The Dragon Whisperer

by Lucinda Hare

  'Quenelda?' Tangnost paused, frowning. 'Quenelda, lass?'

  Turning, Root reached out a timid hand to touch hers, his hand pale against the deeper shadows of her cloak.

  'Arghhh!' Quenelda screamed, striking his hand away hard. Then several things happened at once.

  The shutters slammed open, letting in the ferocious wind. Freezing gusts blew through the room. Candles spluttered and went out. Outside, a tongue of lightning darted down, casting them all briefly in silver-blue. Several of the younger esquires shrieked. The room disintegrated into chaos.

  Root fell over, banging his head, as Quenelda leaped to her feet, tumbling her stool to the floor.

  'Quenelda?' Stepping over the dazed gnome, Tangnost reached her in two strides. Strong hands clasped hers. She was shaking violently. 'Quenelda ...' he repeated gently, pitching his voice so that only she could hear. 'Look at me, lass.'

  His quick intake of breath was stifled as the eyes that met his flared bright gold. And the pupils at their heart were not circular, but oval ... oval like a dragon's. Then their glow faded and was gone, and the girl's terrified gaze came back into focus.

  'T-Tangnost ...' she breathed.

  The dwarf turned and found Root's petrified eyes staring up at him. No one else was looking their way.

  'Steady there, lad.' Tangnost squeezed the young gnome's shoulder. 'Nothing to worry about.' He found a smile.

  He looked back at Quenelda. Her pulse jumped erratically in the dip of her throat and her eyes were pits of black. He had seen it countless times before on the battlefield – the glazed eyes, the shaking; battle fatigue. The hands he cradled were freezing. He rubbed them vigorously between his own. 'Lass, lass, you're all right now.'

  'I must have fallen asleep.' Quenelda seemed dazed. 'It was a nightmare, just a n-nightmare ...'

  Tangnost nodded. This was not the time to discuss it. 'Lads,' he roared. 'Look lively! Get those shutters barred and the candles lit. There's a taper by the hearth. Now settle down, settle down. Just a strong gust of wind!'

  Slowly the room was restored.

  'You're cold, lass. Come sit by the fire.' Squeezing Quenelda's hand, Tangnost returned to his high-backed wooden seat, making a show of tamping down fresh tobacco and relighting his pipe, which gave him time to slow his own heart down and to watch the Earl's daughter. That was the first time – the first time since her birth – that he had seen her eyes like that. His heart thumped. Eyes of molten gold glowing in the dark, just like the Dragon Whisperer of his tale. And she spoke to the dragons ... whispered to them in her mind. Could she possibly be ... ? Certainly since the death of the Earl's father the hobgoblins had swarmed in ever-increasing numbers ...

  'Now,' the dragonmaster said gruffly, satisfied at last that his voice would not betray his emotions. 'Where was I?'

  'The Final Battle,' someone said.

  'The Final Battle it is then ...' he boomed. 'All through that third day they fought to halt the hobgoblin hordes, but finally the inner bailey fell.

  'The fourth day dawned. The ice was awash with blood and dark with spent arrows and spears. The bodies of hobgoblins were piled so high they reached the inner curtain wall. Abandoning their weakened defences, the survivors retreated to the keep, where the babes, the injured and the very old were huddled.

  'The thunder of the night fled, giving way to rinsed blue skies. For once the air was brilliantly clear, and as the sun rose, the hobgoblins fell back into the sea, affording the defenders a respite. Time to treat their wounded. To cast more wards.

  'Then ...' Tangnost paused, his grin fierce. A dozen eager faces leaned forward to catch his soft words. 'A storm blew up on the far horizon – a dark boiling cloud that spat forks of lightning.

  'The hobgoblin banners cheered, rattling their weapons on their shields, believing that the Ice Citadel was at last doomed, that the victory would be theirs and the Dark was about to descend for ever. The defenders lost all hope and resigned themselves to a fight to the death, for still the dragons had not come to their aid.

  'But' – Tangnost's eye gleamed with fierce glee – 'this darkness was not to the hobgoblins' liking ... As the roiling cloud sped towards them, it seemed to grow and grow till it filled the sky. This was no ordinary storm. It was all the colours of the rainbow. This was a storm—'

  'A storm of dragons,' Quenelda whispered.

  Root sat up, a shiver of anticipation ghosting up his back, raising goose pimples. 'A storm of dragons,' he echoed, eyes wide. The thought was terrifying. He drew his knees up to his chin.

  Tangnost nodded, and drew deeply on his pipe, sending out swirls of sweet tobacco-leaf smoke to thicken the air.

  'Aye, a storm of dragons, summoned by Son of the Morning Star and his six brothers. Tens of thousands of them, forming an army vast beyond imagining, the like of which has never been seen since. Every conceivable colour, size and shape. So vast were their numbers that they blotted out the bright sunlight and the sound of their wings was louder than thunder.

  'They swept down the Sorcerers Glen and fell upon the screaming hobgoblins, flying just out of range of their darts and spears. Their tongues spat down dragonfire – hotter than a furnace and slow to burn. Before long the very surface of the ice was on fire.

  'The stench of burning filled the air. Ice was vaporized and the fog grew ever thicker. Dragons who could not flame swooped on their hated foe, raking heads and eyes and shoulders with their talons and tearing them limb from limb. Scores were seized up and away, to be dropped screaming through the air, their soft bodies popping and breaking like eggshells on the battlements.

  'Filled with a wild joy, the defenders surged out of the keep and attacked the hobgoblin banners. Trapped between them and the dragons, the enemy had nowhere to flee. By sunset it was finally over.'

  Tangnost paused, his voice once more his own. He smiled round at them.

  'Son of the Morning Star was the first to sit on the dragonbone throne of what became the Seven Sea Kingdoms, and his descendants rule us to this day. During his long reign a fortress was founded on Dragon Isle so that the best and greatest of each race could be brought together to fight their common foe. His own SDS regiment, the First Born, remains on Dragon Isle and here at Dragonsdome, and those of his six brothers still guard our kingdom's borders.'

  'How did it end?' Root asked.

  'One night at dusk, when the youth had become an old, old man and the fire in his eyes had dimmed to an ember glow, those six dragons were once again seen alighting on the battlements. As dark fell, a star flared brightly and shot across the night sky, fading into the inky dark. In the morning there was no trace of the King the common people called ...' Tangnost paused, knowing that they all wanted to share the finish to his tale.

  'The Dragon Whisperer!' they chanted in unison.

  The dwarf nodded. 'Just so. The King they called the Dragon Whisperer! Legend says the lost Dragonsdome Chronicles speak of a time of great danger, when the hobgoblins swarm, when the seas boil and the Dark returns. Then they say a Dragon Whisperer will be born, a child who will walk two worlds: the world of dragons and the world of men.'

  'And ... and how shall we know who it is?' Root piped up, eyes wide.

  'Ah ...' Tangnost shook his head. 'Ah, lad ... the legend does not tell. But when the time comes' – he nodded to himself – 'we will surely know ... We will know ...'

  CHAPTER NINE

  We Speak No Treason

  The Inner Council of the Sorcerers Guild was in an uproar. And no wonder, the Grand Master thought. Never in living memory had such unwelcome news been received, here at the heart of the sorcerers' power. Some had heard of the attacks on brimstone mines, but none knew of the explosion that had nearly killed the Earl, nor of the attack on the fortress of the Howling Glen. Their shock was rising to the rafters.

  'Order! Order!' Rising from his oak chair on the raised dais at the centre of the hall, the Grand Master struck the floor with his dragonbone staff of office, carved in the like
ness of a seadragon.

  'My Lord Earl' – he bowed formally – 'you wish to present proofs ...' His voice was tinged with curiosity. Rufus had preferred to keep the nature of his proofs hidden until he could speak to the entire Council. It was a rare thing for the Grand Master to be excluded in this fashion, and it gave rise to a mild disquiet.

  Moreover, a huge Imperial Black with almost one hundred fully armed Bonecrackers had materialized on the Guild landing pads barely an hour since. Shocked, he was as curious as the next man as to what they guarded. '... That there are signs the hobgoblins are being organized into an army?' he queried, his words tinged with doubt.

  Nodding, the Earl calmly waited until the noise had subsided, showing no sign of his inner weariness. His wound throbbed. His skin crawled at the memory of the hobgoblin piercing through his weakened defences, teeth tearing through his damaged armour.

  He beckoned to a Bonecracker in ceremonial armour. Nine carved bone necklaces were offered for guildsmen to examine. They took them with obvious distaste; some were hooked over wands or staffs so they didn't have to touch them. These, they had already been told, were the bones of their own dead troops, fallen in battle and taken as trophies.

  'At least eight of the thirteen hobgoblin tribes have been united under a single warlord. A warlord we now believe to be named Galtekerion, of the Ramark tribe. Let me present you the proof.'

  Used to commanding armies in the field, Earl Rufus projected his voice effortlessly to the furthest reaches of the vast inner guildhall, despite the uproar. 'Bring it in.'

  His commandos leaped to obey. The carved doors swung open with a thump and two Bonecrackers entered. There was a gasp of horror as a bloodied and bound froglike creature was dragged into the chamber, leaving a trail of mucus across the floor. As those nearest drew back at the smell of rotting offal, the fingers of the Grand Master's left hand, hidden beneath the long sleeve of his formal Guild robe, surreptitiously wove urgent symbols and runes of concealment and warding. Even as his fingers stilled, the squatting creature turned to look at him with its hooded green reptilian eyes, but its glance slid away without recognition. Its long pale tongue darted out nervously. The Grand Master took a long, shuddering breath.

  The Earl nodded, misreading his concern. 'They are fearsome, Hugo, are they not?'

  The Grand Master nodded wordlessly, his face pale.

  The Earl Rufus smiled grimly. Most of these learned academics, wealthy merchants and artisans were probably seeing the face of their ancient foe for the first time; only seasoned veterans did not start back in repugnance. The stench was certainly revolting. Once they got over their shock, the guildsmen studied their frog-like captive with ghoulish interest.

  The hobgoblin was mottled green and brown, its pallid skin dry and flaking from its imprisonment far from water. Blue tribal tattoos covered its body in complex knotted designs and whorls.

  The SDS Commander pointed. 'See the strongly muscled thighs and huge webbed feet? They allow hobgoblins to leap great distances to ambush their prey. And they are, as you already know, powerful swimmers, at home in the water as on land, making them elusive enemies. When we pursue them, they slip into the sea lochs. In the winter they return to the pools of the Westering Isles to hibernate. Their numbers are so great that they are emptying the oceans of life. The fishing settlements around our coasts and islands are frequently attacked; our fishing boats come back empty, if they come back at all.'

  'And our galleons too, my Lord Earl,' said another merchant. 'Since early spring a growing number have been pirated. Their empty hulks are found drifting at sea.'

  All eyes slid back to the prisoner.

  The hobgoblin's white bone armour was chipped and broken where a dwarf axe had found its mark, and its chain mail was weeping red rust. Ragged bandages oozed green slime from half a dozen wounds.

  'We found this creature and its fellows skulking in the Never Ending Glen, five miles from the old castle that lies ruined since the last war.'

  The Grand Master's eyes flickered at that news, but the Earl was not looking at him.

  'They had recently feasted on dragonmeat and were so full they couldn't flee into the loch. You know we don't usually take prisoners – they are treacherous creatures that will kill at the first opportunity. But we needed intelligence, so we fed their warriors to our battledragons one by one until this one decided to talk to us.

  'Our scouts have identified its tribal tattoos as those of the Chankit tribe. And these' – the entire chamber leaned forward in ghoulish fascination as the Earl pointed to three knotted circles – 'these tattoos, this hobgoblin boasts, belong to the new warlord Galtekerion's personal bodyguard. Other hobgoblins with the same tattoo were identified from three other tribes from the same war band. As I said, there can be no doubt. The tribes have united.'

  There were cries of dismay, immediately cut short as the Earl went on.

  'And there is more, this creature claims, my lords. Much more. Tell them,' he growled.

  'There isss,' the hobgoblin croaked, the hollow of its throat pulsing as it spoke. 'Water,' it croaked again, bone earrings and nose-bones jangling. 'I need water.'

  Its guttural speech was hard to understand, but they gave it a flask of water. It drank greedily and poured some over its head to dampen its dry skin.

  'There issss a traitor amongsssst you,' the hobgoblin hissed, tongue darting out.

  'A traitor?'

  'Unthinkable!'

  'No!'

  The protestations were fierce, unanimous. The Guild might be riven by political intrigue and faction fighting between rival leagues and guilds, but they were always united against their common threat, their ancient foe.

  'No, this cannot be – the creature lies to save its own skin,' the Grand Master cried. 'We speak no treason! Surely it is merely boasting. Trying to save its own miserable life while seeking to sow distrust and dissension amongst us.'

  'I do not lie,' the hobgoblin hissed threateningly. 'Thisss ... traitor teachesss usss ... how to fight ... givesss usss weaponsss ... dragonsss to eat ... This traitor will give ussss dragonssss to f—'

  Urgently the Grand Master lowered his hooded eyes to meet those of the hobgoblin. 'You lie to save your miserable skin!' He hawked and spat, knowing it was a provocation, an insult to a warrior that would not go unanswered. He deliberately turned his back to address the chamber. 'My lords, we—'

  With a gurgle of hatred the hobgoblin leaped so fast and so far that the councillors had no time to cry out as the Grand Master crashed to the floor, his staff of office flying from his hand.

  He struggled to breathe as monstrously strong webbed fingers closed around his throat. The weight of the hobgoblin on his back pinned him down; finger suckers stung and tore at his flesh. There was a loud roaring in his ears; red spots danced before his eyes. Chains clashed taut as the Bonecrackers tried to drag the creature off his back.

  The Earl Rufus raised his dragon-headed staff and there was a muted flash that flared orange through the Grand Master's closed eyes; suddenly the webbed fingers about his throat went limp. He sucked in a desperate breath. The hobgoblin sighed, its dying breath enveloping the Grand Master in a toxic fog. The sorcerer rolled away, bile rising like sour apples in his throat, choking, retching, trying to loosen the limp fingers still stuck to his neck.

  Finally the dwarf commandos dragged the dead weight from him. With a reluctant pop the suckers tore free one by one, and the corpse rolled over with a wet slap. The Grand Master clenched his jaw against the pain and pushed his hair away from his face. He struggled to his knees as guards and servants retrieved hat and staff from where they had tumbled.

  The body of the hobgoblin beside him lay smoking on the slate-flagged floor. A circle of councillors lay around him, blown outwards like the opening petals of a flower. Blinded by the flash of Battle Magic, many were blinking owlishly, unable to see or hear.

  A strong hand clasped the Grand Master's shoulder and squeezed it in silent sympat
hy. The Earl reached forward and pulled his friend effortlessly to his feet.

  'Forgive me ...' His fierce smile raked the chamber. 'Time was of the essence. Battle Magic is never tidy ... I apologize for the ... fallout ...'

  There was a ripple of nervous laughter as the councillors regained their dignity and their feet. A few of the elderly were assisted to their seats, where members of the Artful Apothecaries Association treated them for shock and minor injuries.

  'Th-thank you,' the Grand Master choked huskily, his throat burning. He massaged the red whorls that marked his pale skin and flicked mucus from his doublet collar.

  The Earl kicked the limp carcass. 'They smell even worse when they're dead.'

  Shaky laughter from the councillors relieved the tension.

  A servant stepped forward with a horn drinking cup. The Grand Master gulped the water down with shaking hands.

  'No matter.' The Earl nodded to his men. 'Take it and burn it.'

  He turned back to the chamber as the manacled body was dragged out. 'So, my lords, you have heard it from the creature's own mouth. Its claims, though far-fetched, are nonetheless worrying. Should they ever lay hands on our weapons—'

  The Grand Master sat down heavily in his chair. 'Th-they cannot be trusted, my lord,' he croaked. 'It is foolish to listen to such lies. Most likely they have taken weapons from ships or caravans they have ambushed.'

  'No doubt,' the Earl agreed. 'But I do believe that they have united under one leader. Since time began the hobgoblin tribes have fought each other. They have had no sense of organization before other than to swarm mindlessly over the land, destroying everything, leaving a wasteland behind. It has always been their way and their weakness.

  'Now, it seems, they gather their strength. They are united under a single leader, with a sense of purpose never seen before. Attacks on settlements are co-ordinated, forcing us to divide our strength ...' The Earl paused. 'United, they pose a new threat. We are few. They are many.'

  'My lord ...' The Grand Master spoke out through the shocked silence. 'Rufus. How does the SDS propose to meet this new hobgoblin threat? What can we do?'