by Mark Robson
Everywhere he looked now, aircraft turned, dived and spat death at one another. It was one of the most intense dogfights he had ever seen.
‘Unbelievable!’ he thought. ‘One minute I have the Red Baron in my sights, the next he shoots me down!’
The sight of that red machine peeling away and latching onto the tail of another Allied aircraft ignited the blood in his veins still further. Anger burned, reinforcing his determination to survive. He should have known better than to hang around when he saw that large formation: Von Richthofen always patrolled with a large wing of talented pilots around him. And now Jack knew the deal he would propose to the dragonriders – if he could just live long enough to make the offer. The dragons did not want to commit to joining the war effort – fine. One mission would be enough.
Manfred Von Richthofen had been a menace to Allied forces since long before Jack had joined his first squadron. Amongst the flying aces of the enemy, he held the reputation for being the deadliest. What a blow it would be to the enemy’s morale if he could be killed, or better still – captured. The German Luftwaffe had dominated the air above the trenches for months. The loss of no single man would turn the tide of the air war overnight. Jack was enough of a realist to see that. Immelmann, Boelke, Hawker, Ball . . . all had seemed like gods of the air in their day, yet one by one they had fallen victim to chance, arrogance or a superior opponent. Von Richthofen had outlived them all – and still his tally mounted.
It was rumoured that Von Richthofen had a silver goblet made to commemorate each aircraft he shot down. The idea that Jack’s crash would give the German pilot cause to commission another trophy today made him all the more determined to survive. The trick would be to keep the airspeed under control.
‘Concentrate,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t let it get away from you.’
The engine was no longer producing any power. He peered at the altimeter. It showed two-and-a-half thousand feet remaining. His airspeed was much too high and he was descending too fast. Smoke poured from the front of the aircraft, swirling around the cockpit and making it difficult to see. The oily smoke set Jack coughing. The taste of it was foul, but even with his stomach heaving and his chest in spasm he did not panic. With cool discipline he fought the controls, dragging the machine out of its steep spiral descent and into a controllable shallow dive.
As the airspeed reduced, so the cloud of smoke around Jack intensified. He couldn’t see anything. Droplets of hot oil were spattering across his goggles. Landing blind was impossible. He had to stop the smoke from flowing directly back over the cockpit. The only way he knew to change the airflow drastically was to put the aircraft into a severe sideslip. He wasted no time. Forcing the yolk to the left, he dipped the left wing whilst simultaneously kicking the rudder pedal to the right in opposition to the turn.
With the controls deliberately held in opposite directions the aircraft began sliding sideways at the ground. The rate of descent increased until it seemed the aircraft was almost falling vertically out of the sky, but it had the desired effect. The smoke stream from the engine detached from the fuselage and poured over the right wing.
The ground was approaching rapidly, the aircraft slicing towards the earth at a lethal rate of descent. Although the air now flowing through the cockpit was clear, Jack hardly dared to breathe. The final few seconds required perfect anticipation, or he would smash into the ground with such force that there would be no chance of his walking away.
An open field loomed ahead. It was far from flat, which was not ideal for a forced landing, but he had no choice. The airspeed was fluctuating wildly on the gauge, but this was not unusual when sideslipping. The approach felt all wrong – the steep descent, the unstable airspeed, the fact that he was looking out of the front left side of the cockpit rather than over the nose – everything. At the last possible moment he straightened the aircraft into normal flight and attempted to check the rate of descent. His anticipation was almost perfect – almost.
The moment of impact was horrific. He had judged his final flare to perfection, but the aeroplane was not quite straight as it touched down. There was an almighty crack as the right main undercarriage leg sheared away. The right wing caught the ground and for a moment the world appeared to spin and whirl in a totally incomprehensible fashion. Jack was flung from one side of the cockpit to the other, bruising both shoulders, but amazingly sustaining no other injuries.
What was left of the aircraft came to a stop. For the briefest moment, Jack sat motionless, unable to believe he was still alive. A huge sheet of bright orange flame erupted from the engine in front of him. A moment later Jack was looking back at the wreckage from about fifty yards up the gentle slope. How he had got there was a blank spot in his memory. He could only assume that his survival instinct and a rush of adrenalin had ruled his brain for the intervening time.
The cockpit was engulfed in flame. The right wing had been totally torn off during the crash landing. The tattered remainder of it was some seventy yards back from the rest of the wreckage, probably the only piece of the aircraft to remain once the fire had burned itself out. Jack sank down suddenly into the deep grass, as his legs seemed to turn to jelly. A wave of relief left him weak and shaking uncontrollably. He glanced instinctively at the sky where the fight was still raging. Two further aircraft trailed black smoke: one in a dive from which there would be no lucky escape, the other still manoeuvring hard. From this range he could not tell if they were friendly, or not.
Looking back at the flames leaping from the wreckage that had been his aeroplane just moments before, it seemed impossible that he had survived. ‘How in God’s holy name did I get away with that?’ he breathed.
The engine chose that moment to explode and Jack fell back flat into the grass. Instinct made him wrap his arms across his face. It was only then that he noticed he was clutching something in his right hand. It was his map. On the back of it were written the words of the Oracle’s rhyming verses. He did not remember grabbing it from the cockpit, but then he did not remember much of the last few minutes at all. He was glad to have the written copy of the verses. Solving the riddles without that would have been impossible.
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d be tempted to believe someone was looking after me today,’ he muttered. His lips twisted into a wry smile and his eyes flicked heavenward. ‘If you are, then thanks,’ he added.
Jack had hardly set foot inside a church in his life, but at this moment he felt obliged to thank someone for keeping him alive. Even if no one was listening, it made him feel good.
He sat up and checked the map to see if the words he had written on the back of it were still legible. They were. He smiled. It was a wonderful moment. Walking away from the burning wreckage of his aircraft made him feel he was beginning another life – gifted with a chance to start again.
‘Start again . . .’ he muttered. ‘That’s it!’
He lifted the map and scanned through the poem. The answers were obvious. Why had he not seen them before? He knew the answers – all of them. He had what the dragonriders needed. They had what he needed. With their help he could take his revenge on Von Richthofen and strike a devastating blow for the Allies. But he had no way to contact them. The irony of it was priceless.
Jack threw his head back and laughed. It was all he could do.
Chapter Fifteen
Murder
Kalen felt deeply troubled as he watched the High Lord and his dragonrider friend, Segun, leave. Tarpone had never been a true scholar. He had dabbled with study on and off for many years, but had never taken it seriously. Even as a youth, the man who had risen to become High Lord had always been far more interested in money and status. He had been born to a wealthy family, and had used his father’s influence and fortune to achieve ultimate power in Harkesis.
‘What are you up to, Tarpone?’ Kalen muttered under his breath. ‘Do you know what you’re doing? Segun is attempting to sabotage the quest of the two young girls. He’s a nasty
piece of work, or I’m no scholar. Why help him? Feeding Kira and Nolita misinformation will serve no good purpose.’
Stroking his chin thoughtfully, Kalen tried to dismiss the visit from his mind. He knew to tread carefully around the High Lord. Even though he had maintained a relationship that bordered on friendship with Tarpone for many years, he knew their long association would count for nothing if he did not do as he had been asked.
‘Find the answer to the riddle first,’ he told himself. ‘You can worry about what to do with it once you’ve figured out the answer.’
He went to the master index and began thumbing through it until he found the reference he wanted. The books he needed were in the North Hall.
‘I should have known!’ he grumbled, closing the master index.
The North Hall was several degrees cooler than the rest of the Grand Library and Kalen had developed a particular distaste for it during the past few years. His old bones increasingly felt the cold and he avoided working there as a matter of habit.
He looked around at the men studying at the tables nearby. They were immersed in their work, but there was one he felt he could trust to relate a message.
‘Conrad?’ he asked, speaking boldly to attract the man’s attention. ‘Conrad, would you mind doing me a small service?’
‘That depends, Kalen,’ the scholar replied. ‘I’m rather busy at the moment.’
‘I need someone to pass on a message. Are you going to be here for a while longer?’ Kalen asked.
‘Yes, I’ll be here all day.’
‘Good. Did you notice the two young female dragonriders I was with earlier?’
‘I did.’
‘They have gone to get something to eat,’ Kalen explained. ‘They’ll not be long. Could you tell them I’ve gone to the North Hall, please? I’m seeking the answer to a riddle for them. Rather than risk their getting lost, could you ask them to wait for me here?’
‘Of course, Kalen,’ the old man replied. ‘I shall watch for them.’
Kalen thanked Conrad and set off through the maze of bookcases. The riddle was all the more tantalising now. With at least two distinct factions of dragonriders involved in the search, he knew the answer was important. Dragonriders did not chase shadows without reason – especially not someone like Segun. Something big was happening. Maybe if he found the answer to the riddle, he would be considered worthy of being elevated to the gold sash.
The most prestigious level of scholarship had eluded Kalen for decades. It had been over twenty season rotations since he had been raised to the purple sash for his book on social dynamics. To be awarded purple was a great honour and Kalen was proud of his achievements, but the dream of every scholar was to achieve the ultimate accolade. There were only three living scholars in all Harkesis who wore the gold. Perhaps this was his chance to join that most elite group of scholars. To solve a riddle that eluded the minds of dragons – surely that would be considered special. But if it proved easy, would it be special enough? Perhaps he should drag out his findings – make the discovery more dramatic.
His pace quickened as his excitement mounted. By the time he reached the North Hall he was marching between the bookcases with a stride that spoke of urgency and purpose. His focus was fixed and his mind was racing through possibilities. Given his preoccupation, it was perhaps not surprising that he did not notice the silent figure following his every move.
‘Kalen has gone to the North Hall to seek an answer to your riddle.’
Kira smiled at the old scholar. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she replied. ‘I did wonder how we were going to find him in this huge library. Could you direct us to the North Hall, please? We’re not familiar with the layout.’
‘He asked me to tell you to remain here until he returns,’ the man replied. ‘If you go looking for him, you might miss one another and circle endlessly.’
‘You’re quite right, sir,’ Kira said, her heart sinking at the thought of having to sit here and wait for Kalen to return. ‘Has he been gone long?’
‘Oh, some time now, I think,’ Conrad replied, looking down at his book and trying to remember. ‘Judging by how much I’ve read since I spoke to him, I’d say it must be more than an hour since he left. Kalen is a most competent scholar. If your answer can be found, then he will find it.’
Kira did not ask what would happen if the answer could not be found. She thanked him again and drew Nolita across to an unoccupied table. Lunch had been an experience she would not forget in a hurry. Life in the city was very different from life in the savannah and jungle of southern Racafi. She could tell that Nolita felt as uncomfortable as she did. The prickle of her hunter’s instinct had begun again the moment they stepped through the great doors of the Grand Library. With her nerves on edge and her eyes constantly scanning for signs of danger, Kira slowly sat down.
Her bottom barely touched the chair before she was on her feet again. A shout reverberated through the air shaking her to the core.
‘MURDER! MURDER IN THE LIBRARY!’
It was hard to tell where the shout had come from, but Kira caught the eye of the old scholar and he pointed without hesitation. She was in motion in a heartbeat. A glance up at the meridian line on the great dome gave her the reference she needed. Her hunting knife was in her hand, though she did not remember drawing it. Nolita ran alongside her. The blonde girl also held a gleaming blade at the ready. Kira had felt the menace in the air from the moment she arrived. She was not going to be caught unprepared if they came face to face with the source of the dark aura.
Weaving between the bookcases at speed, they quickly emerged from the maze. The moment she saw the body on the floor in the doorway, Kira knew it was Kalen. Four younger men in white robes surrounded him. Kira accelerated into a sprint.
‘Get away from him!’ she warned as she skidded to a stop on the mosaic tiled floor. ‘All of you – get away from him. Now!’
One look at Kira’s face was enough. The gleam of clean steel in her hand reinforced the reaction. Three of the men backed away, their hands raised in a gesture of peace. The fourth did not move. He had his right hand on Kalen’s back and his left was feeling the side of the old man’s neck. A large pool of blood was creeping across the floor.
‘I can’t feel a pulse, but the blood is still spreading,’ the young scholar said, sounding both panicked and frightened. ‘What should we do?’
‘Get away from him,’ Kira repeated. ‘Let me see. Do you have medics nearby?’
‘Not nearby, but we can send for them.’
‘Then do it. Quickly!’
One of the young scholars turned and ran in the direction of the main entrance.
The young man kneeling by Kalen slowly got to his feet and stepped back to join his remaining colleagues. Kira was quick to take his place. She laid her blade down gently on Kalen’s lower back. The back of his robe was totally soaked with blood and a trail of blood led back into the North Hall. The old man must have dragged himself some distance across the floor to the doorway.
There were two holes through the back of his robe. Whoever stabbed him knew what he was doing. Both wounds were horizontal. The killer had struck low enough to miss the tough bone of the shoulder blade, but high enough to slip the blade between the ribs and into Kalen’s lungs. It was no wonder that the old scholar had not cried out when he was attacked.
As Kira made her assessment of the wounds another young scholar came running across the North Hall waving a piece of parchment.
‘I found this,’ he gasped.
Kira ignored him, maintaining her focus on Kalen.
‘What is it, Mikhal?’ asked the young scholar who had been last to move away from Kalen.
‘It was on the floor next to the place where the blood trail begins,’ Mikhal panted. ‘It just has a single word on it: “Darkenfell”. Do you think it’s important?’
Nolita gasped and Kira glanced at her. The blonde girl’s face looked pale with shock, but whether that was at the sight of K
alen’s body, or at the name the young scholar had mentioned was unclear.
‘What is it, Nolita?’ she asked. ‘Have you heard of Darkenfell? Where is it?’
‘It’s an evil name,’ Nolita replied, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘No one goes there by choice.’
‘Well we may have to,’ Kira said, her voice hard as iron. ‘Where is this Darkenfell? I’ve never heard of it before.’
‘It’s on the far side of Northern Cemaria.’
‘Damn!’ Kira swore, her hands clenching tight into fists. ‘It would be! It’ll take us weeks to get there without Elian and Aurora. Weeks we don’t have.’
‘Let me see that piece of paper, Mikhal,’ said a deep voice from behind them.
It was Conrad, the old scholar who had directed them from the central study area of the library. A small crowd had gathered from all directions, but it was Conrad who stepped forwards. The young man held the piece of parchment out to his senior. He assessed it with a single glance and waved it away.
‘Strange,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘That’s not Kalen’s handwriting.’
To Kira’s complete surprise, Kalen’s body and right arm began to move. Startled, she flinched and overbalanced, falling away from him and scrabbling quickly to regain her feet. Conrad quickly took her place, crouching down and talking to Kalen in a low, encouraging voice. ‘What is it, old friend? Yes it’s me, Conrad. Relax. We’re here now.’
Kalen raised his right hand slightly, pinching his thumb and first two fingers together.
‘A quill,’ Conrad ordered. ‘Someone give me a quill. You there! Take a book from the shelf behind you. Any book. It doesn’t matter which one.’
Someone gave Conrad a quill, which he, in turn, placed gently between Kalen’s questing fingers.
‘The book, man! Come on! He doesn’t have long.’
‘But it’ll be ruined, sir!’ the junior replied, a note of anguish in his voice.
‘I’ll take responsibility for that. Now do as you’re told.’
