Miss Ellicott's School for the Magically Minded Read online

Chantel slid from his neck. She was shivering with cold.

  “Sorry,” said the dragon again, in his odd voice. “Forgot the tide.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “Snake a long time.”

  “What’s your name?” Chantel asked. She had named the snake Japheth herself. It seemed to her now to have been a terribly forward thing to do.

  “Lightning.”

  Chantel remembered the dragon asleep under the apple tree in the Ago. Queen Haywith had called him Lightning. But no—it wasn’t possible. That dragon had been much smaller. And after five hundred years? Besides, Miss Ellicott had said a snake was an immature form of dragon.

  Miss Ellicott. She wasn’t ready to think about Miss Ellicott just yet.

  “Shoulders?” Lightning inquired. He lifted a claw and pointed.

  “Oh,” said Chantel. “Um, they’re fine—”

  Actually, they hurt. She pulled her robe off one shoulder and looked. There would be claw-shaped bruises later.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Thank you.”

  She gazed down at the marshes. She got her first good look at the Sunbiter camp.

  There were thousands of Sunbiters.

  Thousands upon thousands. Their camp went on for miles. She saw men cooking and men eating. There were men polishing shields and sharpening weapons. There were enormous catapults, poised to fling huge rocks into the city, and there were siege engines, tall wooden towers on wheels for reaching the top of Seven Buttons.

  The camp stretched nearly to the harbor walls—which, Chantel saw, were bristling with Lightning Pass soldiers.

  Chantel saw more camps, further out in the marshes—the Sunbiters’ families, she guessed. Laundry flapped in the breeze. There were tiny people tending tiny herds of cattle and flocks of geese.

  A procession was coming from the harborside, headed for the Sunbiters’ camp. From the bright colors of their velvet capes and hats, Chantel recognized the patriarchs.

  “Can we go down closer?” Chantel looked around for a path. There was nothing but a sheer cliff down to the road below—which must be the toll road, Chantel realized.

  “Can fly,” said Lightning with a shrug.

  “Wouldn’t they see us?”

  The dragon cocked a sardonic eyebrow at her. This was the first time Chantel had noticed he even had eyebrows.

  “Well, they would,” she said. “And then what?”

  “Then they see us,” said the dragon laconically.

  That was probably an easier attitude to take if you were an enormous firebreathing dragon than if you were a Chantel. Still—

  “Maybe you could set me down on Seven Buttons?” Chantel suggested. “So that I can see what happens. And then you could come back for me, so that I don’t get captured by the king or—or the sorceresses. That is, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  She considered curtseying, but her robe was too wet and she was too tired.

  The dragon nodded. “Can do that.”

  She mounted by using the dragon’s front leg as a step, just above the elbow. It was like stepping on slightly slippery metal tiles.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I hope I’m not hurting you.”

  There was a fiery rumble deep inside the dragon which Chantel thought might be laughter.

  Right. Next step. Chantel reached up and put her hands flat on the dragon’s back. She heaved herself up. She bunched her soggy robe underneath her.

  “Hold on,” said Lightning.

  And with no more warning than that, he plunged from the crag.

  Chantel fell forward and held on as tightly as she could. They swooped and circled over the Sunbiter camp. Chantel heard shouts of alarm down below, and a thunder of feet running in all directions. She half-hoped (and half-feared) that the dragon was going to blast the Marauder camps with fire.

  Then suddenly she found herself sliding off Lightning’s neck onto the wall-walk atop Seven Buttons, and Lightning was flapping away.

  And nobody even noticed she was there. Of course they didn’t. They were too busy staring, running, and yelling. When a girl rides in on a dragon, nobody notices the girl.

  She did a self-abnegation spell anyway.

  Keeping close to the parapet, she hurried along the wall-walk. She reached a spot near the patriarchs and stopped, peering through a crenel.

  The patriarchs were marching out in a body, all nine of them, resplendent in blue velvet capes and hats with white ostrich plumes. Behind them came a phalanx of guards, and in the midst of the guards, walked Franklin.

  The Sunbiters sent out a procession too. It was led by a man wearing a shaggy fur robe, and a sword on one side and a dagger at the other, and a heavily dented helmet adorned with two blood-red horns. Behind him came a mob of armed men.

  The patriarchs are going to be hacked to pieces, Chantel thought.

  Of course, they had a hostage. They had Franklin. But he wasn’t worth much, surely. Chantel quite liked him, herself, even if he did have an annoying voice and an annoyingly superior attitude. But to the Sunbiters, he was just a deserter. Or that’s what he’d said, anyway.

  Franklin walked with his chin up, as if he wasn’t afraid at all.

  Chantel bet he was terrified.

  The patriarchs weren’t carrying the dragon flag of Lightning Pass. They were marching under a white flag of truce.

  The two processions stopped twenty paces apart.

  A man stepped forward from the fur-clad ranks. He threw back his head, and yelled, “Who comes to speak to Karl the Bloody?”

  So that man with the horns is Karl the Bloody, Chantel thought. Franklin had said that when he captured people, he let them choose the stake he was going to impale them on.

  “The Nine Patriarchs of the Kingdom of Lightning Pass,” replied Lord Rudolph, his voice calm but carrying.

  “The Nine Patriarchs of the Kingdom of Lightning Pass!” yelled the Marauders’ herald.

  “I heard, thank you,” said Karl the Bloody. He took off his horned helmet and tossed it over his shoulder. One of his men caught it and held it reverently. Karl’s red hair glinted in the sun. “Greetings, Nine Patriarchs. Do you bring me word from your king?”

  “Indeed,” said Lord Rudolph. “King Rathfest the Restless demands that you cease to surround his kingdom with belligerent troops, and go away peacefully.”

  “We hold the toll road through the mountains,” said Karl the Bloody. “And we surround the harbor. We await the king’s response to our demands. Open the harbor!”

  “It is His Majesty’s pleasure to point out,” said Lord Rudolph, “that the harbor is already open to such shipmasters as pay the fees.”

  “Which are ruinous,” said Karl the Bloody.

  Chantel was surprised to hear that all this trouble was about the harbor. Weren’t there other harbors?

  But no . . . Franklin had said there weren’t any for three hundred miles.

  “The king is put to great expense to maintain the harbor,” said Lord Rudolph. “Nonetheless, he will graciously consider your request, if you go away.”

  Karl the Bloody sneered. “A worthy try, Mr. Nine Patriarchs. But we find ourselves comfortably situated here. We have plenty to eat—unlike you, I daresay. And it would be most inconvenient to move our catapults, with which we can hurl deadly missiles into your city, and our siege engines, which we’ve been at some trouble to build high enough to top your city walls. No, we’ll stay.”

  “Do you not see the mighty dragon of Lightning Pass that circles in the sky, ready to wreak havoc on your camp, your women, and your children?” demanded Lord Rudolph.

  Chantel looked up. Lightning was flying overhead, in plain view of everyone. People in the streets of Lightning Pass were crying out in excitement and alarm.

  “I see an illusion, no doubt cooked up by your wise women,” said Karl the Bloody. “It is cleverly done. I congratulate them on their artistry. It doesn’t frighten us.”

  “The dragon is not all we have,” said Lord Rudolph.
“We have a hostage.”

  He turned, and made a signal.

  The patriarchs stepped aside, and the phalanx opened up enough for Karl the Bloody to see Franklin, who held his head high and glowered.

  Karl the Bloody came a few steps closer to gaze at the hostage.

  Chantel gulped in surprise. Franklin’s hair was exactly the same shade of red as Karl the Bloody’s. Their eyes were the same dark brown, and their teeth were crooked in the same way. Their noses had been broken differently, however.

  “Oh, a hostage. I see,” said Karl the Bloody. “Well, boy? Do you find you have improved your lot by deserting your liege-lord?”

  Franklin looked up at Karl. “I haven’t made it any worse.”

  Karl smiled. “Bravely said, at any rate.” He turned to Lord Rudolph. “And I suppose the offer is that, if we leave, you won’t kill him.”

  “That is correct,” said Lord Rudolph. “However, if you refuse to depart—”

  “Understood,” said Karl. He shrugged with one shoulder. “Kill him.”

  Chantel gasped aloud.

  Lord Rudolph pursed his lips. “Do not make the mistake, sir, of thinking that ours is an idle threat.”

  “Of course not,” said Karl. “Having threatened to kill him, you must do so. Otherwise, you lose face and, worse, cause me to doubt that you are a man of your word. And if we are not men of our word, what are we? I quite understand.” He nodded to Franklin. “Die bravely, son. At least do that right.” He turned back to Lord Rudolph. “Are we finished here?”

  “So it would seem,” said Lord Rudolph.

  And, still bearing the white flag of truce, the patriarchs and their attendants turned and marched back toward the harbor district. Franklin was almost hidden among the guards, who were clutching him more tightly than ever as they hustled him along. From where Chantel stood, he was just a tiny patch of red hair bobbing amid the uniforms.

  Chantel was still staring after them in horror when Lightning swooped down on Seven Buttons. A hail of arrows bounced off his scales as Chantel scrambled hurriedly onto his back.

  They took off, fast. They sailed higher and higher, and Chantel began to feel quite ill. At last they landed on the high mountain crag.

  Chantel slid hastily off the dragon’s back. “I don’t believe it! They’re not really going to kill him, are they?”

  “Who?” said Lightning.

  “Franklin! The boy with the red hair!”

  “Probably,” said Lightning.

  “Why didn’t the Sunbiters stop them! There’s thousands of them, they way outnumber the patriarchs and the guards! They could—”

  “Honor,” said the dragon.

  Chantel grabbed Lighting by the shoulder urgently. “Do something!”

  The dragon blinked a golden eye. “Such as?”

  “Rescue him! Dive in there with flames and kill all the patriarchs!”

  “And people?” said the dragon.

  In the distance, far, far below, the patriarchs were making their way through the gate into the harbor district. Crowds pressed out of their way on the street.

  “Well, no, of course not, not the people, but—” Chantel struggled to calm herself. “When are they going to kill him? And where?”

  The dragon cocked his head thoughtfully. “On the wall?”

  “On top of the wall,” said Chantel. “Where sacrifices are made. And where his people can see. Why? Oh, right, so the patriarchs can be men of their word. When?”

  “Now?” the dragon suggested.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Chantel. “Okay. We’re going to stop them.”

  Chantel climbed back onto the dragon’s back—she was getting quite good at this now.

  Lightning dropped from the mountain ledge, spread his wings, and flew. He circled high over Lightning Pass.

  They didn’t have long to wait. The guards and patriarchs marched Franklin to the wall. There was a staircase, almost ladder-steep, up to the wall-walk. Franklin was forced to climb up, a difficult job with his hands tied behind him. Patriarchs and guards climbed beside and behind him. Last of all came a hooded executioner bearing an enormous two-handed sword.

  17

  THE DRAGON’S LAIR

  Honor was a thing Chantel had trouble understanding. Honor meant that the patriarchs, having said they’d kill Franklin, now had to kill him.

  And honor meant that Franklin had to act as if he didn’t much mind.

  He was doing that now, as he stood on the wall, elevated on a shooting-step and visible to the Sunbiters who had gathered below. Guards held him by the arms. The official executioner made his way along the wall, bearing the sword with which to strike off Franklin’s head.

  Chantel clung to the dragon’s neck as they dove.

  “There’s a very nice view from up here,” said Franklin, his voice trembling slightly.

  “Put your head down on the parapet,” said a guard. “It’s easier that way for everybody.”

  Then everyone looked up at the plunging dragon. The guards squawked in terror. The executioner screamed, dropped his sword, and fell off the wall. Lightning seized Franklin in his claws.

  The dragon swooped up in the air again, high over the city. Chantel just had time to see a volley of Marauder arrows rising. One struck a patriarch, and Chantel saw him tumble from the wall. Then Lightning soared away, over the sea, and Chantel couldn’t see what happened next.

  Lightning dropped Franklin in the ocean.

  The dragon skimmed to a landing in deep water beside a cliff, sending up silver fans of water. Chantel cried out in dismay as Franklin sank straight down.

  “Do something!” she yelled at the dragon. “If you please, I mean!”

  “He’ll be back,” said Lightning.

  And a moment later Franklin bobbed to the surface. He wasn’t choking at all. He could swim, Chantel saw with a twinge of envy. He was kicking furiously, though, and his face kept getting smacked by waves that crashed against the cliff and then rolled back.

  Chantel managed to catch hold of his collar and drag him halfway onto the dragon’s back.

  “Climb up,” she said.

  “I can’t! My hands are tied!”

  Chantel tried to undo the leather thongs binding his wrists, but it was impossible. The seawater had swollen and tightened the knots.

  “Lightning!” said Chantel. “Can you cut him free?”

  In answer the dragon directed a sharp, sudden flame at Franklin’s hands. Chantel was so surprised she almost fell into the water.

  Franklin’s hands were free. He hauled himself up on the dragon’s shoulders.

  “You have no eyebrows,” he told Chantel.

  “Neither do you,” said Chantel shortly.

  “Hold your breath,” said Lightning. “Hold on.”

  Chantel just had time to take a deep gulp of air as the dragon plunged straight under the water. It was icy cold.

  Chantel tried to hold on, but she felt herself floating away as the dragon dove. She felt Franklin grab her arm. She struggled furiously. She was being dragged deeper. Water pushed at her, trying to make her take another breath.

  Then suddenly she was thrust upward. She gasped for breath too soon, and got saltwater instead.

  Franklin was hauling her through shallow water, and she struggled again, coughing—she could walk. She wasn’t drowning! She couldn’t talk, however, and so she ended up being dragged, and deposited on what felt like stone. The darkness here was total.

  She went into a furious fit of coughing that sent white stars of light flashing around her eyes.

  “Okay?” said the dragon.

  Franklin, apparently not sure what to do, hit her on the back a few times.

  “Turn her over,” the dragon suggested.

  Chantel hastily turned herself over, and coughed some more. Franklin knelt beside her. “You okay?”

  “Argh,” Chantel managed to say.

  She staggered to her feet and did the light spell. She
held the light-globe cupped in her hand, and looked around.

  They were in an underground cavern.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  Lightning tilted his head, and gestured with one wing as if to say look and see.

  Chantel walked around the rocky ledge, shining her light. There was an opening in the wall, a tunnel into darkness.

  She glanced back at the water. “They might try to follow us.”

  The dragon shook his head emphatically no.

  Franklin had gone to the passage mouth. “Hey, I hear something. Bring your light.”

  Chantel heard it too—a sound of water dripping.

  She and Franklin followed the sound, into the close, clammy passage. They had to duck under outcroppings here and there, and step over unexpected crevices in the floor. The dragon crept along behind them, his tail dragging and scraping against the stone.

  The tunnel widened into a cavern.

  “Hey, c’mere,” said Franklin. “Look at this.”

  Chantel held up her light, and it reflected like the moon on a clear pool of water, with white sand at the bottom. Water fell into it from the stalactites that hung above, and the drips echoed loudly in the silence.

  Beside the pool, on a sloping wall of the cave, were human handprints, outlined in red. And there were drawings. Chantel could make out something that looked like it might be a horse, except that it had horns; a man with antlers; and—a dragon.

  “Is . . . is there a dragon down here?” she asked.

  “Me,” Lightning croaked.

  Chantel looked from the drawing to Lightning and back again, doubtfully.

  “How did you know this place was down here?” said Franklin. “Oh, and, I mean. Thanks for rescuing me.” He looked from Chantel to the dragon. “Both of you I mean.”

  “You’re very welcome,” said Chantel politely. “It was no trouble.”

  The dragon indicated the cave—the passage, which led back to the ocean pool and ahead into darkness—with a nod. “Mine.”

  “The cave is yours? But—” she looked at the drawings on the walls. They looked very, very old. She peered at the sketch of a dragon. “But—”

  But he’d been a snake just a little while ago. And Miss Ellicott had said—