A Darkness of Dragons Read online

  “This is where our village gets its name.”

  “Patterfall?” said Patch. “I would have expected something more gentle.”

  “The village has been here for three hundred years,” said Greta. “Back then, the river was little more than a stream. Things have changed.”

  “No kidding.” He crept forwards to the precipice and looked over. The drop was at least a hundred feet, and the base of the waterfall was littered with jagged rocks. The falling water would dash the rats against the sharp stones, so a quick death was assured. “This will do it,” he said.

  When they got back, everyone had gathered around the oak tree that stood in the heart of the village. They cheered at the sight of the Piper.

  Patch waved to them, and Greta led him to the front of the large grain storehouse where the rats had taken up residence.

  The cheering fell away to silence as the people of the village waited for the Piper to begin.

  Greta walked to the doors of the storehouse. She removed the chains that had been thrown across the doors, then placed a huge key into the lock and turned it. She looked to Patch, who nodded. Slowly, Greta pulled the doors open, returning quickly to Patch’s side. All eyes watched as he studied his quarry.

  Then Patch, his body completely rigid, fell backwards in a dead faint.

  Patch came to, the flagstones cold under his back. He opened his eyes and saw Greta’s worried face.

  “Take my hand!” she whispered, supporting him as he stood.

  “Let’s try that again,” said Patch, but his breathing grew more and more rapid, and his grip on Greta became ever tighter.

  He didn’t want to look through the storehouse doors again, but he had no choice.

  He looked.

  Rats!

  Sleeping among mounds of grain and bags of seed and sacks of corn, sleeping in groups of three and groups of ten and – Patch shivered – groups of far more than ten. Brown rats, white rats, speckled rats, long rats, short rats. One had a tail with curious markings, ringed with red hoops all down its length.

  All were asleep, but nowhere, not anywhere he looked, could Patch see a rat that could be called “small”, or “thin”.

  Some were too fat even to curl up for their sleep, looking like big furry marrows or hairy loaves of bread. The fattest of all was a great rat pumpkin that surely couldn’t have moved even if it wanted to, its feet sticking straight out, high off the ground, its belly making a dent in the grain where it lay.

  Not a sound came from them – except perhaps, if he’d been brave enough to step inside and listen with a careful ear, the noise of little ratty snores and burps.

  Rats, content and asleep.

  Huge rats.

  A vast number of huge rats.

  He turned to Greta and opened his mouth to speak. No words came.

  “You thought I was exaggerating,” she said.

  Patch nodded. He took a very long breath, and let out a very long sigh.

  “Is it too hard a task?” said Greta.

  Patch saw hope drain from the Elder. No, he thought, I won’t give in. These people needed him, and they had saved his life.

  But he could hardly pretend this was a selfless act. He was trapped here, just as the villagers were. Yet the rats did seem oddly cosy; they were so peaceful that it was a bit of a stretch to imagine them bearing down on him with blood-drenched maws.

  He shivered. His mind had already started to imagine it.

  He turned and addressed Greta. “The Art of Piping,” he started, but it came out squeaky. He cleared his throat and tried again. “The Art of Piping,” he repeated, in the confident voice that came from reciting such a well-learned passage, “has many magics. The Song most often used for clearing pests of whatever kind is called the Dream. This magic fills the target’s mind full of the wonderful things that they most desire, and makes them think those things can be found by following the music of the Pipe.” He looked at the rats, his mouth suddenly dry. “There are…more than I expected, I admit, but you avoid thinking about the number, you see. Then it’s just as if there were ten, or twenty, rather than—” He gestured towards the rodents, then reached into his coat and took out his Pipe.

  The Dream, he thought, grateful that he could remember his training. His fingers were already moving against the Pipe, rehearsing the intricate patterns that would draw the rats to their doom.

  He put the Pipe to his lips and began.

  It started with a simple melody, six notes repeated with a little variation. Patch played this half a dozen times, then took his mouth from the pipe.

  Yet the music continued. Greta’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “It…it keeps playing—”

  “Of course,” said Patch. “Otherwise you couldn’t add layers, and it’s the layers of a Song that make it so powerful.”

  Now, Patch started another melody – overlapping the first, seeming to shift away from it, then towards it again. Beside him, Greta was smiling, grinning, at the sound.

  With the second melody holding, Patch added another sequence, then another, and another. The real work was being done. There was a change in the overall sound, a change that spoke of things that could be.

  The Dream. The Dream was forming.

  Patch’s fingers moved in what seemed like effortless complexity. Suddenly he frowned and stopped playing. His hands fell to his sides, the Song starting to fade. He looked at Greta, anxious.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, but Patch’s attention was stolen by the sound that started among the villagers. The sound of cheering and applause.

  He looked from the villagers to Greta, confused. “Why are they clapping?”

  “They’ve never heard anything like that,” said Greta. “It was… It was—” She shook her head, grasping for the word. “It was beautiful.”

  “Maybe so,” said Patch. “But it didn’t work.” He nodded towards the storehouse. The rats hadn’t even stirred. “I don’t understand! They should be filled with the knowledge that their dreams, all their dreams, await them if they follow the sound!” He began to mutter to himself.

  It was Greta who realized what was wrong. “Patch, look at those animals.” They both looked. “Do you think they could find somewhere better? They are warm, and sleeping in a building full of food! Don’t you think they’re already in their dream?”

  “Of course!” said Patch, putting a hand to his forehead. “Think, think!” he said to himself. He began to stride up and down, his Pipe clenched behind his back. “Wait!” he said at last. “There’s another way. But it’s a little bit –” he paused for a moment, before finishing – “a little bit unusual.”

  “Unusual” wasn’t the first word that had come to Patch’s mind.

  When Greta had pointed out the reason for the Dream’s failure, he’d hunted around in his memory for an alternative. Maybe I can’t remember enough of my training after all, he’d thought, and that was a terrible thought, because part of his mind had got really very good at imagining how the rats would go about feasting on him if he botched this whole thing.

  But eventually one idea had come, a Song that was so clear and so strong, something he knew would work, because he somehow knew that he was particularly good at it. Unfortunately, there was one other thing that he knew about the Song.

  He knew that using it was absolutely against the laws of Piping, and had been ever since the Hamelyn Piper had played it to such devastating effect.

  In short, it was illegal, and “illegal” was the word that he’d almost said to Greta. “Unusual” seemed a lot less alarming, so he’d gone with that instead.

  He tried to recall what “illegal” meant for a Piper, and images came to him, images of very serious-looking Pipers in black-and-purple robes. Oh, yes, he thought. Them.

  The Custodian Elite, they were called. If a Piper was to break the laws of Piping, the Custodian Elite would be the ones who brought them to justice.

  Still, this was an emergency, and surely even t
he Custodian Elite would understand.

  “This one is called the Dance,” he said, then he raised his Pipe and started to play.

  Layer upon layer, the Dance took shape in his Pipe. At the sound of it he felt a familiar joy grow in his heart.

  Soon the Song had formed. At first, the sleeping rats seemed oblivious to it. Then one of them stirred – the strange rat with the red-ringed tail. With a yawn it stood and sniffed the air, and saw Patch. Its paws came up to its mouth in a way that was strangely human, as if it was shocked. It waved frantically, shaking its head and squeaking, almost as if it was trying to warn the others.

  How peculiar, Patch thought.

  The strange rat clamped its paws tightly over its ears, attempting to shut out the sound – as if that would make any difference! – but after a few seconds the animal’s rear paws were tapping to the rhythm, its agitation vanishing as it started to whirl and swish from side to side, caught in the Dance. All thought of escape had gone, Patch knew. The only thing it would know, from now until the moment it hit the rocks at the bottom of the waterfall, was the joy of the music.

  In the centre of the storehouse floor was a small clearing, and that was where the red-ringed rat made its way. One by one, the other rats woke and followed, hopping and marching in time to the Song that Patch played. A circle of rats formed in the clearing, all on their hind legs, their little paws grasping those of the rats either side of them. As the ring completed, another larger ring started to link up outside the first.

  It’s working, Patch thought, thrilled and relieved in equal measure. It’s working!

  It wasn’t long before ten circles of rats danced round and round, more rodents joining them every second. The circles danced one way, then turned and danced the other. The faces of the rats were happy, and gleeful squeaks could be clearly heard over the music.

  The centre of the floor was almost full, so the rest of the rats formed groups in the hollows and spaces where they found themselves. The fattest rats, unable to dance, waggled their paws and heads and feet with smiling eyes and loud cheering squeaks.

  All the rats were caught in the Dance now.

  It’s time, he thought. Time to take the Dance outside to the river, and the waterfall!

  He backed away from the storehouse. In each of the dancing groups, the rats paired up and began skipping to the exit, with the fattest being rolled out by some of the others.

  Patch glanced towards the villagers; anxiety was written on their faces. They wouldn’t have to worry for much longer. He turned towards the bridge that crossed the river. From there, he would guide the rats into the water and keep them entranced until they went over the precipice. Greta was already heading to the bridge – the sight of the rats streaming out of the storehouse was enough to make anyone want to get away as quickly as they could.

  Patch couldn’t hurry, though. As he played, he took slow steps and kept glancing behind him, making sure his pace was right.

  Hundreds of rats – thousands! – were pouring out of the doors, following Patch in a line ten rats across, spinning and jigging their way along, twenty feet behind him.

  Had he been walking at normal speed he would have reached the bridge within a minute. Matching the pace of the rats, it took five times longer to get there, his fingers racing over the Pipe.

  He reached the middle of the bridge and sent the rats towards the water. Line by line, the rats waded in, and each line kept dancing as they swam, forming a little circle as the strong current carried them downstream. Entire circles of rats would turn one way then another, before diving under the water, their tails and feet sticking out and moving from side to side in perfect time, before they brought their heads back up and danced on.

  When a third of them were in the river, Patch looked to the waterfall’s edge; so did Greta, who was now standing beside him.

  “It almost seems cruel,” said Greta. “Look at them, with no idea what’s coming!”

  Patch shook his head and took his lips from the Pipe. “They’ll dance all the way down to the sharp rocks below,” he said. “The whole time, they’ll be happy.”

  “And we’ll be free,” said Greta, suddenly overwhelmed. “The village is saved!” She stepped forward and embraced him, then quickly stepped back again with an apologetic nod.

  Patch smiled. He was almost overwhelmed, both with emotion and fatigue. It was only excitement that was keeping him on his feet, he knew. It would be a while yet before he fully recovered from his icy journey to the village, and he was still close to exhaustion.

  Greta waved to the cheering crowd. Patch waved at them too, but only briefly – the Song could start to unravel if he didn’t maintain its melodies. He turned back to the rats, nearly half of them now in the water.

  He’d glanced so briefly at the villagers, he couldn’t be blamed for not noticing one very important detail…

  The villagers’ feet had started to tap.

  Almost there, Patch thought.

  The frontmost rats were floating downriver and close to the point of no return, where the water quickened before hurtling into the void. The rearmost were just entering the water now.

  He looked at Greta, expecting to see triumph on her face, watching the rats get ever nearer to oblivion.

  Instead, Greta was staring past him, back down towards the villagers. Patch turned to follow her gaze, and gasped:

  The people of the village were dancing.

  Dancing in a column that was speeding towards the river, their grinning faces lit up with absolute glee.

  “Oh no!” said Patch, horrified.

  “What’s gone wrong?” said Greta.

  “The Song spilled out beyond the rats,” he said. “The villagers are caught in the Dance!”

  He looked to the rats near the waterfall, then back to the people. He played his Pipe, trying to add in a separation, to keep the rodents on their way and send the people back.

  He quickly realized that it wasn’t working.

  Next option, he thought: wait until most of the rats have gone over the falls, and bring the Dance to an end.

  But the people were so much faster than the rats, and many would be in the water by then. Too risky, he thought. There were children among the dancers. The water could sweep them to their deaths, however short a time they were in the river. Besides, could everyone even swim?

  He added counter-rhythms that should slow the Dance down. That way, most of the rats would simply drift to their fate.

  It had no effect. Closer the villagers came. Closer to the river’s edge.

  Greta grabbed his shoulder. “Patch! You have to do something!”

  If he merely stopped playing, the Song would take too long to fade. As the first line of people stepped into the icy water, Patch knew there was only one option left.

  He took the Pipe from his lips and snapped it in half.

  At once the Dance died.

  The grins on the faces of the villagers dropped away. Those who found themselves standing in the ice-cold river looked at their sodden legs, baffled. Panicked squeals came from the rats, who were now scrabbling their way towards the riverbank, finding purchase at the river’s edge. The villagers watched as the rats helped each other and emerged from the water, scurrying back towards the village.

  Patch’s heart sank. He had come so close to success, but would have to start again once he’d recovered enough strength to…

  The villager nearest the bridge raised a trembling arm, pointing right at Patch.

  “He tried to kill us!” the villager screamed.

  “Uh, no, I—” said Patch.

  “He almost drowned us all!” cried another.

  Greta stepped forward. “Wait!” she shouted. “That’s not what happened!”

  But the accusations kept mounting. Soon it seemed as if the whole village wanted his blood.

  “He’s like the Hamelyn Piper!” they cried. “Twisted, evil! Lock him up and throw away the key!”

  “Um, Greta?�
� whispered Patch. “Maybe I should, uh, run away…”

  She shook her head. “If you run, they’ll chase you down like a mad dog! Your only chance is to reason with them.”

  “He’s got Greta under a spell!” a villager cried.

  Greta’s eyes narrowed with anger. “I’m not under any spell!” she shouted, and the villagers fell silent at once, looking at her like children caught misbehaving by a parent. “Now all of you just calm down and listen! Angry decisions are bad ones, don’t I always say?”

  Nods and grumbles came from the villagers. Some agreed with Greta, but it was clear that many didn’t. For Patch it was torture. Wherever he looked he saw suspicion and hate-filled eyes. It proved too much for him. Thinking this was his only opportunity to get a head start, he made a terrible mistake.

  He began to run.

  Over the bridge he went. The villagers were taken by surprise, but soon most were giving chase.

  “Don’t hurt him!” yelled Greta.

  Patch hadn’t yet realized the madness of his action – indeed, as he ran and found the road leading out of the village, he was hopeful. It didn’t look impassable by any means! Pure white snow, flanked by trees, running straight on into the distance. He could outrun the villagers! He could keep ahead of them, and…

  Suddenly the snow was too deep to run through. Too deep to walk through. He lost his balance and stumbled, falling face-down into white. His limbs felt impossibly heavy as he looked back to the villagers.

  “Send him over the waterfall,” one of them yelled, fist in the air. “See how he likes it!” It got a hearty cheer from the others.

  Perhaps Greta could talk them out of it. Perhaps not.

  Patch was so tired he almost didn’t care.

  The villagers fell suddenly silent and halted, staring past him. Patch looked at the road ahead. In the distance, the tops of the trees were shaking. The movement came nearer; the air itself was twisting, spinning.

  The deep snow in the road was being hurled out to either side, as a corkscrew of white approached.

  “He’s summoned the Devil!” screamed one villager, running away. Some followed, terrified, but most were transfixed by the sight.