The Witch's Daughter (Lamb & Castle Book 1) (20 page)

“Who has spoken my name, and for what reason?” the dragon snarled.

The pike slipped from Amelia’s hands and clattered on the stone floor. A dragon? This was more Sir Percival’s business, surely. If only he hadn’t vanished, lost in the ever-shifting labyrinth of the jade temple.

Meg seemed to agree. “Perce, you damn fool, where are you?”

“Meg, do something!”

But Meg shook her head. “I daren’t use magic on him!”

Heart racing painfully, Amelia seized the pike again, gripping it tightly with both hands, and levelled it at the dragon.

Its round gold eyes blazed with fury and it sneered at her, showing white fangs as long as steak knives. “Who are you?” it demanded.

She looked it dead in the eye and – feeling not at all like Amelia Lamb – she told it. “I’m the White Queen.”

The dragon hissed and reared back like a snake about to strike. With not a fraction of a second to think of right or wrong, Amelia dodged, jamming the pike into the dragon’s side. The dragon thrashed in pain, yanking the pike from Amelia’s hands, its writhing coils knocking her off her feet. She cowered with her arms over her head, pressing herself into a corner. She heard men shouting, and the dragon screamed, deafening.

When someone grabbed her arms and pulled her to her feet, she screamed too; thin and shrill, but then above the noise and confusion, she recognised Harold’s voice. She opened her eyes to see him white-faced and his shirt blood-stained. Stupid’s golden cage dangled from his fist, the fire sprite fizzing incandescent purple.

The dragon quietened, huffing steam as it circled awkwardly in the room too small for it. Hot blood dripped from its underside and splashed steaming on the floor. Sir Percival’s armour clanked as he prepared to defend himself again with sword and shield. But before the knight could strike again, the dragon collapsed in on itself like a paper marionette folding in steam. Silence fell. Everyone had been pushed aside by the dragon’s great bulk, so that with it gone they lined the room, staring at each other, nobody sure what would happen next.

Amelia broke the silence. “Oh, Harold! My brave Paladin! Are you hurt?”

Harold coughed, fanning smoke from in front of his face. “I’m fine.” All of the blood on him was from the dragon, and with Amelia’s concern and admiration, the pinkness rapidly came back to his ashen cheeks.

The smoke cleared to reveal a finely dressed young man lying stricken on the floor. He pushed his coppery locks back from his handsome face, looking quite overcome.

Her brave Paladin momentarily forgotten, Amelia rushed to the handsome young man’s side as he tried to get up. “I’m so sorry! I had no idea!” He was undoubtedly the most beautiful man she had ever seen, with perfectly sculpted cheekbones and eyes like liquid gold. He was a prince, she was sure of it, cursed to live as a dragon, and what had they done to him? Blood stained the expensive silk of his shirt. “Oh, you poor thing… I’m sure you’re a good and kind man, and –”

The perfect, beautiful man trembled. “I am a dragon!” he screamed at her. “Most noble of all creatures!”

Meg grabbed Amelia roughly by the arm, pulling her away. “Move! Move!” Meg bundled her into the unknown of the dark corridor, and silence fell upon them, fuzzy and weird in the aftermath of the clattering battle. A moment later, Sir Percival and Harold stumbled across the threshold, but no one else came after.

Amelia pulled herself together a bit. On the other side of the enchanted doorway, the jade temple might as well not even exist. Nor the rest of the world for that matter. “I’m not sure I like this,” she said.

“It’s better than the dragon, isn’t it?” said Meg.

Amelia ignored her, trying not to think about the dragon, or the prince, or whatever he was. She worried fleetingly what had become of the Black Queen. The Black Queen was only a girl, and
she
probably hadn’t signed up for rough encounters with dragons, either. If the White Queen had opened the crown room, perhaps only the White Queen could allow anybody else through that door. Which meant she had left the Black Queen out there with the dragon prince… Amelia tried not to think about that anymore, either. At the far end of the corridor she could faintly see a pale blue light, and she pressed on towards her prize.

~

The corridor opened up into a room like a cathedral, moonlight streaming in through stained glass windows and onto an altar glittering with treasure. The crown caught Amelia’s eye at once: it held pride of place in the centre of the altar, on top of a gold casket with a triple-headed dragon in stylised knots, just like the one they’d seen over the door to the temple. The crown itself was beautifully wrought gold beyond man’s craft, delicately entwining dozens of jewels the same rich deep amber as a tomcat’s eyes. Around it lay at least two dozen pieces of armour, gleaming and just as beautiful as the crown. Amelia approached the altar. All this armour looked very fine work, as far as she could tell, but what did she know about armour? She could have done with having it
before
she had to fight the dragon, she knew that much. She looked back at Percival, who was keeping a reverent distance from the altar, and then at Meg, who surprisingly enough was doing the same.

“Go on,” said Meg. “Claim your prize, you won it fair and square, I’d say.”

Hesitantly, Amelia went to pick up a breastplate. At the merest touch of her skin, the dull grey metal brightened, and white curls began to blossom across the surface of the breastplate, moving swiftly to etch the shape of a lamb upon it.

“Fancy,” said Meg, as Amelia tentatively touched each item on the altar in turn, until every piece bore the insignia of the White Queen. The glistening jewels in the tiara brightened from topaz, through sunshine yellow, to a glowing diamond white, as the crown acknowledged its rightful winner.

Sir Percival knelt and bowed his head in reverence.

Amelia turned to Meg, beaming in triumph. Meg didn’t seem so pleased. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing…
wrong
, as such,” said Meg, still sounding uncertain.

Sir Percival looked up. “It’s the insignia, my lady. It’s not quite what we were expecting.”

Amelia looked again at the lambs now adorning every piece of the treasure.

“Well…” Meg turned to Percival, clearly hoping he might explain, but he stood stubbornly silent. “You see… ‘Lamb’ isn’t your real name. That’s just what they called you to keep you safe and out of sight.”

“Looks like it stuck,” said Harold.

Amelia thought of the name Meg had given back in Springhaven: ‘Spinner’, and instantly envisioned her armour covered in spiders. She shuddered at the very thought, but at the same time had a notion that ‘Spinner’ was neither Meg’s real name, nor hers. She was just about to ask when Percival spoke up.

“As fascinating as all this is,” he said, clearly meaning it most sincerely, “we have more urgent matters to attend to. The dawn will soon be upon us, and if nothing else, we should get away from here before the dragon recollects himself. I suggest you put on as much of the armour as you can. It’ll be the easiest way to carry it.”

Meg made a rude noise. “Says you, carrying all that nonsense around everywhere you go.”

But when Amelia hesitantly lifted a breastplate to get a feel for the weight of it, she was pleasantly surprised. “I thought armour was supposed to be heavy,” she said.

That
made Percival come over and see for himself. He marvelled at the lightness of the armour. “Impossible, quite impossible.”

“Magic, Perce,” said Meg, smiling. “Only magic.”

“That was very thoughtful of them,” said Amelia. She’d dreaded the thought of having to clank down the hillside path, sweating and stumbling under the heavy weight of her share of the armour.

Harold stopped strapping on armour long enough to test the weight of the sword. “Oh, that’s not right. That’s not right at all.”

“Best stick to what you already have, lad,” Percival advised.

“That’s a girl’s sword, that is,” said Harold, and handed it to Amelia. She held it awkwardly despite its feather lightness, but didn’t try to give it back. The dragon wasn’t the only thing out there that wanted to kill her.

“Dratted noisy stuff,” Meg grumbled, stuffing a pair of gauntlets in her satchel. “Let’s get a move on, then. Quick as you like, before the sun comes up.”

They still had at least a couple of hours before sunrise, but no reason to stay. Sir Percival and Harold went ahead to clear the path, but found neither dragon nor prince where they’d left the wounded Archalthus. The Archmage and the Commander had disappeared somewhere, too. The Black Queen, beaten to the prize, had melted back into the shadows like a ghost.

“Where did they all go?” Amelia whispered, her palms sweating on the grip of her new sword.

“I haven’t got a clue,” Meg whispered back. “I almost wish they were here making trouble for us, because at least that way I’d know where they were.”

Amelia wouldn’t go
that
far. With the Archmage’s spell of confusion broken, they found their way out easily, and slipped as quietly as possible through the moonlit gardens. Stupid, apparently still spoiling for a fight, jigged up and down in his cage, spitting turquoise and red sparks like a firework. “Be still, you awful pest!” Amelia hissed. “I shall
never
let you out at this rate.” Overhead, the yellow-sailed skyship still loomed, creaking ominously in the still fresh air of the night. Amelia gritted her teeth as they passed beneath it, anticipating a rain of arrows from above, but nothing came.

At the landing ledge, they found Tallulah waiting for them, and they loaded her back onto the
Storm Chaser
as the sky shaded to the faded blue of a duck’s egg. Harold and Percival were busy packing the giant snail back into her straw while Amelia could only stand at the railings and stare at the tower. She’d stowed her armour in the cargo hold, and the crown too. Now she had her prize, she didn’t like to look at it.

“She’s cleverer than I gave her credit for,” said Amelia, as the
Storm Chaser
slipped quietly away across the ravine.

“Who, Tallulah? Of course she is,” said Meg proudly. “Perce gave her instructions to get back to the landing ledge soon as she was safe to do so.” She smiled broadly, and shook her head. “Good old Perce.”

“Hmm. Good old Perce,” Amelia muttered. She half-wished that Meg would praise her at least as highly as she praised her snails, but felt too drained; her heart too empty to care much. Her eyes watered, and she swiped at them irritably. Meg showed no sign of noticing, which only made it worse.

The
Storm Chaser
drifted low across the barren rocky landscape, bleak in the grey light of dawn. She travelled slowly, limping almost, but behind them at the truncated tower, Amelia could still just about make out the yellow sails of the Black Queen’s skyship. It hadn’t moved from the temple yet, making no move to pursue the White Queen. Perhaps the Black Queen knew that the game was over. Perhaps the dragon had eaten her.

The jolt and rumbling scrape of the
Storm Chaser
’s belly against the rocks threw Amelia unceremoniously to the deck, startling her from her morbid reverie.

It had taken Meg just as much by surprise. The witch got to her feet, tossing back her straw-coloured curls, shaken and trying not to show it. “Pick her up a bit, Captain,” she shouted. “I want to get back to civilisation in one piece.” But there was no reply. The
Storm Chaser
lifted her ponderous weight briefly, only to stumble again on the rocks with an awful sound. “Captain? Captain Dunnager!”

The
Storm Chaser
slowed, scraping along the rocks until its uncontrolled sliding came to a rise in the land and keeled over. The whole world turned dizzily, as Amelia tumbled down the steep slope of the deck, only the railings bringing her up short, crashing painfully against her back and her hip.

Amelia lay there a moment with her arms over her head and her eyes squeezed shut. “Meg?” she called.

“I’m here. I’m still here. Are you hurt?”

Amelia winced as she tried to move, still smarting from the impact. “Just a bit bruised, I think.” She looked down through the gaps in the railings – she judged it to be about ten feet down to the rock. High enough that it would hurt if she slipped and went over, anyway. With this in mind, she took extra care in getting herself right way up on the weird angles of the grounded skyship. “Are you all right?”

“Never mind me.” Meg scrambled up the tilted plane towards the door to below decks. She slipped more than once in her panic, and swore like a sailor. “Captain Dunnager!” she shouted again. “Can you hear me?” With the strange angle the door had ended up at, it took her some effort to yank it open, and then she disappeared down the hole. Amelia followed. All the crates in the deckhouse had got loose during the crash, blocking the way to the cargo hold. Meg, having apparently forgotten her admonitions not to use magic whilst in a state of emotional distress, lifted them with one wave of her hand and tossed them out onto the deck.

Amelia felt almost dizzy with relief when they found Harold and Percival there, apparently unharmed but for their own bruises. Meg headed straight for the soulchamber, still stumbling on the uneven footing in her hurry, but Percival stopped her. “He’s not in there,” he said.

Amelia’s heart lurched sickeningly. She had warned Meg so many times not to push the Captain too far. She’d known that his pride wouldn’t allow him to tell her ‘no’ when it was beyond his strength, and now…

“No, no,” said Percival hastily, seeing the looks on their faces. “He went back to his body. He’s in the hold, but he’s in a bad way, Meg.”

Meg rushed to find the Captain, rummaging in her bag for who knew what. Amelia followed, unsure how she could help, or if she could help at all, but desperate to try.

The Captain had grown terribly thin during the time his body had been vacant, despite Meg’s best efforts to look after him. He tried to raise his head when he heard them come in, but couldn’t. He mumbled something incoherent as Meg pressed her ear to his chest.

“Stop apologising, you silly man,” she snapped, opening up a tiny glass vial tinted sky blue. “Drink this, and lie still, for pity’s sake.” Her hands shook with guilt at having almost killed him. “Will one of you see to Tallulah, please? And someone go above deck and keep an eye out for marauding dragons and such?”

Percival jumped to it, pulling big handfuls of straw away from the sleeping snail (or at least Amelia
hoped
Tallulah was only sleeping) and Harold went off to keep watch.

Meanwhile, Amelia loitered at Meg’s side while the witch muttered and gestured, not explaining the magic she was working. “Is he dying?” Amelia whispered to Meg, feeling helpless and useless.

“Nonsense! A good hot meal and he’ll be right as rain. Now shoo and give him some peace and quiet, why don’t you?”

~

Amelia went out onto the deck, unsteady on the pronounced tilt of it. The crates from the deckhouse lay strewn around, wisps of straw restless in the breeze. The sun hadn’t yet risen above the misty horizon, and in the grey dawn the broken rocky plain looked more huge and desolate than ever. Harold had climbed up to the railing on the other side of the deck, precariously high, and he clung to his perch there with a silly half-grin on his round face, staring in amazement at the tower. When she clambered up to join him, she could see that it reached into the clouds, complete and seamless once more. “Amelia, you should’ve seen it. It’s just like when you disappear yourself and that, only it’s a whole bloomin’ mountain!”

“What about the Black Queen’s ship?”

“Oh. I dunno. Couldn’t see if it was there still. Too far to tell for sure.”

No skyships sailed the horizon, certainly. If the yellow-sailed vessel hadn’t left the temple before the moon had set, what would have become of it? She wondered if the whole top half of the tower was just a hollow shell of rock, or even nothing more than an illusion. She prayed that the cursed dragon prince and his men were trapped inside it, however it worked. That should give her a month to get far, far away from the tower, before the Dragon’s Moon turned again. If, as Meg suggested, Captain Dunnager would be up and about as soon as he’d had a hot dinner and recovered from the shock of the crash, then he’d be able to get straight back into the soulchamber and take them out of the Stacks at least. Amelia, though, kept recalling his gaunt and bloodless face, and doubted it would be so simple.

As she gazed at the tower, movement on the plains below caught her eye. “Oh, no…” she murmured. “Harold, look.” Three dark figures on foot – they must have somehow escaped from the tower at the last moment. She squinted, trying to recognise them. The Black Queen? The dragon prince? At a distance she thought they were three men, but it made little difference to her: if they’d come from the tower, they were almost certainly enemies. She thought fleetingly of making the skyship invisible again, but judging by the way the three figures were making their way doggedly towards the stranded
Storm Chaser
, they’d already seen it, and she’d be better off saving her magic for a better plan. If she could think of a better plan, that is… “Meg!”

“Damn it all, what
now
?” came Meg’s voice from a porthole below Harold and Amelia’s perch.

“Men from the tower!” Amelia shouted down to her. She looked again. “Golems, I think!”

“Get them away from here
,”
Meg ordered.
“
We’ll never make it out of the Stacks without the
Storm Chaser,
and if they realise that, they’ll destroy her.”

“I’ll get my armour,” said Amelia, without even thinking of how she planned to get rid of the golems. All she knew was that the golems wanted the White Queen – wanted nothing else – “Harold?”

“I wouldn’t let you go alone,” he said, and they hurried to the cargo hold where Amelia had left her armour. Her heart raced as she fumbled with straps and buckles and gauntlets. She lifted her sword, light as a feather, and swung it experimentally.

Harold gave her a look of despair. “You’re holdin’ it all wrong. Look here:” he adjusted her grip. “And don’t swing wide like you did just now…” He shook his head. “Look, don’t even take the sword. Just take the shield, and use your magic, all right? Like you did before.”

Amelia stripped off her gauntlets, replacing them with her conjuring rings, and picked up the shield. She liked it a lot better than she liked the sword. She kept the breastplate too.

Noisy footsteps thudded overhead, and Amelia turned to Harold, eyes wide. “How did they get here so fast?” she whispered.

He bit his lip and muttered, “don’t know. Come on, and we’ll get ‘em away from here.” He took up his sword belt and put it on in a hurry.

“Be safe!” said Meg. “Just keep them away long enough for me to get the Captain fit to fly again.”

From the cargo hold, the two of them hurried through the passageway leading to the soulchamber, where they crouched on the stairs, hardly daring to breathe as they listened to the men overhead.

“A poor landing,” said one of the golems. “The vessel has sustained minor damage to the hull, and appears to have lost its power source. Do you think the White Queen and her cohort will have continued on foot? The distance to the nearest town is approximately thirteen days on foot. Depending on what supplies they carry, it is possible. I suggest we pursue them. I agree.”

“You would,” said another voice. “Let’s see what they left behind first, shall we, lads? I see a crate over there with the Tyborean Imperial crest on it. And His Highness isn’t going to be with us for a while yet, so what’s the rush?”

Amelia lifted the trap door a couple of inches, careful not to make a sound. The two golems had gone to fetch the crates that Meg had thrown aside. The third of the dragon prince’s men stood with his back to her, a lean man dressed in a blue uniform, standing easy on the steep slant of the deck. “That awful man from the temple,” Amelia whispered. She looked round, only to find that Harold had disappeared from her side.

The golems, dutifully investigating the crates, quickly lost interest once they’d opened them. “There is nothing of value here, Commander Breaker. Only gold trinkets of low quality. Shoddy jewellery and what we believe are called ‘trade beads’.”

“Gold? All right then, have a look around the area and see if you can find out which way they went. Report back to me within the hour.”

The two golems left, and the Commander went to investigate the crates himself.

In the stairway leading up from the soulchamber, Harold returned with the crown’s golden casket tucked under his arm. He joined Amelia looking out from the crack of the trapdoor, from where they could see the Commander rummaging through Captain Dunnager’s cargo. “Dirty thievin’ corpsebird,” Harold muttered. “Would he pick over a shipwreck with such a smile on his face?”

“This
is
a shipwreck,” Amelia whispered.

“Proves my point, don’t it? Think I’ll go and teach him a lesson.” He turned to Amelia. “Follow me, but don’t be seen, all right? And don’t forget your bag,” he whispered, handing it to her. Then, before she could ask what he was doing, he squeezed past her and stepped up into daylight, his armour gleaming bright. She followed him, concentrating hard on being invisible, feeling like a watching ghost. What was Harold playing at? They couldn’t afford to let the other Side get hold of the crown.

The Commander was busy filling his pockets with gold jewellery, but he soon heard Harold’s clumsy efforts at sneaking past. “You there! Stop!”

Harold complied at once, turning so that the lamb on his breastplate, the insignia of his Queen, flashed brilliant white in the first light of day. He glanced guiltily at the ostentatious golden casket he carried. The Commander recognised the triple-headed dragon on the casket at once, and lunged for it, too fast for Harold to draw his sword. Harold barely even had time to move away on the awkward slope, and nowhere near fast enough. The two men wrestled a moment, and either Harold had missed his calling as an actor, or he really didn’t mean to give away the box at all. When the Commander looked to be going for his sword, Amelia threw caution to the wind and kicked him as hard as she could, but Harold had already let go the contested box and pulled away.

“That belongs to my lady the White Queen!” Harold protested. “That crown in there belongs to her by all rights, and if you was a gentleman you’d give it back right now.”

“Crown, is it?” The Commander grinned, showing off his horrible sharp teeth. He still had his sword in his free hand. He took a few steps back up the slope, surprisingly steady on his feet.
Must be a skysailor
, Amelia thought. “Well, I’m gentleman enough to spare your life, maybe…” His jealous green eyes, sharp and curious, flashed to the box under his arm.

“The White Queen entrusted me to look after that crown. It’s worth more than anything I ever seen in my life.” Harold drew his sword as if he had only just remembered he had it strapped at his hip. “It’s worth more than my life.” He looked very grand and noble in that moment, every inch the white knight, with his shining armour and earnest face, his sword flashing in the morning sun. But still he hesitated.

The Commander’s green eyes flashed again from Harold to the box.

Harold murmured under his breath, barely audible, “Amelia, is that you behind me?”

“Yes,” she whispered back.

“Come visible again in just a moment. And be ready to run.”

Without letting go his sword, the Commander unhooked the latch of the golden casket. The lid flew open, turquoise fire bursting out with an ear-piercing ‘
phweeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
’ Startled, the Commander stumbled back, as the fire sprite shot straight up into the sky.

Just as well Harold wanted Amelia visible, because the surprise made her drop her concentration anyway.

The Commander swiped once at the fire sprite buzzing excitedly around him in dizzy spirals, and glared at Harold, sharp teeth bared.

“Amelia! Follow me!” Harold half-ran, half-tumbled down the steep slope of the deck, vaulting over the edge. Amelia didn’t need telling twice: she grabbed her skirts as she leapt over the railings, the impact on bare rock smacking her feet sharply even through the thick soles of her boots. She stumbled, but recovered herself well and ran after Harold. The landscape which had looked so flat from above was not such smooth going on foot, and at every moment Amelia feared she’d trip and break her legs on scrub or broken rocks, leaving her at the mercy of the now-furious Commander.

“Head for cover,” Harold panted, pointing to a cleft in the rock up ahead. “Is he following?”

Amelia didn’t dare pause long enough to find out, and hardly needed to. “Didn’t you see the look on his face?” She expected a knife in her back at any instant. Hers or Harold’s, anyway.

They came to the cleft and vanished down into the cool dampness of the shadows. Amelia looked back very briefly. Though she couldn’t see the guardsman, she could hear the fizz and crackle and squeal of the fire sprite somewhere behind them.

“What was all that about?” she asked, as they picked their way carefully along the narrow crack in the rock. If they’d wanted to use Stupid to ambush the Commander, surely there had been less risky ways to go about it.