Then a golden nimbus of light blossomed about Quenelda. Fire flowed through her veins. Arcing from her fingers, it struck out like a huge spider’s web, strong as steel, light as a feather. It cushioned the great dragon in flames that did not burn, slowing their dizzying descent, and cast them gently through the waterfall.
The freezing water instantly doused her fire. Combs and darkness closed in around them, and Stormcracker collapsed, throwing an exhausted Quenelda over his withers onto the floor, driving the breath from her lungs.
Root ducked as a final fireball scorched past him … and then … and then icy spray embraced him, water battered him, drowning his scream, and they were through, and it was pitch black, and he was deafened and soaked and shivering with cold and fear. Weakened and tired, I’ve Already Eaten barely managed to avoid Stormcracker but caught a hoof on the spines of his tail. Claws flailing, hooves skidding on the wet rock, the battlegriff came to a halt scant strides from where Quenelda struggled to her feet.
Root spat out water and knuckled his streaming eyes.
‘Are you all right?’ he shouted in the darkness as he dismounted. ‘You’re not hurt?’ The battlegriff was already fluffing up his feathers and stamping his hooves to keep warm.
Storm? Storm? Quenelda quested as she got to her feet, but there was only silence. The effort of landing had used the last of Stormcracker’s energy. He had collapsed into unconsciousness. She stumbled around the battlegriff to where the dragon lay unmoving. He was shuddering, his mind wandering again down a nightmare of endless dark tunnels. Laying her hands against his cheek, Quenelda bowed her brow and, to Root’s consternation, began to weep.
‘Quenelda?’ The gnome moved hesitantly to her side. ‘What is it?’ he asked gently. ‘What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Is it Storm?’
‘He – he c-can’t fly!’
‘But he just did.’
‘But it took every last ounce of his strength. He’s unconscious. I asked too much of him. He’s dying, and it’s all m-my fault!’
‘Let me light a fire,’ Root suggested. He felt dreadful, but he still took charge. ‘To get us warmed up. Then we can have a look and see how he is.’
He found sodden kindling and heather in the battlegriff’s saddlebags. Getting out his flint, he struck a tiny spark, which danced in the damp dark, then died.
‘The wood’s too wet!’ he muttered. This rescue was all going so terribly wrong. ‘Everything’s soaked. It’s not going to light.’ He struck the flint again.
Fire. Without thinking Quenelda formed the simple elemental rune in her mind. The wet wood smoked, burst into reluctant flame, and then suddenly blazed up.
‘Whoa!’ Root rocked back on his heels as the rising heat almost singed his nostrils. ‘I must be getting good at this!’ He was impressed with his efforts – he’d never managed to start a fire like this before! With him around, Quenelda need never worry about these mundane tasks.
Lighting their last pitch-soaked brand, Root went over to inspect the dragon. Stormcracker’s breath rattled in his lungs, plumes of breath condensing in the freezing air. He looked like a bag of bones, shiver after shiver running through his wasted body. Lifting the brand, Root carefully moved round behind him, appalled by the damage that had been done to the mighty creature. The tranquil black water of the cavern lake behind them flared to gold, then faded back into greater darkness. High above, the ceiling reached down with sparkling needles that dripped with the slow seconds of centuries. Dark tunnels yawned around the cavern’s edge in every direction.
Root filled the kettle, then brewed some dandelion tea, throwing in some nettle for strength, and motherwort for protection, from his pouch. The hot tea brought some colour back into Quenelda’s cheeks, but she still miserably acknowledged the truth.
‘He can’t fly any further. I’ve asked too much of him, Root. He’s never going make it back to Dragon Isle. He’s never going to fly again!’ She wiped away tears. I should have recognized his voice calling! I should have rescued him sooner. We’re too late!
‘But—’ Root opened his mouth to protest, to comfort her, then saw the terrible certainty in her eyes. She had lost Two Gulps. Now, when she had finally found him, her father’s battledragon was dying, his injuries beyond her fledgling powers.
Quenelda was crying quietly. ‘He’ll have to be put d-down. He can’t be left to suffer like this.’
‘I’ll fly back to Dragon Isle,’ Root offered, keeping his clasped hands behind his back so that Quenelda wouldn’t see them shaking, hoping she would put the wobble in his voice down to the cold. ‘I’ll fetch Tangnost. He’ll know what to do!’