Flight to Dragon Isle (4 page)

If Quenelda was having a hard time adopting the role of a lady, Root was having an equally difficult time learning the courtly duties of an esquire – one of which was to serve Quenelda at table. He was doing as badly as she was, and had already spilled wine over her twice. He had also nicked his fingers while cutting her a slice of bread that was so thick it had raised loud laughter from her brother.

Darcy was furious at the attention lavished on Quenelda. Once again, his little sister had upstaged him in front of the entire Court, in front of tens of thousands from all over the Seven Sea Kingdoms! And now the whispers centred on him and his failure to take up the challenge to his injured father at the Winter Jousts. Aware of his shortcomings when it came to flying dragons, and angry at his father for ordering him to Dragon Isle instead of allowing him to remain in the Household Cavalry, he had in that bitter moment of refusal wished his father dead. Then he would be Earl and none would dare laugh at him behind his back.

‘Outrageous!’

Further down the hall, sitting at a lower table, the Lady Armelia was also furious. It was too outrageous. When Darcy’s young lady had first visited Dragonsdome, his sister had humiliated her and ruined her chances of becoming a lady-in-waiting. And now Quenelda’s unladylike display in the Cauldron was being applauded. The girl was a disgrace to the DeWinter name. That was because she had been allowed to run wild like a common peasant boy, instead of being sent to the exclusive Grimalkin’s College for Young Ladies. Within its austere and decorous walls, daughters of the nobility were prepared for life at Court and taught the art of enchantment in order to ensnare eligible young noblemen.

And as far as Armelia and the young ladies at Court were concerned, Darcy was still the most eligible and dashing young man around, and her intention was to become his bride. Wealthy beyond measure, and stunningly handsome to boot, it was rumoured that he was shortly to take command of his own troop of unicorns in the Queen’s Household Cavalry. Why, if she were to ensnare Darcy, she would be the envy of the entire Court! She might even win the coveted Golden Wand of Achievement from Grimalkin’s! Her imagination running away with her, Armelia hurriedly flicked open her fan to cool herself, then realized that the Queen had risen. Everyone was applauding. Quenelda was looking horrified, her mouth hanging open.

‘Aquainted with …?’

Within heartbeats Armelia too was in danger of letting her own mouth hang open. Had she heard correctly? To yet another ripple of applause, the Queen was suggesting that all the younger ladies might attend Dragonsdome and receive a tour from the Lady Quenelda to become better
acquainted
with dragons. Armelia had absolutely no desire to become better acquainted with dragons. Certainly she had attended the races and jousts, as one did, but on no account did young ladies actually have anything to do with beasts of burden. That was strictly a manly pursuit. But if she were to aspire to be a lady-in-waiting, with all the privileges that brought, then she must show willing …

Meanwhile Quenelda gritted her teeth behind a smile that had frozen in place. All the young ladies attending her? At Dragonsdome?

‘Ah, Goose!’ The Earl smiled at his daughter’s stricken expression. Taking her hand in his, he added softly, ‘It is a great honour given in recognition of your bravery.’

‘It is?’ she said incredulously.

Her father nodded. ‘Goose, you’ve done the impossible. You don’t need to come to Court. The Court are going to come to you! If you feel uncomfortable in a dress and dancing, think how they are going to feel meeting these dragons of yours!’

As his words sank in, a slow smile crept over Quenelda’s face. She turned triumphant eyes to where Armelia glowered, and inclined her head graciously.

The foul pool of liquid smoked. It smelled utterly repulsive, even Quenelda had to admit, and what the frog thought about it no one would ever know now. The tip of a hat appeared from behind the burned desk, followed by two outraged eyes and a mouth already opening wide in rebuke. The eyebrows were gone, and the smoking beard had seen better days.

‘Madam!’

Quenelda lowered her wand and prepared for yet another telling off. She had no idea what had gone wrong. She sighed. Keeping her promise to her father to study hard for her first wand had seemed easy at the time, when only thoughts of flying Two Gulps had filled her mind. But now she was stuck in the library for endless tedious hours with Professor Stodgepoddle, practising the casting of spells. Elementary spells, as he kept reminding her; spells that should have been learned in the nursery. Well, Quenelda thought sourly, at least she was good at
some
of her studies. Professor Spiraldykes was positively rapturous about her rune casting. He had been rendered almost speechless when she had combined runes to create an Elder rune so complex and powerful and old that none now knew its meaning.

In a state of high excitement that brought colour to his shrivelled old cheeks, he had rushed off to the Circular Library, returning at midnight with a fusty old book. Three days later he found what he was looking for: the same Elder rune carved on the portal of the long gone Ice Citadel, copied in a fading manuscript. His fellow scholars patted him condescendingly on the back. The old fellow’s wits were addled, they said, nodding. Everyone knew that the Earl’s daughter was hopeless at magic.

Where the rune had come from, Quenelda admitted in quiet moments, was baffling. She hadn’t been studying diligently, or been shown the rune by her father on Dragon Isle – as Spiraldykes thought. When the professor had opened the book, it was as if she’d seen them all before, instinctively recognizing the complex glyphs that represented earth, fire, wind, water – and a few more that had long since fallen into disuse: stone, ice, wood, dark and light.

‘Madam!’ Stodgepoddle pursed his lips. The dratted child was daydreaming again. ‘Casting spells is a complex skill. As with any skill, some are naturally gifted; others’ – he looked at her meaningfully – ‘have to be
tutored
, have to
apply themselves – practise
…’

Quenelda closed her eyes and sighed as the torrent of words washed over her. It wasn’t as if she did it on purpose! The difference between grips … The complexities of casting … It was all so boring … After all, magic was everywhere – you just had to dip into it. Wands were a prop for those who weren’t very good at magic, like Stodgepoddle. Quenelda stopped abruptly.
What
was she thinking? Where had these strange ideas come from? She frowned.

‘Ahem …’

It was evident that the tirade had finished, because now the old man was looking at her over the rim of his spectacles, his lips pursed, his eyebrows – or what was left of them – raised in expectation. He’d asked her a question.

‘Erm …’ Quenelda ventured hopefully. That at least should cover most options, and at least it would look as if she was considering an answer.

‘Madam, madam.’ Stodgepoddle shook his head in sorrow. ‘I fear that we must once again go back to elementary spell-casting. Your grip and technique are all wrong. You are not clubbing someone over the head.’ He held out his hand palm upwards. ‘Your wand.’

Stodgepoddle balanced the girl’s wand in his hand. It was plain elm wood, warped by age and unadorned, not at all like that of Lady Armelia, one of the other young ladies at Court whom he tutored.
Her
dress wand was priceless unicorn ivory inset with gold runes, a powerful wand for one so young.
Now
there
was a proper young lady
, he sniffed.
Elegant, dazzling, enough to set the old heart racing, just as a young lady should. Perhaps it was just as well that this one was plain wood. Heaven knows what damage this wretched child might do with something more powerful. And there she was, eyes unfocused, off daydreaming again. It was too much!
He rapped Quenelda’s knuckles, pleased at the way she jumped and glared at him.

‘You hold your wand delicately … just so, just so’ – he demonstrated – ‘so that you may cast your spells correctly. Now you try, madam. You rest the end in the palm of your hand, position your thumb to hold it in place, and your first finger — No! No! Have you not been listening? Your first finger here along the shaft of the wand. Now. Attend this.’

And then the old man drew a circle in the air and pirouetted, his robes fanning out ridiculously, before bringing the wand down with delicate grace. ‘And then you flick your wrist – just so, as if you were casting a net of gossamer …’ He handed the wand back to Quenelda. ‘The Heron’s Dance is quite the thing at Court at the moment, madam,’ he said tartly, moustache quivering. ‘
All
the young ladies are expected to be accomplished. To—’

Quenelda rolled her eyes in horror. Fashions at Court seemed to change every moon. The latest hairstyle, poetry, dancing and romance. And now this ridiculous dance where the wand took the place of the heron’s beak and the steps emulated the courting ritual, ending with the joint casting of a romantic spell, showering the dancers in little stars … Just the kind of thing that awful Armelia would swoon over. Gripping her wand firmly, Quenelda gave it her best shot.

The Professor ducked as her wand whistled over his head. He closed his eyes and sighed. Earl’s daughter or not, he had been tasked with teaching an impossible pupil. She was so bad he barely knew where to start. If she danced like this, they would end up with a decapitated heron! Hardly the stuff of courtly romance.

She holds her wand like a boy
, he thought.
I knew no good would come of allowing her to wear breeches and boots. Quite shocking! Wouldn’t have happened in my day, oh no! Bad enough when she was a child, but now that she’s a young lady
. Supposed
to be a young lady
, he amended, lips pursed in disapproval as he looked at the buckled boots, the patched jacket. Breeding … that was what it all came down to; who knew who her mother was?

No – he shook his head – his was a hopeless task. The Lady Quenelda would never amount to anything.

‘All clear!’

Scouts from the XIII Stormbreakers moved quietly through underground passageways, picking their way over the littered bones and weaponry of hobgoblin warriors killed in the battle at the Howling Glen. For almost a moon scouts had been mapping the maze of tunnels and passageways, first discovered by Bark Oakley, which wound through the heart of the mountains. With them was a team of sappers, better known as the Tunnel Rats – dwarf engineers who specialized in collapsing hobgoblin tunnels – and two squads of Bonecrackers, just in case they found any warriors still alive and lurking. There were more combs here than anyone had imagined, but their task was nearly done.

‘Wait!’ the lead scout warned the sappers. He could see a slight phosphorescence seeping along the tunnel up ahead. ‘Hobgoblins!’ he whispered, putting a finger to his lips for silence. Everyone crept towards the spectral green light, with the sound of water growing louder and louder beneath their feet.

Part of the tunnel had collapsed in the fighting, the flash marks caused by sorcery instantly recognizable. The explosions had triggered a major rockfall and brought down part of the ceiling; it had taken weeks to clear. Clambering over the boulders, a scout pointed to where a small arrow was crudely carved into the passage walls. ‘Bark went this way.’

‘What,’ a Bonecracker muttered to groans of agreement as they moved forward, ‘is that
dreadful
stink? Even hobgoblins don’t normally smell as bad as this!’

As they pushed their way through the rubble, the tunnel suddenly opened out into a vast cavern heavy with glistening stalactites, dully lit by a phosphorescent glow radiating from a boulder in the centre.

The water thundered through the cavern like a thousand drums. The scouts squinted through the haze to where a huge hobgoblin was laid out on the flat-topped boulder in the middle of the torrential river. There was no doubt: this was a hobgoblin burial cairn – a rare find, almost certainly a tribal leader.

The Bonecrackers threw out a grappling hook, snagging it between two large boulders on either side of the body. Pulling the line taut, three commandos anchored it. Crossing their legs around the rope, they moved swiftly along it, hand-over-hand, to the cairn. Axe raised, one nudged the stinking carcass just to be sure, but the creature did not move.

‘Make haste,’ said another as his wet gear began to stiffen. ‘Else we’ll freeze to death!’

The boulders underfoot were slick with ice and treacherous for the slighter gnomes. Striking up several flares, the scouts examined the cairn in the flickering red light. All about it lay battered shields and swords, both SDS and hobgoblin.

‘Look – this belonged to the Rokrorin tribe!’ A scout pointed to a heavy breastplate and broadsword typically worn and wielded by that tall, heavy-set hobgoblin tribe.

‘And Karakin!’ another said, lifting the short-hooked swords favoured by that tribe’s warriors for hamstringing dragons.

Here and there lay the dragonskull helmets of another tribe, the Charkins. The scouts looked closer, and discovered armour and weaponry from all thirteen tribes set about the body. The standard also bore the totems and symbols of each tribe. They turned to examine the body. Broken dragonbone armour sheathed the huge hobgoblin’s chest, arms and legs, and a dragonskull helmet hid his head and face. A great flint sword was clasped to his chest. One of the scouts lifted a dragontooth strung about the hobgoblin’s neck.

‘This is their leader!’ he said excitedly. ‘Look at these tattoos!’

‘Affirmative. This must be Galtekerion.’ Another scout yanked the dragon’s tooth from the rotting creature’s neck. It came away with a wet slap. ‘He must have died from his wounds; never made it back to the sea.’

They called the Bonecrackers forward.

‘No!’ The battle-hardened troopers drew the line at moving the body. ‘It stinks worse than rotting offal. It’s falling apart!’ One grasped a slimy bone to demonstrate. The ribcage came away from rotting flesh, and globules of innards spilled out, raising a chorus of ripe oaths.