The Dragon Whisperer Page 14

  'And you shall have one. Be there at the Killing Caves at the full moons.'

  'My lord, we shall be there.'

  Hesitating, the creature licked its wet lips like a dog eager for a bone, its hunger naked in the darkness. 'You have dragonsss?' Its nostrils dilated. 'I can sssmell them.'

  The Sorcerer Lord nodded. There were always dragons. 'A score.' He raised his hand and the flaming torch grew brighter, throwing back the shadows, glancing off the scales of the chained moor dragons. He was finished with his experiments – the hobgoblins could remove the evidence. 'But feast here. Do not remove the carcasses – leave them to rot. They will keep until you return.'

  The hobgoblin dipped its head beneath the swell and called. A coarse, croaking cry rose and fell, echoing throughout the subterranean depths of the sea loch, carrying for miles and miles. The cry was taken up. In a matter of minutes the water churned and frothed as hobgoblins swarmed out by the dozen.

  Sensing their approaching death, the dragons chained to the rocks screamed with terror and tried to throw off the iron chains that shackled them to the stone. But in moments they had disappeared beneath the heaving, boiling mass of ravenous hobgoblins.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Wooden Dragon

  The wooden practice dragon bucked and kicked. Suspended from the ceiling, it was rolling and yawing as Felix and his cronies pulled on the ropes, all eager to humiliate the upstart in their midst. They were putting their backs into the task with a vengeance.

  As Root's helmet smashed into the dragon's head, his own head exploded yet again into bright stars. Next second he was swinging dizzily, his body slack in the safety harness, Quester's words echoing in his head.

  'They call it kissing the dragon,' his friend had explained. 'Every esquire, every roostmaster, has kissed the dragon, so you'll be in good company. The fact that Tangnost has decided you're ready is good. He must be pleased with your progress.'

  Ever since the dwarf had told him he was ready, Root had been tossing and turning at night, barely sleeping a wink. Neither had Quester, his bunk-mate.

  'Here ...' The cheery boy had rummaged in his trunk. 'Why don't you take my old tunic? I don't need it any more and it's about your size. It's well padded – and here, you can borrow my helmet and gloves for now. You'll need them.'

  Just how much, Root had learned within moments of taking the saddle.

  Now it felt as if he had kissed the wooden dragon more times in the last week than he could remember – he had a purple-blue bruise to show for each and every time. As the dragon pitched and tossed, he retched emptily, sweat soaking his padded tunic, making his skin itch and prickle. Unkind laughs and jeers greeted his failure to stay in the saddle for more than a minute at a time, but his feet were too small for the stirrups and the dragon too wide for him to grip with his thighs. All he could hang on to was the saddle's pommel. Every inch of his body was aching, battered, trembling, sweating ... but he wasn't going to give in. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction.

  'Remember, friend Root,' Quester had warned him before heading for the training cage to work with Quenelda, 'Felix and his cronies want you to fail. He is bitter that you are the Lady Quenelda's esquire. They expect you to fail because you are a gnome, and not born to warfare.'

  'And so does she,' Root muttered darkly as he headed for the wooden dragon. 'She wants me to fail ...'

  Well, he thought, sticking his jaw out determinedly, he wouldn't. He'd show them. He would be the first esquire that the Lady Quenelda would not be able to get rid of. He'd stick to her like a limpet. He'd make his father and Tangnost proud of him.

  Fine words, the gnome thought sourly as he reached for the saddle's pommel rope to try again. He had already smacked into one of the roughly carved hinged wings and been caught by the tail when he tumbled backwards. If it wasn't for the flying harness and Quester's heavy padded tunic, he'd be in the hospital barracks. Root groaned.

  This time he managed to last all of ten seconds before he was unseated. The dragon's tail clipped him in the air, spinning him like a sycamore seed. It was too much for him. Dizzy and sick, hanging limply in the air, he suddenly realized that no one was laughing any longer.

  'Right, lad.' Strong hands reached up to steady him and unhook his harness. 'Down you come. Take a rest.' Tangnost glowered at the esquires, who avoided his eye. He didn't need to ask who the ringleader was.

  'For a start,' he said to Root, 'let's get you a saddle that fits. Felix, you're senior esquire here, you should know better than to bully rookies. Pull another stunt like this and you'll be on mucking-out duty with the apprentices for a month. Fetch another saddle, and make sure the stirrups are adjusted to the correct length. Now jump to it!'

  'Sir! Yes, sir!' Felix shot a vitriolic look at Root before darting into the tack room.

  Root swilled his mouth out with a ladle of water and spat into the sawdust. He started as a heavy hand grasped him by the shoulder. 'Stick at it, lad,' the dragonmaster urged him quietly. 'Ain't no one could stay in a saddle three sizes too big. Don't lose heart now.'

  Root nodded, unconvinced, and then winced, hand automatically reaching behind to the source of the pain – a tear in his padding.

  'Splinter?' Tangnost enquired.

  Root's face flushed. 'Right, lad' – the dwarf grinned at him – 'run along and see the surgeon. That's enough practice for today.'

  Occasionally, Quenelda would come along and stare at the gnome and tap her foot impatiently. Whenever that happened, he would go to pieces and fail whatever exercise he had been set by Tangnost – then he heard her heavy sighs of exasperation and the other esquires' sniggers at his lack of progress. He began to hope that if he did badly enough, he would be demoted back to being an apprentice. Felix could have the job as far as Root was concerned. But then he thought of his father, and his last mission of exceptional bravery, and felt ashamed that he himself was so near to giving up.

  Eventually Root began to feel better about himself. With the correct size of saddle and properly adjusted stirrups, he was actually making good progress. By the end of the second week he had managed to stay in the saddle without the other esquires being able to unseat him. His bottom and pride were still smarting from the indignity of his visit to the hospital barracks, where the apprentice undersurgeon had removed a nasty splinter. But he was beginning to believe he would actually pass the flight test, the first of many expected of an esquire.

  After two intense weeks of training he felt ready to try his skills on the wooden dragon in front of an audience. Tangnost and his roost masters and mistresses were seated in the small training ampitheatre: Roostmaster Windlewith, a whiskery goblin who always looked as if he had just sucked a lemon; Roostmistress Greybeard, the tough but fair dwarf in charge of the maternity roosts; Roostmistress Hammerbone, another small dark-haired dwarf with a booming voice and a ready smile; and Roostmaster Quintus, an elderly sorcerer who had retired from active service but still wore his old body armour and walked as though he were sitting astride a dragon. And behind these judges, in the whispery shadows, the other esquires were gathered. Root could hear them laying bets on the outcome.

  'Root Oakley?' Roostmaster Windlewith lifted his beady black eyes.

  'Sir! Yes, sir!'

  'Saddle your mount!'

  'Sir! Yes, sir!'

  The sand timer was turned.

  Hands trembling, Root ran to fetch his saddle. Even though it was smaller than average, it was still heavy, with a high cantle to enable the rider to stay seated through high-speed turns. Then he fetched the three-reined bridle with its delicate silver dragonbit that allowed for precise manoeuvring. He saddled the wooden dragon and stood stiffly to attention while Roostmaster Windlewith inspected his work, peering through his pince-nez spectacles.

  'Hmm ... not bad, not bad.' The goblin nodded. 'The windlet strap could do with tightening another notch.' He consulted the sand timer. 'Three minutes flat. Good, good. Now. Mount up! Mount up! Tail-end if y
ou please.'

  'Sir! Yes, sir!' Root ran up the tail plates of the wooden dragon and vaulted neatly into the saddle with a sigh of relief, trying to quash the memory of his disastrous first attempt at that manoeuvre. Taking comfort from Quester's ready grin, he nodded to show that he was ready.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Quenelda enter the training amphitheatre. He turned to acknowledge her.

  'Sir! Yes, sir! ' Felix sneered under his breath. 'Three bags full, sir!' He'd show them it was a mistake to make a guttersnipe into an esquire for the Lady Quenelda when it should have been his by right as senior esquire.

  Distracted by Quenelda's arrival, Root failed to notice Felix pull down really hard on his rope without warning. It sang through the brass hauser. The wooden dragon dipped violently away beneath him and spun. He was thrown brutally sideways.

  'Oouf!' he groaned as the saddle's pommel caught him in the midriff.

  As the dragon righted itself, Root managed to brace his knees against the saddle and keep his seat, but then, as the dragon's head dipped and he leaned back in the saddle, the jointed rising tail smacked him hard from behind, pitching him forward.

  'Hang on,' he thought he heard Quenelda's exasperated shout. 'Just hang on! Ride it out!' His head was ringing, so he couldn't be sure.

  Dangling from the uncomfortable harness that was still two sizes too large, Root rolled his eyes as he scrambled back into the saddle. Hang on? Newt and toad! What on earth did she think he was trying to do? Why was she always such a bossy-boots? Why was she always so impatient with him?

  The question barely had time to take shape before it was bounced out of his head. Next second the wooden dragon unexpectedly jinked sharply to the left. Somehow his right foot slipped out of the stirrup and he was unseated. Then gravity claimed him and he was falling, just as the pommel was rising and—

  When he came to, he saw Quenelda standing over him. Her voice was fuzzy and distant as she asked him if he was hurt. He could hear the sniggers and guffaws of the other esquires. He had failed – yet again!

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Fledgling Flight

  With so much to do and so much to learn, the arrival of winter took Root quite by surprise. He woke up one day to find that four inches of snow had fallen overnight and the wells had frozen. A painful few days had passed since he'd failed his test on the wooden dragon. The news that Felix had been put on mucking-out duty for a month for his part in Root's humiliating failure was small comfort to him; he was simply dreading getting back in the saddle. Tangnost, full of patient understanding, was letting the gnome take his time. But Quenelda had plans of her own.

  She had been counting down the days to the jousts impatiently. The previous six weeks confined to Dragonsdome had already seemed unbearably long. Four times since his return, her father had flown to the royal stud or the court without her. With Two Gulps now fit and flying, the only problem was Root. Well, Root had had plenty of time to learn the basics. It was clearly time for her to put theory into practice. The wretched gnome was going to learn flying the hard way. After all, the royal joust would take place in just under three weeks and she was most certainly not going to miss that!

  The noon meal was over in the eating hall. A few esquires sat around playing dice games but most were studying. Root too was studying a barkscroll, struggling to learn the characteristics of Sabretooths. The Lady Quenelda had curtly told him he had better memorize them before she next spoke to him.

  Root swallowed. He chewed mindlessly on a piece of bread, his fear of facing Quenelda and her battledragon making him queasy. Quester had gone through the points one by one with him the previous night; had even written them down for him. His friend's hand was clear and bold, but ... Root shook his head. It was hopeless.

  Sabretooths are flamers with a powerful reach that can kill at fifty strides. Their scale armour can deflect arrows, but not a direct sword or spear thrust, so they are often fitted with additional armour.

  Sabretooths are used by the SDS for scouting in mountainous terrain and for driving hobgoblins out of their caverns and caves.

  They ...

  Root sighed. These were just lifeless words – they didn't convey the breathtaking, heart-thumping reality of a battledragon.

  He reached for his satchel and pulled out half a dozen barkscrolls, rolling out the largest and weighing it down with his plate and leather mug. The Sabretooth leaped at him out of the drawing: the power, the ferocity, the huge hind legs that made the ground shake, tipped by talons honed to a wicked edge, the great jaws ...

  A drop of sweat fell from Root's nose, smudging his charcoal sketch. In his mind he could see the yellowed teeth and smell the hot reeking breath that shrivelled the grass to a crisp. And as for the eyes, those bright inhuman eyes that skewered you at a glance—

  'Root!'

  He nearly jumped out of his skin. 'W-what?'

  'Come with me,' Quenelda commanded briskly. She was dressed in heavy blue leathers and full flying harness. She threw a training helmet at him. Hands stinging with the impact, he just managed to catch it before it landed in his lunch. He looked up at her in confusion. Her next words spurred his heart into a terrified gallop.

  'We're going flying.' She turned for the door without waiting to see if he was following. Root wished Quester was with him – his friend would have told him what to do, but he was in the training cage with the cage master. Out of the corner of his eye, Root could see Felix and his cronies watching with interest.

  Hastily abandoning his scrolls, Root ran after Quenelda as she headed towards the battledragon roosts. 'But ... but, Lady Quenelda, I – I haven't flown on a real dragon yet.' He heard his voice rise thinly in protest as he struggled to keep up with her. Quenelda could walk very fast for a young lady and he had shorter legs. 'I h-haven't even passed the wooden dragon.'

  Behind him he could hear Felix and his friends speculating loudly on the outcome of his first flight.

  'I know,' Quenelda replied over her shoulder. 'But at least you now know one end of a dragon from the other.' She suddenly stopped at the inner paddock wall. Root cannoned into her and rebounded.

  'Ouf!' He felt his face colouring as he scrambled to his feet.

  'Tangnost says you'll pass next time with no trouble.' Quenelda looked down at the gnome. 'That last time was just a ... just an unfortunate accident. The other esquires, er' – she felt a passing pang of guilt but ruthlessly quashed it – 'took you by surprise?'

  Root nodded cautiously.

  'Well, then,' she said impatiently. 'That's all there is to it. Lean with the dragon and hang onto the pommel. The battledragon and I will do the rest.'

  'The ... the b-battledragon?' Root's heart now bolted completely out of control. He felt faint, spots swam in front of his eyes, his breath caught in his throat. He finally caught up with Quenelda in the tack room. A blast of hot air rolled out of the roosts, carrying the stench of sulphur. Root swayed on his feet. He thought he was going to faint.

  'We're flying on a b-b-b-b—' He took a deep breath. 'B-battledragon?'

  'Oh, you'll manage,' Quenelda said carelessly as she lifted a dual saddle down. Finally! She was heading for Open Sky and nothing was going to stop her. 'Flying's easy. You'll pick it up in no time at all. I want to be able to fly my own dragon to the royal jousts. And that means you have just under three weeks to become my esquire. So ... let's see what you can do.' She handed the heavy saddle to the gnome, whose knees buckled under the weight. 'Now, mount up.'

  It was too much. No one had ever once asked Root if being an esquire was what he wanted. Not Tangnost, not the Earl, and certainly not Quenelda. He stood there for a moment, emotions swirling around his head, fighting the tears that stung his eyes. His whole world had been turned upside down. His father was dead. The esquires constantly mocked him. Quenelda didn't want him – she was making that perfectly clear. He angrily wiped his tears away. Well, it couldn't get much worse, could it?

  'No!' In a sudden
fury he flung down the saddle. 'It's easy for you! But not everyone is like you, my lady. I don't want to fly dragons. I don't even like dragons. I hate them!' A tear trickled down his face, making him angrier. 'I hate them! Especially battledragons!'

  Quenelda stared at him, open-mouthed. He gazed back, horrified that he'd said too much, certain that he would find himself dismissed, thrown out on the streets.

  But Quenelda was stunned. No commoner had ever spoken to her like that before. As an earl's daughter, she was used to being obeyed without question. She stared at the pale-faced gnome as if he were a total stranger. This was a side of him she had not seen. With a guilty pang she realized she was stupid not to have acknowledged his acute fear of dragons; in her desperation to get back to Open Sky she had simply ignored it.

  And she had to admit that he had made an effort. He had persisted in spite of provocation and prejudice, hers included. He had got back on the wooden dragon in the face of the humiliation and mockery – which, if she had not exactly encouraged, she certainly hadn't stopped. He had struggled against the odds despite his loneliness. Despite the fact he didn't fit in ...

  Quenelda paused. He didn't fit in. Just like she didn't fit in!

  The sudden realization hit her like a hammer blow. How many times had she been mocked for her love of dragons, for her passion for flying? How often had she heard the snide gossip and unkind whispers speculating about the identity of her mother? Her own petulant words to her father came back to her: But I don't want to be a young lady! I'd hate it at court. I want to fly dragons!

  She hated dresses and ceremony, the stifling formality of court. She flew dragons when no other girl did. And she wanted to apply to Dragon Isle. Some of her exercises with the senior squires had showed that some of them, if not all, didn't think girls could or should be allowed to.

  And now that she took the time to look properly, she noticed that the gnome was as thin as a runner bean, all sharp elbows and knees, and his once chubby face had an unhealthy, gaunt look to it. He was still grieving for his father. She remembered her fear when her father had collapsed. What if he never came home? Fear suddenly made her knees weak. She sat down heavily on a bench.