02 Unicorn Rider (14 page)

‘I’m fine,’ Nimbus said. ‘Can you see the temple yet?’

‘Not yet, but the clouds are low here. It could be anywhere.’ Cumulo banked to the left, avoiding an outcrop of frozen rock that appeared through the haze.

‘Careful,’ Nimbus warned.

‘Thanks for the tip.’ The dragon soared higher. ‘So tell me, what’s going on with you and your father?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Nimbus said.

‘Sometimes it helps to talk.’

‘Not this time.’

‘It’s your choice.’

‘That’s right, it’s my choice.’

They flew in silence for a while, weaving through the clouds. Nimbus found his gaze constantly drawn to the gouged stone below. Was it somewhere nearby that the cyclopean army had been destroyed?

‘You know,’ Cumulo said, ‘everybody thinks their dad is a hero. It just so happens that in your case, it’s actually true.’

‘I told you I didn’t want to talk about it.’

‘You’re not talking about it. I am.’

‘Cumulo, listen...’

‘No. You listen. Unless you want to walk the rest of the way to Mother’s temple, that is.’

Nimbus muttered something under his breath that probably wasn’t particularly polite, but allowed Cumulo to carry on.

‘As I was trying to say, even heroes make mistakes.’

‘My dad’s made more than his share.’

‘Why does that upset you so much? Isn’t he allowed the same chances as you?’

‘He’s my dad!’

‘It can be something of a shock to find out your father is just a man, I suppose.’

Nimbus clenched his hands. ‘It’s more than that, Cumulo. You know it is. He’s my dad, and all this time I wanted to be like him. But now I know that means being a Wing Warrior, everything’s changed.’ He shook his head hopelessly. ‘How do we even know the Wing Warriors were good people?’

‘Who is to say what makes a good person, and what makes a bad person? The important thing is that the Wing Warriors did what they thought was right, and they tried to help people.’

‘They killed thousands.’

‘That’s true.’

‘How can that much death ever be right?’

‘I don’t know, and maybe it wasn’t. Some people considered the Wing Warriors to be tyrants rather than saviours. But whatever they did, you are not bound to follow in their footsteps. You do not have to make the same mistakes.’

‘And what if I already have?’

‘You’re talking about the wyvern you killed, aren’t you?’

‘I stabbed it, even though it couldn’t fight back.’

‘You performed your duty. You protected your people from something that wanted to hurt them. You did a good thing.’

Nimbus sighed, and pressed himself against Cumulo’s neck. ‘Then why do I feel so bad?’ he whispered.

Cumulo angled his body, and flapped his wings to thrust himself above a tall point of snowy stone. On the peak beyond, wrapped in a silencing blanket of cloudy vapour, a small temple stood watch over a lifeless valley.

Black windows gazed at Cumulo as he landed in front of the main entrance. The petrified oak doors were hanging off rusting hinges and much of the stonework was crumbling and brittle. Nimbus could not decide whether the damage had been caused by the ravages of time, or by the ravages of a more physical – possibly hungry – threat. He drew the Wing Warrior sword, just to be on the safe side.

‘Interesting,’ Cumulo said.

‘What is?’ Nimbus asked.

‘We’ve flown all this way, but you haven’t been sick.’

Nimbus grinned awkwardly. ‘You’re right.’

‘I think we’re starting to make some progress. We’ll make a Wing Warrior of you yet. Before you know it, you’ll be remembering to wear your helmet and everything.’

The wind on top of the mountain was bitter and cruel, and it howled worse than the banshee. The more Nimbus listened to it, the more he got the unsettling impression it was actually the temple that was screaming. The valley below was full of shadows.

‘What do you make of this temple?’ Nimbus asked.

Cumulo’s tongue flickered. ‘I don’t like it,’ he growled, but he would say no more than that.

‘Like it or not, we have to go in there.’

Cumulo looked at him. His eyes were filled with a sadness that stretched back through the mists of time to a point far before he was ever hatched. ‘I can’t do it,’ he said.

‘Can’t do what?’

‘This is Mother’s temple.’

‘I’m well aware of that. That’s why we’re here.’

‘I know, but I still can’t do it. I can’t go with you. There is too much of her still there.’

‘What do you mean?’

Cumulo turned away. He hunched his shoulders, shaking his head sadly.

‘Cumulo?’

‘We killed her,’ Cumulo said. ‘I am not strong enough to see the glory of what we took from the world. And I am not strong enough to see all that I must become as the last of dragons.’

‘I don’t know what that means.’

‘It means, I can’t do it.’

‘So I have to go in there by myself?’

Cumulo said nothing.

‘Fine. Whatever.’ Nimbus stomped up the cracked stone steps that led into the temple’s entrance hall. ‘Stupid dragon,’ he added, under his breath.

‘Nimbus,’ Cumulo said. ‘Be careful.’

‘Why?’

‘Because there is much of your father in there too.’

Inside the temple, Nimbus’s footsteps crunched like he was walking on the dried remains of beetles. His breathing echoed, and on more than one occasion he looked back, expecting to find somebody else with him before realising he was still very much alone. The only light came from the open doorway behind him, and farther inside that light was only just strong enough to cut out vague shapes and details from the claustrophobic gloom. Many things still remained hidden.

On every wall, partially concealed by spider webs, the eyes of the ancient dragons watched him from paintings that showed the mighty beasts at various points through history. One wall was almost entirely dedicated to the story of when those twelve brave adventurers, who would later become the Wing Warriors, first approached Mother with talks of peace. The appearance of Nimbus’s own father was caught in meticulous detail by the deft brushstrokes of a truly talented artist.

Farther along, the more violent episodes were depicted, with demonic monsters battling to gain control of the peaceful lands the dragons had sworn to protect. Wall after wall was filled with images of death and misery: More war and hate than Nimbus could ever have imagined was possible. His father must have been fighting for hundreds of years, facing battle after battle, painting a history in blood that could never be washed away.

Nimbus sighed, and the echoic temple sighed back. Did being a Wing Warrior really mean becoming judge and executioner? Was there no other way to wear the armour? This senseless murder... Was that what everybody expected of him?

He realised sadly that even here, in Mother’s temple, he was clenching the Wing Warrior sword, prepared to use it on anything that might jump out at him. Perhaps he was already on the way to becoming what his father was.

How many times did you have to kill before it didn’t even bother you any more?

He rounded a corner and found himself in a small chamber. The webs were so thick here, and teeming with so many spiders, that he was tempted to turn back. Horrible crawling things fell on him and wriggled between the plates of his armour, but he forced himself to ignore the unpleasant distraction. He opened the first door he found and pressed on, eventually reaching a room that was shrouded in complete darkness.

The thought of bumping around blindly in the dark chilled Nimbus to the bone, and he could have kicked himself for not having had the foresight to bring a lantern; but regardless of his dread, he crept inside. The room was filled with his frightened breathing, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the nightmarish gloom, he was able to pick his way through old tables, chairs, and barrels to a door on the far side.

He pressed his ear to the door, but all he could hear was the blood thumping in his head.

He opened the door a fraction and peered inside.

Another corridor.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door fully, and stepped inside. The corridor ran on way beyond the extent of his vision.

Something was moving down there.

Nimbus took a few more steps, straining to see. Something definitely moved, but what that something might be was impossible to say.

‘Hello?’ Nimbus called.

Something scraped along the walls, and there was a low hiss that quickly multiplied until it was too many hissing sounds to count.

‘Hello?’ Nimbus repeated. ‘Is there anybody in here?’

There was another flash of motion, so sudden that Nimbus screamed and dropped the Wing Warrior sword. Something massive began to unfurl itself at the end of the corridor.

Without waiting to see any more, Nimbus turned and ran. He took a couple of strides, stopped, turned back, grabbed the sword from where he had let it drop, and then retraced his steps to the door.

The hissing shape that was expanding to fill the corridor raced after him, uncoiling gigantically. Many eyes, more than could possibly have been on one creature’s head, glittered hungrily in the dismal dark.

Nimbus dived through the door as something snapped at his heels; then he quickly kicked the door shut, and pushed his back to it. Something heavy collided on the other side, but Nimbus was already running again. He ran as fast as he could, and he didn’t stop until he happened upon a door that opened onto a massive room lined with rows of stone shelves.

He slammed the door behind him, and with his heart still thudding in his throat, he leaned against the wall while he thought what to do next.

The room he had found was obviously some kind of library, as the shelves were filled with dusty books and crumbling leather folders. Nimbus’s breath caught as he wondered about what secret and arcane knowledge the books on the shelves might hold. But it was not only the contents of the library that gave him cause to gasp, for the way in which the room was illuminated was a wonder in itself: the wall on his right was entirely made from sheets of glass, each section towering five or six times taller than an average human.

Nimbus made his way across the room to a stone table, where he found a book with a deeply creased spine lying beside a dried–up ink well and the sorry remnants of a candle.

Carefully turning the crackling pages of the book, Nimbus realised that what he was looking at was some kind of diary or journal, with page after page of neatly written text recording the work of the Wing Warriors in minute detail. The author of the book was his father.

Nimbus stopped turning pages. Everything he had ever wanted to know about the Wing Warriors, everything his father had attempted to hide from him, was in this book. Every deed of the dragons, good and bad; every war, every death, every reason. All here. Only now Nimbus had the answers he had been looking for, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.

He didn’t like his father very much at the moment. What if something in this book turned that dislike into hate?

He was suddenly able to understand why Cumulo had not wished to come to this place: living a lie was easier than accepting the truth.

It was easier to think that they had rid the world of the demonic black dragon, Sorrow, rather than to think they had denied the world all the good that Mother could have done. But this was Mother’s temple, and it was impossible to set foot inside without realising that the world was a far worse place now she was gone.

It was easier to think of himself as Nimbus, rather than as the last Wing Warrior. But in this temple, it was impossible not to fully appreciate his awful destiny, and the crushing responsibility of his position.

And it was easier to think of Cloud as the kind but serious man who had tucked Nimbus in at night and kissed his forehead, and who had said there were no monsters under the bed, and who had gone fishing with him, and who had told him that family was forever.

It was easier to think of Cloud as his dad.

But if he opened this book, Cloud wouldn’t be his dad any more.

Every lie would be laid bare to see. Every murder. Every unforgivable sin.

Nimbus felt like he was falling. He felt like he had been falling some time, and he had almost got used to it; but now he could see the ground rising up to meet him and there was no way to pretend it wasn’t happening, or to avoid the impact.

The light coming through the windows cast gruesome shapes along the rows of rotting books. The smell of mould and leather was sickening.

‘I need to know,’ he said.

He flicked to an entry in the book at random and started to read. ‘The people of the town were distraught. The children were gone, the blood was on the walls. The stranger had been dragged from his bed that morning and was being held captive at the Town Hall. The people wanted him executed. There was no proof, but they demanded it. The children were gone, and as far as they were concerned that was proof enough. I tried to delay, I tried to stop it, but it was expected, and they left me no choice. My duty rests heavy on my shoulders. I made a promise to protect and to serve. It is a promise I kept today in blood. How can I ever look at myself in the mirror again?’

There was just one line of text on the next page, written in letters that were shaky and barely legible. Nimbus’s voice almost cracked as he read the words aloud. ‘Today the children came back home. Alive.’

He moved on a few pages more. The temple was silent around him, as if it was waiting interestedly to see what would happen next.

‘The cyclopeans are on the march,’ he read. ‘A war is inevitable. There will be death. I wish there was some other way.’

The next page: ‘Tomorrow I must lead the Wing Warriors in battle against King Carnelian. It is out of my hands now. Perhaps it always was. I was supposed to protect people. I have failed. This is not what I promised to do when I put on the armour. I never promised to kill. I am not what I used to be. I would wish my fate on no other person.’

Nimbus blinked tears from his eyes. He could barely concentrate on the words as he flicked to the last few entries in the book. He had been so mean to his father. He had accused him of such terrible things.