ Quenelda was so tired she could hardly think straight. ‘You can fly beside me, off my starboard wing. Let’s mount up.’

What little light was left was fading fast, draining the smoky landscape of colour. Quenelda turned the dragon into the rising wind, waiting till it caught beneath his wings. Daring to hope, she cried out:

‘Fly, Storm, fly!’

Miners raised their masks, and they and their families bade them farewell.

Whumph … whumph … whumph
…

Sand and dust rose in swirls, the backdraught shifting the heavy brimstone dust. A sudden gust filled the dragon’s wings and, like a kite, lifted him skyward into the darkness.

With a sense of peace, Quenelda knew that for the first time since her father had disappeared, she had found a missing part of her heart. Together at last, the girl and the crippled dragon rose into the night sky, followed by a fearful young gnome on a wounded battlegriff.

The temperature was dropping rapidly. Down below, the loch dwindled to a ribbon of mercury, then vanished into the pooling shadows. As they rose through the heavy layers of dust, constellations like diamond scatter pins winked into existence overhead.

Root huddled miserably in his heavy dwarf cloak, clinging to the saddle’s pommel for security, trying not to think about the huge expanse of darkness below him. It was his first solo flight at night – a heart-thumping mix of exhilaration and fear that pounded through his veins, leaving him shaking from head to toe. His head throbbed horribly and he was seeing double, though he hadn’t mentioned that to Quenelda. His neck ached, and the wet dragonwings dragged at his shoulders.

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.

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 strength, 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!’

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.