Meanwhile, Ulin and Notwen remained hidden in Notwen’s laboratory, poring over plans and working on concoctions only they could understand. The trap was as ready as they could make it, but they spent hours double-checking figures and thinking of more ways to slow the huge beast.
Lucy retreated to her room and spent that evening perfecting half a dozen spells until she could cast them in her sleep. Most of them were spells she had done years ago at the Academy. A few were new ones she devised to protect herself or others from the dragon, and one was a special spell Ulin asked her learn. Her spellcasting was flawless, but to her dismay, even with the help of the turban, the spells went awry or failed more than half the time. Exhaustion finally forced her to stop, but she was frustrated at her failures and deeply worried. She could not afford to fail tomorrow when the red dragon appeared for his tribute.
Challie woke her the next morning with a mug of cooled cider and two hard-boiled eggs. “There’s more if you want it, but if your stomach is like mine, you won’t be able to eat it.”
Lucy quickly found Challie was right. As soon as she got out of bed and went to the small table, the enormity of their task for that day sank in its claws and twisted her stomach into knots. She drank the cider, ate one egg, and had to give up. “Do you want the other?” she offered.
Challie shook her head. “I’ve tried to eat, too, and can’t. Bridget is in the kitchen fixing these enormous meals, and no one can eat them. Even Cosmo is off his feed.”
The dwarf sat on the edge of her chair, twisting her hands. She wore the blue tunic and baggy pants that made up her uniform, and her silver axe hung at her belt, but her face was pale, and the dark blue of the tunic only enhanced the dark circles around her eyes. “Lucy, I’m nervous,” she admitted. “I never thought I’d admit this, but that dragon terrifies me. I have never been so close to a dragon before. What if I can’t do what I am supposed to do?”
Lucy stood by her friend’s chair. “I know,” she said. “All of us are terrified. I won’t hold you to this, Challie. If you want to leave, one of the Fox’s men can take you to one of the camps in the hills.”
“No,” the dwarf said vehemently. “I will not run. I made an oath to serve you and this town, and I will, but … I will be very glad when this is all over.”
Lucy couldn’t agree more. To occupy her mind, she put on her clothes, meticulously brushing the dust from her pants and tunic, donning everything so it all hung just right. She fastened her belt around her waist and slid her dagger scabbard to her right side. Her leather boots slid on easily, and she tucked her pants’ legs into the soft cuffs. Last of all, she picked up the turban from its resting place on the table and gently set it on her head. The moment when the creature returned to its preferred place never failed to amaze her. It wrapped itself happily about her chestnut hair like a cat snuggling into its bed for a nap, and the pleased mental thoughts of its consciousness settled around her in a comforting aura. Taking a deep breath, she half-bowed to Challie, and the two of them left the inn to face the day together.
Shortly after sunrise, the familiar figure of Knight Officer Venturin was spotted riding along the road into town. A sentry quickly steered her to the festival site where the sheriff was waiting for her. When she reached the street, she slowed her horse and looked around in surprise at the picnic preparations.
Lucy barely nodded to her as she handed Venturin a packet. “It’s all there: a map, tax records, and signed statements. Keep riding until our messenger catches up to you. I will not reveal your name to Fyremantle, but keep the information in case you need it in the near future.”
Venturin glowered down at her from the saddle. “My men?”
Lucy whistled loudly and pointed down the street. From the Game Cock, two men led a Dark Knight out the door. It was quite obvious, even from a distance, that he had been enjoying himself. He waved drunkenly to his commander. “As you can see, they’re fine.”
“Who is this messenger? How will he be able to catch up with me?”
“The messenger is on loan from a friend. It is a hawk, specially trained to deliver messages. It will find you.”
“One of the Silver Fox’s?” Venturin demanded. “Is he involved in this?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I’m not surprised.” The Dark Knight snatched the packet from Lucy’s hand. “Don’t try to cross me, Sheriff.” She spurred her horse around and galloped southeast toward the Desolation.
Mayor Efrim had told Lucy that the tax collection in Flotsam usually occurred around midafternoon on Visiting Day. Fyremantle collected the taxes from several places and usually needed the day to cover all his obligations. This day, they hoped, would not be different.
Everyone who volunteered to stay behind gathered in the new festival ground. Most of the kender were there with their containers of pickled eggs and their faces unclouded by fear. The city council, Mayor Efrim, and those of the Vigilance Force not guarding the camps made their appearance. There were enough people there, Lucy hoped, to give the dragon the impression that the whole town had come for the festival.
At her request, the firepits were uncovered and the sides of meat on their spits were raised and set to keep warm over the coals. Sniffing appreciatively, Ulin pulled out a leather bag and sprinkled the contents liberally over the roasting meat. He and Lucy watched as the white powder blended with the meat juices and slowly disappeared.
“What will that do?” Kethril asked curiously.
“With luck? Buy us some time. It is supposed to make the dragon drowsy for a short while. Don’t let anyone touch that meat. And the same with these barrels of beer.” He pried off the lids of three large kegs of beer and poured the contents of a second bag into the golden liquid.
Notwen tugged Lucy’s sleeve. “Sheriff, I’ve been meaning to tell you. The reason we had to make these powders …?” He hesitated and looked at Ulin then back at Lucy. “Well, I did some calculations last night, and I’ve rechecked them dozens of times. My, uh, trap will hold, but not for long. I estimate you will have about fifteen minutes before he breaks out.”
Appalled, Lucy stared at him. She had thought they would have ample time to convince the dragon to see things their way. “Fifteen minutes?” she gasped.
“It was the best we could do in such a short time,” Ulin said apologetically. “You and Kethril will have to talk fast.”
“Me?” Kethril exclaimed. “Why me?”
“I have to handle the rockets and the ropes and be close by in case the trap doesn’t work properly. You started this whole mess.” Ulin said pointedly. “You can help finish it.”
Lucy’s father nodded gloomily. His fingers went to the silver ring on his right hand and began to twist it around and around.
Challie and a guard arrived, driving a laden freight wagon covered with a tarp. They parked it near the fire pit and unhitched the horses.
Around noon people brought out the rest of the food prepared for the feast and set it out on tables under fly-proof screens. No one ate very much. Almost everyone stood around and watched the sky. A few musicians set up their instruments and played dance tunes, but no one danced. Lucy, as she walked around the grounds, thought the festival did not look very festive. The day was very warm for spring, and the heat rose in wavy sheets above the dry hills. The wind stirred dust into tiny whirlwinds and sent them spinning through the streets of the town. A large tumbleweed broke loose from its dry stalk and rolled through the festival grounds, enticing the kender to chase it. Notwen checked his trap for at least the thirtieth time and made sure the lamps were lit.
An hour after noon Lucy, Saorsha, and Aylesworthy climbed the path to the top of the Rock to wait for the dragon. In the meager shade of the hidden guard post, they sat without saying a word. Lucy kept her eyes to the west where the sky remained maddeningly empty.
“There he is.”
The guard’s soft words did not penetrate Lucy’s thoughts at first. She tore her eyes away from the
sky and said, “What?”
Instead of answering, the guard lifted his horn to his lips and blew the first signal to the town below. In the festival field, the people froze in place and waited, their hearts pounding, for the second signal.
“There,” Saorsha said, pointing to the north. “There he is.”
They could all see him now, a dark shape against the summer sky, coming fast on his beating wings. The guard blew the second signal.
“Here we go,” Saorsha muttered. The three of them climbed out of the guards’ post and walked across the windswept stone.
Fyremantle flew over the last row of hills and swept down over the town. He circled once, twice, his head lowered to see the buildings and streets. He curved south and angled over the festival. The people below screamed and shouted and ran in all directions. Huffing his pleasure, Fyremantle beat his wings and soared over the Rock.
Abruptly the sun was blocked out on the headland. Lucy tried to look up, but fear of the dragon nearly overwhelmed her, and she screwed her eyes shut and tried to stifle the scream that gathered in her throat. She heard the heavy rustle of his leathery wings and the scratch of his claws on the rock as he came in to land. A rush of wind blew the sulfuric stench of his body around her and made her gag.
“Mighty Fyremantle!” she heard Saorsha say. The older woman’s voice was tight with strain, but at least she could say something. Lucy forced her eyes to open and looked up into the face of the massive dragon. His scales gleamed like blood in the hot sun and radiated heat in shimmering waves.
His smoldering eyes were fastened on the empty stone where the barrels and boxes were supposed to be. His blackened nostrils curled in disdain. “This is all you were able to scrape together?” he said in withering scorn.
Mayor Efrim and Saorsha quickly fell to their knees and bowed low. Lucy followed suit. “Oh, no, inestimable lord. The taxes are here as required,” Mayor Efrim explained. “The boxes are still below. We had to make a final accounting to be sure everything was accurate. It is being loaded as we speak.”
“Below!” the red roared. His voice pounded at them like thunder. His anger sparked little flames around his teeth. “I gave you ample time to gather my tribute. Why should I bother to fly down into that dung heap of a town? Bring it up here this instant.”
“Of course, of course,” Saorsha said hastily.
Fyremantle suddenly cocked his scaled head. “What is that I smell?”
“We have prepared a feast for Visiting Day, your magnificence,” Lucy said. “If you will be patient, we’ll have the taxes—”
“Why should I be patient?” he rumbled. “You have disobeyed me.”
“Oh, no! No, lord. We have only been delayed. The treasure will be here any minute.”
He snorted a blast of hot, scorched breath. “It had better be.” He lifted his head and gazed toward the festival ground. He sniffed the air appreciatively. “Perhaps I will wait for a short time.” Abruptly he leaped to the edge of the headland and dropped off. His wings stretched out to slow his descent, and he glided down to the field. His massive weight landed with a shuddering thud. His crafty eyes gleaming, he snaked between the old buildings.
No one waited for him. Even the kender had disappeared into the grass or the nearest buildings. With a bound he landed amidst the trestle tables and crushed them under his body. His tail swept back and forth like a scythe, demolishing everything in its path. He snatched up the bowls and platters of food and dumped everything down his insatiable maw as he made his way toward the fire pits. Two of the sides of meat vanished between his jaws in just a few bites. He used a claw to pry open three beer barrels left standing near the fire pits. Each barrel was emptied down his throat. When he was finished, he looked around in satisfaction. The festival was in ruins; only the two remaining sides of beef were left.
On the headland, the sheriff ran down the road toward the festival, leaving the councilwoman and the mayor to follow in the pony cart. The hidden townspeople peeped nervously through cracks to see what he would do next. Not even Ulin knew for certain how quickly the sleep potion would affect a large dragon, and the greatest fear was that Fyremantle would leave before the trap could be sprung. A small fire had already started near the firepits where the wind from his wings had sent embers from the cooking fire flying into the dry grass. To their relief the dragon did not seem to notice the fire, nor did he try to start any of his own.
“Come on,” Ulin whispered urgently. “Stay and eat that last bite of meat. Take your time, you blasted worm.”
Lazily, Fyremantle stretched out his limbs and settled down on top of the wreckage to finish the last of the beef. His great body dropped to the ground, and his wings furled against his sides.
“Get ready,” Ulin hissed to those around him.
The red blinked his eyes. His tail flicked a few times then lay flat on the newly dug earth. His head snaked down and reached for the last haunch of beef.
“Now!” Ulin bellowed.
Fyremantle’s head snapped up with an audible “Huh?” sound.
Behind the old ruins, Notwen, Kethril, Challie, and Ulin sprang into action. Lighted wicks in hand, Challie and Kethril lit the fuses to two cloth bags filled with flash powder and hurled them into the firepit. A heartbeat later two brilliant flashes exploded like stars only a feet away from the dragon’s startled gaze.
He roared in fury, but the dazzling light and the clouds of smoke that issued from the pit momentarily blinded him to the frantic activity of the people around him.
Ulin felt his heart pounding in his chest. The dragonfear emanated in cold, palpable waves, causing his hands to shake and his entire body to tremble as if stricken with a fever. For a sickening moment his eyes watered with tears, and he felt his knees buckling. He looked around and saw Kethril clinging to a doorframe. Others fell to their faces, groveling in terror.
Fyremantle began to rise from the ground. His wings, though hindered by the buildings, lifted from his back.
Ulin turned his thoughts to Palin and his twisted hands, to his wife dead of a plague, to the Academy lying in ruins, and to his hatred of all evil dragons that caused such misery in the world. Anger raw and hot seared back his terror and stilled the trembling in his limbs. “Notwen!” he bellowed. “Do it now!”
The strong, powerful voice of the mage galvanized the trembling gnome. Ulin lit the fuses on a series of long pointed tubes placed strategically on one side of the street while Notwen lit the fuses of another.
The results were spectacular.
Like arrows of fire, the tubes rose above the street, jetting pink sparks and clouds of smoke. Attached to one set of rockets was a light-weight net strengthened with wire. The others carried ropes at their tails. They soared to their apex and arched down over the dragon, the net falling first and the ropes coming down on top. They were so carefully aligned that most of them crossed each other perfectly and laid their lines over the dragon from his neck to his tail.
Fyremantle squalled in confusion and rage. The powders Ulin had sprinkled on the food sapped his strength and left him lightheaded and weak, but the big red was not easily overcome. He struggled to stand, his head whipping back and forth, and his tail lashed at the buildings on either side. Spurts of fire blew from his jaws. His claws raked the ground and tore great holes in the road until he reached the grid of iron that sat just below the surface.
The rockets, having done their work, fell sputtering to the ground, and the citizens of Flotsam jumped to grab the ropes. One end of the net had been hidden in the dirt and was fastened to the iron grid beneath the dragon, but the other edge was loose and had to be tightened down. Shouting and screaming, the men and women tied the edge of the net and ropes down to rings Notwen had embedded in the ground and to anything that might hold the dragon in place.
While they struggled to hold him, Lucy, charging ahead of Saorsha and Mayor Efrim, worked her way around the buildings and came up behind him. At the edge of the net, her father met he
r.
“Don’t worry about fire,” Kethril yelled over the uproar. He tapped the ring on his hand. “It’s an artifact from Istar I picked up years ago. It will protect both of us, if we are touching.”
Lucy squeezed his hand gratefully. That took one problem off her mind. She had thought she’d have to make a mage shield to protect herself from the dragonfire, but with her father there to protect her, that was one less spell she had to worry about.
She placed her hand on the heaving net pinning the dragon and began the incantation that Ulin had taught her. The turban squirmed with delight, its crystal eyes glowing in the surge of magic that flowed through them both. Lucy tightened her hand around a strand of the net. She felt the magic fill her mind and body, its familiar warmth a welcome invasion. Carefully, precisely, she shaped the magic to her will, all the while praying in a small part of her mind that nothing would take her magic away. She sensed something close by, something odd, and for a second she thought she felt something tickle her skin.
The magic started to slip out of her control. Lucy’s thoughts gathered in one passionate objection: No! The turban responded and used its own power to bolster hers long enough to complete the spell. Lucy felt the net change under her fingers. From a stiff, unresponsive inanimate thing, it became supple as a vine and strong as steel.
The dragon felt the change, too, and his efforts to escape increased to sudden terror. But he was too late. The net molded neatly around his body and pinned his wings to his sides. Drawing power from the metal grid beneath the road, Lucy’s spell instantly hardened the net and turned it as rigid as the iron bars. Fyremantle was now trapped beneath an unyielding cage. He thrashed his head up and down and blew gouts of fire from his cavernous mouth, but he could not move.
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