The Last Dragon Chronicles: Dark Fire (28 page)

furrows in the ice with its claws. It dipped

its head to listen to G’Oreal.

G’Oreal consulted both dragons atlength before bringing the transmissionback to himself. “This is a dangerousdevelopment. The decision of the Wearlewas that the fire be destroyed. We are stilldetecting random concentrations of Ix inyour sector. We do not judge it wise toleave a burst of dark fire exposed if the Ixare Clustering.”

“I can answer this,” David said. “When I recovered the fire, several birds werecorrupted by the image of a darkling. Myi:sola, Grockle, is hunting them down.”

The scales around G’Oreal’s templesdarkened. “A delicate task to entrust to

one so recently ascended.”

“The threat from these birds is

minimal,” David was forced to say, though it pained him to have to block images of Africa from his mind, lest the trio detect them. The purple dragon was a Ci:pherel, a reader. Had he  been entirely human, it would have known he was lying. He switched the conversation back to the

situation in the Crescent. “We agreed before I returned to this plane that the clay dragons initiated by the spark of Gawain were worthy of special consideration.”

G’Oreal’s eyes slid closed for a moment. Two antennae-like projections above his eye ridges twisted inward and seemed to give off a slight static charge. “The importance of these figures is still to be assessed.”

“I agree, but they are as allied to Godith as any dragon of the Wearle. The entity I named Gadzooks has served you well, has he not?”

Once again, G’Oreal reined the image back. The Ci:pherel nodded. The white dragon spoke in a whisper to him. “His ability to manipulate dark matter through language continues to intrigue us.”

David smiled and wiped the rain off his face.

“This amuses you?” G’Oreal’s eye ridges narrowed.

David lowered his head. His eyes adopted   a   more   subservient   slant. “Forgive me, I mean no disrespect. The writing dragon intrigues me, also. My instincts tell me that these creations are

highly significant to the outcome of our plans. Even though we have detected other daughters of Guinevere and countless sibyls among the humans, these figures are unique. They are  touched by the power of twelve distilled fire tears. I do not think

we should forget that.”

“And   you,”   G’Oreal   transmitted, “should not forget your mission – or your position within the Wearle.”

The seriousness of this statement was

not lost on David, who bowed his head again and said, “I ask the Wearle for more time. If the restoration fails, I will deliver the dark fire to you.”

G’Oreal consulted left and right. “The awakening of the old Wearle is ready to begin. As each flies north they will draw

the Ix with them towards the Fire Eternal.

Nothing must endanger their sacrifice. Nothing.”

“I understand,” said David, tasting therain on his tongue.

G’Oreal’s image faded a little. “Whenthe twelfth dragon rises, your time amongthe humans is done. You have until then to

complete your purpose.”

The picture disappeared in a horizontal

shimmer.

Without looking at the watch again, David snapped it shut. For a moment, heraised his eyes to the Crescent, taking inthe arrangement of houses and trees, as ifthe scene would be lost to him for ever if

he failed to commit it to his heart right then. With water dripping off the ends of

his hair, he turned towards the house and looked at the number on the wall beside

the door. 42. Five years  earlier he had stood right here, a shabbily-dressed student, and done the same thing, unaware of what he was or what he would come to

be. And it occurred to him then, in that exact instant, of how easy it was to miss the very obvious. For painted on the number plate of the house – tiny, but never forgotten, once noticed – was a squirrel. It was grey and it was sitting up, smiling. A tear pricked the corner of David’s eye. And it took every measure of his Fain awareness to draw it back within himself

and master his destiny. He put the watch away and stepped back into the house, knowing that he might have crossed that

threshold for the very last time.

The secret of Scuffenbury

“I – AM – FREEZING!” Lucy wittered, as she struggled to keep pace with Tam Farrell’s eager stride.

“You can’t be cold. It’s May,” he said, picking the best route over the touristtrodden pathway that would eventually take them to the tail end of the Scuffenbury horse. Even here, in the charcoal light before the dawn, he could see white patches of chalk between the grass.

“It’s damp. I can’t feel my toes,” grumbled Lucy. “And it’s, like, four in the morning. I’ve never been awake this early in my life!”

“Well, you daughters of Guinevere must be delicate,” he said, “’cos I don’t

feel the cold much.” He stopped and offered his hand in support. She was wearing her yellow kagoule like a straitjacket, hands (though gloved) tucked into her sleeves.

“It’s all right for you; you’ve got polar bear blood!” Spurning his help, she scrambled past. A few knots of loose shale tumbled down the path as she sought to get a better foothold. “I thought we were going up the Tor again, not hiking across half the county?” Her thighs were aching. Her lungs were burning. White flags of surrender were probably fluttering from her ankles by now.

“I want to see the sun rise over the Tor

– from here, in relation to the horse,” he said. “Besides, if Glissington’s going to

spew out a dragon it might be wise to be some distance away.” He grabbed her arm and drew her towards him. “Quick. Look at that.”

A slim rail of amber light had risen upand stroked the far horizon, casting blood-orange spokes across the downs. “Isn’tthat fantastic?” He ripped the velcro sealon his camera case.

Lucy, annoyed that she’d lost hermomentum, blew sighs of condensed airinto the ground and tramped on. “How fardo we have to go?”

“To the horse’s head.”

She looked up to assess their position. The horse was some 300 yards away, cutat a relatively shallow angle out of thegrassy escarpment facing Glissington. It

didn’t look anything special from here, nothing like as impressive as it had done from the Tor. She sighed and sought out a course. Thanks to the oncoming daylight, she could see that the pathway offered her options. One fork would take her to the brow of the hill, where she’d be able to look down the slope and see the entire horse from above; the other would take her directly to it. She chose the direct

route.

Half a minute later, her energeticchaperone came  bounding alongside. “Ithink we’ve chosen a really good day. Thesun’s going to rise directly behind the Tor,which means if we get our skates on we’llsee how its rays fall across the horsewhen it crests the peak.”

“Fab.”

He sighed at her disregard. “Youshould take joy in this, Lucy. It’s a wonderof nature.”

“It’s a wonder I don’t fall flat on my
 
face
 
.” She tutted as her shoes betrayed her again. What she wouldn’t give for a decent pair of boots. She found some slightly better ground and forged on ahead, only to hear him say, “That’s interesting.”

“What? Me falling over? Cheers.”

“No, this.”

She stopped to catch her breath. He was bending down to pick up a stone.

“It’s a stone,” she said.

He flicked a nubbin of dirt off its

surface. “Cairn stone. Like the one in your room. Look, they’re everywhere.” He

pointed to them, dotted about in the grass.

“So?”

“So it’s a chalk-based hill. How did

these get here?”

“If I answer correctly do I get a drink

of water?”

He reached into his coat pocket, pulledout a plastic  bottle and tossed it to her. “Keep it. I don’t need it.”

She split the seal on the cap with acrack that seemed to carry right across the Vale. She watched him lob the stone back

onto the hill, as if he was returning a pebble to the sea. “Maybe the dragon was building a rockery and he dropped them here?”

Tam’s silence suggested that was justplain silly. He stared at the mound that

was Glissington Tor, backlit by the emerging sun. “Come on, we’ve got ten minutes, if that.”

He walked on, shaking his head in dismay. Somewhere inside, that hurt Lucy deeply.
 
OK
, she told herself,
 
just for today be Guinevere, not Barbie
 
. She tilted the water bottle with purpose to her mouth and let her gaze slant towards the Tor. To her surprise, she thought she could see a figure on the peak. “Tam?”

“Come on, you’re going to miss it.” He was already twenty yards ahead.

“I think there’s someone on the Tor.”

His footsteps halted. She saw himsquint in that scary polar bear fashion, justthe way David sometimes did. “Probablya tourist. People come here all the time.”

He started along the path again, almostbounding where it hollowed out into a dip.

Lucy scrabbled after him, glancing at

the   figure   every  now   and   then. Comparatively speaking it was nothing but a matchstick, but Lucy, blessed with the eyesight of youth, could still work out its basic movements. She saw the arms come

parallel   with   the   shoulders.   Halfstretched, not full, as if the person might be cupping their hands above their eyes. Or holding a pair of binoculars.

“Tam, I think they’re watching us.”

“Amazing,” he muttered, not hearing her. He was over the horse’s rump, blown away by the sheer extent of its body. He walked to the head end, knelt on one knee and placed his palm on the hard, dry

chalk.

Lucy had quickened her step by nowand had practically jogged the last thirtyyards. She glanced at the horse as shewalked its length. Impressive. A wholecreature, branded in the grass.

“What do you make of that?” Tam said. He was on his haunches, pointing to aregion just beyond the horse’s head wherethere was an unusual density of the cairn-type stones. They were tightly packedtogether and barely grassed over. Manywere scratched and badly chipped wheretourists had tried to excavate them,apparently with little success.

“Let me borrow your camera,” Lucysaid.

“No. It’s expensive.”

She tutted and dragged it off his arm. “How do you zoom it?”

“Hey, give me that!” He snatched thecamera back. Suddenly he was toweringover her, angry.

In her defence she snapped, “Just lookat the Tor!”

In his own time he put the camera to hiseye. Lucy followed the whirr of the lens. The figure on the Tor had made a ‘Y’ withits arms and was catching an arc ofsunlight between them.

Tam lowered the camera. “I think that’s

Ms Gee.”

An inexplicable shred of fear rippledacross Lucy Pennykettle’s chest. “Can yousee what she’s doing?”

He   shook   his   head.   “Praying?

Celebrating the return of the sun?”

The wind tugged at Lucy’s kagoule andsomething rustled in the grass around herfeet. “Erm, Tam… ?”

“What?”

“The stones are moving.”

“What?”

“They’re rolling down the hill.”

More than that, Tam noticed: they were leaving the ground. Whatever force was moving the stones was strong enough to pluck them out of the earth and leave a small pile of exploded dirt. As each stone gathered   momentum,   it   lifted   off Scuffenbury Hill and started  spinning towards the Tor. Tam glanced at Ms Gee again. Her arms were still raised as though she was calling all the rocks to her.

“Get down!” he shouted, pulling Lucy flat. A small boulder came hurtling towards them. It deflected off his shoulder with a

bruising thump. The impact knocked him back a few feet. Lucy squealed as shale began to swirl around her head, catching and pulling at her wild red hair.

“Close your eyes! Put up your hood!” Tam found her hand and dragged her to him.

“Help! Something’s digging into me!”

she cried.

Tam  could   feel   it  too.   Stones,underneath them, rising out of the ground. If they didn’t move quickly, they’d bethrown into the air or turned into sieves.

“Slide!” he shouted. “Get onto the

horse! We’ll be safe on the open chalk.”

And summoning up the strength of the icebear, Kailar, he slid down hauling Lucywith him by her ankles until she was flatagainst the horse’s shoulder.

For several minutes he held her in

place, until the rush of air had stopped and he judged there was no more danger. She

was   dirty  and   shaken,  but  mostly unharmed: one minor graze on the side of her chin. Tam rolled onto his back and sat

up quickly, training his camera on the Tor again. But this time he didn’t really need a lens. In  the place where Ms Gee had stood was a monument, easily visible to the naked eye. She had rebuilt the Glissington cairn: a tall, tapering pillar of stone with a diamond-shaped extension at its zenith. Cut out of the diamond was a hole roughly