Chapter 3 #3
The car drives through the familiar streets, then past Claridge House.
I blink back tears as I stare up at the window of Hollingsworth’s office.
She must be wondering where I am. A pair of dragons fly behind distant clouds as we drive further out of London.
Soon, the car slows. The driver shows a badge and two sets of military gates open for us.
The airfield is small but full of planes.
I see them up close as we cruise past and realise I’ve seen planes like these before.
They’re identical to the one we used to escape Bletchley Park, the plane Marquis, Serena and Karim built under Mr Knott’s supervision.
And I’m willing to bet they all breathe fire. Marquis would be devastated if he knew.
The car comes to a stop in front of a giant warehouse, patrolled by Guardians and several species of dragons: I spot Western Drakes and a whole group of Ddraig Gochs among the Bulgarian Bolgoriths.
These must be the few British dragons that have chosen Wyvernmire over Ignacia, and over the rebels.
We step out into the damp air. All I can think of is Chumana, who will expect me home this evening.
More shiny new planes fill the open warehouse on the other side of the airfield, and towering over them are two Bulgarian dragons.
The first is low in rank, judging by its lack of jewels.
The second is black with a diamond the size of my fist melted into his left shoulder. I feel a pang as I recognise him.
General Goranov.
What is he doing here? I hide my trembling hands in my coat pockets. There is nothing of Chumana’s begrudging gentleness in these dragons. Behind them is a plane that is bigger than the others and maintenance workers climb up and down its steps, preparing for something.
The Guardian who drove me here lifts his visor. ‘Go on, then. Tell them who you work for.’
I blink. ‘Tell who?’
He nods his head in the direction of the dragons and I gape at him. If General Goranov sees me, he’ll recognise me from Bletchley Park. The Guardian’s hand flutters over his gun. Behind us, the gates slam closed.
‘But they’ll kill me,’ I say hoarsely.
The Guardian stares at me, unblinking. I steel myself as I discard my torn satchel and turn towards the dragons. It’s time to be impressive again. Impress the Bulgarian dragons, or die. I begin the walk across the airfield. Goranov’s dark eyes narrow as I approach.
‘Vivien Featherswallow, captured?’ he growls, his accent hard and biting. ‘How?’
‘I was writing pamphlets,’ I reply shakily. ‘About Britannia’s dragon tongues.’
‘Wyvernmire’s little translator. You were part of her feeble attempt at winning the war against her own people. And yet here you are, working to undermine her.’
I force myself to breathe. With my class pass gone, the Guardians won’t be able to connect me to Hollingsworth. She and the rebel movement are safe, for now. But I’m not.
‘What is a pamphlet?’ the low-ranking dragon says, mispronouncing the word.
He can’t have known English for long. He waits for me to reply, his huge head looming.
‘The humans and dragons of Britannia have the right to speak their native languages,’ I say. ‘The pamphlets are . . . they’re like a call to arms.’
A low hissing sound comes from the dragons. Laughter. My cheeks burn, but I don’t flinch. Somehow, I have to convince Goranov that I’m not afraid of him. I have to convince him not to kill me.
‘You have a Bulgarian Bolgorith who follows in your wake,’ Goranov says. ‘My brother was fascinated when I told him. However did you manage it?’
‘Brother?’ I say.
‘The Regal Krasimir.’
I remember Hollingsworth’s sketch of the Bulgarian trio.
‘Well?’ Goranov snarls.
‘She doesn’t follow in my wake,’ I reply. ‘But you certainly followed in Wyvernmire’s, back in the forest at Bletchley Park. I saw it with my own eyes.’
Another growl comes from Goranov’s throat.
‘You think to provoke me? I will rip your head from your shoulders, you kurtapàla.’
The word is derogatory, an insult in Slavidraneishá.
‘I speak only the truth,’ I reply in the same language.
Goranov hisses at the sound of his mother tongue.
‘I’m a polyglot. I speak with both humans and dragons in the languages they understand. That is how I help the rebels. And if you kill me, their greatest asset,’ I lie, ‘then they’ll double down on London in revenge.’
I may be what Hollingsworth calls the face of the rebellion, but I’m not foolish enough to believe the Human-Dragon Coalition would be able to intensify the attacks if I were murdered. They’re barely holding their own against Wyvernmire’s army as it is.
‘An enchantress,’ the low-ranking dragon breathes in English.
‘A brasstongue,’ Goranov says.
His jaws part slightly to reveal a red, flickering tongue. I remember how he marched through the woods in Bletchley, camouflaged by the black smoke, a witness to my last moments with Atlas. The memory distracts me for a moment, until I hear a clicking sound. I feel the sudden, primal urge to run.
It’s the sound of flame igniting in Goranov’s chest.
He takes a breath and I see the fire swirl in his mouth. I stare in petrified awe.
This is how I die.
What will it feel like to burn?
‘Stop!’
A strident voice echoes through the warehouse.
The flames at Goranov’s lips flicker into nothing.
I turn my head. A woman is stepping down off the big plane behind the dragons, shrouded in a long black coat.
Her red hair gleams in the morning sunlight and when our eyes meet in the shocked silence, she almost lifts a hand as if in greeting.
Blood rushes in my ears.
What is she doing here?
‘Stop?’ Goranov snarls. ‘This human is a—’
‘Passenger,’ Wyvernmire says. ‘On the prime-ministerial plane.’ A smug satisfaction sits in the lines of her face. ‘You can board now, Vivien.’
I feel my lip curl. The last time I saw her, she had just let Atlas bleed out on to the forest floor.
Hatred bubbles inside me, snaking through my veins like poison.
Nobody moves. The maintenance workers are cowering beneath the plane, their eyes on the smoke escaping Goranov’s nostrils.
I glance up at the cockpit. I don’t have a choice.
I know it and Wyvernmire knows it too. I can board the plane with her or be burned up by Goranov.
I walk calmly towards her, even though the heat smouldering off Goranov’s scales warns me to run. Because I have to convince her, too. Wyvernmire might not be a dragon, but she’s a monster, nonetheless. When I reach her, she gestures a bony hand up the steps. I hold her gaze.
‘Where will it take me?’ I ask coldly. ‘Bulgaria?’
‘I’ve seen enough Bolgoriths for one day, haven’t you?’ Wyvernmire replies with a smirk. ‘Besides . . . I think the Swallow will be of far more use to me on Canna.’