Flight to Dragon Isle (5 page)

‘Then take these tokens and weapons as proof. The Commander will want to hear of this. We’ll take as many artefacts and as much weaponry as we can, then the Rats can blow the cavern. Agreed?’

As commandos and scouts removed what evidence they could, the Tunnel Rats laid their munitions about the cavern with care. Once this and the radiating tunnels had collapsed, then no hobgoblin could take the garrison at the Howling Glen by surprise again. The heavily burdened Bonecrackers pulled out first, followed by the Tunnel Rats, who stopped at every junction to set more explosives. Finally, near the entrance at the waterfall discovered by Root’s father, they were ready. Red flags were waved to warn all dragons and patrols in the air away.

‘Fire in the hole!’

BOOM!

The cavern in the mountain’s heart convulsed as the massive impact of the blast rippled outwards.

As the new Year of the Sabre-toothed Dormouse began, a luxuriously appointed carriage swept over the snowy spires of Dragonsdome, disturbing a flock of winter ravens. Armelia dabbed at tears that kept welling up and threatening to mar her perfect complexion, irritably waving away the gaggle of minions fussing about her with mirrors and combs. The Earl had carried out his ugly threat, and Darcy had been given strict orders to report to Dragon Isle within the week. Rumours were flying about that the SDS were preparing for a late winter campaign. Armelia hoped they weren’t true. Even she knew it was impossible to fly in blizzards and winter storms. What would happen if Darcy were injured, or worse? It was too awful to contemplate. She was quite besotted with him, and his wealth was enough to turn any young girl’s head!

To prove the point, young ladies-in-waiting had been chasing Darcy whenever he attended Court, and they all planned to attend Dragonsdome at the first opportunity in the hope of pleasing the Queen and catching his eye. So Armelia knew she had to prompt a proposal and make him hers before he left. As the Duchess-in-waiting, her status at Court would be assured. The fabled wealth of Dragonsdome beckoned. And so she had immediately agreed to the Queen’s absurd proposal – not to see the ghastly Quenelda, of course, but in the hope of catching a private moment or two with Darcy. All she had been waiting for was a break in the endless blizzards.

I hope she doesn’t expect me to go anywhere near dragons
, Armelia thought desperately as her carriage put down on a lower landing pad, swept clear of snow and ice.
Ghastly scaly creatures
…
Leathery wings
…
Great teeth
…
Bad breath
…

The humiliation of her previous encounter with Darcy’s young sister made her heart flutter with trepidation, and wonder if she had made a mistake coming here – an entire day at Dragonsdome in the company of the Earl’s daughter was not an enticing prospect.

Why, the very thought of Quenelda’s exploits in the Cauldron made Armelia shudder. She could feel a heat rash breaking out despite the frigid air. Her own brush with a battledragon on her last visit to Dragonsdome – that same battledragon that Quenelda had flown in the Cauldron – sent shivers up her spine. An easy mistake to make, after all: one dragon looked pretty much like another – an assortment of scales, talons and teeth. And that ignorant view, unfortunately, was exactly why the Queen had decided that her Court should be better informed about the great creatures that defended the Seven Sea Kingdoms.

Neither young lady, Root observed as the opulent carriage came to a halt and Armelia peered hesitantly out, had made a single concession to the other. Quenelda looked like a stable boy from her head to her toes, while Armelia was dressed like royalty. War had already been declared on their first encounter. This was the opening skirmish in what promised to be a long campaign …

She looks like a toy doll
, Quenelda thought, as Armelia was assisted down from her carriage by a footman. The girl was followed by a gaggle of twittering ladies.
Doesn’t she ever do anything on her own? It must be suffocating
.

Is that her?
Armelia squinted at the figure in the shadows.
And that … commoner she calls her esquire! How do I talk to someone in boy’s clothes?
Armelia thought in near panic as she stepped down, ignoring the bowing footman, who choked back a whimper as she stood on his fingers.

Quenelda regarded Armelia scornfully.
She must have at least six lace petticoats under that dress. She’s going to end up cleaning the pad with them, they’re so long. How can she get through doors? And you can hardly see her face under all that make-up – and look at all the little girlie ribbons
…
And as for those ridiculous high heels – how can she even walk? I’d break my ankle. And the sickly perfume – it’s enough to knock a dragon out
…

Sky above!
Armelia wrinkled her nose.
She’s as filthy as a stable hand, and she smells
…
of rotten eggs? Of dragon?

Armelia had considered swooning as a means of avoiding the Queen’s orders to spend the day at Dragonsdome. Young ladies were taught the delicate art of swooning at Grimalkin’s – how to fall to the ground dramatically without causing any real injury. It worked every time, but there were no gallant young gentlemen to hand, and she didn’t want to crumple her beautiful dress. And of course, that was exactly what this wretched girl would expect her to do.

Quenelda wilted.
She’ll probably want to talk about dresses and diets and dancing
…
and gangly young men with a double helping of spots who can’t ride a hippogriff to save their lives, like Darcy
.

She stepped forward into the sunlight. Her hair was tangled from flying without a helmet. She had chosen the dirtiest, most patched jerkin she could find, and her face was sooty.

Armelia was wearing the costliest gown in her wardrobe, a confection of imported silk and gold-threaded brocade, exquisitely tailored by Foresight and Hindsight’s Exclusive Emporium. Buried beneath a mound of rare ice-bear furs, a small fortune in emeralds hung from ear and throat and wrist, chosen to match the colour of Darcy’s eyes. The unicorn wand hanging from a ribbon on her wrist had cost her parents virtually all their remaining fortune. The gown was gathered about an impossibly small waist and then billowed out. She surged forward on a wave of lace and superiority.

Quenelda smiled the hypnotic smile of a Spitting Adder about to strike. ‘Welcome to Dragonsdome, Lady Armelia.’

‘My lady.’ Armelia sank into a graceful curtsy, a patronising smile tugging at the corner of her brightly glossed lips. She’d show this little tramp who had never heard of deportment or etiquette how things were done at Court.

Remembering Quenelda’s humiliation at the Winter Joust, Root bit his bottom lip. He cast a furtive glance in his friend’s direction. Smiling sweetly, Quenelda gave an answering curtsy that was if anything more graceful and even lower. Root’s jaw dropped. She had been practising!

Armelia curtsied again, determined not to be outdone. Quenelda’s next curtsy was so low she nearly caught her breeches on the buckles of her flying boots. If she had been wearing spurs she would have had a painful accident – which of course was why boys didn’t curtsy. Having no option, Armelia sank right down to the ground and looked up to find Quenelda’s satisfied smile looking down on her. Realizing she had been tricked into foolishness, Armelia flushed a deeper red behind the rouge. Gritting her teeth, she attempted to rise but found herself overwhelmed by the weight of brocade and beads. Two of her ladies rushed forward to assist.

‘Perhaps my esquire …?’ Quenelda offered, making no move herself as Armelia floundered helplessly.

Aghast, Root tried to think what an esquire should do on such an occasion. He had no experience of helpless fluttering girls. Quenelda’s requirements were somewhat … different. Thinking that his good friend Quester would know what to do, Root stepped forward awkwardly to offer his hand.

‘Esquire?’ Armelia put a world of polite enquiry into the one word. She deliberately searched the dragonpad. ‘I see no esquire.’

Quenelda’s words dripped ice. ‘Then let me present to you Root Oakley, son of Bark Oakley, heroic scout to my father.’

‘But he’s a …’ Armelia let the sentence hang like a gathering thunderstorm.

‘A …?’ Quenelda smiled even more sweetly.

‘Why’ – Armelia made a practised dismissive gesture with her wrist – ‘he’s a commoner.’

‘His father died warning the SDS of the attack on the Howling Glen! He saved the fortress! Without his warning many more might have died – including my father, and your uncle!’ snapped Quenelda.

‘Oh!’ Armelia had the good grace to blush. She had not listened very closely to her uncle, a Wing Commander with the XIII Stormbreakers, over the midwinter festivities. War was exciting and romantic – until it came down to details, and his injured big toe was not very glamorous … Shamed, she took Root’s proffered hand.

Quenelda, Root thought two bells later, was enjoying herself far too much. When she had wickedly suggested to Armelia that she might care to inspect Dragonsdome’s art collection, a rival to the royal collection, the young lady had accepted with alacrity, relieved that real-life dragons hadn’t been mentioned. Little did she know what Quenelda had in store.

Armelia stifled a furious yawn behind her fan and wriggled uncomfortably. Her corset was digging into her ribs. Behind her, her companions shuffled and murmured restlessly. When she accepted Quenelda’s offer, she hadn’t expected these endless panelled corridors adorned with vast paintings of warlike DeWinter ancestors mounted on their battledragons. As they paused at each, Quenelda proudly pointed out a host of tedious detail: the different breeds of dragon, the complicated dragonarmour of the period, the weaponry, and the inevitable piles of toasted hobgoblins lying at the dragon’s talons. It was perfectly ghastly, and Armelia was just about cross-eyed with boredom. The effort of smiling politely was making her cheeks ache.

Fearsome black SDS armour lined the walls between the paintings. Looking closer, Armelia noticed that the suits all bore dents and ragged tears. The DeWinters obviously died in the saddle and not in bed. She shivered. She didn’t want Darcy to be added to the long list of glorious dead.

When Armelia thought things couldn’t get any worse, Quenelda led her into a huge vaulted hall. ‘This is the dragons’ dome! The castle and palace get their name from this room,’ she said, with real passion in her voice. ‘It was here that the First Alliance was forged.’

Armelia looked vacant, although Root thought it was quite hard to tell the difference from her normal expression.

‘Between us and the dragons …?’ Quenelda hinted.

Armelia smirked as servants lit branches of candles to chase back the shadows.
An alliance between men and dragons indeed! Dragons are mere beasts, bound to servitude as they should be
, she thought.
Dragon Whisperers and all that nonsense learned in the nursery are mere fables and legends. Everyone knows that! What nonsense this ridiculous girl believes!

‘This’ – Quenelda pivoted carelessly on her boot heels, enjoying the way the squeak made Armelia start – ‘Stormrider Spitfire, the first Imperial to bear my forefathers into battle.’

Armelia turned gracefully in a swirl of glinting jewellery and coloured petticoats, then gave a small squeak of horror. In the middle of the room, suspended on wires and towering right above her, were the skeletons of dragons large and small, all sheathed in dragonarmour that sprouted a vicious assortment of cutting blades, spikes, tail and talons. Armelia felt rather faint.

‘And this is Volcano Taloncrusher the Second,’ Quenelda continued. ‘A pedigree Firedragon. His lineage goes back unbroken to the Century of the Volcanic Shrimp! You can distinguish between Firedragons and red Saharan dragons by the length of their—’

Armelia’s horror-struck expression over what was to follow was frozen in place as a voice shouted out:

‘Lady Quenelda!’

Quenelda frowned. That was the voice of Quester, one of Tangnost’s most promising esquires, a young man who would one day make a name for himself in the SDS.

‘We’re in the dragons’ dome,’ she bellowed, making her guest jump.

‘Lady Quenelda!’ The handsome esquire’s cheeks were red and he was puffing hard as he clutched his sides. ‘Roostmistress Greybeard sent to say that Quicksilver Dewdrop has gone into labour as expected … but – but something is very wrong. Roostmistress Greybeard believes a babe has turned the wrong way in the womb, but the mare won’t let anyone near her … She says they will all die if the babes are not delivered soon.’

Guest completely forgotten, Quenelda was already turning away. ‘Root, Quester, follow me!’

Armelia looked over her shoulder at the looming skeleton in the middle of the room and quailed. It was so huge! The candles flickered on its hollowed ivory bones, its triple rows of serrated teeth, its massive steel-shod talons. Suddenly it looked as if it was moving! In a fury, Armelia stamped her silver buckled foot and fled to the door after Quenelda, her ladies tripping along behind her eager to escape.

‘Lady Quenelda!’ Armelia’s outraged voice curdled the air.

Leaping down the stairs, Quenelda skidded to a halt against the balustrade. ‘Quester, please escort the Lady Armelia and her retinue to the great hall and see that she is properly cared for until her carriage returns.’

Root breathed a grateful sigh of relief that Quester was to remain with Armelia. His friend had been teaching him court protocol and etiquette, but Root felt intimidated by the aloof young girl.

‘No!’ Armelia was determined not to fail. If news of this should reach the Queen, then her chances of redeeming herself would be gone. ‘I shall accompany you to become better acquainted with dragons!’ she declared imperiously, and swept down the stairs, ignoring the dismayed expressions of her companions.

Quenelda arrived at the nursery roosts with Root at her side. The dwarf roostmistress and the stablemaster, along with stable hands and ostlers, were gathered around a stall where a small gooseberry-green dragon thrashed feebly in the straw, her rasping breath sounding like a blacksmith’s bellows.