Netherfield_Rogue Dragon

by Maria Grace

  At least Collins was useful now, a marked change from before the hatching. Something to be thankful for considering the current short supply of good tidings.

  “April returned last night and has met Earl. If Walker has his way, they are well on the way to being friends.”

  “I knew he would be in good hands with Fitzwilliam.” Cait preened her ruff. “And, yes, I have also heard what is being said about Fitzwilliam—keeping secrets with wyrms about is nigh impossible.”

  “You are not concerned?”

  “Of course, I am; I am no fool. But Walker has faith in your line, and that is enough for me.” She flew off toward the study.

  Cait made it sound so simple. All things considered, he should enjoy the fact that one difficult dragon was cooperating with him. With any luck, another might as well. With a very great deal of luck.

  He pushed open the cellar door. Cool, dank air rushed at him. Considering the way his eyes burned and face stung, Longbourn was not bearing the news well at all.

  Two candles in a wall sconce at the end of the stairs cast wan flickers on a very angry wyvern.

  “Mr. Darcy! You are most welcome!” Mary met him just a few steps down, handkerchief held to her face. She handed it to him. “You need this more than I. Pray talk to him. Perhaps he will listen to you.” She dashed past him, out of the cellar.

  Her retreat was disappointing, but hardly unexpected. Few could stand up against a dragon’s temper. He pressed the handkerchief to his nose and mouth. A familiar scent filled his nostrils—antivenom. The pressure in his chest eased.

  “Is it true?” Longbourn roared and smacked the floor with his tail, raising a faint cloud of dust. If the creature were not careful, he could seriously damage the structure of the house itself. “Netherfield has taken her?”

  “All we know is that she is missing. It is possible she merely took cover from the rain in the hills. We cannot jump to conclusions.”

  “I will look for her myself. I am not afraid of what I will find in the tunnels like the wyrms are.”

  “Pray do not.” Darcy descended several steps.

  “Do you think I cannot rescue her?” Longbourn bugled a challenge.

  “I am sure you are capable, but it could drive Netherfield to drastic, even tragic action.”

  “If he harms her, I will kill him.”

  “That would be your right, but consider, there is no winner in a major dragon battle. Not only the dragons suffer, but also their Keepers and their Keeps. We must avoid that at all costs.” Darcy lifted open hands.

  “But if he has hurt her—”

  “If he has harmed her, I will help you slay the beast, both Fitzwilliam and I will—damn the consequences. But we have no sign she has been harmed. Muster the little dragons of your Keep to scour the tunnels for any sign of her. When we know where she is, then we can mount a carefully considered rescue. It is Elizabeth’s best hope. Will you do it for her?” Darcy held his breath. Everything about his suggestion was against dragon nature. They were neither cooperative nor patient.

  Longbourn grumbled and stomped about. “It is the kind of thing she would recommend. I will do as you ask, but if she is harmed—”

  “Let us not consider that for the moment. It will not help.”

  ∞∞∞

  Hours, or what seemed like hours, passed, surrounded by consuming dark and sharp chill air. Lydia clung to a tattered blanket, snoring and muttering in her sleep. Elizabeth huddled closer to the waning fire. The cold from the stone beneath her had long since penetrated her bones. She might never be warm again. Still the fire was welcome, a tiny hope in an otherwise very black place.

  How had the lindwurm started a fire, much less kept one going? And why did he do so? He certainly did not require it.

  “Are you in need of food?” Netherfield opened one eye. It had been yellow in the sunlight, but in the firelight it was more amber, with flecks of green and gold.

  Her stomach roiled at the thought, but refusing hospitality was hardly a good way to establish rapport, an advantage she desperately needed. “I suppose a little.”

  Netherfield curled around himself—how did wyrms manage that?—and picked up a small trunk from the far side of the lair. He unwound and placed it near her. “Feed yourself.”

  She opened the dingy, tattered trunk, staring inside until she could make out the contents. Some jars of—well, it was impossible to tell—a few apples, carrots, a hunk of cheese, and several loaves of bread. She tore off a bit of bread and a corner of the cheese. They smelt fresh enough. She nibbled at the bread. Hard and dry, but not moldy. “Forgive me if I sound ungrateful, but where have these come from?”

  “The forest wyrms bring me what I need.” Netherfield rested his chin on his forepaws.

  Was it possible that they were the same ones she knew?

  “In exchange for your protection?”

  “For my patience!” he snarled, but something about it felt half-hearted. “They require my tolerance as does everything in my domain.”

  “Have you really kept my sister here a month?”

  “She has no sense of time.”

  “I thought not. She has never been very good at such things. My father considers her quite silly.”

  Netherfield huffed through his nose, rustling his whiskers. “He is quite right.”

  He considered her of little use, but he had not harmed her. How easily he could have disposed of Lydia when he had killed Wickham. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her knees and balanced her chin on them, making herself as small and harmless as possible. “Lydia says you murdered Wickham, but I am not so sure.”

  “He is dead.”

  “You do not sound like a killer to me.”

  “I will defend myself.”

  “He tried to escape?”

  Netherfield turned his face aside.

  “Did he become lost in the tunnels? Or perhaps he fell afoul of some underground hazard? Perhaps in a naturally-formed room off the tunnels?”

  “Sometimes the floors in those rooms are very thin, but a warm-blood cannot tell, especially one dragon -deaf. They cannot hear the rock crying out beneath them.” Was that a touch of sadness in the lindwurm’s voice?

  Something about the way Netherfield’s mane fell limp over his neck and the tip of his tail did not move, it all felt so sad, maybe remorseful, too. Had he been a familiar dragon, she would have reached out to comfort him.

  Fitzwilliam would argue she saw sorrow because it was what she wanted to believe of the creature. But no, certainly it was there, was it not? “You came from France. That is a long way for a dragon to travel beyond his territory. Are continental dragons not as territorial as British dragons?”

  “I expect that we are. But not all territory is worth having. You underestimate what Pendragon has done for you—men and dragon.”

  “Men forced you from your territory?”

  “I do not submit to men!” He growled. “I simply did not relish what it would take to hold my land. Some took pleasure in the fight. Others were committed to ideals that I could hardly believe possible. One came from England, proclaiming that a reformation, an enlightenment as it were, could be obtained between man and dragonkind.”

  English dragons in France? “But you were not convinced?”

  “Hardly. What did they know of the suffering that could be wrought by men? There is none alive in England from those days before Pendragon. What would they know of the true affliction men—and other dragons—might bring?”

  “So you left rather than fight?” Was it possible this dragon was a pacifist?

  “What good is there to fighting? What does it solve? Until all parties might listen to reason, I had nothing to add to the situation.”

  “How did you choose to come to Hertfordshire? This is just a small, unimportant territory.”

  “What better place? The English ideologue told me of it, said I should see it myself and know what he proposed was not some utopia but an actual working soc
iety.”

  Was that the “Giver” noted in one of the paintings?

  “He was wrong, though. Men are hardly different here to what they are in France. Not to be trusted. This is why I have you.” Netherfield turned toward her and flicked his forked tongue very close to her face, not in the friendly sort of way that Rumblkins was in wont of doing. No, this was vaguely threatening. But was it real or just for show? “I know Longbourn values you. I know the men at both estates value you. So, I value you. As long as you bring me what I want.”

  “And what is that?”

  “My territory.” He hissed foul breath in her face and turned his back.

  “I am cold.”

  He threw a heavy mass of dark wool at her.

  A man’s coat, Wickham’s no doubt. The back was torn open—by claws or fangs? It was difficult to tell—and it sported blood stains near the tears. Had Netherfield torn this from Wickham’s back during an attack, or had he tried to catch Wickham as he fell through a cave floor? Now did not seem the time to ask. She pulled the torn garment around her shoulders and shuffled a little nearer the fire. What was this creature about, and what did he really want? Perhaps more importantly, what was he willing to do to get it?

  ∞∞∞

  Late in the evening, the clouds broke and weak rays of sunset filtered through. With any luck, no more storms would move in tomorrow. But perhaps that would be hoping for too much.

  Darcy climbed into the carriage, the mustard yellow book of maps on his lap. He, Mary, and Collins had spent hours searching the study and eventually the entire house, looking for a green volume. They turned up thin green volumes of farm records, an interesting treatise on the influence of field wyrms on crop production, and a genealogy of Dragon Mates in Hertfordshire from the early sixteen hundreds, but absolutely no maps.

  Finally, Mary suggested that Bennet might not see colors very well and the volume might not actually be green. Why had she failed to mention that sooner? They widened their search to all thin leather-bound volumes and finally came across the one he now held.

  He leafed through pages as the carriage swayed through puddles in the road. Page after page of maps with proper titles and compass directions carefully penned on each. Surely this had to be the volume Bennet wanted. No other book in the house fit the description even remotely.

  He trudged inside, guided by voices into the still-occupied morning room. Had they not moved since he left?

  “What took you so long?” Bennet rapped the table with his knuckles. “Bring it here. Bring it here.”

  “It would have helped had you told me the correct thing to look for. This book is hardly green.” Darcy slid the book across the table at Bennet. No, it was not polite, but it was better than throwing it at him.

  “What are you talking about? It is indeed green.” Bennet slapped the cover and dragged it closer.

  “There is nothing green about that cover.” Fitzwilliam snorted and rolled his eyes.

  “It is the color of ground mustard seed.” Darcy clutched his forehead.

  “No, it is not.” Walker pecked at the book cover.

  “Excuse me?” Darcy leaned hard on the table.

  “Bennet is correct. The book is green.” Walker bobbed his head.

  April flitted closer and landed near the book, tapping with her long beaky snout. “It is not the color of grass to be sure. But neither is it the color of mustard. It is closer to the color of the stalks that bear flowers which are bad to eat and the beetles that make one sick.”

  Bennet removed his glasses and stared at the book. “You are certain this is distinctly yellow to you, Darcy?”

  “I would bet Pemberley upon it.”

  “And you, Fitzwilliam?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And I would swear by the same certainty that the volume is decidedly green as my wife’s garden—”

  “Where she grows those awful flowers!” April hopped on the book.

  “It would seem, gentlemen, we have stumbled upon an interesting finding. Apparently, not only can some men hear dragons, it seems that some can see like them as well, and it is different to other men.”

  Fitzwilliam gasped and pressed the side of his index finger to his mouth. Darcy glanced his way, but he shook his head.

  “An interesting avenue to explore, but for another time, I fear.” Fitzwilliam reached across the table to flip open the book. “Are these the maps you were hoping for?”

  Bennet replaced his glasses and peered at the open pages. “Yes, quite so.” He pulled the book closer. “Bring me that stack of maps … no, not that one, the smaller one … yes, there.”

  Fitzwilliam retrieved a pile from the sideboard and set it near Bennet. “Come to the kitchen with me, Darcy. I am sure you could use a bite to eat.”

  Fitzwilliam grabbed a candle and headed away from the kitchen. He ducked into the small drawing room and pulled the door shut.

  “I imagine this has something to do with what Bennet just noted?” Darcy perched on the arm of the nearest chair.

  “I met a dragon hunter in France. He told me the secret to sneaking up on a wyrm-type dragon was in wearing blue. I thought him superstitious or daft. He had spent so much time stalking dragons in caves and tunnels that his mind must surely have been affected. But now, I wonder. Is it possible that lindwurms tend to be blue because the color is difficult for them to tell apart from the rocks, particularly underground?”

  “I would never have thought of that, but it might be a means by which smaller ones protect themselves from the larger, especially in territories where there is no other regulation to protect them.”

  “Go attend Bennet and his maps. I am going to search the house for some coverlet or curtain, something in the proper shade of blue. There are enough rooms here; surely there must be something. When we go after the beast, I want every possible advantage on our side.” Fitzwilliam darted out. His heavy footfalls disappeared into the dark halls.

  When they went after the beast. Darcy pressed his fist against the knot in his belly. What would happen to Elizabeth then? Was she still alive? The creature might well intend to use her to bargain for his own safety. That could mean it was a creature of reason and might be negotiated with. Even so, could it be trusted to hold up its part of a negotiation?

  No, probably not. If it had lived with no rules to guide it, why would it be trustworthy now? Their best hope lay in Fitzwilliam’s plan.

  ∞∞∞

  “Where did you get his coat?” Lydia shook her.

  The warmth of Wickham’s coat had lulled Elizabeth to sleep—probably not for very long. She hardly felt rested when she awoke—only stiff and sore and hungry. “I was cold last night. Netherfield gave it to me.” She stretched aching arms.

  “I have been cold, and he never gave it to me.” Lydia pulled at the arm of the coat.

  “The wyrms brought you that blanket.” Netherfield lifted his head and hissed softly. “I thought it would only upset you. She has been whining about the deaf one since—”

  “You killed him,” Lydia snapped.

  “Since Wickham ran off into the darkness is probably more to the point.” Elizabeth pulled the coat out of Lydia’s hands.

  “There is blood on his coat! Right there, on the back! It killed my Wickham.” Lydia stood and stomped, wane firelight shadowing her pouting face.

  “Hush, Lydia, no more accusations. It is not helpful. Are you not hungry?”

  “Yes. I am starving. I have been for weeks now!”

  Elizabeth dragged her hand down her face. “May we?” She turned toward Netherfield as much to address him as to avoid seeing Lydia’s pandering for sympathy.

  Netherfield shoved the trunk closer, and Elizabeth opened it.

  Lydia grabbed an apple and crunched into it. Elizabeth took a smaller one and slipped it into the pocket of Wickham’s coat. What was that already in the pocket? A knife? Yes, that could be helpful. Certainly not large enough to defend against a dragon, probably not
even long enough to penetrate its hide, but a knife was always useful.

  Wait. There was something else, too. A metal box with a sliding lid. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers over it again. Darcy carried one much like it—was it possible? A fire starting kit? Darcy always carried one. Was it possible that Wickham had also?

  “Have a piece of cheese as well, Lydia. You must keep up your strength.” As she spoke, she slid the lid back. Yes, this was very similar to Darcy’s kit.

  “I do not like that sort of cheese. I will have a bit of bread though.” Lydia snatched up a small roll. “Tell those creatures to bring more like these. These are at least edible.”

  “Have you even thanked Netherfield for what he provided?”

  “One does not thank their jailor.” Lydia tossed her head and turned her back on both of them.

  “If one is smart, one does. I appreciate what you have done for our comfort.” Elizabeth rose and curtsied.

  “You are welcome. I shall have a blanket brought for you as well, if you wish,” he said softly.

  “You are most gracious.” She sat back down and nibbled bits of bread and cheese. They were stale, but it was best to keep one’s strength up.

  “I will go out and survey my territory now.” Netherfield rose up half way and scattered the fire with his tail. Darkness rushed in with the force of a flood. “You will have no need of this whilst I am gone. I warn you, do not try to follow the tunnel walls. There are pits and thin floors and crevasses that will take you without a trace.”

  Scales slithered against the rock, growing softer and farther away. Elizabeth held her breath, listening, until she could hear them no more.

  Darkness unlike any above ground swallowed them. Complete and utter darkness. One could not see a hand in front of her face. One’s eyes did not adjust to the unchanging blackness. Thick, heavy, and cold, it enveloped them, held them securely as chains, fraying their good sense and beckoning the edges of terror.

  “He will be gone for hours. He always is. But he will return. It will feel like he has been gone forever, but he will return.” Lydia’s voice moved as she spoke. She probably sat down.

  “Are you sure he will be gone for that long?”