The Dragon Whisperer Page 10

  'Soon snow will block the highland passes and storms will close the shipping lanes for many moons. Ice will freeze even the sea lochs. Cut off from their food supplies, the hobgoblins will return to the Westering Isles to slip into hibernation or they will starve. Normally, all seven regiments stand down over winter to rest and re-arm. But not this year. I intend to take to the field again over midwinter. We will strike at the heart of the hobgoblin heartlands in early spring, where the tribes spawn – their sanctuary in the Westering Isles. We will attack just as they are coming out of hibernation, when they are slow and lethargic. This warlord must die, and the tribal alliances with him, before they breed and swarm next spring.'

  'The Westering Isles? But how, my lord?'

  'Our greatest problem will be to locate and reach the islands in the dark of winter. As you know, they shift on the cold currents from the far north; they have been known to drift some five hundred leagues offshore, well beyond the range of even our greatest dragons. Finding them will not be an easy task; flying that far even harder. The risks are high but we have the bare bones of a strategy.

  'I intend to take three fully operational regiments, leaving all six fortresses at half-strength. I will also take the First Born from Dragon Isle and Dragonsdome, where only light garrisons will be left. We urgently need to rearm and re-supply and recruit amongst the northern clans. Dragon Isle needs your seasoned timber and shipwrights. That, my lord, falls to you.'

  'My Lord Earl,' the Grand Master confirmed with a slight bow, 'the Guild is at your disposal.'

  The Earl Rufus nodded. He knew his next request would shock them. 'And dragons. We have taken heavy losses; we lost over a hundred and fifty-six dragons over the course of our summer campaign, with five score nursing injuries.'

  The councillors were aghast. One hundred and fifty-six dragons lost in one year?

  'M-my L-Lord Earl,' a guildsman in the tall scaled hat of the Dragon Breeders Guild stuttered, wringing his hands. 'We c-cannot possibly replace such losses. Our stud – it is just not possible. W-we have already delivered fifty to Dragon Isle this year. There are other juveniles, perhaps ten ...'

  'Ah' – the Earl smiled grimly – 'at least in this respect I bear good tidings.'

  The guildsmen leaned forward eagerly, desperate to hear better news. 'My dragonmaster has successfully treated a badly injured Sabretooth.'

  A gasp went round the chamber. The Grand Master's eyes widened. Why had he not heard of this earlier? He must pay more attention to matters at home.

  The Earl smiled at their wonder and appreciation. 'He is now fit to return to war. Henceforth injured battledragons will be returned to Dragonsdome for treatment. Several dragonmasters from Dragon Isle will return here to help Tangnost Bearhugger in his work.

  'I know I leave this difficult task in the best of hands. I leave immediately for Dragon Isle. We have a campaign to plan. I will provide the Guild with more details as soon as I am able.

  'Lastly, gentlemen, as you know, we need brimstone. With the destruction of one mine and attacks on a further three in the Brimstones, supplies are short. The high passes are already closed with snow so ore will have to be shipped. I know that storms are due, but we need that brimstone.'

  An old bearded guildsman of the Merchant Leagues reluctantly stood, eyes cast downwards. 'I regret to be the bearer of bad news, but this now bears urgently upon the matter just raised.' He looked around at the worried faces. 'As my Lord Earl said, there have been several recent explosions in brimstone mines, but there is more. In the last week alone a half-dozen of our ore-bearing galleons have been pirated or have simply disappeared. Our brimstone stocks are low and getting lower. We barely have enough to see us through the winter, let alone supply the SDS for this campaign.'

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Long Day's Work

  'Come on, Root,' Tangnost bellowed. 'You can't be tired already! Not a young lad like yourself!'

  Puffing along behind the dwarf, trying to keep up with his tireless stride, Root wondered how he'd ever thought being an apprentice was hard work. The dragonmaster had given him no time to brood over his father's death, no time even to think. Instead, he had plunged him into a punishing training schedule to prepare him as the Lady Quenelda's esquire. At the end of his second week Root was exhausted.

  Every morning, when everyone sensible, including Dragonsdome's cockerels, was still asleep, Tangnost was already out and about. His day always began at the battledragon and battlegriff roosts with his roostmasters and mistresses. Sometimes the dragonsmith or surgeon would join them to discuss injuries or problems with particular dragons and they would then agree a course of action.

  As they progressed from roost to roost, Tangnost explained the key differences between Dragonsdome's battledragons: Vipers, Vampires, Wasps, Sabretooths and Imperial Blacks. He explained each dragon's characteristics and its role on the battlefield; how some, like Spitting Adders, had vestiges of wings but could no longer fly; how some were armoured while others had to wear armour just like men. Struggling to take it all in, Root had resorted to sketching battledragons to help him remember. Tangnost nodded with approval. The boy had an undoubted talent – for art!

  Then they would move on to the domestic hippogriff and griffin stables, and Root would find himself relaxing, only to face a barrage of questions.

  'Now' – Tangnost tested the boy on basics – 'a griffin is ... ?'

  Root took a deep breath. 'A griffin is a cross between a lion and an eagle. It has the head and wings of the eagle but the body of a lion.'

  'Why?'

  'Um ...'

  'That is why griffins – battlegriffs, that is – are mostly used for ambushing ground troops. And a hippogriff?'

  Root pulled his drawings out of the small satchel slung over his back. 'Is ... a cross-breed between an eagle and a horse. It has the head, wings and talons of an eagle and the body of a horse.'

  Tangnost nodded. 'Which is why, like dragons, they are formidable opponents in the air.'

  Every few days they would stop by to check on Two Gulps' progress: the dragonmaster and Quenelda would examine his injuries, with Root in reluctant attendance. Pleased with his steady progress, Tangnost became more optimistic that they would succeed; that the battledragon would indeed pull through.

  As the weeks passed, he and Root visited the training cage to watch Two Gulps being exercised by Quenelda, who had chosen Quester to help her while the dragonmaster was training Root.

  During the day they nearly always called at the hospital surgery, where Tangnost would consult with Professor Willowfellow, the Earl's chief dragon surgeon, and Root would wander around looking at the bottles and vials of oils and pastes, the bundles of stalks and roots and bark. Then, after a hurried lunch – or worse, no lunch at all – they would move to the jousting lists or training arenas, where Tangnost would supervise battle training and exercises with the Dragonsdome esquires. Root followed, carrying a heavy dragon tri-horn.

  Sometimes Tangnost would leave him in the care of the esquire hallmaster, where he was introduced to the many different saddles and bridles for dragons, hippogriffs and griffins. He had to learn what the different parts of the harness were called, how to mend them, how they were cleaned, and how a dragon or a hippogriff or a griffin was saddled. The gnome began to learn about their diets, the great scuttles of coal, oil, brimstone, oats and heather – and additionally for the carnivores, great haunches of elk, highland cattle, bison, bear and beaver.

  At other times, when he was busy, Tangnost would leave more experienced and trusted esquires like Quester to instruct Root on the important differences between carnivores and herbivores, to explain how dragons that flamed needed brimstone ore to do so, and had three stomachs, not two, and how all had two hearts. Quester had welcomed Root from the first, and a close friendship was developing between the two. They shared a bunk in the esquires' dormitory, and the cheery snub-nosed lad was teaching Root about the ways of court.

  'The Seven
Sea Kingdoms are governed by the Queen, with the help of the Sorcerers Guild, who are sworn to her service,' he explained. 'She is protected and guided by the nobles and lords, and greatest amongst them is the Earl DeWinter, who is also the Commander of the SDS and Queen's Champion, as his father was before him.'

  'And your father? Is he also wealthy and famous?'

  Quester smiled. 'My father is a lesser lord, and I but the youngest of four sons.'

  'So you have gold and castles of your own?'

  'No!' Quester laughed. 'I have barely enough silver to buy an old suit of armour and an aged bandy-legged mount. The eldest son inherits all the lands and wealth of his father. That is why I am here, just like the other esquires. To learn the craft and art of warfare so that I may enter the SDS and earn fame and gold and castles of my own on the battlefield.'

  'But w-why must I learn this?' Root protested. 'Wwhat have I to do with great lords and ladies?'

  'As the Lady Quenelda's esquire, you will sometimes attend court with her,' Quester repeated gently. 'And so you must know the order of things and your place in it.'

  'But I'm just a commoner.'

  'No!' Quester slapped him on the back. 'No, friend Root, you're not. You are now the Lady Quenelda's esquire, and so equal amongst us!'

  'But I don't want to be her esquire!' Root looked stricken. 'And she most certainly doesn't want me! She's made that perfectly clear.'

  And she was not the only one.

  'This place is really going to the dogs,' a loud voice declared when Root had first entered the esquires' hall with his meagre belongings. His heart sank. He knew who it was before he turned round; this boy had been furious to find Root elevated to the position of Quenelda's esquire.

  The voice belonged to Felix DeLancy, youngest son of the royal treasurer, a sour-tempered weasel of a youth who resented the fact that he would never inherit his father's titles. He took out his resentment on the apprentices at every opportunity. A shrewd opportunist, Felix capitalized on anyone else's misfortune and took credit for their successes; anything to catch Tangnost's attention and praise.

  'I mean,' the pale, snooty boy drawled, 'allowing commoners to become apprentices was bad enough, but an esquire? Some people just don't know their proper place.' He sneered as Root edged past, desperately seeking a bunk as far away from him as possible.

  'He's not going to last a day.' The voice dogged his footsteps. 'The Lady Quenelda will chew him up and spit him out for breakfast.'

  'Or else one of the dragons will,' a companion offered – to hoots of derision.

  'Just wait till you kiss the wooden dragon,' Felix called out. 'Then you'll realize ... You don't belong in the esquires' hall!'

  Root walked on, biting down on his lower lip to stop it from trembling. He had no idea what the wooden dragon was, but it obviously wasn't going to be fun – at least for him. Every time he thought he'd spotted an empty bunk, the esquires would gather around it, crowding him out.

  'Here,' a voice said quietly. 'There's room here to bunk with me.'

  Root looked round at the vaguely familiar voice to see the young esquire with freckles grinning down at him. 'I'm Quester.' He held out a hand. 'I've seen you at the training arena with Tangnost. Is it true then?' His eyes sparkled as he jumped down. 'You've been made esquire to the Lady Quenelda? You're going to be flying with her, on her dragon, her battledragon?'

  Root nodded miserably.

  Quester whistled. 'I don't know whether to envy you or pity you. You must be very good with dragons.'

  'Why?' Root felt faint. His heart was leapfrogging, slamming against his ribcage in an attempt to break free.

  'Well, they say she can out-fly anyone her age and wants to join the SDS. In fact she's already good enough to enter the Battle Academy – only she's too young. And she's a girl. It's too embarrassing when esquires can't keep up with her. She's a natural, like her father. She's flown with him on battledragons since she was three! And rumour has it she helped the Bearhugger nurse a battledragon back to health ...'

  'That's true.' Root's voice quavered at the memory. He looked down at the burn on his hand; it had almost healed. He flexed it. 'I was there too.'

  'Lucky you! I wish I had been!' Quester said wistfully. 'Come on,' he suggested as Felix's voice rose up in complaint again. 'Let's get something to eat and leave them to their childish bickering.'

  There was loud taunting laughter as they left the hall.

  'Ignore him,' Quester advised. 'He's just jealous.'

  'Jealous?' Root found that hard to believe. 'Jealous of what?'

  Quester turned keen ice-blue eyes on Root to see if he was teasing. 'You really don't understand, do you? Being esquire to the Lady Quenelda: it's not a punishment, friend Root. It's a privilege, and one that's normally given to the most promising esquire each year. If you succeed in sticking with her, then your future and fortune are made!'

  He slapped Root on the back as they entered the vast food hall crowded with Bonecrackers. 'Listen, let's have some honey mead and celebrate your good fortune and the Earl's safe homecoming!'

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Darcy's Devils

  The sun was barely breaking through the early morning haze as Tangnost, followed by Quenelda, strode towards the outer paddocks. Behind them Two Gulps followed eagerly on his hind legs, his joy at being out in the frosty air evident in the red flames that licked around his raised muzzle.

  Today he and Quenelda would find out whether he was ready to fly again. With barely four weeks until the royal joust Quenelda was desperate to take to the skies on her battledragon. Surely she would be the talk of the joust, the talk of the court! The derisive mockery of the other young ladies would be silenced and her dream of Dragon Isle would come one step closer. She tried to still the fluttering in her chest as she wondered whether that would be enough time to train Root.

  It had been touch and go. The cast had been removed barely two weeks since and the last scale successfully grafted on a mere five days ago. As each scale rooted and hardened, its colour gradually changed hue to yellow or flaming orange or red to match the dragon's natural pigmentation.

  Every morning Quenelda had assisted the training cage master and his esquires in taking the dragon through increasingly difficult exercises to tone his wing muscles and rebuild the suppleness and strength of his injured tail. She was amazed by how much she had learned in such a short time; how much she hadn't known before. Every afternoon she joined the senior esquires at their studies, often bringing the Sabretooth, who was always the centre of attention. Then, as another week came to a close and early frost froze the moat, the training cage master had finally turned to her to say the magic words:

  'We can do no more here, lady. I believe he is fit for Open Sky. I will inform the dragonmaster.'

  For the last few days Quenelda had been polishing Two Gulps' scales, paying special attention to the grafted ones, until her arms ached and they shone like mirrors. She had also carefully monitored his diet, selecting only the best giant elk and bear carcasses and finest grade brimstone, along with the oats and molasses to build up his strength, so that he could flame further than any other battledragon. Now it was up to him.

  Up ahead, mounted Sabretooths darted through the air above the paddocks as juveniles were put through their paces. Soon they would moult their skin and a new diamond-hard coat of scales would appear. Then, as fully armoured adults, they would be ready for battle training on Dragon Isle.

  The senior esquires made way for Quenelda as she approached, chatting excitedly amongst themselves, some of them smiling their encouragement and reaching out to touch her shoulder, some cheering. Their growing acceptance of her and her veteran battledragon bolstered her confidence.

  She looked at Two Gulps proudly. The Sabretooth was the result of centuries of breeding. One day he would be put out to stud, but not yet. For now he was a battledragon – her battledragon! She had no doubts. Whatever it took ... whatever it took – she glowered at Root,
who was cowering at Tangnost's side – she would be flying him to the winter jousts!

  'Take his hood off, lass,' Tangnost told her, frowning at her hostile stare and Root's evident misery, wondering if he had made a misjudgement throwing them together.

  But Quenelda grinned; Root was already forgotten. Heart thumping, she reached up and unbuckled the leather hood. Was his tail mended? she wondered. Was he strong enough for her to fly? She stood back and signalled. Fly for me, Two Gulps and You're Gone!

  Bunching up the muscles of his hind legs, the battledragon sprang fifteen feet into the air and slowly rose skywards on his stubby wings ...

  No one looked up as three magnificent hippogriffs swept overhead to alight in front of Dragonsdome, their glossy feathers shimmering blue and gold and red, their beaks polished and gleaming. Like their harnesses, their talon-sheaths were engraved and inlaid with silver and semi-precious stones. Heraldic banners attached to their saddles fluttered out behind them, declaring which aristocratic house they belonged to.

  Three youths in racing leathers that matched their mounts' plumage dismounted swiftly, casually throwing the reins to the grooms. 'Darcy's Devils', they called themselves after Quenelda's elder brother, Darcy, relishing their reputation for the racing, drinking and outrageous behaviour that had caused so many rows between father and son. Today was Darcy's birthday. On leave from the Royal Household Cavalry (the II Unicorn regiment), he and his friends were going hippogriff racing at the royal castle of Auchterness, two days' journey to the north-east of the Sorcerers Glen.

  'What do you think?' A strikingly handsome boy strutted down the sweeping entrance steps to Dragonsdome. Tall and slim, Darcy was wearing racing leathers that matched his emerald eyes. An extravagant gold-hilted wand set with emeralds was sheathed at his side. There were appreciative whoops and whistles.

  'Way to go, Darcy!'

  'Battlestar racing leathers! Nothing but the best for you, Darcy!'