Yesterday's Magic (5 page)

Riding north and west, they soon passed through the abandoned ruins of the once-large city. Before them stretched the Yorkshire Moors, the bleak treeless hills furred with gray-green grass. Little moved besides themselves and the occasional rare bird soaring in the tarnished sky. Hooves clopped over the hard earth, and the breath of horses and riders showed in puffs on the cold air.

Riding up between Merlin and the King, Duke Basil pointed to the west. “See that ridge there, like a raised scar on the horizon? That’s Dragon Hill. My friends and I used to come here as kids and dare each other to kick it or stick a sword into the ‘dragon’s’ side.”

“Did you?” Arthur asked.

The Duke laughed. “I still believed just a little too much to risk that. But tell me, Arthur, in your…eh, earlier time, did you ever actually see a dragon?”

“I heard that there were still some about, and I saw evidence of them—villages destroyed and so forth. But no, I never saw one myself. What about you, Merlin? There was some story about you as a boy, the first time, having confronted several dragons.”

Eyeing the hill as they rode nearer, Merlin nodded impatiently. “By then, most dragons had left this world and returned to Faerie. But not all. At that time, King Vortigern had killed the previous king with the help of Saxons he’d invited into the country, but the Saxons had turned against him and chased him into Wales. He tried to build a fortress on a mountaintop, but the walls kept falling down, and his court wizards—real charlatans they were—told him to sacrifice a boy with no father. That was supposed to be me, but any wizard worth the name would have known that the reason the walls kept falling down was that they were building over a cave containing dragon eggs.

“I told them that. They dug down, revealed a clutch of large eggs, and accidentally cracked two. The result was a couple of young dragons, one red and one white, swooping out, fighting and terrifying everyone.”

Queen Margaret, who’d been riding nearby and listening, said, “A red dragon and a white one? And the one in Basil’s story is white. Are the times about right?”

Merlin smiled at her. “You’re following my thinking. York’s Druid said it was after the Romans left, before the Vikings. That’s about when Arthur and I were first around. If the local story is true, it’s possible this is one of the dragons I met.”

“And gave birth to,” Margaret added.

“Well,
aided
in the birth, you might say.”

By this time, they were quite near the little hill. “If you look at it right,” Welly observed, “it does kind of look like a sleeping dragon, head stretched out one way, tail the other.”

Troll, who was peering from behind him, said, “Trolls not like dragons. Dragons big and cranky and eat small folk.”

“Small folk like trolls?” Welly asked.

“Trolls, people, cattle. Everything smaller than dragons.”

Merlin had already dismounted. Waving back the others, he strode to one end of the hill. Rus stalked beside him until Merlin called to Welly to grab the dog and keep him away.

Unsheathing his Eldritch sword, the wizard held it high and jabbed it into the ground. Then, raising his staff, he began chanting in a language none of them knew. The horses fidgeted nervously, Rus howled from both throats, and the watchers moved back a greater distance to calm their mounts.

From there, it was harder to see what was happening by the little hill. The mists that often cloaked the Yorkshire Moors had risen suddenly and were clouding their vision. But mist could not disguise the vibrations they felt under their feet or the faint rumbling reaching their ears. The horses’ nervousness was turning to panic, and everyone dismounted and held their bridles, trying to murmur soothing words. The rumbling only grew louder and drowned them out.

The vibrations in the ground grew to violent shaking. As everyone strained to see through the mist, it suddenly swirled away. The hill shook as if in the throes of a massive earthquake. The rumbling ended in a thunderous crack, the hill shuddered, and its turf covering broke open and flew apart. Flaming pieces of grass and soil showered down on the watchers, sending the horses into screaming terror.

“If only Heather were here,” Welly cried as he clung to his rearing horse’s bridle. “She can always calm animals.”

Beside him, the Queen, struggling with her own stallion, called, “What about your troll friend? I’ve seen him talk with animals.”

Looking around, they saw Troll cowering flat on the ground, hands splayed over both large ears.

Handing her reins to Welly, Margaret walked to the quaking figure and crouched beside him. “Troll,” she said firmly, resting a hand on his shoulder, “you have an important Royal Duty here. You must talk to the horses so they don’t bolt and leave the King and the rest of us stranded.”

Troll looked up with fear-widened eyes. Then, fingering the plastic beads around his neck, he squeaked, “Right. Troll brave, do duty. Horses big hairy cowards.” Scuttling to the first horse, he scrambled up its neck and began talking in its ear. He repeated this until all the horses had been reduced to quiet shivering.

The people in the King’s party now weren’t paying as much attention to the horses as to what was happening on the moor in front of them. The exploding dirt and grass had settled to the ground. The air smelled of hot dirt and singed grass. A cloud of dust still hung over the hill. Slowly it began to drift away, exposing raw white earth. No, the watchers realized. That was not earth. It was moving.

The white shape, nearly thirty feet long, twitched, then rippled with motion, as if muscles were flexing along its whole length. A long snaky neck rose up, a triangular horned head at its end. The mouth opened and out poured a bone-sawing screech and a sulfurous stench. The creature’s sides shivered and, and in a renewed cloud of dust, great wings unfurled.

Standing below the rearing head, Merlin raised his staff and shouted, “Hold, Worm! Twice now I have freed you. This time, I claim my lawful debt of service.”

The dragon curled its neck down, bringing its head so close to Merlin that the watchers gasped for fear of seeing their young wizard disappear in one chomp. Blazing red eyes looked at him, and the mouth opened, showing knife-sharp teeth.

“So,” a rasping voice hissed, “it
is
you. The same meddlesome boy wizard. A little older, it seems, though that is a pathetic excuse for a beard.”

“We are both a couple of millennia older, Worm. The world has changed a great deal since you were last awake.”

The creature raised its head and through flaring red nostrils sniffed the air. “Yes, I can tell, and not changed for the better. Not many dragons about, that’s certain.” Again it stretched its huge white batlike wings. “So I’ll just have to set off and look for an entrance to Faerie. Not much point in hanging around this wasteland. Nice seeing you again, boy.”

“You too, Worm, but we’ll be seeing a lot of each other until you have paid your debt.”

“All right, you sniveling little lawyer. So I owe you. So I’ll pay it. What have I got to do? Eat that little cluster of people and horses over there? Done.” Stiffly the creature got to its feet.

“No! Leave them alone—they’re friends. What I require is your transportation services. I need to go search for another friend who’s been abducted.”

The dragon snorted puffs of sulfurous smoke. “You expect me to carry all those people? Forget it. I’m still a youngster, you know.”

Merlin shook his head. “No, only two others are going. Besides, you shouldn’t complain. You are indeed just a young dragon and haven’t had much of a chance to see the world. Travel will give you that.”

The dragon spat, a hot sizzling blob that splatted on the ground and steamed like molten lava. “And some fine world you humans have made of it. All right, you’ve trapped me. How long am I to languish in your service?”

“Until you have, at my request, returned me and my party to Britain.”

Again the dragon snorted, producing twin plumes of smoke. “Agreed, you puny extortioner. So, let’s get going. I’m intensely sick of this piece of moorland.”

When the dragon, with Merlin at its head, began lumbering their way, Arthur ordered one of his men to lead the quaking horses a safe distance off. Then they all watched uneasily as the creature approached.

“As you can see, My Lord Duke,” Merlin said as they neared, “childhood stories should never be discounted. Welly and Troll, if you still wish to travel with me, come over and meet our transportation.”

Speechless, Welly and Troll stepped slowly forward. The dragon eyed them as steaming strings of saliva dripped from its mouth. “Tasty.”

“Worm,” Merlin admonished, “these are my companions and are to be protected, not harmed. But, Welly and Troll, you are both free to change your minds.”

“No,” Welly squeaked after a moment. “You and Heather might need me. I’m coming.”

Before Troll could answer, the dragon hissed. “Don’t count on that little scuttling one. Trolls are feckless cowardly sneaks, not good for much—except eating. They
are
nice and crunchy.”

Troll whimpered, but Merlin spoke to him. “Don’t worry, Troll, the dragon’s pledged to transport and protect me and mine. Dragons do honor bargains—though, as you said, they are cranky.”

The dragon was no longer paying attention to Welly and Troll. Lowering its head toward the others, it fastened its red gaze on Arthur. It sighed in a cloud of steam. “The Pendragon. I am honored. Even in the egg, I heard you were coming. Greetings.”

“Greetings to you, mighty dragon,” Arthur said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “It is my wish that you follow my wizard’s instructions. The girl they seek is a member of my court and my friend.”

The dragon raised its head. “As you wish, Pendragon. Your wizard is an uppity youngster, but I am bound to him—for the time being.”

With much grumbling, the dragon squatted down and allowed bags of provisions that were brought from the horses to be loaded onto its back. Merlin secured them with magical bands, then he, Welly, and a reluctant Troll climbed onto the humped back and settled into saddle-like depressions among the broad white scales. Merlin extended the magic security bands to the riders as well.

Again the dragon unfurled its wings, this time to their full impressive width. As the others hastily stepped back, Arthur called up, “Take care of yourself, Merlin. We need you. Bring yourself and the others back.”

“I’ll try, Arthur. Morgan cannot be allowed to win.
We
know that. We need to let her know that too.”

Rus had been turned over to one of the soldiers, but now the dog broke away and, running forward, began barking frantically. The dragon lowered its head and squinted at the creature. “Right, I hear you, dog,” the dragon hissed, “but no way am I going to carry the likes of you—squirming, flea-ridden, remarkably ugly thing that you are. Though if you
really
want to help your mistress, you could become a little snack to give me energy.”

“None of that!” Merlin snapped. “Someone hold Rus. We’ll bring Heather back, Rus, I swear it.”

Gripping his staff firmly, he rested it along the dragon’s back. Behind him, Welly was torn between clutching the scales and clutching his glasses. Then he remembered his glasses had been enchanted to stay on his face, so he used both hands to grip the scales as tightly as he could. Behind him, Troll closed his eyes and slid his long flat fingers into every crack among the scales that he could find.

On both sides, the huge wings gave a few gentle flaps, then with one powerful thrust jerked them into the air. Welly groaned and Troll squealed, but nothing could be heard above the thrumming of dragon wings.

Below, the group gasped in awe at the sight, then watched silently as the dragon rose into the sullen gray sky. Smaller and smaller the figure became, until it might have been confused with an oddly shaped bird. Finally it disappeared in the murky distance.

“Well, Pendragon,” Duke Basil said apologetically, “I’ve more than learned my lesson. I’ll never doubt the old tales again.”

Arthur shook his head. Grabbing Margaret’s hand, he headed toward the horses. “Old stories are fine. But the problem with stories when you are living through them is that you don’t know how they will end.”

C
APTIVE

D
arkness. Seemingly endless darkness into which only vague disturbing noises and a sickening sense of motion penetrated. Thoughts and feelings were smothered in the darkness—all except fear. Then even that faded into nothingness.

It was a faint rustling that pulled her up from the dark. Heather lay still, eyes closed, mind slowly wakening. There was the rustling again. Slowly she realized it came from under her. She twitched a leg, and the rustling returned. Gingerly she felt about with her hand. She was lying on what felt like a thin mattress, a mattress stuffed with rustling straw.

Her eyes seemed almost glued shut, but she struggled to open them. Above was a ceiling of gray stone. A small black blot on the ceiling broke loose and dropped toward her. Instinctively she raised an arm to fend it away, but the shape stopped just beyond her reach. Heather blinked and tried to focus. Then she screamed. The scream came out only as a rusty croak.

The thing hovering above her was—a bat? She’d seen bats in books but thought they were all extinct. She wished this one was. Its black leathery wings fluttered up and down, keeping it in place above her. Between the wings was a hairy body and a horrid face—a grotesque almost-human face, huge tufted ears, squinty eyes, turned-up snout, and a wide mirthless grin filled with needle-like teeth.

To make it worse, the mouth opened wide and it spoke. “Awake. Good. Report.”

With that, the creature flew out of her sight. Woozily Heather sat up. She was in a room, a small round room, its walls and floor the same cold gray stone as the ceiling. The bat thing was nowhere to be seen. It must have flown out of the room’s single window. She couldn’t see anything through the window’s glassless arch but pale gray sky. It was daytime. How many days?

Startled, she looked down at herself. She was wearing the same blue dress she had worn at the wedding. The dancing. The pink box under her bed. Heather groaned as it all came back in a jumbled rush. What had happened? Where was she?

She tried to stand but dizzily dropped back onto the crackling mattress. Very slowly she tried again and wobbled to her feet. Six cautious steps brought her to the wall. Gratefully she leaned against its cold stone. Then she looked out the window.

The light was low. Not knowing what direction she was looking, it could be either morning or afternoon. A tiredness in the hazy light suggested afternoon. If so, the position of the sun smudge told her she was looking west. But west from where?

There were mountains, tall, craggy, almost-bare mountains. Here and there dark mangy spots might be trees. Heather thought back to her geography classes in school. These mountains looked taller than anything she thought they had in Britain. Even the Scottish Highlands in the pictures hadn’t looked like this, and anyway, those were under glaciers now.

She shivered. Not in Britain, then. What was there beyond Britain? Not much, she thought, not anymore. But yet, there had been those voices scattered around the globe. And now there was this place.

Leaning across the thick chest-high windowsill, she tried to see more of this place. Below stretched a bare rocky mountainside. Standing on tiptoes, she wriggled farther out. A rugged stone wall, unbroken by other windows, dropped many stories to the ground. Above, it rose a short distance to end in crenellations against the gray sky. She could see nothing but sky to her left, but to her right, the stone wall curved away, then abutted another stone wall, straight and featureless.

Turning back to the room, she studied it, but there was little to see. The mattress was the only furniture. In the far wall was a metal-studded wooden door. Without much hope, she staggered across the room. The door was locked. She tried the little opening magic that she knew. But it dribbled off like a feeble spray of water.

Trembling, she walked back and sank down on the mattress. Only then did she let the building despair overwhelm her. She’d been abducted to someplace unimaginably foreign. She was a prisoner in some ancient stone building. And she didn’t know why or where or what might happen next.

Sobbing, Heather dropped her face into her hands. Something hard pressed against her cheek. Earl’s bracelet! She still had that. Clutching the metal circlet, she felt its warmth, almost like she was holding Earl’s hand in hers. Somehow he’d help.

The pale daylight was fading from the window when the door suddenly clanked open. Startled out of a hopeless stupor, Heather turned to see a plate of food slide across the floor as the door slammed shut again. She stared at the plate a moment before getting up and walking cautiously toward it. Bread and some pale green mashed stuff. Her stomach grumbled at the sight. How long had it been since she’d eaten anything? Days, surely. But did she dare eat this?

Shaking her head, she kicked the plate. It skidded across the floor, clacking against a wall. Not until she knew what was going on. The food could be poisoned, drugged, or magicked. She had to know who had brought her here and why.

Another hour passed. A sullen sunset was replaced by a hazy splotch of moonlight behind high clouds. She heard another rustling. It wasn’t coming from her mattress but from the base of the wall where she’d kicked that plate. She stared through the gloom and made out two shapes. Moving shapes. Rats, she realized—investigating the rejected food.

Be careful of that food,
she thought at them.
It might be bad.

She felt their startled thoughts.
Smells good. Hungry.

It could be poisoned or have bad magic.

She felt mental giggles.
Live here. Get to know poison and bad magic. This clean.

Well, then, it’s yours. But be careful.

Heather looked at her guests more closely. One was smaller and gray-white. A female, she felt. The male was a darker gray. They shared the food without fighting, stopping occasionally to clean whiskers and muzzles with the back of a paw.

When they’d eaten every crumb, they both nodded toward her, then scrambled off to what must be their hole in the wall, a small chink of greater darkness.

Wait. I’m trapped here. Where is this?

The rats stopped.
Big stone fortress,
the female answered.

Stone fortress in mountains,
the male added.
Bad place, but food’s here. Have to be careful or bad things make food of you.

Heather sighed. A stone fortress in the mountains didn’t tell her much. But she could hardly expect rats to know geography.
What sort of bad things?

Again, giggles.
Every sort. Flying bad things, crawling bad things. Human bad things baddest of all. But you’re a human, right?

I try to be.

Thought so. If flying bad things come through window, don’t let them bite.
With that, both rats vanished into their hole.

Uneasily Heather looked out her window and gasped. The hazy moonlight showed a cloud of small black shapes fluttering just beyond the arched opening. Sharp hungry squeakings scratched at her mind. But they didn’t fly in, almost as if an invisible screen kept them out.

For ages, it seemed, she watched the threatening cloud, but nothing changed. Finally, exhausted, frightened, and very cold, she lay down and struggled to fold one end of the thin mattress over herself. But she still couldn’t sleep. She tried to think back over the things she’d read at Llandoylan School, searching for any clue about her whereabouts. The school had collected surviving books from all over, and she’d been perhaps the school’s biggest bookworm, reading almost everything that didn’t fall apart in her hands. Of course, fiction had been her favorite, but sometimes it was hard to tell what the pre-Devastation people thought was true and what they made up, because their real world was so different from hers. But still…

Suddenly a memory jolted into her mind, and she fervently wished it hadn’t. She’d read a book once, set in some place on the Continent. Eastern Europe, maybe. At the beginning, there’d been a stone castle in the mountains. This really scary guy, a count or something, was keeping another guy prisoner there. And there’d been bats. Awful bloodsucking bats. Vampire bats.

Shivering from cold and fear, Heather got only fitful sleep that night.

The fluttering shapes beyond the window disappeared with the pale orange of dawn. Shortly after, the door rattled open a crack and another plate of food slid in before the door slammed closed again. Heather unrolled herself from the prickly mattress and stared at the plate. She was hungry enough now to risk eating just about anything. At the whisper of tiny footsteps, she turned. The rats were peeking out of their hole.

I must eat something,
she thought at them.
But I’ll share. Half for you, half for me.

They crept fully out and waited patiently while Heather brought the plate back to her mattress. Breaking the bread in two, she used part to scoop up half of the green glop. It tasted like boiled leaves, but her stomach welcomed it, then growled in complaint when she put the remainder of the food down for the pair of rats. But she had said she’d share.

Finally, meal finished, the rats were gone and Heather was alone. She clutched her bracelet, trying to draw comfort from its presence. Then, lying back, she attempted to clear her mind. If only she could hear some of those voices now, that would be some company. But she’d never actually
tried
to hear them, just waited until they intruded on her. She wished she and Earl had been able to experiment. He’d been so excited by the idea that she could contact people living elsewhere. Well, now she had nothing else to do. She could try.

She closed her eyes and tried to think cool, calm nothing. Reaching out to animal minds came naturally to her, but this was different. She imagined her thoughts stretching out like weeds or tentacles waving around in the water, searching, reaching, trying to catch something. She thought she caught a hint of the voice that talked about jaguars, ancient temples, and annoying sisters. But those thoughts were busy elsewhere, not wanting to talk.

For a moment, there was another voice she hadn’t heard often. It seemed scared and alone too.
Aunt Gutra told me to stay quiet in here. There’s danger outside. But it’s dark. Are you someplace happy today?

No,
Heather answered back.
I’m not. I’ve been taken some where far from home. I don’t know why.

Silence followed. Then,
I’m sorry. At least I’m home. And the danger always passes in a little while. Be brave. That’s what Aunt Gutra always says: Be brave.

She lost contact, and Heather found herself drenched in sweat. This was a lot harder now that she was trying to reach the voices than when they just came on their own. From what she remembered feeling when she’d looked at the globe, that particular scared voice was way off in South Asia someplace. It still felt distant, though perhaps not as far away as before, but that gave her no clue where
she
might be. For a choking moment, Heather was overwhelmed with longing to have Earl with her. He could help her with this; he would know what to do, what was happening. And he could get her out of here, surely. She didn’t even know what to try. Clutching her bracelet, she repeated what the voice had said:
Be brave.

Tired from trying to reach out with her mind, she just lay back, closed her eyes, and drifted into a half doze. That’s when a new voice cut into her with painful intensity.
Close. You’re close. Why?

Excited, yet cringing against the mental pain, Heather thought back,
I’m a prisoner in a stone castle or something. I was kidnapped. I’ve talked to you before, haven’t I?

A couple of times, I think. You sound much nearer now, though. Are you hurt?

No. Not yet. But I don’t know why I’m here.

The voice stayed silent a long while, and when it came back, it was much weaker.
Sorry, I’m not good at this. Can’t keep it up. You take care.
Nothing more came, and when she tried probing with her thoughts, she found blankness. But at least she’d had some contact. And if this person really was near, maybe he could help, though she didn’t see how. Besides, his idea of close might just mean that he was closer than the guy near the jaguars. Well, anyway, Heather thought, at least she wasn’t the only one who wasn’t very skilled at working this thought-message thing.

The day dragged on. Nothing more touched her mind except fear and boredom. For long spells, Heather stared out the window at the bleak rugged landscape. She supposed these mountains had been forested before the Devastation. Then they wouldn’t have looked so repellent. She wondered if anything lived near here. Were there bands of muties like in the wildest areas of Britain? If a lot of bombs had been dropped in Europe and if this
was
Europe, wouldn’t the mutations be even worse? And were there any clutches of normal people left? She tried not to think about what was living with her in this castle, if that’s what it was. The stench of magic was obvious, and it wasn’t the good kind.