A Darkness of Dragons Page 3

  He could hear it now – a harsh whirring, almost like the buzz of wasps. And under that sound was another: rhythm and melody blending together in a Song for the wind.

  When the twisting air broke through the last of the snow, Patch wasn’t surprised by what he saw. Two horses, on a road that was clear of snow behind them. The riders wore the black and purple garb of the Custodian Elite.

  Exhausted, he let his head fall. He half-laughed, and half-sobbed. He was safe. The villagers couldn’t harm him now.

  He heard the horses stop, then the crunch of boots in snow as one of the riders approached. Patch lifted his head and strained to look up. The face looming over him was young; with a shock, Patch realized it was familiar.

  “Patch?” said the young man. “Patch Brightwater?”

  Patch squinted at the young man’s face.

  I know you, he thought. How do I know you?

  Ever since he’d woken in Patterfall, he’d known there was something very important that he needed to remember; at long last, that very important thing came back to him, and with it came everything else, all his lost memories returning at once.

  “Oh no,” he said. His head dropped back down to the snow.

  He wasn’t a Piper, not really. He’d fled from Tiviscan in disgrace before completing his training.

  And now he knew just how much trouble he was in.

  Patch woke from a dream.

  He’d been walking hand in hand with his mother, feeling the kind of total happiness that he’d not felt in a long time. He’d only been three years old when both his parents had died, leaving him to be raised by his grandparents. He’d been left with no memories of his father at all, and only that single precious memory of his mother: holding her hand, looking up to see her smiling at him.

  He was in a small room with a bare flagstone floor; there was a little window and a thin mat for a bed. It was cold. A fleece and a blanket covered him, and without it he suspected he would freeze.

  He could feel a weight around his ankle – it was a manacle. Wrapping his covers around his back, he followed the chain to an iron ring on the wall. Out of the window, he could see the grain storehouse, its doors locked tight once more. He was wearing the clothes he’d fallen unconscious in, but his coat had been removed. On the floor was a tin bowl with a few hunks of stale bread, and a cup of water.

  Hearing a clatter of keys, Patch turned to the door, and when it swung open he saw the face of the Elite Piper who had brought his memory rushing back. Erner Whitlock was his name; two years his senior, at fifteen. One of the three best Pipers that Patch had trained with.

  “Erner,” said Patch, looking at the robes Erner wore – rich purple on thick black cotton. “The Custodian Elite! The clothes suit you. I knew you’d pass your final trials.”

  Erner nodded. “I wish you’d been there to see it,” he said. “Three of us went through the trials, and all three succeeded!”

  “Who were the other two?”

  “Mort and Kara. Mort is apprenticed with the Marinus Pipers in the Eastern Seas, but Kara was like me – Custodian Elite. She’s gone to Skamos.”

  Patch could picture them both. Mort was a tall, strong lad with a love of the sea; Marinus Pipers were keenly sought by merchant ships, and needed a knack for whipping up winds and fending off pirates, which the Eastern Seas had plenty of. Kara, meanwhile, had been Erner’s match in every task they’d ever done. Skamos was an important place, the only human city left on the continent known as the Dragon Territories. Peace between humans and dragons had always been fragile, but problems at Skamos had almost tipped things into war more than once. The Custodian Elite there had a crucial role in stopping that happening.

  “Pirates and dragons,” said Patch. “Exactly what they wanted. It’s good to hear.”

  Erner stepped forward and gave him a sudden, brief hug. “I’ve missed you, Patch. We all did.”

  For a moment, Patch couldn’t speak. The thought of all he’d left behind in Tiviscan was too much. Six months ago, just like Mort and Kara, he had known exactly what lay in his future – for him, it would be a glorious career in the Custodian Elite, bringing justice and help to those most in need. Then he’d thrown it all away, leaving Tiviscan behind, struggling to make ends meet. And now…the future wasn’t something he even wanted to think about. “So,” he said at last, changing the subject, “Apprentice Whitlock then!”

  “It still sounds strange to my ears,” said Erner.

  An apprenticeship lasted two years, after which the title changed from “Apprentice” to “Fortis”, which was the first proper rank of the Elite. Patch thought of the other figure he’d seen in the snow: “Who are you apprenticed to? What rank are they?”

  “A Virtus,” said Erner.

  “Impressive!” said Patch – “Virtus” was the highest rank of all, and it was rare for them to take on an apprentice. “Which Virtus is it?”

  Erner smiled awkwardly, and Patch could tell he was almost embarrassed to say it. “Virtus Stone.”

  Patch stared. “Good God, Erner. Rundel Stone?”

  “Himself,” said Erner.

  The name of Rundel Stone brought two strong emotions to Patch. First, a deep sense of pride that his friend had been taken on as apprentice by such a legendary man – Stone was one of the Eight, the group of heroes who had finally captured the Hamelyn Piper.

  The second emotion was utter despair, that the very same man held Patch’s fate in his hands. Pity, the story went, was not a word Rundel Stone knew.

  “Virtus Stone is making preparations to deal with the village’s rat problem,” said Erner. “While he does that, I’m to question you about…recent events.”

  “Hang on,” said Patch. “Elite Pipers, dealing with rats?”

  “With this many rats, people think of Hamelyn,” said Erner. “The pride of all Pipers is at stake! We came to Patterfall because we happened to be in Wassil when the call for help was received, and the Virtus immediately volunteered. We arrived just in time to stop you being lynched. According to the villagers you burst out of the forest half-dead and with amnesia. They assumed you were the Piper they’d sent for, and you assumed the same. What were you doing in the forest?”

  “I, um, just happened to be travelling nearby,” said Patch. “The merchant’s cart I was getting a ride on broke, and I was abandoned. The merchant hadn’t known how dangerous the region was at this time of year.”

  “The villagers told us what happened to them, when you tried to deal with the rats.”

  Patch hung his head. “I broke the law,” he said. “I played the Dance, yes. But I didn’t mean for the people to get caught up in it!”

  Erner nodded, sorrow in his eyes. “There’s something else, Patch,” he said. “It’s the reason Rundel Stone and I were in Wassil. There was a great mystery we’d come to solve.”

  “Um…go on.” Patch didn’t like where this was going.

  “A few months ago, the Pipers’ Council became aware of tales of travelling musicians whose music was said to be the best anyone had ever heard. Witnesses all said the same thing: people danced like they’d never danced before. It seemed that the musicians had a mysterious Piper among them, and that the Piper had been playing the most illegal Song of them all. The Song that you played for the rats, Patch. The Dance. Forbidden, since Hamelyn!”

  “Er…gosh,” said Patch. He really didn’t like where this was going.

  “The Council grew even more concerned, because every description of this mystery Piper was different. In one place, people had seen a tall, thin woman. In another, a short, wide man. One week, old. Another week, young. The Council was scared, Patch. Scared! A Piper who played the Dance even though it was forbidden! A Piper powerful enough to change physical appearance from one day to the next! Unheard of! A dark and evil Piper, the Council assumed. Toying with us. So they sent Rundel Stone to hunt this villain down. And myself, of course.”

  Patch coughed. When he’d fled from Tiviscan, earning
money for food and lodging hadn’t been easy. Piping was all he knew, but as a failed student fleeing in disgrace, working as a Piper was impossible. After a week on the road, hungry and tired, he’d met a travelling band of musicians who were barely scraping a living themselves. He’d offered to play the flute for them, but they already had a flute player.

  That was when he’d had the idea.

  He told them of a wonderful tune he knew, a sea shanty they’d never heard before, and convinced them to try it out. While the band performed, Patch stayed hidden and played the Dance in secret, making sure the audience had the time of their lives. Tips flowed, of course, and the grateful band gave him some of the money. They asked him for another tune, and so it went on.

  That was how he had spent the seven months since he’d left Tiviscan: staying with a band for a few weeks, then parting company and setting off to find another band before anyone got suspicious.

  He thought of all the bands he’d been with, and of the flute players in them – a tall, thin woman; a short, wide man. Old, and young.

  Meanwhile, the Council had heard rumours of an evil Piper, and the varying descriptions they got were simply those of the different flute players.

  I scared the Council, he thought, amazed.

  He opened his mouth to confess, and stopped. There was a pained look in Erner’s eyes.

  “You already know it was me,” said Patch.

  Erner nodded. “Changing the bands you played with was clever,” he said. “It made it difficult for us to track you down, but we got word from Wassil and headed there at once. It seems you’d left the town just before we arrived.”

  Patch sighed. “Someone had been asking too many questions. I figured it was time to scarper, and the merchant who gave me a ride was the only one leaving that day.”

  “Yet fate led all of us to Patterfall,” said Erner. “Virtus Stone has examined your broken Pipe, and the history of its Songs was still there to hear. I can’t tell you how shocked I was to discover that it was you we’d been chasing all along!” He shook his head, saddened. “Why, Patch? Why would you take such a risk? Playing the Dance to deal with the rats was one thing, but playing it to entertain people?”

  “It was the only way I could earn money, Erner. Nobody was harmed, and I didn’t think anyone would find out.” The look of disapproval on Erner’s face was almost unbearable. “So,” said Patch, “you’ll take me back to Tiviscan, then. To certain imprisonment.”

  Erner seemed utterly deflated. “The Dance is absolutely forbidden. Ten years is the penalty.” He walked over to the small window and looked out, silent for a moment. “There’s some room for hope, though. The Lords who preside on your case can reduce the sentence by half – the rash actions of a trainee Piper without a malicious bone in his body.”

  “Five years, then,” said Patch. “If pity is taken.” He wondered if it might have been better if he’d died in the snow.

  After Erner left, Patch lay down on his thin mat and despaired. Exhausted, he fell into an uneasy sleep. A curious sound, somewhere between scratching and rubbing, dragged him slowly back from slumber. He became aware of a gentle weight on his chest.

  He opened his eyes and saw a rat.

  It was the rat with the red-ringed tail, and it was looking at him.

  The part of his brain that had done such a good job of imagining the rats attacking him went into overdrive. With a sudden yelp he sat up and backed away as far as he could, flinging the rat off him. It landed and gave him a very obvious glare, then raised a paw out to its side.

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” said Patch, gathering his blanket around himself. “Don’t kill me!”

  The rat looked to the ceiling and let out a tiny sigh, then nodded in the same direction as its paw.

  “You’re…you’re not here to kill me?” said Patch, looking around frantically to see if the other rats were about to pour out of every crevice and devour him.

  The rat shook its head and impatiently jabbed its paw towards the wall, its glare intensifying.

  Patch stared at the rodent. He followed the line of its paw. On the flat stone of the wall beside him, written in chalk, were the words Help me.

  The rat picked up a small piece of chalk from the floor and scurried over to the wall, ignoring Patch’s whimper.

  Patch wondered if he was still asleep, or if madness had taken him. All he could do was stare at the animal as it wrote more letters on the wall. At last it squeaked at him, and he read aloud what the rat had written.

  Help me. I am the young daughter of a rich nobleman. I have been cursed by a Sorcerer into the shape of a rat. You will be well rewarded!

  Patch looked at the rat, and the rat nodded. “Right,” said Patch, and hid under his blanket. He clearly wasn’t asleep, so madness seemed the only possibility.

  After a few seconds he could feel the rat on top of him. He peeked out; it had its paws clasped together, pleading. “No!” he said. “You’re not real!” The animal kept looking at him, forlorn and pitiful. A tiny tear formed and fell down the side of its face.

  Patch felt a horrible stab of guilt. “Okay, enough!” he said. “Stop crying! I’ll help.” The rat gave a little jump for joy. “But why me?”

  As if in answer, there was a sudden cheer from outside. Both Patch and the rat looked to the small window. Patch stood, and as he did the rat scampered up onto his shoulder. Patch walked to the window and looked out; a crowd of villagers had assembled by the oak tree, watching Virtus Stone and Erner as they approached the storehouse.

  Patch turned his head to the rat. “The other rats all just went back to the storehouse?” he said. The rat nodded and slapped a paw to its forehead. “Not the smartest, are they?” said Patch, and the rat shrugged. Then the penny dropped. “Ah! You need protection from the Pipers, and who better to provide it than another Piper?” The rat nodded. “You’ll be safe here,” he said, wondering what Rundel Stone would play to get rid of the rodents. Stone had studied Patch’s broken Pipe, so he probably knew the Dream wouldn’t work. Which Song would he try?

  Stone took out his Pipe, and Patch could see that it was very dark in colour. There was an old rumour that Rundel Stone’s Pipe was made of obsidiac, one of the rarest magical substances in the world. It was a form of obsidian – black volcanic glass – only ever found in the Dragon Territories. Stone’s Pipe couldn’t actually be made of obsidiac, of course – no piece big enough had ever been found, and even if one had been, the material was impossible to carve. But it could certainly have been coated in an obsidiac glaze, if the obsidiac was finely ground and mixed with resin. Such a glaze had once been highly prized in Pipe-making, as the resulting Pipes were immensely powerful. However, obsidiac was considered holy by dragons; as a result, the Piper’s Council had banned its use in new Pipes long ago, in an effort to keep peace.

  The Virtus raised his Pipe and began.

  Patch listened carefully to the first notes, trying to identify the Song. He frowned. “I’m not sure what that is,” he said. “The safest thing would be to wrap you in my blanket, little rat. Then, however the Song tries to compel you, you’ll be unable to move and—”

  He stopped talking.

  The Virtus had started a rhythmic section, complex and primal. It was ringing a bell in Patch’s mind. A great big worrying bell, one with panic written all over it.

  “Oh,” said Patch. “Oh no.”

  He had placed the rhythm. He knew the Song.

  It was called the Dispersal, and it was a Song of execution – a terrifying thing, one of the most difficult Songs to perform.

  Yet here was the Virtus, using it against a vast pack of rats.

  The effect of Dispersal was simple. Every part of the target, every tiny fragment, would be utterly destroyed, the target reduced to its components – a devastating, instant unravelling that left nothing behind. Those components were widely dispersed, spread so thinly that not even a speck of blood would remain. Only dust, scattered across a thousand
miles.

  Patch listened in horror. The Dispersal was a highly selective Song, and the Virtus was allowing it to spread out, knowing that only his target – the rats – would be affected, without risk to the villagers. All rats within the bounds of the village would be killed, and perhaps for some distance beyond.

  Patch had no idea if any defence was possible.

  “Uhhh…” he said. “Um…” The rat put its paws over its ears so it couldn’t hear, as it had done with the Dance, but Patch shook his head and it put its paws down again. “A Song isn’t just heard with the ears,” he said. “Every single part of you hears it.” The rat stared at him, terrified. Patch looked around the small room and his eyes settled on the tin bowl the bread was in. “Worth a try,” he muttered. He grabbed it, tipping the bread out. “Quickly,” he said to the rat. “Under the bowl!” The rat ran to him, and he turned the bowl upside down on top of it. “Keep entirely inside,” he said. “And whatever you do, whatever you hear, don’t come out!”

  He placed his hands on the bowl and thought about what he could do. To keep the rat safe, he needed to play a counter-Song, and create a bubble of protection that surrounded the animal. He had no Pipe and would have to play it by lip, which made it harder – especially since his lips were still cracked and sore – but the bubble wouldn’t need to be big.

  Time was running out. Virtus Stone’s Song was building. Patch could hear the chatter of the nervous villagers, as they sensed the sheer force of the music.

  Here goes, he thought. With one ear on the Song outside, he began. The counter-rhythm he whistled was almost identical to the core rhythm of the Dispersal, but with a few carefully chosen added beats. Next, he whistled a modified version of the Song’s secondary melody. Without a Pipe, all he could do was switch from rhythm to melody and back again, faster and faster, his lips getting ever closer to the upturned bowl.

  The protective bubble began to form just in time. He could sense it surrounding the metal of the bowl, a bubble that would guide the flow of the Song safely away, and not let it penetrate.