Flight to Dragon Isle (26 page)

He tried to turn his head, to call out, but his navigator was clearly dead, his Bonecrackers also badly wounded. None could come to the Earl’s aid. With his helmet gone and his staff burned beyond use, he could not reach his own Air Wing, let alone his Battlegroup – assuming there were other survivors in this white-out. Then the darkness swam and he lost consciousness.

The thread snapped, leaving Stormcracker alone again.

Kkkkkaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrkkkkkkkkkkk!

The battledragon roared his loss into the night and Quenelda wept in her sleep, but the dragon’s nightmare would not release them from its grip. The battledragon could feel movement on his back, but with every passing bell it lessened as more Bonecrackers and Marines died and slipped off him. He called throughout the long night, dragonsong vibrating through the night air.

No answer came.

Pain washed over Stormcracker in waves now, making it hard to focus, harder to fly. The cold was biting into his talons and wings, the weight of snow pushing him perilously close to the waves. Weakened scales had fractured. But two Imperials had joined his flight for sanctuary, both as badly injured as he.

Quenelda turned restlessly, caught within the coils of a familiar nightmare, and as she turned, the dream fragmented and broke. She reached out in her sleep, trying to hold the pieces together, for it always ended here. But this time the dream continued.

The deep green sea swell frothed below. It was littered with wreckage: the flat hulls of overturned ships; broken spars and rigging; frozen bodies, all deathly white, hard as ice. A riderless Frost dragon flew frantically past, heading for the open sea. A second followed, its pilot slumped around its neck. Up ahead, the ice shelf rose sheer to the horizon, and upon it stood a fortress of ice, ramparts glittering in the cold light.

The Earl came to. It was day. They were nearing the Ice Fortress and sanctuary. He could see dragons circling, and galleons at anchor rode the deep swell. Healers … warmth … revenge …

‘Thank the Gods!’ His voice was barely audible, unrecognizable even to himself as Stormcracker swept towards the fortress. He frowned through the pain. Something was wrong. No patrols had come out to escort him. Scouts should have found him bells before. Several galleons were on fire. There was fighting on the ramparts. Had the hobgoblins attacked the garrison while the SDS were gone? Then he saw it: the banners that flew – the red adder on black!

‘Cloak,’ the Earl croaked. ‘Cloak, Storm.’ Combining what was left of their strength, they disappeared.

Treason!

A badly wounded Imperial was already putting down on the ice close to the fortress. Friendly faces below were encouraging the exhausted crew to dismount and then they were ruthlessly cut down by men bearing the badge of the Grand Master! There was a flash of sorcery, and the unwary dragon was despatched

Frantically banking Stormcracker to starboard as spells streaked out to where his position had been barely moments before, battledragon and Commander sought to put as much distance as possible between them and their forward base. Cursing, raging bitterly, the Earl turned Stormcracker south east, towards the distant Inner Isles and the mainland.

Quenelda cried out in her sleep as the images began to fade like smoke in the wind, then sank deeper into Stormcracker’s nightmare. The blizzard raged. They were flying now, scant feet above the waves, hearts pumping weakly, weaving between huge icebergs that rose and fell on the deep sea swell.

Dark was falling winter-fast. There was a break in the snow-storm, but no land in sight. In the rapidly failing light the Earl had Stormcracker put down on one of the rolling icebergs, a dangerous, desperate manoeuvre. They woke to daylight. Freezing sea water encased the dragon’s wings and armour, and many more of the critically injured had died in the night.

‘Up, Storm!’ The Earl urged his exhausted battle-dragon up, else they would all die. Stormcracker struggled weakly into the air, frost biting into his wings. Day followed endless night as they landed time after time, no longer knowing where they were in the endless blizzard. They must be flying in circles. And as each day passed, Stormcracker sensed the Earl slipping away, and the last of his own hope and strength fading.

Then the curtain of snow parted momentarily.

There! There were island cliffs directly up ahead, heron-grey, rising up to stark mountains. But they could not gain height – too injured, too tired. They would die at the foot of the cliffs, broken and freezing on the rocks.

Wait! There was a small sandy cove. The Earl turned his dragon towards it. Now they were landing clumsily, tumbling, collapsing on the shale, as Stormcracker’s wounded leg and wings gave way. Hot pain … oblivion took them all …

Voices drew them back – the familiar guttural language of the dwarfs. Longships were drawn up high on the beach, bright shields and sails the only colour in the rising storm. Clansmen were picking their way amongst the dead and wounded, careful of the dragon’s dreadful injuries. Urgent voices called as they found the Earl. He was rambling, in a high fever, as they gently lifted him down a wing; then exhaustion and pain pulled the dragon down into darkness.

Stormcracker became aware that Thunder Rolling over the Mountains had gone; no sense of his bonded master existed. He roared his distress – roared until his strength left him.

Lost … So alone
…

Tears rolled down Quenelda’s cheeks. Dark days followed in the freezing cold, as winter storms lashed the coast. The dragon floated in and out of consciousness, alone with the dead and dying. And then, on a calm night, as the snow fell silently, the hobgoblins came. Swarming … swarming up out of the sea. Dragons and ships and men arrived. The few Wingless Ones who had survived were questioned and killed by a tall scar-faced man dressed in black – the Lord Protector’s Dragonmaster. Then another sorcerer’s face, malevolent and pale, floated into the dream …

At the sight of that face, Stormcracker roared in his sleep. Panic flooded the sleeping dragon and girl.

‘His Imperial is barely alive, my Lord.’ Knuckle Quarnack watched the hobgoblins devour the dead with disgust.

‘Where is the Earl?’

‘There is no sign of him. We have searched the island. His seat is badly buckled and damaged and his navigator dead. We have found scores of dead Bonecrackers, but no trace of their master. Those few who were still alive knew nothing.’

‘Impressive, the voice said thoughtfully, ‘that they made it this far. Very well. I will break this dragon and make it mine – how the mighty SDS have fallen!’

With that, the Grand Master lifted his staff. A tear ripped through the air revealing a whirling darkness beyond that engulfed the mighty battledragon in its fearful embrace. Everything splintered into razor-edged shards and fragmented memories of cruelty and servitude, of cold iron and pain, and a never-ending darkness.

Lonely … so lonely
…

‘Quenelda? Quenelda?’ One of Tangnost’s strong hands was gently shaking her; his voice was gruff with concern.

Quenelda woke with a start, shivering despite the heat in the roosts. Two Gulps Too Many’s long tongue was washing her, the small dragon trilling anxiously at her distress.

‘What is it, lass?’ Tangnost’s dark eye was troubled as he helped her free herself from the twisted blanket’s grip. ‘You’re white as a ghost. You were shouting. Stormcracker was trying to flame …’

Quenelda swung round to look at the smoke still pouring from the battledragon’s nostrils. He was still rumbling in his sleep. She turned her tawny eyes to the Dragonmaster.

‘H-he
did
s-survive the battle. He and Storm, they landed on an island … And it
was
the Lord Protector,’ she spat, ‘who betrayed them.’

Tangnost helped her out from Stormcracker’s coils, then quietly guided her to the officers’ mess. Dragging a chair close to the fire, he motioned for her to sit, first dipping into the pan of hot milk on the range and giving her a steaming cup. Drawing deeply on his long curved pipe, he pulled up a stool and sat down in front of her.

‘Lass’ – he put a weathered hand on her knee – ‘what makes you so sure your father survived?’

‘S-Storm’ – her hearts were beginning to slow as Two Gulps Too Many rested his little head on her knees – ‘he knows. He remembers in his dreams.’

‘Does he, now?’ said Tangnost, leaning forward.

‘The nightmares have always ended as I … as Storm’s trying to get away over the battlefield. But this time there was more.’

‘Go on,’ he encouraged her.

‘After escaping the battle, they flew through the night to high cliffs of ice with a great fortress. But the garrison was destroyed, and there were dead dragons everywhere on the ice. There were galleons flying … flying the …’

‘Red adder on a black background?’ Tangnost guessed.

Quenelda nodded. ‘The Grand Master’s men,’ she whispered. ‘He killed the survivors …’

‘He betrayed the SDS; they flew into a trap.’ Tangnost’s eye blazed. ‘I knew it, in here.’ He clenched his fist over his heart. ‘Razorbacks – they are doubtless of his conjuring. And now he builds an army in the north greater than any in the Seven Sea Kingdoms, and all in the name of the Queen, soon to be his wife.’ He shook his head. ‘How very clever. The populace believe him to be a hero. He held the line in the north, relieved the besieged fortress of the Howling Glen. He alone kept the hobgoblins at bay, because they are his to command. The Guild give him whatever he asks for. They are blind to his ambition.’

‘Papa then guided Stormcracker east towards the Inner or Northern Isles. He flew for days – putting down on icebergs till they reached land!’

‘What?’ Tangnost felt his heart leap. It was an exercise practised by the SDS for this campaign, but only for extreme emergencies. It was very dangerous, only the best pilots and highly trained dragons could do it. There was no way Quenelda could have known about it. ‘I – I don’t know where,’ Quenelda continued. ‘It never stopped snowing. But finally they put down on a tiny beach below high cliffs, and then longships came, and they found and rescued Papa …’ Quenelda’s voice cracked, anger sparked. ‘Though they left Storm and the others. Left them to be killed by the hobgoblins!’

‘Quenelda, don’t be angry with my people. They could not have done otherwise. You need a battlegalleon to transport a single Imperial. The clans have no such ships. And even if they did, where would they have taken him? How do you hide an Imperial? Had they done so, all would know him for the Earl’s dragon. It would have led them straight to your father. And as for leaving wounded men, they must have had good reason. We do not abandon our wounded to the hobgoblins. No, there was a purpose to it, ghastly though it seems.’

‘Soon after,’ Quenelda resumed. ‘Soon after the hobgoblins and men came – the Lord Protector himself took Storm …’ She trailed off, shuddering as she remembered that ugly rent in the sky that had devoured an Imperial. He … I don’t know how, was taken … a dark castle … but Storm fought … despite his wounds, he fought … the Protector could not defeat his Elder magic, could not break his bond with Papa. So he was collared and sold into servitude in the mines. But, Tangnost’ – Quenelda looked up at the dwarf, her eyes bright with hope – ‘he’s alive! We know Papa is alive! We know that he got away from the Westering Isles! We must find him – bring him home before the Queen is forced to marry! Papa will be able to stop the Lord Protector. He’ll be—’

Tangnost put a hand out to gently touch hers. Quenelda looked quizzically at him. ‘Quenelda,’ he said gently. ‘He may have long since died of his injuries. Or he may be too ill to challenge the Lord Hugo.’

‘No!’

‘Hush, lass.’ The dwarf calmed her. ‘If your father
is
alive, Quenelda, why hasn’t he come home? We have to consider that question.’

For the first time since her father’s disappearance, doubt crept into Quenelda’s mind. ‘Do you think he’s dead?’

‘No,’ Tangnost said, shaking his head. ‘I, too, believe your father is alive. Perhaps it is wishful thinking, but we have nothing to lose by trying to find him. We all loved him, and have suffered for it. Two Gulps,’ he swallowed, ‘died by my hand and you have been disinherited. Root, Quester and I are banished from Dragonsdome. Stormcracker has been badly wounded and is unlikely ever to be able to fly for the SDS again.’ He smiled, crooked teeth catching the firelight.

‘We will go and search for your father, who is at the heart of all our worlds. But do not get your hopes up too high.’ He gripped her hand, held it to his chest. ‘I would not see you hurt again.’

But already he too was planning ahead. It was a huge responsibility he was taking on, and would require detailed planning.

‘Autumn will soon be upon us,’ he mused out loud. ‘Stormcracker is still too weak for such an arduous quest. By the time he is fully recovered, flying conditions will be treacherous.’

‘But Storm and you …’ Quenelda protested. ‘You’ve both flown and fought all over the Highlands and Islands,
and
you’ve trained to fly in winter.’

‘I know, lass, but it’s very dangerous – madness, many would say, to go on such a mission, especially at this time of year. And there are thousands of islands and inlets in the Inner and Northern Isles, and nigh on fifty dwarf clans live there, half of whom are seafaring. It’s a vast area to search.’

He looked at Quenelda. ‘Even if we do find your father,’ he warned her, ‘we may not be in time to prevent the Queen’s marriage at the Midwinter Festival.’

But he, too, now held hope in his heart.

Physically, the dragon was slowly recovering. The best surgeons and dragonsmiths had worked their magic and the dragon’s own strength and powers began to return. Two Gulps Too Many and Quenelda were rarely from his side, yet the dragon remained listless. Over the last moon, the ulcerated sores that covered his body had begun to crust over, and then close. Under Quenelda’s guidance, several bones had been re-broken and reset, a tricky procedure, only made possible by her new-found assurance and skill in healing. Beneath the dulled tattered hide, hints of new-grown pebbled armour could be seen; and where it failed, the dragonsmiths had been grafting skilfully. But spiritually, the big dragon was dying, and everyone knew it – everyone except Quenelda.