A Darkness of Dragons Read online

  In a world of dragons, song-spells, pipers and battles, Patch Brightwater is a boy in disgrace. Thrown in jail for playing a forbidden spell, he is no one’s idea of a hero. But only he knows a deadly truth – the evil Piper of Hamelyn is on the loose.

  With the help of Wren, a girl cursed to live as a rat, and Barver, a fire-breathing dracogriff, Patch must stop the Piper sparking the biggest battle of them all.

  Three accidental heroes versus one legendary villain…an epic adventure is born.

  To my son Elias, who heard it all first

  CONTENTS

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  THIS IS NOT A TALE OF OUR OWN WORLD

  1. THE ICE BEAST

  2. THE STRANGER

  3. THE PIPER OF PATTERFALL

  4. THE DANCE

  5. A RAT OF DISTINCTION

  6. JOURNEY TO TIVISCAN

  7. TRIAL OF A PIPER

  8. THE HAMELYN PIPER

  9. NO PLACE LIKE HOME

  10. UNWELCOME ARRIVALS

  11. THE SIEGE OF TIVISCAN

  12. NOT QUITE DEAD

  13. THE MESSENGER

  14. A CLEAN START

  15. THE THREE OUTCASTS

  16. MARWHEEL ABBEY

  17. THE NEW PIPE

  18. DESPERATE TIMES

  19. GEMSPAR

  20. THE WITCH

  21. AWKWARD TRUTHS

  22. THE CHILDREN

  23. THE CURE

  24. AXLEBURY

  25. UNDERATH THE SORCERER

  26. STILL NOT QUITE DEAD

  27. THE DRAGON WASTES

  28. RETURN TO TIVISCAN

  29. DARK INSTRUMENTS

  30. THE SONG OF THE HAMELYN PIPER

  31. A HEAVY PRICE

  32. AFTERMATH

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MORE FANTASY AND ADVENTURE FROM USBORNE

  It is a world like ours in many ways, but one where dragons live in their own lands, wary of humans. One with Sorcerers, light and dark. One where Pipers can control things around them merely by playing a Song.

  Yet tales of other worlds can reach us, sometimes. All it takes is a little magic, and the Pipers have always known something that – for us – is easy to forget:

  There is magic in music.

  Listen…

  The screams of the children brought the villagers running.

  The little ones often played among the tall pines at the southern edge of Patterfall. This high in the mountains, winter was always hard; the pines offered shelter from the icy winds that blew through the valley.

  As the villagers ran towards the sound, the panicked children emerged from the trees and came rushing through the snow. The first to reach them was Frer, the eight-year-old son of the baker.

  “It’s come! It’s come!” said the boy.

  “Steady, child,” said Greta, the village Elder. “Tell me what it is. A bear?”

  He shook his head. “No, Elder. It’s the Ice Beast!” With that, he ran past them to safety.

  “The child is just scared,” the Elder told the other villagers, because the Ice Beast was a legend, nothing more. A legend as old as the village itself, about an extraordinary creature formed of snow and ice – a creature that absolutely did not exist.

  There were extraordinary creatures in the world, of course. Some, like dragons, were at least as intelligent as humans; others, like basilisks and manticores, were terrifying monstrosities.

  But there was nothing like that anywhere near Patterfall. Dragons lived on a different continent, far to the east; as for the terrifying monstrosities, they were thankfully rare, and limited to the remotest parts of the world.

  Only those foolish enough to get lost on the valley roads in deep winter ever claimed to have seen the Ice Beast – people who were exhausted and frightened, seeing things that weren’t really there.

  Yet the villagers could see movement a short way inside the forest.

  Something large. Something white.

  “No,” the Elder said aloud. “It can’t be!”

  But it was.

  The Ice Beast was the height of a large man, and seemed to be made entirely of snow. Its legs and arms were as thick as tree trunks. The head was a featureless white ball, but every villager could imagine where the terrifying mouth was, fangs dripping, ready to sink into the flesh of anyone who got too near.

  Its slow steps drew a heavy crunch from the snow underneath. From its head came a steady moaning.

  And the villagers kept moving towards it.

  “Go!” they called to the children as they passed them. “Run to your homes!”

  There was one child left, though. One small boy, too frightened to move, standing directly in the creature’s path – Hap Werner, only four years old.

  “Little Hap,” called the Elder. “You go home now! Go on with you!”

  But Hap shook his head, rooted to the spot. The creature was getting closer to him.

  With no time to waste, the Elder raised the shovel she was carrying. “I’ll have you, Beast!” she cried, and ran towards the creature. The other villagers followed, wielding what weapons they had – hoes, pitchforks, brooms.

  The Elder was first to reach it, and she swung her shovel hard, hitting the Ice Beast’s head; the creature made a strange noise before falling to the snowy ground with a thud.

  There it lay, motionless, as the villagers surrounded it, ready to hit it again if it moved even a fraction.

  But where the shovel had hit its head, a few chunks of ice and snow were now gone, revealing something underneath. The villagers stared at what they saw: a very cold, very red nose, and below that, a very human mouth.

  “Ow…” the mouth groaned.

  For a moment the villagers looked at each other in shock. Then they began to scrape away what they could of the ice and snow that clung to the stranger. With each chunk removed he was smaller, lighter, yet what they found underneath was a curious giant, the legs and arms unnaturally thick. Only when more ice was cleared did it make sense to them.

  Clothes.

  Layer upon layer of shirts and trousers: dozens, perhaps more. The stranger’s neck was thick with a hundred scarves, the hands and head puffed out by gloves and hats. Torn strips of material were densely wrapped around the face, gaps left only for the mouth, nose and eyes.

  Too heavy to carry, they dragged the unconscious stranger to the village, his legs and feet still ice-bound. In the village hall a fire was roaring, and they propped him up in a chair in front of the blazing logs, then began cutting and unravelling the layers with care. In one corner of the hall, the pile of discarded garments grew, while the unconscious stranger shrank, until all that was left was a thin figure slouched in a chair, with a long coat over his simple clothing.

  It was a boy, his hair dark and scruffy.

  “Look how young he is, he can’t be more than thirteen!” said a villager. “How did he survive his journey?”

  “A good question!” said the Elder. “To emerge from the forest where he did, he must have come through Andig’s Pass. An icy hell this time of year.”

  “It’s certain death for anyone crazy enough to go that way!” said the villager.

  “And yet this boy made it through,” said the Elder, thoughtful. “There must be more to him than meets the eye!” She reached inside the boy’s coat and searched the deep pockets within. After a moment, she slowly pulled out her hand; with it came a wooden flute, the length of her forearm. Those watching gasped as they saw.

  It was not a flute, of course. The small finger holes were far more numerous, the layout much more complex, than on any flute they had ever seen.

  This was not a flute.

  It was a Pipe.

&nb
sp; The Elder lifted it up. “The Piper has come,” she said in awe, and the people cheered. The doors of the village hall were flung open, and the news was passed on to those waiting outside. Everyone took up the call:

  “The Piper has come! The Piper has come!”

  When the boy finally opened his eyes, he found himself on a small bed, in a room he didn’t recognize, wearing a simple nightshirt that he was certain didn’t belong to him. He sat up and tried to recall how he’d got there, but nothing came. Nothing but a sense that there was something very important that he needed to remember…

  “You’re awake at last,” came a voice. Startled, the boy turned and saw an old woman sitting in a chair in the shadows of the corner. She stood and brought the chair over to the bedside. “My name is Greta,” she said. “I’m the Elder of Patterfall.”

  “Of where?” said the boy.

  “Patterfall,” said Greta, looking worried. “This village.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t remember much. About anything.”

  Greta nodded. “Perhaps that’s to be expected. The stress of your journey here has robbed you of your memory.”

  “Will it come back?”

  “I’ve seen this kind of thing before,” said Greta. “You’re not the first to have stumbled out of the forest close to death, although you’re certainly the youngest. Your memory will return soon enough. Something will spark it back to life. Do you remember anything about your journey?”

  He thought for a moment, but all that came was that terrible dark walk through the forest, one step after another with no end. His eyes widened. “I don’t even remember my own name!”

  “I think I can answer that one,” said Greta. She stood and fetched a coat that was hanging on a hook on the far wall. “When we found you, you were snowbound from head to toe, and wearing layer upon layer of clothes. Underneath them all was this coat. Is it yours?”

  The boy smiled when he saw it, feeling relief at remembering even such a small thing. “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

  “Then here,” said Greta. She turned back the collar of the coat, to reveal a name embroidered in neat stitches. “I suspect this is your name.”

  The boy read the name aloud: “Patch Brightwater.” It felt right, and with the name came another small piece of his memory. “My grandmother stitched it in my coat, so I’d not lose it.”

  Greta smiled. “It’s very good to meet you, Patch Brightwater!” she said. “It’s more than good. You see, I know why you came here.” She reached into Patch’s coat pocket and pulled out the Pipe. “You came to save us!”

  Patch stared. “Me?” he said, and Greta nodded. “I’m a Piper?” He reached out slowly and took the Pipe in his hands. As he held it, more memories came back to him, precious fragments and images. Moments, he realized, from his training at Tiviscan. Yes, he thought, Tiviscan Castle, the home of the Pipers’ Council. The place where those hoping to become Pipers go to learn the Piper’s Art.

  There was still so much missing, but as his fingers moved over the holes in the Pipe, he knew that the Songs were clear in his mind.

  “I am a Piper,” said Patch at last, and now the tears came, flowing down his cheeks and past his broad smile.

  Greta gave him a kindly pat on his hand. “You’re much younger than we expected, I admit…”

  Patch was filled with a sudden worry – the same feeling he’d had when he’d woken, that there was something very important he still needed to remember.

  “But no ordinary traveller could have made it through that snow!” said Greta. “We summoned a Piper, and here you are!”

  Another memory came to him then. “Wait… There was an emergency. I was in a hurry.” He looked to Greta, and she nodded to encourage him. “I think…there was a trader. He had the only cart heading this way, him and his family.” His eyes narrowed as he concentrated. “The road was blocked, the snow too deep. As we turned, the cart’s axle snapped. The trader unhitched his horse, mounted it with his wife and child, and rode off.”

  “They left you?”

  Patch sighed. “Who can blame them? I looked in the cart for food, and all I found was clothing – the trader’s wares. At first I stayed in the shelter of the cart, and played a heating Song on my Pipe to keep me warm. But the cold became too great; my fingers grew numb and I had to stop. So I put on layer after layer of clothes, and waited for the weather to improve, but it just kept getting worse. Finally I started to walk. There’s a simpler heating Song that can be whistled – lip-playing, we call it. I used that for a time, until my dry lips cracked in the chill and I was forced into silence. I kept walking, all through the night…” He thought of how long that terrible icy walk had seemed. Endless.

  “And you reached us!” said Greta. “You mentioned an emergency, Patch, and that’s exactly what our village has! One that will leave us all in poverty, and perhaps end our lives. As soon as we knew how dangerous things had become, we sent a messenger to Wassil, the nearest town. The messenger took the only horse strong enough to make it through the deep snow; his mission was to summon a Piper. You!”

  “Tell me, Greta,” said Patch. “Tell me what I’ve come here to do.”

  Greta paused, looking weighed down with worry. “In summer,” she said, “the fertile valley gives us enough grain to last a year, for our cattle and our bellies and for seeding the next year’s crops, with some left over that we can sell. Each winter, the roads become impassable. The village remains isolated until late spring. Our dogs and our cats deal with any vermin from the forest. But not this year. One by one, our dogs went lame, our cats grew fearful, and the food in our homes was plundered. At first we couldn’t understand what was doing it. They were not seen, and they left no signs.”

  Patch’s face grew pale. “What…what was it?”

  “Rats,” said Greta. “More than we’ve ever known. Bigger than we’ve ever known. Smarter than we’ve ever known. Anything we did, it wasn’t enough. They ate no poison. They triggered no traps.” Greta shook her head, visibly distressed. “Nothing we’ve done has stopped them. They are frightening, Patch. And now they’re all in the grain storehouse in the centre of the village, but we dare not attack them. They like it there, protected from the cold, with enough food to last them a few weeks. But when that’s done, they’ll find all our hidden stores. They’ll consume everything we have. And then—” She closed her eyes, unable to speak for a moment. “None of the villagers have been hurt by them, yet. Not one. But when the grain is gone that will surely change.”

  Patch stared at her in horror. “Change? What do you mean?”

  “We are trapped in the village, but so are the rats. When they’re hungry enough, they’ll come for us! You can see why we’re desperate.”

  “Rats…” he said, thinking. What had he been taught? “Infestations are a common thing for Pipers to deal with, be it rats, mice, cockroaches.” He let his fingers move over the Pipe, and smiled as he realized they were already marking out the notes of the Song he needed. “It’s strange,” he said. “There’s so much I don’t remember, but my training comes back to me easily.”

  “We should have called for a Piper weeks ago,” said Greta. “But some of the villagers were afraid to.”

  “Afraid?” said Patch. “They have nothing to fear from me!”

  “They thought of what happened in Hamelyn.”

  Patch opened his mouth to answer, but then the memory of the Hamelyn Piper returned to him like a slap to the face. It was the greatest shame of Pipers – ten years ago, the town of Hamelyn had been infested by rats. A Piper came, a Piper with nothing but evil in his heart; once he had got rid of the rodents he played another Song, and led the children of Hamelyn off into the night. And what had become of them? To this day, nobody knew. Even after the Hamelyn Piper had been caught and thrown into the deepest dungeon, he had never revealed the truth.

  For centuries, Pipers had been trusted completely, their honour beyond question as they wandered the land
s, seeking work – helping crops to grow, say, or finding the right place to dig a well. A price would be agreed, and the work would be done.

  The events in Hamelyn almost destroyed that trust. Never again would a Piper be able to simply turn up and offer their services. Now, Pipers had to be officially summoned, so that people could be sure that the Pipers who came were qualified and trustworthy.

  “They have no need to worry,” said Patch. He pulled back the blanket that covered his lower half and swung his legs out of the bed. “There’s no time to waste. My clothes?”

  “The clothing you wore under your coat has been cleaned in readiness,” said Greta. “But I think you need to eat and rest first, to regain your strength.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “Waiting just means the rats eat more of your precious grain!” The rats, Patch thought, couldn’t be as bad as Greta had made out. They were scared, these villagers, and their fear had made everything seem so much worse that it really was. He would cure them of their rats, and cure them of their fear!

  He tried to stand, but his legs gave way at once and he fell back onto the bed, breathless.

  “You see?” said Greta. “You’ve been unconscious for two days. You must eat and drink, and rest some more. Only then will you have the strength to deal with those rats. Tomorrow!”

  Patch knew she was right; he was only just getting his breath back, and the mention of food had made him realize how hungry he was. “Tomorrow it is,” he said.

  Patch ate his fill, and slept well. In the morning, after a bowl of stew for breakfast, he got dressed and spent some time exercising his fingers. Nothing more of his memory had come back yet, but he was confident about his Piping – and that was all that mattered.

  Greta knocked on the door and entered. “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Almost,” said Patch. “First, though, we need a plan – a way to kill the rats! Somewhere to drown them, say.”

  “Follow me,” said Greta.

  Beside the village was a river twenty feet across, a simple wooden bridge spanning its fast-flowing water. They followed it a short way downstream until they came to a cliff edge. There, the river became a roaring waterfall.