The Dragon Whisperer Page 20

  'She's beautiful.' Root was open-mouthed as Greenstone Gemstar flew to her jousting platform.

  Quenelda shook her head. 'Beauty is not what counts in the lists. She won't last a single lance against that brute if they collide. The weight of the dragon will add strength to the impact,' she explained, turning towards the red lists. 'He's more likely to be able to knock his opponent clean out of the saddle.' They both looked at the jousting platform, where the dark dragon now stood silently.

  Quenelda stood up and studied him intently. The broad shoulders were typical of jousting dragons, as were the four powerfully framed wings, allowing for great speed over short distances. He looked like a Dale dragon. But his heavy-jawed head and pebbled hide were not typical. Not strictly against Guild jousting ordinances ... but ... but there was something else, something indefinable ... It shimmered, tickling her senses like a cobweb. It was almost as if the dragon were going in and out of focus. She frowned, feeling a little dizzy, and blinked to clear her head.

  'Are you unwell?' Root was concerned to see Quenelda swaying on her feet. 'Perhaps you should take a seat?'

  She sat back down heavily. 'No, it's just a headache coming on.'

  There was something predatory about this strange dragon ... as if this were a carnivore. But that wasn't possible. Battledragons were strictly forbidden at tournaments. They had been for fifty years. The risk of injury and death was too great, for once the excitement of the charge took hold, a battledragon could easily kill an opponent in a blood frenzy. If it were then loosed on the packed arena, there would be carnage.

  Root followed her doubtful glance. Focusing his telescope, he agreed that Midnight Madness was the meanest, ugliest dragon he had ever seen. He gleamed like something that had crawled from out of a deep dark swamp. Nothing like his own beautiful, delicate Chasing the Stars.

  Right from the start, even to Root's inexperienced eyes, it didn't seem a fair contest. The smaller dragon was agile and highly trained, her knight skilled, but the larger dragon wore her down. On the third lance the dragons collided; there was never any doubt as to the outcome. A broken wing put paid to Greenstone Gemstar's chance of winning and, disappointed by the unequal fight, some in the crowd booed.

  The Grand Master's dragon beat his opponent effortlessly in each round, until there was just one left, which was swiftly dispatched; by now there were loud mutterings from almost everyone present: this had turned out to be the most predictable tournament in history.

  Duke Grenville and Midnight Madness swooped down to land in front of the royal box. The downdraught caught the edge of the tapestries and lifted the Queen's long hair beneath the slim circlet of gold that banded her head as she prepared to rise and congratulate the victor.

  Instead of dismounting, the Duke pulled off a gauntlet and threw it into the royal box. It struck Root squarely, making him cry out and fall. In a daze he picked it up. The heavy segmented metal finger plates clinked in his hand.

  'I challenge the Queen's Champion,' Duke Grenville roared.

  The words fell into a well of silence.

  'But, Papa ...' Quenelda protested, jumping to her feet. 'You're still not well. Your leg!'

  An outraged gasp swept around the arena as the Duke's words passed from mouth to mouth. The Queen stood, her fur-lined cloak falling from her shoulders as she did so.

  'My lord' – her voice was as cold as the weather – 'such a challenge is unseemly. The Earl is but late come from battle, and his wounds are not yet fully healed. To challenge an injured man does you no honour.'

  'Nonetheless, Your Most Gracious Majesty.' Grenville lifted his visor, contempt tingeing his words. 'As Tournament Champion, it is my right to challenge the Queen's Champion. He, of course, has the right to refuse, should he feel ... unable to accept.'

  'My Lord Duke' – stepping forward, the Grand Master also made an outraged protest to his liegeman – 'the Earl is injured!'

  But Quenelda saw the faint smile playing around his lips, the strange glint in his dark eyes, and frowned. She turned to Darcy, imploring him to accept the challenge on her father's behalf.

  There was a pause.

  Quenelda watched with growing disbelief as her brother made no move.

  'Your Most Gracious Majesty.' Looking at his son with bitter disappointment, Rufus DeWinter went down awkwardly on one knee, the other injured leg stretched out straight. 'As your Champion, I am sworn to take on all who challenge your authority.'

  Quenelda knew then, with a sudden start of fear, that her father meant to fight – which for some reason was exactly what the Grand Master had always intended. She moved forward. 'Papa!'

  But he held up a hand to stay her protest, softening it with a smile just for her. He turned back to the Queen, whose expression mirrored Quenelda's.

  'However, I have no jousting mount, nor armour, nor weaponry.'

  'If you insist on competing, then it is fitting that as the Queen's Champion you should wear the Queen's colours.' She turned to her constable, Sir Mowbray, and commanded him to ready Knight's Mace for the Earl.

  The constable nodded with approval. 'And I shall serve as your esquire myself, my Lord Earl.'

  The crowd roared its approval – the competition was on!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  DeWinter! DeWinter!

  Tension was reaching fever pitch. The crowd favoured the chances of the Queen's Champion, despite his injury, but the motionless black dragon unnerved them. Large wet feathery flakes of snow were still falling, clinging to everything they touched, soaking up the last of the light.

  A midnight-blue dragon swept down through the snow from the castle roosts. Long-necked and broadshouldered, with scalloped three-toed wings, Knight's Mace was decked out in the royal colours of russet and gold over heavily padded armour. The crowd roared its welcome for the Earl. Quenelda proudly joined in the applause as her father came to salute the Queen before flying to the blue lists. Looking at the Earl's gleaming armour, listening to the adulation of the crowd, Root wondered wistfully what it would be like to be the Queen's Champion, the greatest Dragon Lord in the Seven Sea Kingdoms.

  Alighting on the lists, the Earl settled himself into the high-cantled jousting saddle and tried to ignore his throbbing thigh. He'd had to opt for light jousting armour as his leg still wouldn't take the weight of plate armour. That made him extremely vulnerable to further injury and he very much suspected that his unchivalrous opponent knew it.

  'My Lord Earl?' Silver-blue beard bristling in the rising wind, Sir Mowbray offered up a heavy jousting lance, red twined with white. The old man could hardly lift it. The Earl Rufus dropped the reins, leaving his highly trained dragon to be guided by knee and spur, and hefted the lance to get the feel of its weight and balance. Positioning it under his armpit, he declared himself satisfied, then lifted the leather-covered wooden shield and allowed Sir Mowbray to tighten the straps. Satisfied with its balance, he dropped his visor, reducing his vision to a slit of daylight.

  'Take care, Rufus.' Sir Mowbray relinquished the reins. 'The man has no honour, and remember how jealous he was of you when you beat him to become Commander of the SDS ...'

  Settling into the saddle, the Earl focused solely on his opponent on the opposite list. His heart slowed in readiness for battle.

  The high steward dropped his flag. A horn rang out.

  Neither dragon moved. The crowd began to murmur uneasily, the strange atmosphere making them shift nervously. Why didn't they charge?

  The snow swirled more thickly, almost obscuring them. Duke Grenville sat motionless on his dragon. Midnight Madness raised his head, black harness jingling. Giving voice to his fury and pain, he opened his jaws to issue a shattering challenge that reverberated around the arena. 'Yyyaakkkaaaa!' The ear-splitting cry set everyone's teeth on edge. The Queen's Champion and Knight's Mace made no answer.

  Quenelda cringed, sensing the creature's twisted pain.

  Silence.

  The air tingled.

 
The restless crowd held their breath. This was more than a joust. This was a battle of wills.

  Up in the royal gallery, the Grand Master's jaw tightened. Darcy DeWinter smiled. Staring intently through her telescope, Quenelda focused closely on Midnight Madness, on the set of the dragon's head, the spread of his wings, the tension in his hindquarters that would give warning of sudden flight.

  Pennants and standards snapped as the wind rose to a shriek. Snow curled beneath the pavilion to land on Quenelda's eyelashes and melted to blur her vision. Light was fading, winter-fast.

  With a sudden explosion of power, both dragons launched themselves from the lists. The air thundered to the beat of their powerful wings. Within moments they were hurtling towards each other, blunt-headed jousting lances level. A blur of black and blue through a veil of white ...

  Closing fast ...

  Quenelda was out of her seat, white knuckles gripping the edge of the royal gallery. The Queen looked pale. Closing ...

  Kill ... A faint voice whispered in Quenelda's head. Startled, she gazed around but no one was looking at her.

  Suddenly the two dragons came together; the Earl's lance found its mark and shattered his opponent's shield. The sound of splintering wood was lost in the crowd's roar. Even though he had deflected his opponent's thrust so that the lance slid harmlessly by, the Earl felt the shock, which slammed his shoulder back. The combatants swept down the length of the lists to their platforms, where their esquires waited with a second lance.

  Kill ...

  They charged a second time, coming together in a bone-jarring impact that shivered through the air. The crowd groaned as the Champion's dragon was flung sideways above the crowds in a move that would have unseated most men. The Earl's shield shattered under the impact of the black dragon's shoulder; pieces fell down among the spectators, who fought for the prized keepsakes. Deftly turning his mount, shrugging off the broken shield's leather straps, the Earl reached for his third lance from Sir Mowbray. Not waiting for a new shield, he spurred Knight's Mace forward.

  The crowd were on their feet now. 'DeWinter! DeWinter! DeWinter!'

  The dragons closed. 'They're too fast!' someone cried. 'He has no shield!'

  Kill ... kill ... kill ... The insane whispers took form in Quenelda's mind. Kill the Dragon Lord ... With a gasp of horror, she realized that this was no ordinary joust, no duel between rivals; the purpose of the challenge was to kill her injured father. She suddenly understood the murderous heart deep within the black dragon. He was a raptor! A wolf in sheep's clothing that would be drawn to blood, to her father's injury. At the edge of her vision she glimpsed her brother peering through the snow, beads of sweat on his forehead despite the freezing temperature; and in front she sensed rather than saw the Grand Master shift for a better view, saw the tension in the line of his jaw and the white knuckles that gripped his staff.

  Once again the dragons flew down the tilting arena, but this time, hidden by the thickening snow, the black knight aimed his blunt lance deliberately low. The scream of raw pain cut through the noise of the crowd. The spectators nearest the duel gasped. Word swiftly passed from mouth to mouth. A steward murmured in the Queen's ear. The Queen's Champion was struggling to stay in the saddle as blood poured from the reopened war wound on his leg.

  'End it,' the Queen commanded her high steward, who beckoned a mounted marshal forward. 'This is madness. The Earl has done more than enough to satisfy honour.'

  As Earl Rufus reined in, sweat streamed into his eyes. His light jousting armour lay peeled back from his thigh like the silvered scales of a gutted fish. Rearing, Knight's Mace returned to the list platform, her spurred talons gouging the wood, her hot breath vaporizing the falling snow. Steam rose from her heaving flanks. She rolled her eyes at the scent of fresh blood. She was not trained for battle, and the musty scent of fear rose from her.

  'End it.' The old constable caught the dragon's rein as a sickening gush ran red down the Earl's dented armour. 'My friend, Rufus, your wound is bleeding badly. You cannot go on. You risk your health—'

  But even as the marshal sounded the trumpet to end the duel on the Queen's command, the black dragon had already left the lists.

  Hearing the roar of the crowd, the Earl snatched up the mace the old man offered, gathered in his reins and spurred his mount forward to meet his opponent a fourth time. The crowds rose to their feet, sensing the end must be near. None could match the Earl in close combat, injured or not.

  The wind swept back the curtain of white just as the two dragons clashed. Almost standing up in his stirrups, the black knight was using whip and spur, goading his dragon to recklessness. At the last moment the frenzied Midnight Madness rolled and lashed out with his talons, gouging a trough of flesh in the smaller dragon's unprotected flank. His tail lashed sideways as he swept past. The force broke the Earl's left arm and fractured his mount's thigh bone. The Queen's dragon screamed; a high-pitched shriek that made ears ring and Quenelda shiver with shared pain. Her father's cry was ripped away by the wind.

  Knight's Mace tumbled in agony. Blue blood mingled with the red running down her flank. Numb from wrist to shoulder, the Earl's useless arm dropped his shattered shield.

  'Papa!' It was so hard to see what was happening. Quenelda brushed hot stinging tears from her face that was already wet with snowmelt. 'Papa!' she screamed as his crippled dragon flapped helplessly in the gusting wind, blown this way and that.

  The crowd roared, caught up by the frenzy of the fight. The Grand Master was looking as shocked as anyone; the Queen was on her feet, shouting to him: 'The stewards. Command your stewards forward! Now, man, before it's too late! The dragon's badly injured and may turn rogue!'

  Quenelda turned back. The air was treacle-thick with suppressed magic. Everything around her slowed. The roar of the crowd faded to the edge of her awareness and she barely heard the bugle call. Through the swirling white she could see dozens of dragons swooping down from the small dragonpads that dotted the upper tier of the arena, their stewards armed with heavy spears and weighted nets. Dragons had gone mad with pain from a wound before.

  'Forgive me, madam.' Quenelda heard the Grand Master's voice as if it were a hazy dream. 'I cannot. I fear that a deathbolt fired at a moving target may bring down the dragon, but the fallout would cause many casualties in such a confined space, might even kill Rufus. I am no soldier, and the wind is unpredictable. Let the stewards do their job, madam.' He laid a comforting hand reassuringly on her sleeve. 'They know how to deal with a rogue dragon. The Earl is in no real danger. My dragon must be wounded. Duke Grenville has clearly lost control.'

  Far below, the Earl calmed his injured mount, halting their dizzying descent before she became trapped in the netting. Hefting his mace with his one good arm, he coaxed the trembling mare upwards by sheer force of will. Lifting his visor, he looked through the swirling white, searching for his opponent. The air suddenly gusted above him, and the Earl deftly manoeuvred Knight's Mace sideways just as the talons of the black dragon slashed through the air. The Duke's ruse almost worked, but years of experience on the battlefield had honed the Earl's instincts. Now, as Midnight Madness dropped down, he instinctively reached for his saddle holster and cursed as realization hit. He didn't have his staff! The wand, sheathed as ever on his hip, was useless against a dragon except at close quarters. He called to his household guard in the upper gallery.

  'My staff! Get me my staff!' But his command was lost in the suffocating snow storm and the cries of the crowd.

  'No use, DeWinter! They can't hear you,' his opponent mocked him. 'You're not afraid of a real fight, are you? You're surely not afraid to earn your spurs instead of having them handed to you on a plate by the Queen? Let's see if you truly deserve the command of the SDS!'

  The Earl ducked as the wicked spikes of a dragonmace grazed the crest of his helmet, drawing an explosion of sparks. All at once he realized that his opponent was fully armoured for battle, not for a joust. His brutal treatment h
ad deliberately driven his dragon rogue, provoked him to attack.

  The Earl was now forced to use magic to counter this base lack of honour. Drawing his wand from its sheath on his left thigh in one swift movement, he threw a stunning spell straight into the unprotected maw of the attacking dragon. At such close quarters it was enough.

  Jaws snapping shut only a couple of metres from his face, the unconscious dragon plummeted earthwards in a fading splash of red sparks, giving the Duke no time to react. He screamed as the vicious points of his left spur snagged in the stirrup and he was sucked down in his dragon's wake. Caught by the netting, both dragon and rider bounced and tumbled twice before falling senseless to the ground in a cloud of snow. Flung clear on impact, the Duke lay motionless, one leg bent at an awkward angle, snow rapidly turning his black armour white.

  Moving in swiftly, the circling stewards fired their nets in a soft explosion. Expanding in the air, they settled on the downed dragon like layers of spiderweb. The crowd held their breath. In the unexpected silence nothing stirred. Sparks from braziers lit the gloom. A child cried out. Cautiously, the stewards put down beside the fallen dragon, raising mallets and hammering in great iron pegs to pin down the net. Above them, the Earl finally allowed his exhausted dragon to spiral downwards.

  Cheers ran around the arena, louder and louder. Feet stamped; hats were thrown in the air; strangers clapped each other like long-lost friends; money changed hands. Breathless, the Queen collapsed into her seat, cheeks flushed with colour. Darcy's face twisted with a mixture of disappointment and relief. The Grand Master's eyes narrowed with anticipation.

  The crowd spilled out into the arena, racing recklessly past the stewards to greet their champion, confident that the black dragon was done for. The fight was surely over. But the Grand Master knew better. And Quenelda, hearing the rogue dragon's rambling thoughts as he struggled towards consciousness, also knew better. This dragon was not going to give up his single-minded purpose – to kill her father. She opened her mouth to say something; to warn the Queen. But who would believe her?