The Dragon Whisperer

by Lucinda Hare

  Frowning, Quenelda leaned forward and cautiously sucked in the hot air. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  'What do you smell?'

  'It's sweet, sickly ... like rotting fruit.'

  Tangnost nodded. 'That is the start of infection. That is why the wound feels hot to him, why he is so difficult to handle. Hobgoblin weapons are filthy and many are poisoned. It makes us fear them all the more if we suddenly drop dead weeks after a battle. If we don't treat this now and it spreads, Two Gulps risks losing his tail to gangrene. Then he won't be able to balance, won't be able to run, let alone fight. Here' – the dwarf selected a heavy ceramic apothecary's pot from a low shelf, removed the lid and held it out to Quenelda – 'what's in this, lass?'

  Quenelda dipped a finger in and sniffed. She screwed her face up as she thought, testing the grainy texture between her fingers. 'Mandrake ... barkloam ... moonlight ... a hint of appleweed?'

  Tangnost gruffly nodded his approval. 'Yes.' Why not push her a little further? he thought. 'Why this combination?'

  She didn't hesitate. 'Barkloam to help the wound close and heal. Mandrake to draw out the infection. Moonlight for energy, and ground appleweed bark to lessen the pain.'

  'Good.' The dragonmaster nodded, quietly satisfied. 'Good.'

  Ever since Tangnost could remember, Quenelda had taken every opportunity to watch him and his roostmasters at work. Slipping away from her nanny and tutors, she would suddenly appear in the roost, sitting quietly, eyes bright with concentration, listening and watching intently as they instructed esquires in dragonlore and dragonhandling. With his five sons all dead in the war, Tangnost loved her like the daughter he'd never had from the moment he first held her.

  Once, when she was still a babe, she had disappeared from the nursery. A frantic search of Dragonsdome's vast stables, roosts and paddocks had found her asleep in the battleroosts, curled up beneath the protective wing of her father's battledragon, Stormcracker Thundercloud III. She seemed to have no fear of these deadly creatures, no fear of flying, and they had never harmed so much as a hair on her head.

  Before long, Quenelda started to explain how the dragons were feeling, even what they were thinking. Well, the roostmasters had smiled indulgently – lots of young children pretended to talk to animals; they were always having made-up conversations with imaginary friends, and so they didn't pay much attention. But the Earl and his dragonmaster did.

  When she was barely five years old Quenelda had warned that Nightmare Nemesis had dreadful indigestion in her third stomach due to eating one half-rotten hobgoblin too many; the roostmistress had ignored her, and the resultant flatulent explosion had flattened half the maternity roosts. Then, when she was seven, she knew that Sunset Spitfire had a fractured trapsom even though the surgeon had declared her fit. The injured battledragon had lived up to her name and reputation when she turned on the dragonsmith who was grafting on a new scale and toasted him and his two apprentices, leaving three piles of ashes and three greasy stains on the floor that took months to scrub off.

  Soon Dragonsdome's roostmasters and dragonsmiths began to pay attention when Quenelda chose to share her insights with them. There was no question about it – the young girl had a way with dragons. Only Tangnost, the Earl's dragonmaster, suspected just how great that gift might be, but he kept his thoughts entirely to himself.

  'Tangnost?' Quenelda impatiently tugged the dwarf's long battle-braid, a childhood habit. She was looking at him quizzically.

  'Harrumph.' Tangnost coughed, embarrassed at being caught daydreaming. He put the pot down at Quenelda's feet, careful to hide his excitement. If he was right ...

  'Apply this thickly,' he said gruffly, mind racing. 'You know the drill.' As Quenelda bent to her task, the dragonmaster turned to his young apprentice, inwardly cursing the fact that they were so short-handed he had to resort to untrained and untried youngsters.

  'Helmet off,' he barked, making the nervous gnome jump. 'Make yourself useful! Now, Root lad, bring a bucket of tar and a ladle from the cauldron. And make sure it's hot, mind.'

  'Sir! Yes, sir!' Root jumped to his assigned task.

  'Don't dawdle!' Tangnost growled as the dark-skinned young gnome finally staggered up with a bucket of bubbling tar. 'We haven't got all day. On with it, lad, on with it! Let's see if you've learned anything of dragonhandling in your first season at Dragonsdome. Mind that tar!' he warned as the bucket slopped over the rim to splash his boots. 'It's hot! If you're going to scout like your father, my lad, you've still got a lot to learn about dragons. Now' – he held the boy's gaze for a moment – 'take it slowly, like I've shown you.'

  'Sir! Yes, s-s—' Root croaked. His mouth was so dry with fear he couldn't even swallow, and he was beginning to sweat heavily beneath the cumbersome armour.

  Root's father was one of the Earl's best scouts. It was a dangerous profession – tracking the hobgoblin war bands – but one that brought great honour and privilege. It meant that Root, his only son, had been given an apprenticeship at Dragonsdome. Few commoners could expect an apprenticeship under the tutelage of one of the greatest dragonmasters of the age. He must not – Root gritted his teeth – he would not let his father down. He would not betray the fact that he was afraid of dragons; dreadfully afraid. But he couldn't help wishing he had been allowed to follow a more traditional family career, such as a rat-catcher's apprentice.

  It wasn't enough that they weren't in front of the dragon, in front of foot-long fangs and a walking blast furnace. No, Root found little comfort in tending the dragon's tail. When he was four he had seen a man-at-arms decapitated by one casual flick of a spurred tail when he got too close to a battledragon. The dwarf's head had bounced five times before coming to rest at Root's feet.

  Root's heart fluttered. The air was so hot and his throat was parched. Sweat ran in rivulets down the inside of his roost armour, pooling in his boots. He felt faint. He took off a gauntlet to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Hand shaking, trying to shut out the memory, Root dipped the brush back into the tar. The shell beads strung round his wrist rattled with nerves as he raised the dripping brush.

  Quenelda watched impatiently as the gnome boy painted on the hot tar. He was so slow! And he was doing such a bad job. The tips of his beaded hair braids were actually hanging in the bucket! Why didn't the dragonmaster intervene? She could show the youth how it should be done.

  'Quenelda' – Tangnost turned to go, his armour clanking – 'I just want to check on A Case of Bad Indigestion. Keep an eye on the lad. Once the tar is on, call me and we'll get the splint on.'

  Nerves made Root clumsy. He was making a bad job of it and he knew it. He glanced up at the Earl's daughter, her hair tucked behind her small pointed ears. She was always so haughty, and right now she was frowning at him, her lips pursed in their usual thin line of disapproval, just waiting for him to make a mistake so she could show him how it was supposed to be done. And why did she not have any roost armour on? Was she not afraid of being burned by the bad-tempered battledragon?

  The great bells of the Dragonsdome belfry struck the Hour of the Strutting Cockerel. Outside, a cockerel obligingly cleared its throat and prepared to announce a new day. They had worked through the entire night! No wonder nerves were fraying.

  Quenelda sighed loudly and started to tap her foot with impatience, making the buckles on her flying boots jingle. The uneven rhythm grated on Root's nerves. Picking up on her impatience, Two Gulps and You're Gone twitched his tail.

  Root froze. Tar dripped on the floor.

  He glanced at Quenelda's back as she moved forwards to soothe the dragon. She was so confident. Even her aristocratic voice made Root jump.

  As if she could read his very thoughts, Quenelda sighed loudly and turned back to him. 'Oh, do get a move on,' she said loudly, raising her eyes skyward in exasperation.

  Root flinched, dropping the brush into the bucket. Boiling hot tar splashed on his unprotected hand, burning it badly. He muffled a cry.

  'Qu
ick!' The Earl's daughter swiftly guided the youth round the dragon towards the water trough. Keeping a firm hold on his armour, she plunged his arm into the freezing water up to his elbow.

  'W-what are you doing?' Root was almost weeping with pain.

  'If you're going to work with battledragons,' Quenelda said sharply, 'you had better learn how to treat burns. Cold water will stop the burning. Keep your hand in there.'

  She opened one of the small pouches on her flying belt and withdrew a small glass pot. 'Hand,' she ordered him brusquely.

  Trying not to show the pain, Root held it out.

  'Tsk,' Quenelda clucked with disapproval. 'You shouldn't have taken your gauntlet off. Surely you know that by now?'

  The back and fingers of Root's left hand were raw and angry. The blistered skin was already peeling off. The cold water had indeed taken the edge off the pain as she had promised. The sticky green paste was soothing, although it did nothing to cool Root's flaming cheeks. He gritted his teeth. Why must she always treat him like a child?

  'This should take the heat out of it.' Quenelda spread the ointment on thickly, then cut a strip from the dragon's bandages with her sickle-shaped flying knife and wrapped Root's hand carefully.

  'Make sure you go to the hospital barracks and get this checked tomorrow.' She returned the salve to its pouch. 'It should heal quickly. This ointment is terrific for scale re-growth. B—'

  'Scale re-growth?' Root squeaked before he could stop himself, looking at his hand in horror. He didn't want to grow any scales!

  'But' – Quenelda ignored his interruption – 'make sure you keep the wound clean or it may become infected.'

  'Th-thanks, Lady Qu-Quenelda ...' Root stuttered his clumsy thanks, but she was already turning away when footsteps clanged on the gantry outside.

  'Why isn't the tar on yet?' Tangnost bellowed, making them both jump. Quenelda and Root shared a brief awkward smile before turning back to the injured dragon.

  Half an hour later the dragonmaster ran his eye approvingly over the neat cast-iron splint that held the dragon's tail rigidly in the sling, and declared himself quietly satisfied. Inwardly he could barely keep his excitement in check. He had taken a great risk, not just with his reputation but with his life. A gamble, many would say if they knew the truth of it, but the Earl's daughter had never yet let him down, and he had not made his decision lightly.

  'Guard Quenelda with your life. Teach her everything you know,' the Earl had commanded when he made Tangnost dragonmaster. 'As if she were my son and heir and destined for Dragon Isle. But do so secretly, so that none may remark upon it. The dragons love and protect her. They witnessed her birth. Who yet knows what that may mean?'

  And so he had quietly taught her as he had taught the Earl, and had watched as she outstripped her father's achievements at the same age. He had all the pride of a father for a daughter. Were she the Earl's first born and a boy, she would be leaving for Dragon Isle. Instead, everyone thought her triumphs were his own, and it was far safer that way.

  His thoughts turned back to the battledragon. What an achievement! Assuming they dealt with the infection of course ...

  As if sensing the dwarf's excitement, Two Gulps and You're Gone uncoiled his long neck and turned his head to inspect their work, lamplight softly glinting off his red and yellow patterned scales.

  Thor's Hammer! Tangnost swallowed dryly as a rush of adrenaline punched through his bloodstream. How could Quenelda be so utterly certain the injured dragon would not reduce them all to pyramids of ashes if she could not truly talk to him? Until now he had not honestly believed it possible, had not dared to believe the child could actually talk to these great creatures, could whisper to them.

  After all, others could talk to dragons after a fashion; he himself could pick up vague images and sense strong emotions in his mind, as could all dragonsmiths and dragonmasters. SDS Dragon Lords bonded with their dragons and thus flew as one creature, but that was the result of years of flying together. But now ... but now he believed it possible. What else might the young girl be capable of in time?

  The consequences for the war would be far-reaching. Battledragons were dying faster than they could be replaced. Imperial Blacks only bred once every seven years; Sabretooths laid a single egg. Ever since the death of the old Earl, the hobgoblins had swarmed in ever greater numbers. If they could treat injured dragons and return them to the battlefront, the possibilities were endless! And the cradle that Quenelda had suggested for the injured dragon – he must talk to his cousin Odin on Dragon Isle to see if their forgemasters could construct something ...

  'Is it done, Tangnost?' Quenelda stretched as gracefully as a cat and took a long drink from her leather water flask, then offered it to the dwarf.

  Tangnost nodded. 'We're done.' He gratefully took a deep draught and poured more water over his neck to cool himself. His ancestors came from the arid dessert mountains of the Old Kingdoms, so he did not suffer in the battleroosts as others did – but still, it had been a long, sweltering night.

  Wiping his moustache and returning the flask to Quenelda, he turned to his apprentice. 'Get to your hammock, lad. You look exhausted.' He frowned as he watched the miserable gnome stumble wearily down the steps and wished that, in the absence of the boy's father, he had more time to devote to his instruction.

  A nearby dragon flamed, blasting a wall of hot air throughout the roosts. As the fire died back into semidarkness, Quenelda rubbed her aching temples. The stench of sulphur and scale oil added to the tiredness, was making her head throb. Two Gulps' three stomachs rumbled again, reminding her of her promise to him.

  'He's hungry.'

  Tangnost grinned. 'So I notice! That is a very good sign. Well, once that tail is mended he'll be able to hunt for himself again. Meantime we'll just have to build up his strength as best we can. Marwood?' he bellowed.

  'Sir?' Setting down two half-cauldrons of coal, a groom ran over.

  'Increase his feed: another elk and an extra cauldron of brimstone. We'll see how he's doing in a couple of days.'

  'Sir! Yes, sir!'

  Tangnost looked at the young girl in front of him. In the dim, flickering light of the wall torches he saw that Quenelda's sooty face was smeared with grease and ground brimstone dust, and her damp bedraggled hair was plastered to her as if she had been swimming in the moat. Grinning up at him, she looked more like a stable hand than an earl's daughter! And she stank! No wonder the grandly dressed young ladies at court looked upon her antics with scandalized horror!

  Soaked in sweat within his filthy armour, Tangnost ran a calloused hand through long black hair now tinged with silver at the temples, and supposed he looked no better. He found himself smiling back wholeheartedly. Quenelda was so like her father in character – adventurous and strong-willed – and flying dragons was as natural to her as breathing. It was no surprise that she was determined to follow his footsteps into the SDS. A breath-taking ambition, but one unlikely to succeed. No woman save those of royal blood had even set foot on Dragon Isle since the Academy's founding in the Century of the Canny Stoat, let alone taken to the skies on a battledragon.

  Wearily the pair descended to the middle gantry. Tangnost looked around and sighed. The never-ending Third Hobgoblin War had brutally culled the number of battledragons under his care. Since this year's spring campaign had begun, three more stalls in the Sabretooth roost now lay empty and silent. Those dragons and many of their flight crew would never be returning home. It was a toll that was increasing almost monthly.

  Following the dragonmaster's resigned glance, Quenelda shivered with revulsion. It was widely known that hobgoblins enjoyed dragonmeat as a delicacy, and that dragonbones were highly prized as armour – they believed it made them invulnerable to sorcerer weapons and dragon attacks.

  With a nod Tangnost turned off into the tack room to change the ceramic armour for his chain-mail hauberk, leather jerkin, studded boots and weaponry.

  Head spinning with exhaustion
, Quenelda stepped outside the battleroosts into the early dawn. Cold sharp air washed over her like a bucket of water, sending a delicious shiver up her spine. She raised her eyes to where the plump harvest moons shone gold in a rapidly lightening sky. By the time the twin sickles of the hunter's moons rose in two weeks' time, her father would be home.

  She could barely contain her excitement.

  When Tangnost first proposed that they treat an injured battledragon who had broken his tail and crushed his master to death when he crash-landed under hobgoblin attack, Quenelda had thought he was jesting. The agonized and grieving Sabretooth had flamed at anyone who came within fifty feet – until the Earl's dragonmaster arrived, Quenelda behind him. Then the battledragon had immediately calmed, allowing them close enough to inspect his injuries and wounds.

  She was so lucky, Quenelda thought. The dwarf could do anything with dragons. No wonder Lord Hugo Mandrake, the Grand Master himself, had offered him a place when he had been invalided out of the Bonecrackers, but Tangnost had preferred to stay with his Earl at Dragonsdome, where his reputation as dragonmaster soon eclipsed his legendary feats on the battlefield.

  And now this! Two Gulps and You're Gone would live to fight another battle. One of her father's favoured battledragons was going to return to the war. Not even Dragon Isle with their High Magic and Battle Mages had managed that! With Tangnost as her tutor, with her father the Commander of the SDS, surely now she could do what no other girl had ever done: win a coveted place at the elite SDS Battle Academy on Dragon Isle!

  CHAPTER TWO

  Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble

  Down in the castle dungeons beneath the dark waters of a sea loch, the growing light of day passed unnoticed. The only illumination down here came from a single smoking wall sconce that stank of sheep fat. Its feeble light was enough to reveal the outline of a black-robed figure, staff outstretched over a cauldron.

  He was haloed by bruised purple-yellow flames that seemed to draw in the light rather than give any out. Strange symbols and fearsome creatures were woven into his hooded cloak, forming and re-forming on the shimmering fabric.