And so the hours merged into days, and the days into weeks, as Quenelda and Root worked in the roosts, helping surgeons and dragonsmiths, healing the injured and tending the dying; and for the first time since the Battle of the Westering Isles, the number of battledragons available for operations exceeded the number in the hospital wing. But there was that other voice, that other desperate appeal for aid that didn’t come from Dragon Isle; the voice she constantly heard in dreams, that now haunted her every waking moment.
Lonely … so lonely … The faint whisper filled her head, with its desperate song that yearned for wind and rain and Open Sky.
So dark … so dark and cold down here … Darkness all around …
Where are you? Quenelda cried. Who are you?
But no one answered.
‘What’s happening? What’s wrong?’
Echoes from the harbour bell were fading as Tangnost, followed by Quenelda and Root, walked along the north jetty in the great harbour cavern. Two merchant galleons flying the DeWinter banner had limped in with deep gouges in their caulked timbers. On one, the mizzen mast was smashed, rigging tangled, rails splintered. The bolt-throwers mounted on the stern and aft castle decks of both galleons lay empty, evidence of a desperate battle. The wood of the port hulls was scorched and still smoking. The injured were being carried down the gangplank as cranes swung in to lift the precious cargo of ore from the holds.
‘All that remains of another brimstone convoy from the DeWinter mine at Cairnmore,’ the harbourmaster reported. ‘A patrol found the survivors at daybreak and escorted them home.’
‘Razorbacks?’ Root asked, wide-eyed.
‘Razorbacks,’ Tangnost agreed. ‘The shipping lanes are becoming unsafe.’
Loki arrived, metal-shod crutches sparking on the stone wharf as the ship’s Captain walked wearily down the gangplank.
‘We were attacked by hobgoblins, with those cursed demon dragons of theirs.’ The Captain ran his hand through salt-stiffened hair, and spat. ‘Abyss knows where they found those foul creatures. We lost ten ships in the night. Two just went straight down. There one heartbeat and gone the next.’ He nodded gruffly at Tangnost. ‘Your idea to carry a Sabretooth on board saved us. Those slimy maggots weren’t expecting that when they swarmed over the side. But we need to metal the hulls, for they nearly fired the brimstone in the hold!’
Their words were drowned out as nets opened to pour brimstone into the huge waiting cauldrons. Loki picked up a lump of dusty ore and hefted it in one hand, expertly examining its colour and weight before handing it to Tangnost. ‘High-grade amber, but still a fraction of what we need.’
Tangnost nodded. ‘Times are desperate.’
Loki nodded. ‘Worse than you think, cousin. A courier arrived at dawn. There have been two more explosions at royal mines.’
‘Two! Thor’s Hammer!’ Tangnost exploded. ‘It’s sabotage, no matter what the Lord Protector says!’
‘What does he say?’ Quenelda asked coldly, hostility evident in every syllable.
‘With so many mines to the north of the Old Wall overrun by the hobgoblins, we have to delve far deeper than before,’ Tangnost explained. ‘The Lord Protector says that the lower seams are more dangerous to mine. That the dust builds up in the deep galleries.’
‘Since when did a Sorcerer Lord know anything about mining?’ Odin spat. ‘I doubt he’s been anywhere near a mine, and it is our folk who are dying!’
Tangnost nodded. ‘We need to discuss this. Even with so few dragons operational, things are becoming desperate.’
Maps were spread out in the Dragonmaster’s quarters. A few had brimstone mines marked on them in Tangnost’s careful hand.
‘These here are DeWinter mines’ – he pointed – ‘marked in red. So far there have been no accidents, though output has dropped. Royal mines are clustered here, here and here, and to the north, and these are on Clan lands belonging to my people. The two nearest us, south of the Wall, are now damaged by explosions.’
‘And these ones?’ Root asked, pointing to the far north.
‘Those belong to the Lord Protector and are beyond the range of the Howling Glen. They are all infested with hobgoblins, he claims,’ Loki said.
‘Or not …’ Tangnost said darkly. ‘He claims that only three of his mines remain operational, and thus he requisitions ore from the Royal mines. But I wonder … I think he is stockpiling ore.’
‘Why?’ Root asked.
‘There is only one reason,’ Tangnost said grimly, drawing on his pipe. ‘To put an army in the field. War!’
‘Do Razorbacks need brimstone to survive, like normal dragons do?’ said Root.
Tangnost shook his head. ‘We don’t think so, lad.’
Root shivered. His encounter with a rogue dragon at the Winter Joust had been terrifying, recalling his childhood fear of dragons. To have such great creatures as your friends was scary enough. To encounter dragons whose only desire was to eat you – whose dark smoke dissolved you like acid …
Quenelda was peering intently at the map. ‘This is Cairnmore?’
Tangnost nodded. ‘The quality of its ore is first class. It’s one of the few mines in the area that hasn’t been attacked by hobgoblins, or suffered an “accident”.’
‘But output has dropped drastically,’ Loki told her.
‘Can you not bring it overland?’ Root asked.
‘We could, lad,’ Loki said. ‘The problem is that ore is heavy – heavier than gold. This dreadful weather makes many roads impassable; even the military roads have collapsed under the weight of ice and flood-melt, and the refugees’ wagons get bogged down to their axles. And it takes time, lad, a lot of time, to bring in a brimstone convoy, which makes them easy targets for the hobgoblins.
‘But’ – Quenelda frowned – ‘the military roads are still protected by forts, aren’t they?’
‘They are mostly garrisoned by the Lord Darcy’s or the Lord Protector’s men,’ Tangnost explained. ‘Convoys are still attacked by hobgoblins or mercenaries, or so they say. So few convoys to Dragon Isle get through.’
‘My nephew is foreman at Cairnmore,’ Tangnost said. ‘We have sent a dozen couriers warning him to be on his guard against sabotage. I suspect none of our dispatches are reaching him.’
So lonely …
so cold …
A fading whisper of thought, light as a cobweb, touched Quenelda’s mind and was gone. Soon it would be too late. Soon the voice would be silenced for ever. She had to act now!
‘Let me go,’ Quenelda said suddenly.
Root stared at her. ‘Let us go!’
Tangnost looked at her, careful not to show any pity. The Earl’s daughter was still too pale, too thin. Her bruised eyes had a haunted look more often seen in battlefield veterans – which was no surprise after what she had been through. She needed something to do, something to believe in once again.
‘Let us go, Tangnost,’ she repeated, on the verge of tears. ‘No one would notice the two of us. I – I don’t know why, but I need to go north …’
‘This dream of yours?’
She nodded. ‘Someone is calling and calling to me. The answer lies out there, I know it does. Please, please let me go. I have to go, Tangnost.’
He knew it would have happened anyway one way or the other. She was stretching her wings.
‘Do you think you could manage on your own? It is further away than you think. And yes, the highways and the Northern Way at the heart of the kingdoms are again secure, but you would have to leave them to reach the mine. You have never stayed out overnight in the wilds, never had to forage—’
‘I have,’ Root chimed in, his voice quietly determined. ‘We – my warren – moved camp with the seasons, taking what we needed from the land as we went. I can find food and water wherever we are,’ he added confidently, as Quenelda shot him a grateful smile.
‘We can manage, Tangnost, I know we can,’ Quenelda pleaded.
‘You can go, but’ – he held up his hand – ‘you must take a battlegriff, and both of you must be disguised, so that none recognize you, or link you to the SDS or Dragon Isle. Should the Lord Protector’s men find you, none would dispute his right to take you into his household. Wear old clothes and old tack; carry nothing that points to Dragon Isle. That way you should be safe. Many visit the mines at the behest of their Lords. With a helmet on, no one outside of the Sorcerers Glen would know you. Quenelda. Cut your hair short and you will pass for a boy.
‘We must prepare. Root, go to the map room and put your recent learning to good use. Memorize your route, the forts and way-stations for food for you and fodder for your mount. Quenelda, come, we have much to plan.’
So lost … so alone …
But this time she could answer.
I’m coming … I’m coming for you …