On the Black Isle, the frosted turrets of the royal palace glittered in the harsh late-winter sun. Ravens in their white winter plumage cawed harshly in the hushed silence that hung over the city. No dragons flew beneath the milky sky. The blizzard had blown itself out, and the air was silent and empty of life.
In black mourning robes, Quenelda, the Queen and the royal retinue stepped out onto the terrace beneath a black awning. Her face hidden behind a veil, the Queen stood silent and still, supported by her Constable, Sir Gharad. His right arm lay lightly around Quenelda’s stiff shoulders. The Earl’s daughter was refusing to accept her father’s death, even as she stood on the balcony before the Black Cortège.
To the left of the Queen stood Commander DeBessert and the Grand Master. The Commander’s young son, the Lord Guy, stood proudly behind his father. The young man had yet to see battle, having initially been refused active service because of the injury caused by the Lord Darcy’s reckless behaviour some moons earlier. Now everyone who could fight was welcome in the ranks of the SDS, crippled or not, and the boy had been working hard learning to fight left-handed. His animosity towards Darcy was evident in the stiff way he ignored the Earl-in-waiting.
The castle quadrangle to their left billowed hotly with men’s breath and dragon smoke. The clash of arms and bridles, the shouts of sergeant-majors as the ranks of the Black Cortège formed up, sounded brittle in the silence.
On a high tower the bugler sucked in a deep breath. Silver notes shivered in the still cold air. With a saw-toothed screech, the black-draped gates of the Royal Household Cavalry swung open. Following a loud cry of command, the Cortège stepped out onto the cobbled square.
Seven regimental standard bearers on juvenile Imperial Blacks rode out first; their battle banners bearing an image of the triple-headed dragon glinted in the wan light. The Imperial Black that followed the juveniles was a magnificent young mare, selected and led by Tangnost.
The high-cantled military saddle on the Imperial Black was empty, the stirruped boots reversed to symbolize a Dragon Lord who would fly no more. The SDS and DeWinter standards flew above the saddle’s high back. A cadet sat astride the great dragon’s withers, and with two silver kettle drums beat out the slow funeral march. The battledragon moved slowly forward to the beat of the drum. Smoke poured from her flared nostrils, leaving a vapour trail of purple haze. The crowd that lined the square was silent, overawed by the dragon’s size; it was unthinkable that such magnificent creatures could have been destroyed by the hobgoblins. If these great creatures could not defend them, who could?
‘Oh, Papa …’ Quenelda was suddenly crushed by grief. She shivered in her thick black brocade. Hot tears held in check for so long now fell freely down her cheeks at the sight of the Imperial Black, so like Stormcracker Thundercloud III. She tried to swallow and couldn’t; her grief welled up in her throat and threatened to choke her. Then a hand found Quenelda’s shaking right hand and squeezed it fiercely: Root was standing at her shoulder.
‘I’m here,’ he said softly. ‘Right here behind you.’
He knew that she was still refusing to accept that her father was not coming home. She was also refusing to attend her brother’s Knighthood Ceremony and investiture as Earl. Root was afraid. The look of barely suppressed fury and jealousy that he saw in Darcy’s eyes when Quenelda had refused had frightened him. He had been the only witness when the Earl had made Quenelda his heir, and no one would believe the word of a young girl and a commoner against that of the Lord Darcy. Once Quenelda’s brother was Earl, what would happen to them all?
Then Root’s own heart thumped in his chest as seven small Lesser Chameleons followed the Imperial, representing regimental scouts. Had Root’s father, Bark Oakley, lived, he would be there representing the First Born.
Stopping at the centre of the courtyard in front of the balustrade, the Imperial turned towards the west and Dragon Isle. The Queen then cast down winter flowers over the Cortège. Quenelda stepped forward and watched them tumble down at the battledragon’s feet.
The Grand Master watched over the scene with hidden glee. His predatory eyes settled upon the young Earl-in-waiting, his head bowed in this apparent moment of grief. In the glittering flamboyant uniform of a captain of the II Royal Unicorn Regiment, Darcy’s only concession to protocol was the black-braided jacket and the plume of black unicorn hair that crowned his gold-engraved helmet. The Grand Master knew the boy’s grief was false, that he could hardly wait until his father was buried so that he could become Earl.
Darcy’s fury at his father’s decision to send him to Dragon Isle had been most timely. The young man had needed little persuasion to reveal the Earl’s final plans, his detailed tactics, thereby betraying his father just as his mother had before him. And why not? The Grand Master smiled inwardly. After all, the boy was truly his son, produced during his affair with DeWinter’s wife, and would one day fight at his side. Already the dismantling of Dragonsdome had begun. Even now his men were there. The Earl’s pedigree battledragons, all save the Imperials, would be his before nightfall, in exchange for a string of golden unicorns and a small fortune in gold. He looked at his son’s fiancée, the Lady Armelia, soon to be Duchess of Dragonsdome; a vain, avaricious young lady, eager to spend the fabled wealth of the DeWinters. Well pleased, the Grand Master turned back to the Cortège.
Elegant Frost dragons drew a gasp from the crowds. Wearing white-scaled hauberks that hung to their knees beneath white enamel armour, and full-faced helmets, they looked ghostly. The massed ranks of the elf Midland Lancers behind them marched ten abreast, their longbannered lances a thicket of steel-tipped colour.
The crowd instinctively drew back from the scaled Spitting Adders of the Deepwoods Light Company as they clattered out of the barracks; their venom led to convulsions and paralysis, then death. The arrival of the Sabretooths, their measured tread vibrating on the cobbled street, broke through Quenelda’s misery. As they thumped past, she thought of Two Gulps waiting impatiently for her return. She longed for the solace of Open Sky. At least she still had him – and Root and Tangnost. They were her family until her father returned. She clenched her jaw and balled her fist. He will return! she thought fiercely. He will!
He’s gone! He will never return, Darcy thought jubilantly as he watched the high-stepping unicorns of the II and III Household Cavalry swept by in graceful lines, the dappled white of the Light Brigade and the Heavy Brigade of golden unicorns, soon to be his to command.
And so the Cortège passed by, a bright glitter of scale and helmet and claw wending down the city’s great boulevards and avenues towards the harbour.
As the final footsteps faded from the quadrangle, heads turned up: five air wings of Imperials flew low overhead to honour their dead commander. The pebbled armour of their bellies and tails filled the sky, while their wings raised skirls of snow in their wake. The young Imperial at the centre of the square stood on her hind legs and spread her great wings. Tangnost didn’t move as powerful gusts of air buffeted the watching crowds. They drew back in fear as the huge battledragon crouched, sprang and slowly rose upwards.
Quenelda gripped the railings of the balcony; she watched the squadrons swing round to come in low over the city. As they approached the Guild Square, the Imperial Black rose to take up formation in their centre. The dragons flew higher and higher, until they were dwindling specks in the sky. Then they were gone, and only a stunned silence remained. Leaning heavily on the arm of her Constable, the Queen turned back to the palace, leaving the drifting snow and the keening lament of the pipes.
‘Let me mull some wine for you, you’re frozen!’
Quenelda hadn’t moved. After she returned from her father’s memorial, she had changed back into her familiar clothes. Since then she had sat silently staring at the fire. Root fussed about the chamber, chatting mindlessly in an attempt to distract her. Both of them jumped when someone banged urgently on the outer door.
‘Lady Quenelda! Lady Quenelda!’ Quester barged in without waiting to be announced by the footman. ‘You’ve got to get down to the battleroosts. They’re taking the dragons away!’
‘What?’ Quenelda looked at him through dully uncomprehending eyes.
‘Men wearing the livery of the Grand Master.’ Quester’s tone was desperate, his face chalk-white with shock. ‘The Lord Mandrake’s men. Quenelda, they’re taking the battledragons. Dozens have already gone, by force – they are using dragon collars! Tangnost is trying to stop them, but he’s heavily outnumbered.’
Root looked from one to the other in confusion as Quenelda rose shakily to her feet. ‘Dragon collars?’ he echoed. ‘What are they?’
‘They’re vicious!’ Quenelda was almost in tears again. ‘They’re collars forged with powerful spells of domination and obedience, used to compel dragons, even Imperials, to obey. The collar eats into them, enslaves them. It’s brutal. Unskilled trainers use them. But Dragonsdome never has!’ She clenched her jaw. ‘Come on,’ she said, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve. ‘We’ve got to stop them!’