The Dragon Charmer (46 page)

“No!” The whispered protest came from Gaynor. “Don’t listen to him! He will cheat you—”

“I know,” mouthed Fern. Harbeak seized Gaynor’s wrist, twisting it; her warning was cut off in a gasp of pain.

“Leave her!” cried Will, and “Leave her,” said Fern. Dr. Laye made a curt gesture, and Harbeak let her go.

“If I refuse?” Fern asked.

“Look around you.” The paneled walls dissolved into a raw light; the expensive furnishings and antique ornaments were gone. There was rock beneath their feet. The prisoners stared about them, blank with shock, seeing the lakes of vermilion and scarlet and green, the cliffs on either side rising to immeasurable heights, the sky crack in between. The sun, as always, appeared to be caught in the gap, sinking slowly toward the valley’s throat. Heat shimmered from the many faces of stone. But Fern barely glanced at the scene: she knew it too well. In front of her, Dr. Laye seemed to have grown, towering against the sunlight like a shadow made flesh, his features dimmed save for the livid glitter in his eyes. This was his place, his lair, and he drew strength from it, waxing in might, becoming visibly less and less a man. “Do you know where you are?”

“I am in Drakemyre Hall,” said Fern doggedly. “We are in Yorkshire. Outside, it is dark.”

“Don’t try to resist. You are too small, too weak. Your power is already strained keeping you on your feet. This is Azmodel.
These
are its creatures. Look well, Fernanda.”

And so they came, the morlochs, as in the spellfire, from cranny and crevice, from shade and sunshimmer, closing on Will and Gaynor, slowly, slowly. Fern saw without looking the slaver of their mouths, the light that slimed over mottled skin and scabrous paw.

The voice of Azmordis said: “These are the locusts of Azmodel. They are made of hunger. Deny me, and you will see your brother and your friend devoured before your eyes, knowing that with a word you could have saved them.”

Fern thought: I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t plan at all. I don’t know what to do. Ragginbone was right: I should have waited.
I don’t know what todo
…

She said, through rigid lips: “We’re in Yorkshire,” but the scene did not change. Will’s left hand found Gaynor’s, his right moved toward the hidden knife. Beside them, Harbeak looked no longer like a butler: his short legs had bowed, his hair writhed into curls around thrusting horns. His face glistened with anticipation.

The morlochs slunk nearer.

“Choose, Fernanda,” said Azmordis.

The thought raced around and around in her head, leafing at light speed through everything she had learnt, from the spellfire, from Caracandal, from Morgus. The head could not help her, her Gift was all but drained: she had nothing with which to fight…

I don’t know what todo
…

And then she knew. One choice remained. One move.

She said: “I must submit.” And hesitantly, as if in doubt, she extended her hand. Dr. Laye responded, the man, not the master, a mortal reflex. Palm touched palm, Fern’s small fingers were caught in its gray bony grasp but it was she who held on, her grip tightening on his while she reached out with mind and will, drawing on
his
power,
his
Gift … She had seen Caracandal borrow from Alimond, Morgus bloated with the power of the Tree. Hand-locked, she sucked his vigor into her body, into her spirit, like the desperate inhalation that revives a drowning man

But the power that rushed into her was not from Jerrold Laye. It was from Azmordis.

It swept through her like a vast black surge, lifting her on the crest of a tsunami, so she felt herself growing, swelling, while the world shrank, and the tide of morlochs was a crawling of ants, and their prey dwindled into insignificance. Azmordis was taken by surprise, even he, and his fleshly home sagged and crumpled, and his shriek of startled fury was abruptly curtailed. The morlochs, freed from restraint, sprang toward their feast Will’s knife gleamed black in the sunset—Harbeak crouched on goat legs, and leapt. But a spear hurled from behind a stone took him in the chest, splitting him from rib to spine. Gaynor cried: “Fern!
Help us!
,” and she fought to regain her Self, loosing her hold on Dr. Laye; the power crackled from her outflung arm in a current of dark lightning, and the foremost morlochs fell like swatted flies. There was an instant when room and valley overlapped, the walls closed on sunlight, and the carrion dead were scattered on sofa and carpet. Then there were only the three of them, and the slumped figure of Jerrold Laye, and Bradachin cleaning his spear on a cushion.

“Quick!” panted Fern. “The window! He’ll recover any minute—”

They scrambled over the sill; the ground was only a little way below. After the sunglare of Azmodel the darkness blinded them, but still they ran, guided by the night-eyed goblin, down the drive, toward the gate. Above, the clouds reeled, the stars screamed in their tracks. Fern had no breath either to thank Bradachin or to scold him for disobeying her order; she could feel the energy ebbing from muscle and sinew, the dragging of limbs suddenly weighted. The bag bounced at her side, hampering her movements. She hoped the head was not too bruised by such a battering. The gate was near but behind she heard Azmordis, his voice grown to a gigantic boom, summoning his remaining creatures to the chase. In the garden the shadows sprang to life, skimming over the earth with flab foot and claw foot, reaching out with a hundred hands—

Too late. The fugitives were through the gap, staggering onto the road, and the gate to Drakemyre Hall swung shut behind them.

“They can’t cross the boundary,” Fern was saying; she clutched her brother to steady herself. “We must get to the car. This way.”

“Listen.” Will, too, was fighting for breath. “There’s a
dragon
—a bloody
dragon
—in a cave—under the cellar. If he lets it loose—we won’t have a prayer.”

“He will,” said Fern. “Come on.”

“You’re hurt.” Gaynor wrapped an arm around her.

“Just—puggled,” Fern managed, with half a smile. They could make out the car now, an inky shape against the verge. “I’ll keep going … as long as I need to.” She hoped she was right. “You get in. I have something to do. If I fail—drive like hell.”

“We can’t
leave
you—”

“The Gift will protect me,” Fern prevaricated, pushing them toward the car. “Bradachin?”

“Aye?”

“Take care of them. And thanks.”

“Aye.”

She stepped back into the road, pouring the last of her power in a flood tide through her body. She was suddenly
aware of her physical being as a mass of living cells, pulsing, growing, of the torrent of her blood, the piston thump of her heart. She breathed, and the night flowed into her like an elixir. Behind her Will, Gaynor, and Bradachin stood beside the car. Will had taken the keys and unlocked, but by some unspoken concensus none of them made any move to get in. Bradachin held his spear at the ready, the butt end resting lightly on the ground. Twenty yards away, beyond the gate, they saw Dr. Laye appear. In Azmodel he had seemed to be made of shadow, but now he shone with a dim phosphorescence, as if the wereglow that filled his eyes with the invasion of Azmordis had infected skin, hair, even clothing. Fern thought he did not walk but glided over the ground. He passed through the gate and moved out into the middle of the road. “Did you think the boundary would hold
me?”
he said, and Gaynor started, for though he spoke very softly the sound seemed to come from close by. “Fool!
This
is not the gate through which you can escape me. You have been very clever, Fernanda, too clever for your own good. To steal power from an immortal to grab at my spirit like a pickpocket—that is blasphemy, and blasphemy merits the ultimate punishment. You have thrown away all your choices, all your chances. You—and your companions are doomed.”

Bradachin readied his spear, but Fern did not answer. Her earlier impatience had gone. Her heartbeat sounded like a great drum in the stillness of the night.

“How did it feel,” taunted Azmordis, “to taste—just for a few seconds—the power that might have been yours all your life? Was it not sweet, to ride the darkness, to touch godhood? Then die regretting, and may your bitterness endure even beyond the world!”

“I have no regrets,” said Fern, and her voice was clear and cold against his giant whisper.

“You will!” he retorted, and now his words were loud with the anticipation of triumph. “Did you imagine the morlochs were my only servants? Run, Fernanda, ere I call on one who is not bound in Azmodel—one against whom your feeble Gift is meaningless. Run while you can!”

He lifted his hand, and from his mouth came a noise that no human throat should be able to achieve, the bellow of
tearing rock, of wounded earth. Power stabbed from his fingers and lanced toward the house, searing through the solid stonework, splitting it from gable to cellar. Windows shattered, floors crumbled, foundations groaned. Chimneys teetered and fell. As if in slow motion the two halves of the building pulled apart; floorboards, furniture, vases, paintings crashed into the new-made chasm. A pale glimmer of dust rose into the dark. “The time has come!” said Jerrold Laye. “Arise, Tenegrys! Arise, and come to me!”

A red light sprang from the depths of the house, showing the raw edges of torn plaster and paneling, the black gape of exposed rooms. At its source, Fern thought she could see a minute dart of flame.

Will said to Gaynor:
“Get in the car.”

She opened the door but stayed where she was, held by a fascination beyond fear, unable to wrench her gaze from the Hall.

Stubbornly, knowing it would be futile, Bradachin hefted the spear.

And then the dragon came.

It burst from its prison like an erupting volcano, rearing skyward on the jet thrust of its own rage—no longer the snake-slender creature Fern had seen in the spellfire but a titan among reptiles. It rose twice as high as the house—three times—four—shaking huge chunks of debris from its sides as if they were crumbs. Vast umbrella pinions opened out, fanning the flames exploring the lower stories into a conflagration; the uncoiling of its whiplash tail flattened the residual walls in its swath. On the giant S-bend of throat and belly, chinks of heat flickered between the scales like the fire cracks in a lava flow. It was greater and more terrible than anything they had imagined, yet an awe filled them that was stronger than terror, so that for a moment even Gaynor felt that such a sight surpassed all self-concern, erasing the prospect of imminent death. This was the epitome of dream and nightmare, of aspiration and fantasy, and it was
there
, it was real—its fury made the air throb—and the beauty and the dread and the splendor of it engulfed their hearts. It threw back its head and roared with the exultation of sudden freedom, belching a fire column that reached the underside of the
lowest cloud and sent a hundred tentacles of flame coruscating across the canopy. Then it was airborne, its wingbeats quickening to a gale that drove blazing embers like leaves. In the garden, pieces of topiary ignited and misshapen shadows fled along the broken paths, trailing sparks. The dragon swooped low over the hillside, landing by the gate, a snap of its jaws mashing the iron fretwork like a bundle of twigs. Will drew his knife—a pointless reflex and Bradachin poised his spear for the throw. Fern did not move.

The flamelight played over Dr. Laye, emphasizing his corpse color so he resembled Death himself, stalking the brimstone pits of Hell. “Tenegrys!” he ordered, and in his voice were two voices, echo within echo, invader and invaded, “here is meat for you, after your long fasting! These are my enemies: I give them to you. Hunt and feed!”

The dragon arched its spine, the great head swung around. Fern stood right in its path, silhouetted against the glare. She looked very small and helpless, clutching her bag. (Will thought in sudden pain:
How like a girl
… His Fern, who had never been like other girls.) One hand slipped under the flap, seized a hunk of stem and hair…

The dragon lunged—

—and stopped, halfway to the kill, abruptly immobilized, suspended in midspring on the tremor of its wings.

“Look well, Tenegrys!” Fern cried, lifting the fruit of the Tree as high as she could. “Behold the head of Ruvindra Laï!”

Bradachin lowered his spear, but his grip did not slacken. Will and Gaynor stared in incredulous horror at the object Fern held, at its stunted gorge and tangle of hair…

Dr. Laye was motionless, momentarily dumbfounded. “It’s an illusion,” he croaked. “Fakery a charlatan’s trick … Take her! I
command
you!”

But the dragon stooped until its muzzle was on a level with the head, and the forked tongue extruded, investigating remembered features. Fern sensed the ebbing of its rage, touched a void of old sorrow, and long loneliness. “You have grown great, Angharial,” said the head—and to Will and Gaynor, looking for the speaker, realization was perhaps more shocking than the advent of the dragon. “I can call you little crocodile
no longer. Indeed you are the Infernest, like your father, Pharaizon, lord of dragonkind.” The rumble in the monster’s throat was almost a purr. “I betrayed you,” Ruvindra continued, and his voice was double-edged. “Before you were born, I enslaved you to Azmordis, the ancient Spirit who slew me in reward. But I kept faith with you in death, as I could not in life. Take heed! The one who seeks to command you now—to control you—is altogether faithless. That same Spirit has his soul in its claws—his very words are not his own.”

“Lies!” shrieked Dr. Laye. “That
thing
is a cheat—a chimera it is the girl talking! Kill her! Kill her
now!”

Clouds moved across the dragon’s eyes; doubt struggled with comprehension in the primitive simplicities of its brain. Fern felt its thought as something huge and tangible, an elemental intelligence all passion and hunger.

“He will use you,” Ruvindra persisted, “and ultimately destroy you. He lusts for the Stone splinter that lies beneath your heart, last relic of a power he cannot hold. She whom he would have you kill is the witch-maiden whose art brought me here, even from beyond the world—from the Eternal Tree where I hung in purgatory with other such fruit. I would have you befriend her, Angharial, as she has befriended me. Will you do this?”