Flight to Dragon Isle (11 page)

Urgent hammering sounded. The heavy doors crashed open. A young Dragon Lord burst in, chest heaving, breath as ragged and torn as his armour. He wore the badge of a Group Captain in the Nightstalkers.

‘My l-lords’ – his horror-struck eyes sought DeBessert’s and held them with a desperate intensity – ‘I bear word of the battle. My lords, the SDS have fallen. They are all dead, all devoured. The Ice Fortress is also destroyed, and the scent of strange sorcery lies heavy about it. The hobgoblins were ravenous; starving. In the aftermath of the battle, they … they
feasted
, my lord. They and their … their dragons.’

A gasp echoed about the chamber. Hands flew to mouths and hearts. Hobgoblin dragons?
Dragons?
That could not be. The hobgoblins and dragons were ancient enemies. The guildsmen’s cries drowned out the young officer’s next words.

‘Sir’ – he spoke urgently, softly to DeBessert – ‘sir, only the magic of our Imperials and Arch Mages could wound or kill them. Sir, what does that mean?’

‘Keep that news to yourself,’ DeBessert commanded quietly, ‘until we return to Dragon Isle. It means that these creatures are spawn of the Maelstrom.’

Shocked to silence, the young man nodded.

‘Dragons born of the Maelstrom?’ Suddenly the Grand Master was at the young man’s shoulder. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. They are black as the Abyss, covered in poisonous spikes, and their foul breath kills all it touches. But that is not all …’ The young man swayed. ‘There was a huge hobgoblin whose dragon flew the banner of their warlord. I recognized him from the Battle of the Howling Glen. It
was
Galtekerion. He
is
alive! And there is no sign of the Earl Rufus – he must have fallen in battle with his men!’

With a groan, he crashed forward. Only then did they see the barbed quarrels that protruded from his back. As members of the Apothecaries Guild came to help him, the Grand Master staggered and sat heavily on his chair.

‘I must attend the Court,’ His voice sounded unnaturally loud in the utter silence. ‘The Queen must be informed of this latest news. It will cause her great grief, as it does me.’ He beckoned a servant forward. ‘Have my dragon saddled immediately. I must fly.’

‘I will accompany you, my Lord.’ DeBessert closed his eyes.

They are all dead? The SDS is utterly destroyed
.

The Queen had had a harrowing night. Having learned of the Earl Rufus’s fate from the Grand Master, she had been faced with the task of breaking the heartrending news to his daughter. A daughter who loved her father, who dreamed of flying at his side; a daughter who had grown so much in the last year, showing the first hints of who she would become as a woman. By the time the Queen’s Constable returned with Quenelda and her esquire from Dragonsdome, the girl must have known. She could not have failed to hear the tolling bells, or see the standards flying at half-mast over the palace. Queen Caitlin had met Quenelda and gently told her of their loss; had explained that many lost those whom they loved in times of war. That her beloved father was dead – to the eternal grief of them all.

Caitlin was prepared for heartbreak. But instead of tears, there had been defiance. A stubborn refusal to believe that her father was dead – and the shocking accusation of betrayal by the Grand Master.

‘He’s not dead,’ Quenelda insisted tearfully. ‘He survived. Stormcracker bore him away.’

Sir Gharad looked at her in pity. ‘How do you know, child?’

When questioned, Quenelda revealed to the Queen and her Constable a dream she’d had on what she believed to be the night of the battle. A dream of dragon fighting dragon. Dark dragons like Midnight Madness, only worse, far worse. A dream of Stormcracker bearing her injured father away from the battlefield, the cry of treason on his lips. But where he was now, or why he had not returned to the Howling Glen or Dragon Isle, she could not say.

‘Maybe he’s too badly wounded,’ she insisted tearfully. ‘Or Storm is too injured to fly, or they are hiding from the Grand Master’s men.’

Stunned, shocked, suddenly hopeful, the Queen’s heart leaped within her, despite her Constable’s gentle restraint.

‘Majesty,’ Sir Gharad cautioned, knowing what she was thinking. ‘Even if the Earl survived the battle he may yet have died from his wounds.’

The young Queen knew he was right. When the weather allowed flying, the SDS Search and Rescue patrols had found nothing; but there were thousands of islands and caves off the rugged west coast where survivors could be concealed. She was foolish, she knew it, but she wanted to believe, like Quenelda, that the Earl was still alive, hidden somewhere, nursing his wounds, waiting until spring came to return home. Nothing could fly in the howling blizzards that now swept the north.

But if they were to believe Quenelda’s dream that the Earl had survived the battle, then they must also believe the horrifying, unthinkable news that the SDS had been betrayed by a man at the heart of the kingdom – the Earl’s childhood friend and Grand Master of the Guild. But who could they tell and what could they do? Who had the power to defy a warlock? To betray their suspicions would tear Court and Guild apart, and there was not a shred of proof for any of it save Quenelda’s word.

The Queen and Sir Gharad decided to reveal Quenelda’s dream to the new SDS Commander, Jakart DeBessert. He needed to know – all of it. But no one else, they agreed. Their fears and hopes must be hidden from the Guild – and particularly from the Grand Master himself. An opportunity came as the Dragon Lord was given a private audience with his Queen to confirm his new rank.

On the way he passed Quenelda and her esquire stumbling numbly along the corridor. He looked at their tearful, distraught faces with sympathy. He had lost many friends, but soldiers knew the risks they took. Few considered the price their loved ones paid when they failed to return home from the war.

But that sympathy did not extend to believing Quenelda’s story.

‘Majesty,’ he gently protested as the Queen wept, ‘the Earl’s daughter is twelve – how can you believe her? It is just a childish dream. A fantasy born of fear and hope.’

When the Constable revealed that the Grand Master was a warlock whose folly had nearly killed the Earl at the jousts, DeBessert was still unconvinced.

‘Majesty, the dragon turned rogue through its injuries. The Lord Hugo and the Earl are virtually brothers – you just need to look at the Grand Master to see how distressed he is by this terrible news. And anyway, why would a man who already has everything want more?’

The Queen was determined to be believed: the future of her kingdoms depended upon this. ‘Quenelda says that the hobgoblins have dark dragons, birthed by Maelstrom Magic, conjured by the warlock in our midst.’

The new Commander’s face froze in place.
Their own dragons? None know that save the Inner Council. Can the rest of the dream be true then too?
Doubt unravelled in his mind. ‘But, Madam,’ he stuttered, ‘how could you know this? I …’

Seeing the man’s hesitation, Sir Gharad took a gamble. ‘Quenelda is no ordinary twelve-year-old girl. She is a Dragon Whisperer, Jakart.’

The constable had once commanded the SDS before injury and old age retired him to Court. His word was enough for a young man brought up on tales of this old knight’s legendary valour on the battlefield.

DeBessert’s mind raced at this new information. ‘The lost Dragonsdome Chronicles are said to foretell the rise of a Dragon Whisperer,’ he whispered.

‘A Dragon Lord of unparalleled power who would return to protect the kingdoms from the rising darkness in one final cataclysmic conflict …’ Sir Gharad finished the legend for him. ‘Where does it say that it has to be a
man
?’

On the Black Isle, the frosted turrets of the royal palace glittered in the harsh late-winter sun. Ravens in their white winter plumage cawed harshly in the hushed silence that hung over the city. No dragons flew beneath the milky sky. The blizzard had blown itself out, and the air was silent and empty of life.

In black mourning robes, Quenelda, the Queen and the royal retinue stepped out onto the terrace beneath a black awning. Her face hidden behind a veil, the Queen stood silent and still, supported by her Constable, Sir Gharad. His right arm lay lightly around Quenelda’s stiff shoulders. The Earl’s daughter was refusing to accept her father’s death, even as she stood on the balcony before the Black Cortège.

To the left of the Queen stood Commander DeBessert and the Grand Master. The Commander’s young son, the Lord Guy, stood proudly behind his father. The young man had yet to see battle, having initially been refused active service because of the injury caused by the Lord Darcy’s reckless behaviour some moons earlier. Now everyone who could fight was welcome in the ranks of the SDS, crippled or not, and the boy had been working hard learning to fight left-handed. His animosity towards Darcy was evident in the stiff way he ignored the Earl-in-waiting.

The castle quadrangle to their left billowed hotly with men’s breath and dragon smoke. The clash of arms and bridles, the shouts of sergeant-majors as the ranks of the Black Cortège formed up, sounded brittle in the silence.

On a high tower the bugler sucked in a deep breath. Silver notes shivered in the still cold air. With a saw-toothed screech, the black-draped gates of the Royal Household Cavalry swung open. Following a loud cry of command, the Cortège stepped out onto the cobbled square.

Seven regimental standard bearers on juvenile Imperial Blacks rode out first; their battle banners bearing an image of the triple-headed dragon glinted in the wan light. The Imperial Black that followed the juveniles was a magnificent young mare, selected and led by Tangnost.

The high-cantled military saddle on the Imperial Black was empty, the stirruped boots reversed to symbolize a Dragon Lord who would fly no more. The SDS and DeWinter standards flew above the saddle’s high back. A cadet sat astride the great dragon’s withers, and with two silver kettle drums beat out the slow funeral march. The battledragon moved slowly forward to the beat of the drum. Smoke poured from her flared nostrils, leaving a vapour trail of purple haze. The crowd that lined the square was silent, overawed by the dragon’s size; it was unthinkable that such magnificent creatures could have been destroyed by the hobgoblins. If these great creatures could not defend them, who could?

‘Oh, Papa …’ Quenelda was suddenly crushed by grief. She shivered in her thick black brocade. Hot tears held in check for so long now fell freely down her cheeks at the sight of the Imperial Black, so like Stormcracker Thundercloud III. She tried to swallow and couldn’t; her grief welled up in her throat and threatened to choke her. Then a hand found Quenelda’s shaking right hand and squeezed it fiercely: Root was standing at her shoulder.

‘I’m here,’ he said softly. ‘Right here behind you.’

He knew that she was still refusing to accept that her father was not coming home. She was also refusing to attend her brother’s Knighthood Ceremony and investiture as Earl. Root was afraid. The look of barely suppressed fury and jealousy that he saw in Darcy’s eyes when Quenelda had refused had frightened him. He had been the only witness when the Earl had made Quenelda his heir, and no one would believe the word of a young girl and a commoner against that of the Lord Darcy. Once Quenelda’s brother was Earl, what would happen to them all?

Then Root’s own heart thumped in his chest as seven small Lesser Chameleons followed the Imperial, representing regimental scouts. Had Root’s father, Bark Oakley, lived, he would be there representing the First Born.

Stopping at the centre of the courtyard in front of the balustrade, the Imperial turned towards the west and Dragon Isle. The Queen then cast down winter flowers over the Cortège. Quenelda stepped forward and watched them tumble down at the battledragon’s feet.

The Grand Master watched over the scene with hidden glee. His predatory eyes settled upon the young Earl-in-waiting, his head bowed in this apparent moment of grief. In the glittering flamboyant uniform of a captain of the II Royal Unicorn Regiment, Darcy’s only concession to protocol was the black-braided jacket and the plume of black unicorn hair that crowned his gold-engraved helmet. The Grand Master knew the boy’s grief was false, that he could hardly wait until his father was buried so that he could become Earl.

Darcy’s fury at his father’s decision to send him to Dragon Isle had been most timely. The young man had needed little persuasion to reveal the Earl’s final plans, his detailed tactics, thereby betraying his father just as his mother had before him.
And why not?
The Grand Master smiled inwardly. After all, the boy was truly
his
son, produced during his affair with DeWinter’s wife, and would one day fight at his side. Already the dismantling of Dragonsdome had begun. Even now his men were there. The Earl’s pedigree battledragons, all save the Imperials, would be his before nightfall, in exchange for a string of golden unicorns and a small fortune in gold. He looked at his son’s fiancée, the Lady Armelia, soon to be Duchess of Dragonsdome; a vain, avaricious young lady, eager to spend the fabled wealth of the DeWinters. Well pleased, the Grand Master turned back to the Cortège.

Elegant Frost dragons drew a gasp from the crowds. Wearing white-scaled hauberks that hung to their knees beneath white enamel armour, and full-faced helmets, they looked ghostly. The massed ranks of the elf Midland Lancers behind them marched ten abreast, their longbannered lances a thicket of steel-tipped colour.

The crowd instinctively drew back from the scaled Spitting Adders of the Deepwoods Light Company as they clattered out of the barracks; their venom led to convulsions and paralysis, then death. The arrival of the Sabretooths, their measured tread vibrating on the cobbled street, broke through Quenelda’s misery. As they thumped past, she thought of Two Gulps waiting impatiently for her return. She longed for the solace of Open Sky. At least she still had him – and Root and Tangnost. They were her family until her father returned. She clenched her jaw and balled her fist.
He will return!
she thought fiercely.
He will!