Rise of the Shadow Dragons

by Liz Flanagan

  He pushed open the kitchen door and sneaked into the storeroom. He grabbed a pastry and shoved it in his mouth, eating so fast he almost choked on it. He took a soft leather backpack and filled it with food: cheese, dried meat, raisins. He found an empty flask and filled it with water from the well. He took one of the storm lanterns and its spare oil.

  What else did he need? The shipwreck kit. He risked the main door and slipped inside the house, soft moonlight showing him the way up to his room.

  Where was it? Joe searched in the gloom till his hands fell on the cylinder. He looped the strap round his shoulders, ready to leave.

  His gaze fell on the purple hat and dragonrider gloves, laid out there, waiting for a life that would never happen. He’d dreamed of a future that wasn’t his. He didn’t deserve it, just like he didn’t deserve these white robes. He tugged at the ripped jacket, throwing it off, dressing himself in his warmest old clothes. The gifts from Conor and Amina fell on the floor, and he almost left them. At the last moment, he stuffed them in his pockets, then he headed for the door.

  Something stopped him.

  He should tell them he was alive, at least. But how?

  His fingers went to the chain around his neck where the small silver medal dangled, the birthday gift from Milla. He unfastened it now.

  One day, maybe he would earn it back. Till then, he didn’t deserve to wear it any more. He was a disgrace to his family. The black sheep, the waddler, the monster.

  He laid the chain on top of the purple gloves and left, clutching the shipwreck kit close.

  He padded down the main stairs, listening hard. The house creaked in its old familiar way, telling him it was empty. So where were his parents? He heard voices in the garden. He crept through the front doors and hid in the shadows, waiting for his chance to climb down the steep wall behind the practice yard.

  ‘What did he say?’ one voice asked. It was Matteo, the cook.

  Why was Matteo still awake when he always rose before dawn? It wasn’t like him: he’d be too tired to cook tomor­row.

  ‘Ah, still looking – they’ll be out all night.’ That was the night watchman, Gabriel, who stood sentry duty at the main gates each night. His father kept him on, unable to give up his old habits, even now the island was safe and peaceful again.

  Looking for who? For him? Joe’s heart beat faster, and he strained to hear over the blood pounding in his ears. He hated to think of his father, tired and disappointed, still out there searching for his disgraced son.

  ‘Bad business.’ Gabriel hissed through his teeth.

  ‘Didn’t see it, but he’s a good lad, Joe. He wouldn’t mean any harm,’ Matteo defended him.

  ‘Huh,’ Gabriel tutted. ‘Mean it or not, he caused it. Plenty were harmed today. The healers don’t know if the crushed boy will live. No, Joe will have to answer for it.’

  ‘I heard the Brotherhood made the most of it.’

  ‘Aye, and maybe they should. Maybe they’ve got a point.’

  ‘That’s serious trouble for his sister and the duke.’ Their voices faded as they turned away from Joe.

  He wanted the ground to open up and gobble him down. Had he caused the death of a child? The idea was unbear­able. The whole island must hate him now, and who could blame them?

  He couldn’t hear the next mumbled words as the men moved away, but he heard the final part all right.

  ‘He’d be dead if it weren’t for the Lady Milla. Maybe it’d be better for his folks if he were.’ Gabriel spoke Joe’s worst fears out loud.

  He stopped breathing.

  Is that what people thought?

  Hearing it in someone else’s voice made it true and real in a way that sliced right through him. It would be better if he were dead.

  In one day, his whole life had burned away, leaving noth­ing but ash and disappointment behind. Not caring who saw him now, Joe fled from his parents’ home, knowing he’d never be able to return.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Joe was never quite sure what happened next. If he’d been burning with anger at the ceremony, now he was left frozen and numb with shock, blundering through a night­mare. Strong winds brought sheeting rain. Later, he’d see the bruises and scrapes, his clothes ripped and soaked in mud, so he must have run, climbed, fallen. He vaguely recalled his hellish tour of the harbour in the pouring rain, begging each captain in turn for passage off the island. Two things made that impossible: he had no money, and each sailor took one glance at him and knew he was Nestan’s son. They told him to go home and tell his parents he was safe. Their voices weren’t angry, but their eyes told another story: distant and disappointed, they wanted nothing to do with him.

  He was trapped.

  His life on the island was over, but he couldn’t leave.

  Again, he ran.

  As dawn broke, he came to himself, like waking from a bad dream. He was standing on a grassy ledge on the north-west clifftops of Arcosi, alone.

  A gusty wind blew, spattering his face with raindrops in a way that felt personal. The sky was mottled grey and full of moisture. He looked down: far, far below him, the jagged rocks gave way to deep water. From here it appeared blackish-blue, and very cold.

  He stared down again and imagined a way out. He was already so overwhelmed by his shame that the idea of being free of it, even like this, seemed appealing.

  He’d have to leap out, to be sure. He wanted it to be quick. He tried to imagine the pain, but he found it was impossible.

  He shivered. He didn’t really want to die – he just wanted to start again, be someone else. Someone better.

  What took more courage? To live or to die? He couldn’t tell any more. He was so tired.

  He closed his eyes, gathering himself.

  Just then, the sun heaved itself over the horizon into a narrow gap between clouds. Joe felt the light change. Behind his eyelids, the world turned deep purple, the purple of his dreams.

  The purple of the dragon he didn’t have.

  It wasn’t painful. It was comforting.

  Joe stood there trembling, eyes closed, basking in the purple glow. And he felt the first tiny twist of hope. There was something out there, waiting for him. It might be an illusion, caused by lack of sleep, but he clung to it. Maybe even monsters were allowed to dream.

  He could start again, but he would have to do it the hard way. If he wanted to be someone better, that was up to him. And if he started now, maybe one day he’d be able to hold his head high again.

  Maybe one day he’d be able to go home.

  Slowly, slowly, he opened his eyes, sticky with tears and salt. He fell to his knees, feeling the sodden grass, cool under his scorched fingertips. He pushed back from the edge of the cliff and let himself cry at last. Deep, racking sobs shook his whole body, spread-eagled on the earth.

  He wept for the strange and dangerous person he’d been today.

  He wept out his anger and disappointment.

  He wept out his jealousy and arrogance.

  He wept out his shame and his sorrow.

  He wept until there was nothing left.

  He felt like a blank sheet of parchment, and it was a relief. Time to begin a new story.

  Then he stumbled back to his hiding place in the cave. Somehow he still had his shipwreck kit and the lantern looped over his shoulders, but he had lost the bag of food.

  Back at the cave mouth, he took a moment to light the storm lantern, noticing distantly that his burned fingers were shaking. He ignored that and lifted it high to cast a trem­bling golden pool of light. Now he could see the entrance to the cave clearly, with the little rounded curve at the side where he’d slept last night, and a larger cavern to the right that was full of roosting bats. He wrinkled his nose at the strong, distinctive smell. A few paces past both, there was a kind of doorway facing him. He went through and saw a wide flight of worn steps.

  Steps?

  Steps were made by someone. Steps led somewhere.

  Hadn’t he wan
ted a new path? Well, here it was. Not caring where it took him, Joe lifted the storm lantern and started down the stone stairs. The darkness didn’t scare him. He put one hand to the inner wall: it felt cool and coarse. The air smelled of salt and damp and dust. The yellow circle of light held him safe as he walked down, down, down.

  Joe came to the bottom step. The passage led away into the gloom. It was wide enough for him to walk with his arms outstretched, tall enough so he wouldn’t bang his head. The walls had a gentle curve to them, as if carved by wind or rain, but it was too deep down here for either. The tunnel turned and Joe carried on, taking it slow and steady. He climbed, twisted, turned and turned, travelling up the tunnel like a rat.

  He rounded a corner and halted, stunned.

  He stood in a massive cavern reaching away in every direction, bigger than the great dining hall at the palace. He couldn’t even see the roof, but it must have a hole in it, high above him, because a shaft of light fell down, piercing the darkness. He could hear rushing water too. A stream ran through the cavern, bubbling into a pool on the far eastern side before surging away out of sight. Joe went over and dipped one finger into the water. He sniffed, then licked it. The water tasted clean, with its usual metallic tang and a slight taste of sulphur. He cupped his hand and drank a mouthful, so cold that it hurt his teeth.

  He took his time exploring the cave, finding it dry and roomy, dappled with light filtering down from far above. It was like a dragonhall underground, he realised with a painful wrench. He took a wavering breath in, accepting all he’d lost – and what he’d found. This secret place would be his alone. A home for a monster. A hidden kingdom beneath Arcosi. He could live here while he rebuilt his life. He could live down here for ever.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Joe slept in the huge underground cavern for the rest of that day. When he woke, he was freezing cold and utterly alone, and both those things took his breath away. For a moment he couldn’t move. His clothes were wet. His knees and shins were covered in bruises, and now his burned fingertips were also bloodied and bashed, throbbing in a way that worried him.

  He climbed awkwardly back through the tunnel and peered outside. Heavy rain blurred the beach into a grey smudge. Joe needed salt water to keep his wounds clean: Milla had taught him that years ago. Ignoring the stiffness in his legs, he threw himself outside, blinking hard, slipping down the steep hillside and onto the beach, heading for the sea. He took his shoes off, rolled up his trouser legs and shirt sleeves and walked right in, plunging his arms into the waves.

  He gasped at the deeper cold and the sting of the salt water. Soon his burns were entirely numb – along with the rest of his arms and both feet. His teeth started chattering. His wet clothes clung to him and the rain plastered his hair in his eyes.

  He was ravenously hungry. Maybe one day he’d be able to catch fish or snare a rabbit, but not today, not in this state. He had no choice: he’d have to go back into the city to find food.

  He waited until it was dark. The storm seemed to have passed, or at least the rain had finally paused for breath. Joe retraced his steps over the western beach, past the ware­houses and into the shadowy streets of Arcosi, looking for signs of life and the chance to steal some food. He followed the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat until he came to a tall building that sounded full of people. If there was a party going on, they might not notice an uninvited guest.

  Joe crept across the street, listening hard. He stared between a crack in the shutters, but saw only a jumble of bodies, nothing clear. He looked up, searching for some­thing to climb to get a better view, but the wall was smooth and high. Above him, a few stars were caught in a net of white cloud.

  He strained to hear. There was loud cheering. There must be dozens of people in there.

  ‘You look hungry. Drowned rat ain’t the half of it.’

  Joe spun round, finding himself face to face with a short burly man. He was standing like a soldier on the balls of his feet, holding a sword as if it weighed no more than a spoon.

  ‘Yes, I mean, no, I mean … what do you mean?’ Joe babbled. He swayed, suddenly light-headed, shaking hard with cold.

  ‘Steady on, lad,’ the man said, holding him up with his free hand, smiling now. ‘No need to panic.’ He had receding white hair in two stripes either side of his scalp, making him look like a kindly badger. ‘Anyone can see you need hot food and somewhere to dry off. Come on, with me.’ He sheathed his sword and gestured for Joe to follow.

  ‘Why? What is this place?’ Joe remembered stories of young men being drugged, then forced onto ships to work as sailors. Hadn’t he wanted that, to leave the island? Suddenly he wasn’t so sure.

  Before the man could answer him, someone stuck his head out of the window next to them, calling, ‘Any stragglers, Yannic? Come on in, we’re about to start.’ This man’s face loomed over them. He had short hair, silver in the moon­light, hollow stubbled cheeks, and a curving boat-shaped scar under one eye.

  ‘Coming, Asa!’ Yannic replied, steering Joe towards the double doors of the building. ‘Come eat with us, and welcome. Our doors are always open to friends …’

  He went to the door and knocked, three times, in a slow-quick-quick rhythm. With a squeak of rusty hinges, it opened up, letting out a warm flood of lamplight and the delicious savoury aroma of hot food. The man vanished inside.

  The door started to close. Joe had to decide before it slammed in his face. His stomach grumbled painfully, making his decision for him. ‘Wait!’ he called. ‘I’m coming too.’ He’d worry about everything else when he’d eaten.

  He went through the doors, finding himself in a small lobby with bare wooden boards and a staircase winding up to the left. There were two strangers studying him suspi­ciously, standing guard in front of large doors with ornate brass handles.

  ‘Armed?’ one demanded, patting Joe down roughly.

  ‘Just this.’ Joe took out the dragon-handled knife that Conor had given him on his birthday. He felt a sudden pang for everything he’d lost since yesterday morning.

  The shorter man took it, adding it to the deep shelves under the stairs, which were filled with an alarming assort­ment of weapons.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, lad.’ The other guard clapped him on the back, hard. ‘We don’t bite.’ He pushed him towards the double doors. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

  With their laughter in his ears, Joe fumbled nervously with the door handle. He couldn’t even get that right! Finally it opened, and he slipped through into the large, overcrowded room beyond.

  The first thing he noticed was the heat: damp, sweaty and sour. There must have been a hundred or more men, and a few women, tightly packed, all facing forwards. He shuffled in and found himself wedged tightly between a tall ginger-bearded stranger, and a short bald man he vaguely recognised from Amina’s neighbourhood. All were Norlanders, every single one.

  He stood on tiptoe: he could just make out the man called Asa standing at the front of the room. There were a few benches and trestle tables at one side, laden with three large barrels that must contain ale, he guessed, by the strong yeasty smell in the air.

  ‘Hey, hungry boy?’ Yannic appeared, holding a wooden plate in one hand, piled with slices of sausage and dense dark bread, and a bowl of soup in the other.

  Joe took the food, wobbly with relief. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Sit there. Eat. I’ll be back soon.’ Yannic pointed to a bench at the back of the room and then vanished into the crowd.

  Joe pushed his way to the bench, only spilling a bit of soup, and wolfed down the food, no longer caring if it was laced with something to make him sleep. If he woke and found himself on the deck of a strange ship, he’d consider it a fair trade right now.

  Asa’s voice carried, loud and clear. ‘Now, let’s begin our evening in the usual way.’

  There was a smattering of applause, grunts of approval. Then, to Joe’s surprise, everyone started singing. It was a traditional Norlander song about the sea,
and Joe half remembered it.

  The nearest man seemed to be glaring down at him, so Joe mumbled along, trying not to stand out.

  ‘Hey, you,’ the man said, leaning over and nudging his shoulder hard.

  ‘What?’ Joe asked, eating faster. If he was going to get thrown out, he wanted to get as much food down him as possible.

  ‘You can’t sing without a drink – take this!’ And he passed Joe a slopping cup of something frothy.

  ‘Er, thanks!’ Joe took it and gulped a mouthful. He’d stolen a taste of ale from his father’s mug before, and rec­ognised the strong bitter flavour. He found himself slowly relaxing, warmed by the ale and the food and the company. Maybe he wasn’t alone after all. Maybe there was a place for him here, with these people. They seemed open and kind. He sang louder.

  When the song finished, everyone started moving around, looking for friends in the crowd. Joe was deafened by the yelling of names, cries of greeting.

  He looked around as he chewed his bread, trying to work out what this meeting was for. People were now huddled in small groups, talking intently.

  Yannic reappeared, holding an old blanket which he threw around Joe’s shoulders. ‘Feeling better?’ he asked, coming to stand in front of him. He smiled again in a friendly enough way, but Joe got the feeling he was trying to block his view.

  ‘Uh-huh, thank you,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of sausage spiced with pepper. ‘What is this?’ he dared to ask next, finding that the ale had loosened his tongue. ‘I mean, what’s happening here?’

  ‘Just friends, catching up,’ Yannic said.

  Joe was unconvinced; he had always been good at noticing things, and this felt too organised to be a social gathering. Each of the groups now had exactly twelve people in it and there were at least ten different groups. ‘You’ve got lots of friends,’ he said. ‘And they’re all Norlanders.’ That was un­usual on an island that was full of people from all over their corner of the world and beyond.

  ‘That’s right,’ Yannic chuckled. ‘Curious little jackdaw, aren’t you?’ He edged even closer, so all Joe could see was Yannic’s generous stomach and the buckles on his leather belt. He’d kept his sword, he saw, while everyone else had had to leave theirs outside. So maybe he was in charge. ‘What about you? What’s your story?’