Chapter 8 #2
I walk over to the desk and begin rummaging through the drawers, my frustration mounting. I pull out a paperweight, an old clockwork toy and a long-forgotten bottle of whisky.
‘I’ll have that, if you don’t mind,’ Marquis says, taking the bottle from me. He glances around the room. ‘Where’s Atlas?’
I shrug as I sit down in the desk chair. The journal describes the wyverns’ flying practice, their hunting of sheep for meat and wool, their naming and funeral ceremonies. But all these things could be happening anywhere on the far side of the island.
There’s a resounding boom as the floor vibrates beneath our feet. I jump up as the others look round in alarm. It’s a sound we’ve all grown up with and it sends a chill through me now.
It’s the sound of a dragon landing.
‘Shit!’ Gideon says, ducking away from the window. ‘Guardians coming up the path.’
‘The stairs,’ I say, my voice barely a whisper. ‘Quickly.’
I pause by the window, making sure to keep behind the curtain.
On the road beyond the garden, his black body stark against the sea, is Goranov.
And with him is Ralph. I clutch the curtain as I peer closer.
They’re talking, standing close together, Goranov’s huge head looming down above Ralph’s.
The dragon’s flickering red tongue slides out from between his teeth and I recoil as the tip brushes across Ralph’s forehead, his hair, his neck.
Ralph stands stock still, his body rigid with fear.
And yet he is allowing himself to be touched.
To be tasted.
I feel sick.
‘Viv!’
Marquis is beckoning from the door and I run, scrambling up the staircase behind the others.
Where is Atlas? I swear as my foot almost goes through the rotting wood of one of the steps.
As we reach the first bedroom, I hear the Guardians kick away the remains of the front door.
Marquis holds out one of the long, dusty curtains and gestures to Serena and Gideon to hide behind it.
‘Viv, under the bed!’ he orders me as he slips behind the door.
I creep as quietly as I can across the floorboards, then crouch down by the bed. The space beneath it is crammed with boxes. My stomach lurches as footsteps sound from the stairs.
‘Viv!’ Marquis whispers as I dart out on to the landing.
I push open the first door I see. Another bedroom, this one a nursery.
There’s no bed, just a tiny cot, a rocking horse and a wardrobe.
I step into it, pulling it closed as the door to the nursery opens.
I crouch awkwardly among the musty clothes, cobwebs sticking to my face.
The floorboards creak gently and I breathe as slowly as I can as I peer through the crack in the door.
Ralph is scanning the room, his brow furrowed.
He takes a step towards the wardrobe. I lean backwards to hide behind the clothes. The hangers chink against the iron bar.
Shit.
Ralph smiles. He wrenches the door open and pulls me out.
‘Found you, little swallow,’ he sneers. ‘Where is it?’
My eyes dart traitorously to the loquisonus still inside the wardrobe. Ralph keeps my coat tight in his fist as he rummages for it, then pulls it out. Heavy boots pace the landing.
‘Nothing here,’ someone shouts. ‘They’ll be halfway up the hillside by now.’
I glare at Ralph as the Guardians march back down the stairs. ‘Aren’t you going to call them?’ I whisper.
‘No.’ He hands the loquisonus machine to me. ‘Goranov is nearby. I want you to listen to him now.’
I hesitate and his lip curls.
‘Do it.’
I take the loquisonus machine out of the case and place it on the ground, then kneel down beside it. ‘You’re right not to trust him, Ralph,’ I say quietly. ‘He’ll kill you, when he no longer needs you.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Ralph says. ‘Goranov will always have need of me.’
‘Why?’
He lifts his gun and points it at me. ‘Start the machine.’
I flick the switch, then put the headphones on. The clicks and trills of the Koinamens fill my ears. ‘I can’t tell which one is Goranov,’ I say. ‘What you’re asking me to do is impossible.’
‘Just listen for any calls you might recognise,’ Ralph says. ‘Tell me what you hear.’
‘Something about prey,’ I say as I concentrate on the sounds. ‘There’s a Trill-type42 . . . I think that means unfamiliar or maybe foreign. And then . . . something about forces or fliers or—’
The door behind Ralph slams open and he spins around, lifting his gun.
‘Get away from her,’ Atlas spits.
I rip the headphones off my ears.
‘Take another step, King,’ Ralph snarls, ‘and I’ll shoot you again.’
I feel the colour drain from my face. On either side of Atlas, Serena and Marquis are pointing their own weapons. I stand up with the loquisonus machine in my arms.
‘Stay where you are,’ Ralph barks at me, his eyes still on Atlas.
‘Viv, walk towards me,’ Atlas says.
Ralph swings his gun around and points it at me. Atlas’s jaw tenses.
‘Keep the machine, Wyvernmire,’ Marquis says. ‘We only want Viv.’
‘It’s useless without her,’ Ralph snaps.
I can feel sweat beading on my skin. I know just how capable Ralph is of firing that gun.
I slip the machine into the case. ‘Andronikos will help you,’ I say, holding it out to him. ‘Have it, and let us go.’
‘No!’ Atlas says. ‘Don’t give it to him.’
‘What are you on about?’ Marquis says. He looks at me. ‘Leave the machine, we don’t have time for this!’
I drop the loquisonus at Ralph’s feet and walk slowly towards the others. Ralph won’t shoot me if he thinks I’m the only one who can translate the Koinamens for him, but Marquis keeps his gun raised all the same.
‘We’re going to close the door now,’ Serena tells Ralph as I reach them.
I back out into the hallway where Gideon is waiting.
‘One,’ she says.
Marquis keeps his gun on Ralph.
‘Two.’
Ralph scowls.
‘Three.’
Atlas dives through the door into the nursery with his arm outstretched. Ralph shouts and his gun goes off, the bullet burrowing a hole into the wall.
‘Atlas!’ Marquis screams.
Atlas stumbles back towards us, the loquisonus machine case flung over his shoulder.
We run for the staircase and my feet barely skim the top step.
I’m vaguely aware of the others behind me as Ralph shoots again and then there’s grass beneath my feet.
Guardians in white suits turn towards us as we race down the garden path into the fields and Serena shrieks as more bullets blow up pieces of grass around us.
Sheep scatter as we run upwards, the land sloping invisibly beneath the thistles and ferns.
‘We’ll never outrun them,’ Gideon wheezes.
Atlas’s hand slips into mine as we charge past a second herd of sheep. When I look over my shoulder, the herd has moved so that the Guardians have to run straight through. They’re forced to slow, to swerve between the grazing sheep. There’s a flash of blue amid the woolly white coats.
Wings erupt from the herd and a juvenile Western Drake emerges from its hiding place, snapping up the first Guardian with one jerk of its head.
I see his body break in the dragon’s jaws, see its talons rake the back of another Guardian’s suit, piercing his bulletproof vest as if it were made of gauze.
The ground drops out from beneath me and suddenly we’re falling, down the side of a ditch as Atlas’s hand is tugged from mine.
Pain radiates through my shoulders as I hit the bottom.
I spit out a mouthful of leaves and look up.
Atlas and Serena are beside me and Marquis and Gideon are scrambling down the slope and into the forest where we’ve landed.
Up on the hillside, the Western Drake roars.
‘A camouflaged Western Drake?’ I breathe, getting to my feet. ‘That was lucky.’
‘Lucky?’ Marquis snarls. ‘It was downright miraculous.’ He turns to Atlas. ‘What the fuck were you thinking? Ralph was going to let us walk out of there.’
‘We can’t let the loquisonus get into the wrong hands,’ Atlas says calmly.
‘It wouldn’t have mattered, Atlas,’ I say gently. ‘This loquisonus doesn’t have an output switch, so Wyvernmire can’t use it to—’
‘Shut up, all of you,’ Gideon says. He casts a glance up in the direction of the Western Drake. ‘It might hear us.’
We fall into a nervous silence.
‘All we know,’ Marquis whispers, ‘is that the wyverns are tunnellers. That means we’ll find them, oh, I don’t know, some time next year.’
A quiet groan comes from Serena. I hadn’t noticed her still sitting on the ground, cradling her arm.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Shot, I think.’ She winces.
My stomach lurches as Marquis drops to the ground beside her. He pulls her sleeve away to reveal a small, circular wound, a split in the skin that looks deep enough to need stitches.
‘Is the bullet still in there?’ Atlas asks, pulling supplies out of his pack.
Marquis nods as he takes the bandages and the bottle of alcohol.
Serena grimaces. ‘Don’t I need surgery?’
‘I’ve seen kids shoot at each other on this island,’ Gideon says. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to go digging around for that bullet. It’s better left where it is.’
‘The wound will get infected if it isn’t closed,’ Atlas says. ‘Serena, you’re going to have to go back to Eigg, find a medic.’
Serena shrieks as Marquis pours alcohol over the wound, then begins to bandage it.
‘No,’ she says shakily. ‘I’m not spending the most decisive weeks of the war in a hospital bed.’ She reaches for her own pack and pulls out a small vial of orange liquid. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Marquis. We all have one.’
‘Fireblod?’ I say incredulously. ‘The rebels gave you fireblod?’
Fireblod is the black-market medicine that saved Atlas’s life. It was banned by the Peace Agreement as it’s made from the blood of live dragons.
‘It’s stock from the First Class hospitals they raided,’ Serena says. ‘The rebels don’t support the making of fireblod, but we can’t let what has been made go to waste. It could save rebel lives.’
‘I wonder how the rebel dragons feel about that,’ I say.
Serena unstoppers the vials and drinks the liquid.
‘Serena’s right,’ Atlas says grimly. ‘We can’t afford to lose her now, and with the fireblod that wound will be closed by tomorrow.’
‘I’d rather be mauled by a dragon than ingest that stuff,’ Marquis says.
‘Well, if my arm doesn’t heal, the Bolgoriths will smell the blood and then you will be,’ Serena retorts.
‘We’d have the protection of a Bolgorith if it wasn’t for Viv’s big mouth,’ Gideon mutters.
‘One look at Chumana causes you to lose your senses, Gideon,’ Marquis says.
‘Shut up,’ I say. ‘Look.’
Something black is streaking through the air towards us. It’s the size of a large crow, except it has a long tail and is carrying something bulky in its claws.
‘A dracovol.’
The creature doesn’t land. Instead, it flies at Gideon, who shouts and bats at it with his hands.
‘Stop it, you idiot!’ I shout.
The dracovol drops a package at Gideon’s feet before zipping away.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ I hiss.
‘I thought it was attacking me,’ Gideon mutters.
‘Do you often get attacked by postal workers, Gideon?’ Marquis scoffs.
‘Wait,’ Atlas says as Gideon kneels down by the package. ‘There could be anything inside.’
We all stare at it. It’s large and wrapped in brown paper.
Gideon’s eyes grow wide. ‘You think it could be a bomb?’
‘The person sending it would have to be in possession of something belonging to Gideon for the dracovol to scent,’ I say. ‘You haven’t had tea with Wyvernmire lately, have you Gideon?’
He shakes his head and pulls the brown paper away. His shoulders slump. ‘It’s a book.’
I peer over his shoulder and feel a jump of recognition. It’s not a book.
‘It’s a journal!’ I say. ‘Clawtail’s journal. Hollingsworth must have sent it.’
Gideon frowns. ‘But why did she send it to me?’
I flick through the journal, relief filling me. Hollingsworth, despite being a liar, hasn’t abandoned me completely. A piece of paper pokes out of the top of the journal and I slip it out.
Some Eigg dragons inform me that Clawtail’s friends have an interest in Skrill-type20. If you walk in a straight line from Trill-type30 with the colourful Screech-type2 to the Skye side of the island, you might find them.
Good luck,
Dr Seymour
‘Dr Seymour?’ I say.
Gideon shrugs. ‘I had a room back on Eigg. She must have taken something for the dracovol to scent, as she didn’t have any of your belongings.’
‘How silly of me to think the Chancellor might be the one helping us,’ I mutter under my breath. I look to Gideon. ‘Can you remember what Skrill-type20 means?’
He bows his head, thinking, as the others watch us.
‘She’s using echolocation calls as a code?’ Atlas says.
I nod as I try to recall our time in the glasshouse, before we destroyed all the translations we made of the dragons’ echolocation calls.
‘Man-made affairs?’ Gideon offers. ‘The wyverns have an interest in man-made affairs?’
‘Not affairs,’ I say. ‘Buildings. Don’t you remember Soresten once ordering a patrol around all the buildings at Bletchley Park?
He used a Skrill-type20, I’m sure of it.
’ I run my eyes down the note again. ‘And Trill-type30 means church. Bletchley town had two.’ I glance at Atlas. ‘But are there churches on Canna?’
‘Three, actually,’ Gideon replies. ‘Screech-type2 means glass. That’s how the Bletchley dragons used to refer to the glasshouse. Only one of the Canna churches has stained glass. It’s a few miles from here.’
I look at the pages the note was pressed between. Clawtail drew a map of Canna across them, one that I studied countless times back in London. I notice a tiny cross. Directly opposite it, on the Skye side of the island, is nothing but hills and rivers.
‘That’s the Stepstones,’ Gideon says, pointing to the spot on the map. ‘It’s used as an alternative nesting spot to Rùm. It’s quieter.’
‘The wyverns could be there, then.’
He nods.
‘That’s a lot of dragon knowledge for a boy who’s terrified of the things,’ Serena says.
‘Are you saying you’re not?’ I mutter at Serena. I stuff the journal into Marquis’s pack and take the loquisonus machine from Atlas.
‘Put your poison pouches on,’ Serena snaps. ‘If you sense movement above, don’t look up, just run.’
‘She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,’ Gideon says. ‘If you sense movement above, then you’re already dead.’