‘Root! Root! Come on!’ Quenelda was becoming impatient. ‘Come on!’ She stamped her foot in frustration. ‘We’ll be late! You can’t possible walk up every stair. There are ten thousand steps to the top of the tower. You won’t arrive till next week.’
Root groaned. He knew what she said was true. He had already tried once before, counting one thousand, three hundred and two before his legs had given out on him, and as a result they had both missed a patrol briefing. Still … He glared, whether at Quenelda or at the porting disc he wasn’t quite sure, and then gave in gracelessly. ‘Oh, very well,’ he grumbled.
This was the last day of their visit before returning to Dragonsdome in time for the Yule festivities at the Royal Court. In three hectic days they had accompanied the SDS Commander as he toured the barracks, the forges, the armour pits and the roosts, talking to his men and watching them train for the approaching late winter campaign. The two of them had also been fleetingly shown around the cavernous flight hangars and dragonpads, and the harbour caverns crammed with battlegalleons. But these covered only a tiny fraction of this vast island fortress, and to Quenelda’s deep disappointment the Earl had no plans on this brief trip to visit the castle where the men of the SDS learned the art and strategy of warfare.
For as long as she could remember, Quenelda had wanted to enrol at the Battle Academy and become a Dragon Lord – those elite few Battle Mages who flew Imperial Blacks. Since the century of its founding, the seven peoples of the Sea Kingdoms had sent the best of their young to learn to fight their common foe, the hobgoblins, at this academy. But young ladies, tradition held, simply couldn’t fly dragons, let alone fiery-tempered, unpredictable battledragons. And they weren’t capable of Battle Magic. They should pursue more … feminine pursuits, Quenelda thought with a sneer. Like … like sewing tapestries and dancing. Well, she was a young lady and she could fly as if born to it. And one day soon, Quenelda swore, she too would be a Dragon Lord like her father, and this was her first chance to see what that would entail.
Unfortunately for Root, the denizens of the vast fortress moved about by using porting stones – discs carved with runes and imbued with sorcery that could whisk you from one point to another. Root hated the porting stones: they made him sick, just as flying used to, but Quenelda would never forgive him if they missed a tour of the Command in Control, the CIC – the operational heart of Dragon Isle. Training exercises were already underway: they had seen hundreds of dragons flying over the loch. Back on active duty, Tangnost too was out there somewhere, training rookie Bonecrackers and troll Marines from the Sea Reaver regiment. There had been neither sight nor sound of him since before the jousts, when he and his raw recruits were transferred to Dragon Isle for full-scale exercises with a hundred thousand veterans. Both Quenelda and Root missed him dearly and hoped to see him before they left.
‘CIC,’ Quenelda said clearly.
There was a sensation of tingling warmth. Root felt his knees buckle, and groaned. The rock about them blurred, then streaked, and the world turned bright white. Root’s stomach followed as an afterthought.
‘Ugghhhh …’ His protesting wail died away.
Suddenly they stopped, and Root’s knees gave way again. He felt sick, putting out a hand to steady himself as the world shuddered into focus about them – to reveal a large circular chamber shrouded in semi-darkness. Feeling wobbly, smothering a protesting belch from his stomach, Root followed Quenelda off the porting stone and into the operational centre of the SDS.
A quiet murmur rose up around them in the softly lit tower as they stood there, open-mouthed. Revolving spheres and three-dimensional displays hung and moved and spun about them while sorcerers at their centre stood or sat, touching or dragging or rotating the flowing, merging magical light … The massive stone walls of the tower were inset with ancient runes and Quenelda could feel the protective power of Battle Magic close about them. She and Root both jumped as the voices of pilots and navigators out on exercises filled the tower.
‘Red Leader, Red Leader, this is red two …’
‘On approach, vector three niner one …’
‘Come …’ The Earl beckoned the pair over to the centre of the room, where a group of armoured Dragon Lords were studying a three-dimensional display of the Sorcerers Glen. Above it, suspended in the air, were layered transparent grids overlaid with neon-blue runes.
‘Each battledragon has a unique signature.’ The Earl pointed towards the glyphs that moved across the huge tactical display above. The slightest movement of his hand revealed another beneath. ‘As does each Battle Mage.’ He beckoned a finger and the outline of a flying Imperial appeared between them, Bonecrackers storming up a wing from a battlegalleon. ‘Thus we know exactly where each and every dragon is within twenty leagues of the Sorcerers Glen, even when visibility is zero.’
‘Is Tempest Talonstrike ready for takeoff?’ The Earl turned to his second-in-command, the Strike Commander of Dragon Isle, a man he introduced as Jakart DeBessert. Quenelda looked at the tall blond officer with his warrior’s braid, wondering how he had taken the news that his only son, Guy, had lost a hand because of her brother Darcy’s bungled attempt to fly a battlegriff.
‘Fully prepped, Commander,’ DeBessert acknowledged. ‘Recruits are boarding now.’
The Earl looked at his daughter gravely. ‘Time, Goose, to return to Court and thereafter to your studies.’
Quenelda’s face fell. The Court! Her studies! She didn’t know which was worse. She sighed theatrically.
‘You know that the Queen has specifically requested that you attend this year’s Yule festivities,’ the Earl chided her gently. ‘You are to sit at the high table – a rare honour.’
Quenelda pouted to show what she thought of the honour. She had conveniently forgotten the Queen’s final command on the day of the joust; had put the ghastly idea out of her mind. She would have to wear a dress again. How she hated dresses! And the other young ladies would all mock her and laugh at her rough manners and poor etiquette, as they always had. She hated going to Court! Root saw the light go out of her eyes, the resigned droop of her shoulders. So did the Earl. Unexpectedly, he smiled.
‘An Imperial will be taking off for Dragonsdome in half a bell. I expect the pair of you to be on it.’
‘What?’ Quenelda’s protest faltered. ‘W-what about Two Gulps? Why?’
‘Two Gulps will return later with me. The Imperial will be taking recruits on their first High Sky operation. I thought you might like to go with them …?’
Quenelda frowned, still reluctant to leave her beloved battledragon. ‘But why …? What?’ Her father’s words caught up with her. ‘Papa!’ She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Truly?’
Root couldn’t understand her joy. ‘You’ve flown lots of times with your father on Stormcracker, haven’t you?’
Quenelda nodded. ‘Yes. But only flying at Two Gulps’ pace, which is really slow. Never in full flight; it’s not normally allowed in the Glen because it creates such a huge backwash from their wings – it blows over boats and breaks windows. And never on an operational fully armoured Imperial with battlecrew!’ She was grinning from ear to ear, before another flash of realization hit her. ‘But … you’re not coming with us, Papa?
‘No. But you won’t be returning alone. I leave you in the very best of hands.’
‘Tangnost?’ Quenelda’s eyes lit up. ‘He’s returning with us?’
Her words were barely out of her mouth when, across the floor, the porting stone rippled. The blossoming light faded to reveal a familiar broad-shouldered outline.
‘Tangnost!’ Root and Quenelda turned to greet the Earl’s dragonmaster.
‘Yes,’ her father said warmly. ‘Tangnost is going to accompany you. I’m afraid I must stay here but’ – he raised a finger to forestall her appeal – ‘I promise, Goose, I promise I shall be back at Court in time for the Yule festivities in five days.’
Quenelda sighed. As long as he returned before she had to go to the Court.
‘But I still don’t understand,’ Root whispered to Quenelda. ‘Not on an operation? What difference does High Sky make?’
The Earl grinned wolfishly at his daughter’s esquire. ‘Wait and see, lad. Wait and see.’ He looked at Tangnost. ‘Take care of them, Bearhugger,’ he said, before turning back to his officers.