Flight to Dragon Isle (6 page)

‘All was going well, Lady,’ Roostmistress Greybeard growled, ‘then a babe turned in the womb and now none can be born. She is bleeding inside and getting weaker by the moment. She won’t let anyone near her. I fear it may already be too late to save any of them.’

‘Where’s the surgeon?’ Quenelda asked as she discarded her heavy jacket.

‘Dragon Isle, Lady,’ the roostmistress answered. ‘Loaded transports return daily from the north with casualties from the winter exercises. The storms are brutal for man and beast alike.’

Quicksilver Dewdrop
… Quenelda was instantly at the distressed dragon’s side, laying an ear carefully to her chest.
The birth is difficult?

Dancing with Dragons
… It was barely a whisper.

The deep rhythm of the dragon’s twin hearts boomed frantically; beneath them, the faltering heartbeats of baby dragons grew weaker by the minute.

You must let the No Wings roostmistress care for you. She wishes to help. Trust me, Quicksilver. We wish to save your babes
…

Unused to walking any great distance in the ridiculously high heels that were all the fashion at Court, Armelia wobbled to a stop and fanned herself. Her high-heeled boots had repeatedly got stuck between the cobbles, her silk tights had snagged on a buckle, and a ladder ran up out of sight beneath her pantaloons and petticoats. Her ringlets were askew and a ribbon or two had unravelled. She dabbed away the faintest sheen of sweat from her forehead with a lace hanky and hoped that she would not meet Darcy before she had a chance to repair the damage. To her relief, Quester finally pointed out the terracottatiled roofs of the nursery roosts ahead.

‘With your permission, Lady?’ Anxious to be gone, the esquire ran on ahead, leaving Armelia to be tended by her servants. Gathering her dignity and her skirts, head held high, she walked at a more decorous pace towards the arched doors thrown open to the morning. Ripe odours wafted out, making her eyes water.

‘My lady!’ a companion protested. ‘You cannot step in there! It … smells so. There are … Why, there are
dragons
in there! It will be dangerous!’

Waving her companions’ protests aside and taking a deep breath, Armelia stepped over the threshold and was swallowed in darkness. Her reluctant entourage followed, huddling together for security.

After her exhausting walk through gardens stiff with hoar frost, the steamy heat of the roost took Armelia’s breath away. It was unbearably humid and crowded, and stank of … dragon? She had no idea. She gave her furs to one of her ladies, who gratefully fled the roost back into fresh air. Once her breathing had slowed, Armelia could hear strange noises overlaying each other in the musty gloom – soft chirps, a shrill fluting, deeper whoops and peeps – and realized that she had never heard the call of a baby dragon. Dragons hadn’t featured in her upbringing in any shape or form, and she knew little of giving birth beyond the fact that it was dangerous. She paused as a thought struck her.
It must be dangerous for dragons too
…

But even Armelia’s untrained ear could hear, above all the strange sounds of the roosts, the frantic heaving of a dragon in distress, and the soft murmur of anxious voices. Allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom, the girl moved forward cautiously. Following lanterns and voices, she came to the centre of the building. Around her the individual dragon roosts radiated outwards like slices of cake. Peering beyond the shafts of light that streamed in through the windows, she could see Quenelda and a dwarf in one of the stalls, surrounded by a huddle of people.

‘… an infusion of argon leaf,’ the dwarf was saying gruffly to Quenelda, who knelt in the straw at the dragon’s side, ‘to calm her, and some digitalis to slow her heart. She is very weak. Calm her, Lady, so that I may at least save her, if not the babes.’

Quenelda nodded and turned her attention back to the dragon, which was already quietening beneath her gentle touch.

We must search for your baby … We must turn the head, else all will die … You must be still …

Only Quenelda heard the dragon’s pain-filled response.
As you say, Dancing with Dragons … But the pain
…

We will give you something for the pain
.

Something tugged at Armelia’s skirts. She looked down in horror to where a small black and white dragon was trying to eat her dress. ‘Get it off! Get it off!’ Her voice rose an octave to a high squeak.

‘Shoo! Shoo!’ Her ladies flapped ineffectually, hitting it with their fans. Armelia kicked it. It scuttled out of reach and trilled angrily at her.

Just then Quicksilver Dewdrop collapsed sideways, chest heaving, knocking Root and one of the stable hands to the floor with her flailing tail. Ignoring the red welt the tail had raised on his cheek, Root helped the ostlers get the almost unconscious dragon into the cradle, amazed at her weight.

Quenelda was rolling up the sleeves of her embroidered shirt when Quester returned, cradling a mortar and pestle so as not to spill its steaming contents. Carefully he strained the contents into a wooden bowl and handed it to Quenelda.

‘I need you to give her the infusion a little at a time,’ Greybeard instructed Quenelda.

The dwarf turned to the stable hands, who were already moving forward with a pulley and harness. ‘Lift her – gently now,’ she warned as they raised the dragon.

Meanwhile Armelia was glaring at the small black and white dragon, which had returned for a second helping of lace. One of her more adventurous ladies bent forward to pick the hatchling up, but it scuttled off into a pile of hay, seeking out its parents. The mare stepped forward to protect it. The ruff about her head raised up, and her tail waved warningly. Unfortunately Armelia was blissfully ignorant of animal behaviour, and was not able to understand the body language. The mare was small and did not look threatening, and so, checking that no one was looking her way, Armelia drew back her foot, ready to kick again. Her movement caught Quester’s eye.

‘Nooo …’ He lunged forward. ‘Don’t touch—’

Too late! The mare ducked under Armelia’s boot and swung her hindquarters round to face her. Back feet treading the hay up and down with gusto, she raised her quivering tail. Foul-smelling liquid sprayed over Armelia and spattered her companions. They fled, shrieking, abandoning their mistress – all save one, who fainted.

The stench was truly overpowering. Armelia stood there, her mouth opening and closing, coughing and spluttering with outrage. There was a brief intake of breath as everyone at work in the neighbouring stall stared at her, but then the pregnant dragon moaned and they immediately turned back to their allotted tasks.

In the course of her cosseted life, Armelia had never been ignored. It was a new and unpleasant experience – as unpleasant as the liquid that dripped from her hair and nose and chin. Her cheeks burned with humiliation. Turning on her heel, trampling the prone body of her companion in her haste, she collapsed onto a bale of hay.

In the stall, Quenelda was soothing the dragon as the stable hands gently raised the canvas cradle, lifting the mare to her feet.

‘Truckleloam balm?’

A gnome apprentice stepped forward with a pail of thick ointment. Scooping up a handful, the Roostmistress rubbed it generously over her forearms. Standing beneath the cradle, she reached up under the dragon’s tail.

No! Surely she’s not going to …?
Feeling nauseous, Armelia’s fragile determination wavered and she staggered out into the yard, seeking fresh air.

Nearly … nearly
, Quenelda reassured the mare. The dwarf was straining against the dragon, her arm in as far as it could go. Sweat was running down her face. Quenelda was soothing the agitated dragon while trying to watch what the Roostmistress was doing. A sudden gush of blue blood splattered over the pair of them.

‘Here …’ Someone rammed a bucket into Armelia’s hands as she stood on the threshold of the stables. Her flustered ladies were feebly attempting to remove the offensive stains from brocade and silk without getting any of it on themselves. The dirty liquid in the bucket spilled over, splattering Armelia’s skirts and filling her dainty pointed boots. ‘Tip it into the gutter and get some fresh water – from that well out in the courtyard,’ the stable hand commanded, pointing outside. Nobody was allowed to stand idly by in the nursery roosts at a birthing. In a daze, Armelia wobbled over to the well and looked at it hopelessly. Water was normally brought to her, chilled in crystal goblets.

‘I – I—’ she stuttered to no one in particular. A goblin mucking out another stall looked at her and turned back to his task, shaking his head.

‘Lady?’ Quester approached her carefully, not reacting to the dreadful stench that kept her servants well away from her.

‘Allow me,’ he said kindly, and he let the bucket plummet down into the hidden depths of the well. A
splosh
echoed up, and the esquire began turning the handle with easy strength. ‘Your first birthing?’ he asked sympathetically.

Armelia could only nod wordlessly. She was on the verge of hysteria.

‘It’s always difficult the first time,’ he offered kindly, trying not to wince at the awful smell. ‘I threw up.’

Armelia looked at him faintly. ‘Did you?’ Somehow that made her feel much better. ‘I thought …’ She started dredging up what little she knew of dragons. ‘I thought all dragons laid eggs.’

‘Oh no. Some do lay eggs like snakes and birds, but many give birth to live young, just like most other creatures. It depends on the breed.’

They headed back into the roost. The sawing breaths of the dragon were growing weaker. Armelia followed Quester into the steamy darkness as he strode ahead with the bucket.

‘W-w-what is her name?’ she called after him.

‘Quicksilver Dewdrop.’

‘That’s a beautiful name,’ Armelia said, swaying.

‘Here,’ Quester offered, coming back towards her. ‘Let me get you a seat.’ He pulled a big three-legged stool from the shadows and dusted off the cobwebs with his shirt cuffs. Armelia sank gratefully onto it and fanned her face.

The dragon was keening now – a dreadful wailing sound.

‘Come on, girl,’ Quenelda whispered. ‘Just a little more …’

Roostmistress Greybeard suddenly withdrew her arm. There was a splatter of mucus, and a gelatinous sac spilled out onto the hay with a wet slap. Within moments, another – and then another – fell into the waiting arms of the apprentices. A rush of rancid air rolled across the stall.

Armelia’s eyes fluttered. She felt sick. And for the first time in her life, she genuinely fainted, falling unnoticed over the back of the stool into the straw, feet and frilly bloomers in the air …

She swam slowly back to consciousness. She was lying down but her mattress was prickly and she felt sticky. There were anxious voices, but puzzlingly they were not clustered around her. Nor did she recognize any of them. Someone was washing her brow, but the cloth was rough and scratchy. The water was syrupy and she could feel it gumming up her eyes. She tried to open an eye and found she couldn’t, and when she wiped the goo away, a little face was peering enthusiastically at her through sea-green eyes. Its nose was pointed and it had two horns. They were attached to a small yellow dragon, fat as butter. A yellow forked tongue flicked out – a tongue that felt like hot sandpaper. With a squeak, Armelia scrambled to her feet, dumping the baby dragon on the floor. It fled for the safety of a far roost, chirping furiously.

Around her, Quicksilver Dewdrop’s roost was a hive of activity, everyone cradling a baby dragon, trying to draw life from the limp scraps in the straw.

‘Here …’ As Armelia staggered to her feet, Quenelda thrust a tiny dragon into her hands. ‘Rub her,’ she ordered. ‘Get her circulation going or she’s going to die …’

The tiny dragon lay cold and limp in Armelia’s arms, curled up like a hibernating hedgehog. She opened her mouth to ask what she was supposed to rub the dragon with, then shut it again. Laying the little bundle of scales gently down in the hay, she bent down and tore the hem from one of her petticoats. She gathered the tiny creature in her skirts, then rubbed it tentatively.

Nothing. The baby dragon remained unmoving in her hands. ‘Live,’ she whispered. ‘Live …’ Looking up helplessly, she saw how robustly the others were rubbing, and redoubled her efforts.

‘Yes! Look!’ Quenelda triumphantly handed another baby to one of the grooms; he laid it down in the straw next to the exhausted mare, who gathered it to her beneath a spread wing.

Armelia rubbed with renewed vigour, anxious to show that she too could coax life from the bundle in her hands. ‘I …’

There was a small hiccup. Then another.

The infant dragon’s scales fluttered in and then out. The tiny tail twitched. The baby sneezed to clear its nostrils, spraying blue mucus over Armelia’s bowed face.

‘It’s … it’s breathing,’ she said tremulously, holding up the little dragon, swaddled in petticoats. ‘It’s alive!’ she cried triumphantly. ‘It’s alive!’

The dragon mare lay on a bed of fresh hay with eleven babes suckling contentedly. With a warm glow, Armelia gazed down in wonder.

‘Is she … Are they all going to live?’

‘Yes.’ Quenelda smiled, teeth white against brimstone dust and grease. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

Armelia found herself smiling back. Not bothering to locate her perfumed lace hanky, she wiped her filthy hands on her clothes just as Quenelda had done.

There was movement outside.

‘Armelia?’ Darcy’s haughty voice rang out. ‘Gods! What is that awful stench? Your servants said you were in here …’ Stepping into the dark roosts, he looked past Armelia and Quenelda into the stall; then his gaze slowly returned to take in the ripped petticoats, the goo … the stench …

‘Armelia?’ Darcy’s tone was one of sheer disbelief. ‘
What
are you doing in here?’

‘It’s so cold!’ Root shivered as he buckled up Chasing the Stars’ saddle, stamping his feet on the icy cobbles to get some warmth in them. Comfortably wrapped in her padded winter tack, his dragon nuzzled at him, searching for the honey tablets she knew he would be carrying. Root had been warned by Tangnost that his beloved mount was looking a little plump, and as he eased out the girth strap one notch more, he had to admit the Dragonmaster was right.