by Liz Flanagan
Sweat was trickling down his neck. His right arm strained on the rope. His heart was racing. He took a deep breath, brought the chisel up and chipped at the blue-white rock. A little piece fell away, right down into the sea, but more chunks landed on his lap, caught in the fabric of his trousers.
Joe transferred the chisel to his teeth, gripping it tight, while his fingers roamed blindly and found each precious crumb of silverblue, tucking it away safely in his pockets and sling.
Next time he pushed back a little further, creating momentum to force the chisel in harder. Once it was stuck fast, he levered out a larger lump, and to his relief, it fell on him, not past him and down into the sea.
Again, he rammed the chisel in his jaws for a moment, grabbed the silverblue and went back in for another swipe.
It was hot and painstaking work, chipping away, sometimes losing the bits of silverblue, sometimes catching them, but he kept on, and on, until he knew his arms could take no more.
Just then, Winter’s head appeared over the edge of the cliff above him – she must be lying on her stomach – and she shouted down, ‘Joe! Are you all right? Is it working?’
‘Yes!’ he called back, trying not to think about how he’d climb back up again. His right arm started to shake with the strain. ‘I’ve got some. Not sure how much we need!’
Just then, there was a distant scream. Winter vanished from view.
‘Winter!’ Joe yelled, dropping the chisel and hearing it skitter down the cliff and clang onto the rocks. What was happening? He dangled there, helpless. He tried to listen for more clues, but he could hear only the endless crashing of the waves and the pounding of the blood in his ears.
He pictured terrible things: Winter hurt; Milla bleeding; Thom dead. He fumbled with the line, tightening the loop so he held the upper rope in both hands again, with its snaking shape round his body. He slipped, crushing one arm against the cliff, trying to get some purchase on the rock again, so he could start climbing up, an inch at time.
He was gripping the rope tightly, and even that seemed impossible now he was so tired. Somehow, he had to let go with one hand, and grab the next section, just a little higher, then repeat it, fist over fist, climbing up and up and up, grimly determined.
His palms were already raw and his arms were soon burning with agony. He counted in his head each time he reached up another fistful of rope, rewarding himself for every single tiny movement in the right direction. One … two … three … Somehow it helped him focus.
He’d just reached nine, when something huge flew overhead. Clinging to the rope, twisting his head round, he saw it was Milla and Thom on Ruby.
Joe felt as if he’d turned to ice, his mind frozen in shock and fear.
Where was Iggie? Where was Winter?
His mind felt numb and disbelieving. It made it impossible to go on.
He hung there, arms screaming to let go.
And then, in a blur of blue wings, another dragon blotted out the sky and flew overhead: Iggie, with Winter clinging to his back.
They were leaving.
For a horrible, heart-stopping moment, Joe thought they were abandoning him. Then Iggie circled round and returned to hover, near enough for Winter to yell across to him.
‘Joe! There are more senglars up there. Too many to fight off.’
So what could Joe do? He couldn’t go up, and he couldn’t last long here. He gulped, desperate, looking down and wondering if he’d survive the fall.
If only he could leap across to Iggie – but he had nowhere to jump from. ‘Can you come nearer, Iggie?’ he shouted.
Iggie’s wings beat fast, but it was an impossible manoeuvre, so close to the cliffs – he risked injuring his wings, and then they’d all be lost.
‘Trust Iggie!’ Winter was screaming. ‘That’s what Milla said. You have to trust him.’
‘To do what?’ he cried. Clinging to the rope, his arms were near their limits, hot and painful, he couldn’t hold on much longer. With his eyes squeezed tight against the sun, he caught a glimpse of the blue dragon.
Iggie was battling to hold position in the air, fixing him with his fierce green glare.
Help me, Joe thought. I can’t hold on.
His fingers started slipping on the rope, his mind a whirl of desperate fear. He was going to fall. The rope whipped through his belt. It rushed through his hands, burning his fingers. He caught the last section, hanging there by one hand. He had only moments left.
What had Winter said? Trust Iggie?
So he did. He screwed his eyes tight and let go, praying the blue dragon could reach him in time.
Iggie!
He was falling!
And then he wasn’t.
‘Argh!’ he cried out, gripped by sharp claws.
The rope dangled uselessly against the cliff.
Joe was lifted by Iggie’s powerful talons. He was carried up, up, up, into the air, his palms ablaze, and his arms as stiff and solid as if they’d turned to stone. Iggie carried him right over the heads of the pack of grunting, snapping senglars, tiny eyes narrowed, furious at losing their prey.
Joe’s vision began to swim. In one final glimpse, he saw that Iggie was heading for the other side of the island. Distantly, he realised he was being dropped onto a rocky slope. He felt the pain as he sliced his skin on stony scree. Finally, he couldn’t see anything. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he heard Winter’s voice and her strong arms dragging him onto Iggie’s back.
‘You did it, Joe! You got the silverblue!’
He let himself loll there, exhausted, unable to move or speak, but he felt one arm around his waist, the dragon’s leap into flight and the beat of wings, and he knew Iggie and Winter would never let him fall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
This was not the plan. They were supposed to camp on the island and return the next day, refreshed by sleep and food. Instead, the exhausted dragons carried their injured people home to Arcosi, flying through the dusk. The sea was a vast darkness stretching out beneath them. There was a streak of orange light in the western skies, and the stars appeared one by one as the sky faded to inky black.
Joe slipped in and out of consciousness, sure that Winter’s iron grip round his waist kept him safe. Every time he jolted awake, his rope-blistered hands went to the sling round his chest, checking the silverblue was still there. At first, he could still see Ruby, carrying Milla and Thom, but soon they vanished in the night.
Finally Winter spoke into his ear, rousing him from a strange fitful slumber. ‘Joe! Wake up. We’re home. Careful now.’
He jerked into wakefulness. His shoulders were throbbing where Iggie had grabbed him; and even the slightest movement of his arms caused agony. He hissed at the pain, and tried to keep still, using his legs to hold on as Iggie started soaring down, towards the lights of Arcosi.
Iggie let the winds carry them past the island, and then they circled back, losing height fast. Joe clung on and prayed they’d land somewhere near a tunnel entrance. He wasn’t sure how far he could walk.
To his relief, it worked: perhaps Iggie felt his desperation.
The blue dragon landed, clumsily this time, only just missing some apple trees in the overgrown gardens of the shadow strip. Dragons’ night vision must be better than mine, Joe thought. Flares burned on the palace garden walls high above them, lending a faint orange tinge to the darkness, just enough to see by.
Wincing, careful of every move, he managed to swing his leg over Iggie’s ears and dismount. ‘Thank you. Oh, thank you, Iggie.’ He bowed his head in deep respect. ‘You saved my life.’
Milla’s dragon rumbled a response, deep in his vast ribcage, and his wings folded down at last.
‘Here, there’s a well.’ Winter tumbled off and showed Iggie where he could drink. They heard the gulp and hiss as the blue dragon sucked down huge amounts of spring water. Winter ran her hands over his back, deep midnight-blue in the near-dark, whispering her thanks too.
/> ‘Will he be all right?’ Joe mumbled. He felt ready to collapse, and it seemed impossible that Iggie could launch again, after such a long gruelling day.
‘Ig, can you find Milla? Do you know where she is?’ Winter asked. ‘Did she take Thom to the healing house?’
Iggie finished drinking and raised his head, scenting the air. He started lumbering to the edge of the gardens. He seemed restless suddenly, and eager to leave.
‘What’s wrong?’ Joe asked. ‘What if something’s happened to Milla, and Iggie knows?’
‘It’s all right – he just needs to find his person,’ Winter said. ‘And we need to find our eggs.’
Joe’s hand fell on the sling and he pulled his mind back to the task they’d risked everything to achieve. They had to get the silverblue to the eggs, and fast. It began to sink in finally: the eggs had a chance, right now, a real chance of hatching.
Iggie perched on the wall at the edge of the gardens and used the drop to help him launch. Joe listened to the wingbeats disappearing, then turned to Winter. ‘All right. I’m ready.’ He gritted his teeth against the pain. He could do this.
‘Wait, let me fetch a light. You can refill the water flasks and wash your scratches in the well.’ Winter vanished into the nearest ruined villa and Joe did as he was told, grateful not to have to make any more decisions. She reappeared holding a lit candle moments later. ‘All these houses in the shadow strip were abandoned. Some were taken, along the lower street, but people think these ones are haunted. It means they haven’t been looted, so they’re full of useful things.’
By the flickering golden light, she found a cellar door she’d used before, and they descended into the tunnels, cool and damp, with that sulphurous smell.
They reached the egg cave and went in, clumsy suddenly, as they grew near.
Joe fell on his knees, and with trembling, painful hands, he opened the casket. The eggs waited there, but their glow was fainter. There was a new smell rising from them – sour, rank, rotten – like old seaweed at the high-tide line.
‘What’s wrong with them?’ Winter cried. ‘Are they dying?’
‘Quickly! There’s no time to lose.’ Joe fumbled in the sling for the pieces of silverblue. They fell in a pale scatter and he dotted them around the eggs, on the velvet. ‘Should they it touching, or just near them?’
Winter shook her head, eyes dark in the candlelight.
‘What did it say in the book, do you remember? Something about sparks and liquid fire?’ Joe eyed the candle. ‘I did feel a spark that time – you felt it too, didn’t you?’
Winter recited the words she’d memorised from the ancient book:
‘In the island’s secret heart,
From liquid flame, there comes a spark.
With fire and water, earth and air,
Forged in the ocean’s hidden lair,
A broken heart will dare it all,
Take the leap and risk the fall.
From ash and bone, new life will rise,
Shadow dragons roam the skies!’
‘But what does it mean?’ he cried anxiously. They had risked it all, hadn’t they? He’d taken the leap when he went over the cliff. What else did they need?
‘We’ve done what we can. We’ve brought the silverblue. Maybe it takes a while. Let’s wait till morning and see what happens?’ Winter suggested.
They sat down in the dim fuggy cave, trying to stay awake. The warmth made Joe’s head swim and his vision blur. He had to stay awake, he had to! What if he missed the hatching? But his eyelids grew heavy. He’d had so little rest the last two nights. I’ll just rest my head for a moment, he thought, just a moment. He lay back and put his head on his aching arms.
He woke, hours later, and immediately knew something was wrong. The candle had burned to a stub, but it still cast a soft yellow light round the cave.
‘Winter! Winter! Wake up.’ He scrambled to his feet and peered at the eggs.
‘What is it?’ Winter gasped, rubbing sleep from her eyes. ‘Are they dead?’
Joe grabbed for the purple egg: there was no spark today and its glow was dimmer, almost gone. Its ridged surface seemed parched and there was a crack on one side, not a crack as if it was hatching, but a dried-out brokenness.
Winter was right: the eggs were dying.
He held it up, close to his face. ‘Please don’t die.’ His heart felt like a bruise in his chest, sore and tender. ‘What did we do wrong?’ This was his dragon. His only dragon, his only chance. He’d known it from the first moment he’d seen this egg. Despair threatened to swamp him.
He hardly dared turn to Winter. He’d failed her. Winter, who’d lost so much. What would happen if she lost this as well? It was too much to bear. She seemed so different from that restless brittle girl he’d first met. And now this: it wasn’t fair.
She was holding her egg, rocking it, tears pouring down her face. ‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t leave me.’
Joe closed his eyes, wishing there was something he could do, wishing they knew more. He fought not to sink below the crashing waves of grief and fear.
All at once, he recalled his nightmare from the other day: water rising, rising, rising. Maybe it wasn’t a warning. Maybe it was an instruction.
He swayed where he stood, stronger than last night. He rolled his shoulders experimentally – yes, they were better. He checked his hands: the scratches were healing. The eggs must still be alive if their strange healing power still worked.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said, hope growing inside him now. He wedged his egg in the crook of his left arm. And we have nothing to lose, if they really are dying, he thought, but didn’t say, wanting to protect Winter from that as long as possible. He gathered up the pieces of silverblue. ‘Winter? Let’s go to the stream in our cavern.’
She looked up blearily, her face slick with tears. ‘Joe, it’s too late …’
‘It’s not! Please. I have an idea,’ he repeated. ‘Remember what the book said, about silverblue and heat and moisture? Well, I reckon they actually need to be in the water!’ He saw her battling with the decision, as if it was easier to slip into despair than to dare to hope. ‘Winter! Don’t give up. Not yet. Not till we’ve tried everything,’ he begged her.
She didn’t reply, but she too tucked her egg carefully under one arm, then reached out with her other and let Joe help her up.
They left as fast as they dared, back down the steps and through the winding tunnels under Arcosi, all the way back to the large cavern.
They found the stream of water that bubbled and flowed through one side of the large cave. Joe dipped his hand into the pool, fearing it would be as ice-cold as that first day.
No, it was hot now, even hotter than before. What did that say about the volcano if there were hot jets bubbling up all over the region, even this far away from Mount Bara? He couldn’t worry about that now.
Joe stood next to the pool with his egg in his hands. Was he really going to do this? He had a strong instinctive sense it was the right thing. ‘They’re shadow dragons,’ he said aloud. ‘They’re different. They swim, don’t they? They belong in the water now.’ I hope! he added silently.
‘Joe, I’m scared,’ Winter said.
‘Me too, but we have to try. We can’t let them die.’ He held her gaze steady, wishing with all his heart that he was right. ‘Remember what else the book said, all the stuff about the elements? Well, they’re all here, all the elements: the silverblue we mined from the island, maybe that’s earth. There’s air that we breathe and the bubbles in the water. There’s heat from the volcanic flows – that must count as fire. And there’s water right here. Look, I’ll go first, to see if it works.’
He brought the egg to his chest and wished it all the luck in the world, and then he lowered it slowly into the pool of hot water.
There was a ledge there, and he released the egg carefully onto the rocky shelf. It stayed in position, the warm water flowing over it. The purple lu
minescence grew brighter, flaring below the water.
‘Look! That’s got to be good, right?’ Joe said.
Winter gasped, and hurried to do the same thing with her egg.
Joe felt for the silverblue, the little blue-white rocks gleaming like moonlight, and he put them in too, all around the eggs, like a nest.
They started fizzing. Each piece of silverblue sent up a stream of tiny bubbles.
‘What’s happening?’ Winter asked.
‘They’re reacting – that’s what the other book said. It must be part of the hatching process, to thin the eggshell …’ Joe watched all the silverblue pieces dissolve and vanish.
‘What shall we do now?’ Winter’s face was streaked with tears and dirt, but her eyes were brighter again.
‘We wait,’ Joe said firmly.
They sat cross-legged on the rocky floor and kept their eyes on the eggs on their little ledge, glowing brighter and brighter with every passing moment.
‘It’s working,’ Winter whispered hoarsely. ‘Thank you, Joe.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Nothing happened immediately, although the increased glow from the eggs gave Joe hope. They sat, watching the eggs, passing the water flask between them and sharing a handful of dusty raisins from the bottom of the backpack. Winter lit another candle from the stub of the last one.
‘What time is it?’ Winter asked. ‘Wait, what day is it, even?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Joe said. He’d lost all sense of time down here in the darkness. ‘Does it matter?’
‘The other eggs hatched at full moon – do you remember how full the moon was last night?’
He remembered how velvety dark the sky and the sea had been. ‘Definitely not full – there was hardly any moonlight, was there?’
‘Oh.’ She sounded concerned. ‘Do you think it’s going to take that long – till the moon is full again?’
‘Maybe they’re the opposite of usual dragon eggs. Maybe the dark moon is just what shadow dragons need?’ He realised again how little they knew, as he watched the eggs glowing under the water. He thought of Milla – it must have been the same for her when Iggie hatched. That made him feel better.
