back. Merlin secured them with magical bands, then he, Welly, and a reluctant Troll climbed onto the humped back and settled into saddle-like depressions among the broad white scales. Merlin extended the magic security bands to the riders as well.
Again the dragon unfurled its wings, this time to their full impressive width. As the others hastily stepped back, Arthur called up, “Take care of yourself, Merlin. We need you. Bring yourself and the others back.”
“I’ll try, Arthur. Morgan cannot be allowed to win.
We
know that. We need to let her know that too.”
Rus had been turned over to one of the soldiers, but now the dog broke away and, running forward, began barking frantically. The dragon lowered its head and squinted at the creature. “Right, I hear you, dog,” the dragon hissed, “but no way am I going to carry the likes of you—squirming, flea-ridden, remarkably ugly thing that you are. Though if you
really
want to help your mistress, you could become a little snack to give me energy.”
“None of that!” Merlin snapped. “Someone hold Rus. We’ll bring Heather back, Rus, I swear it.”
Gripping his staff firmly, he rested it along the dragon’s back. Behind him, Welly was torn between clutching the scales and clutching his glasses. Then he remembered his glasses had been enchanted to stay on his face, so he used both hands to grip the scales as tightly as he could. Behind him, Troll closed his eyes and slid his long flat fingers into every crack among the scales that he could find.
On both sides, the huge wings gave a few gentle flaps, then with one powerful thrust jerked them into the air. Welly groaned and Troll squealed, but nothing could be heard above the thrumming of dragon wings.
Below, the group gasped in awe at the sight, then watched silently as the dragon rose into the sullen gray sky. Smaller and smaller the figure became, until it might have been confused with an oddly shaped bird. Finally it disappeared in the murky distance.
“Well, Pendragon,” Duke Basil said apologetically, “I’ve more than learned my lesson. I’ll never doubt the old tales again.”
Arthur shook his head. Grabbing Margaret’s hand, he headed toward the horses. “Old stories are fine. But the problem with stories when you are living through them is that you don’t know how they will end.”
C APTIVE
D arkness. Seemingly endless darkness into which only vague disturbing noises and a sickening sense of motion penetrated. Thoughts and feelings were smothered in the darkness—all except fear. Then even that faded into nothingness.
It was a faint rustling that pulled her up from the dark. Heather lay still, eyes closed, mind slowly wakening. There was the rustling again. Slowly she realized it came from under her. She twitched a leg, and the rustling returned. Gingerly she felt about with her hand. She was lying on what felt like a thin mattress, a mattress stuffed with rustling straw.
Her eyes seemed almost glued shut, but she struggled to open them. Above was a ceiling of gray stone. A small black blot on the ceiling broke loose and dropped toward her. Instinctively she raised an arm to fend it away, but the shape stopped just beyond her reach. Heather blinked and tried to focus. Then she screamed. The scream came out only as a rusty croak.
The thing hovering above her was—a bat? She’d seen bats in books but thought they were all extinct. She wished this one was. Its black leathery wings fluttered up and down, keeping it in place above her. Between the wings was a hairy body and a horrid face—a grotesque almost-human face, huge tufted ears, squinty eyes, turned-up snout, and a wide mirthless grin filled with needle-like teeth.
To make it worse, the mouth opened wide and it spoke. “Awake. Good. Report.”
With that, the creature flew out of her sight. Woozily Heather sat up. She was in a room, a small round room, its walls and floor the same cold gray stone as the ceiling. The bat thing
Again the dragon unfurled its wings, this time to their full impressive width. As the others hastily stepped back, Arthur called up, “Take care of yourself, Merlin. We need you. Bring yourself and the others back.”
“I’ll try, Arthur. Morgan cannot be allowed to win.
We
know that. We need to let her know that too.”
Rus had been turned over to one of the soldiers, but now the dog broke away and, running forward, began barking frantically. The dragon lowered its head and squinted at the creature. “Right, I hear you, dog,” the dragon hissed, “but no way am I going to carry the likes of you—squirming, flea-ridden, remarkably ugly thing that you are. Though if you
really
want to help your mistress, you could become a little snack to give me energy.”
“None of that!” Merlin snapped. “Someone hold Rus. We’ll bring Heather back, Rus, I swear it.”
Gripping his staff firmly, he rested it along the dragon’s back. Behind him, Welly was torn between clutching the scales and clutching his glasses. Then he remembered his glasses had been enchanted to stay on his face, so he used both hands to grip the scales as tightly as he could. Behind him, Troll closed his eyes and slid his long flat fingers into every crack among the scales that he could find.
On both sides, the huge wings gave a few gentle flaps, then with one powerful thrust jerked them into the air. Welly groaned and Troll squealed, but nothing could be heard above the thrumming of dragon wings.
Below, the group gasped in awe at the sight, then watched silently as the dragon rose into the sullen gray sky. Smaller and smaller the figure became, until it might have been confused with an oddly shaped bird. Finally it disappeared in the murky distance.
“Well, Pendragon,” Duke Basil said apologetically, “I’ve more than learned my lesson. I’ll never doubt the old tales again.”
Arthur shook his head. Grabbing Margaret’s hand, he headed toward the horses. “Old stories are fine. But the problem with stories when you are living through them is that you don’t know how they will end.”
C APTIVE
D arkness. Seemingly endless darkness into which only vague disturbing noises and a sickening sense of motion penetrated. Thoughts and feelings were smothered in the darkness—all except fear. Then even that faded into nothingness.
It was a faint rustling that pulled her up from the dark. Heather lay still, eyes closed, mind slowly wakening. There was the rustling again. Slowly she realized it came from under her. She twitched a leg, and the rustling returned. Gingerly she felt about with her hand. She was lying on what felt like a thin mattress, a mattress stuffed with rustling straw.
Her eyes seemed almost glued shut, but she struggled to open them. Above was a ceiling of gray stone. A small black blot on the ceiling broke loose and dropped toward her. Instinctively she raised an arm to fend it away, but the shape stopped just beyond her reach. Heather blinked and tried to focus. Then she screamed. The scream came out only as a rusty croak.
The thing hovering above her was—a bat? She’d seen bats in books but thought they were all extinct. She wished this one was. Its black leathery wings fluttered up and down, keeping it in place above her. Between the wings was a hairy body and a horrid face—a grotesque almost-human face, huge tufted ears, squinty eyes, turned-up snout, and a wide mirthless grin filled with needle-like teeth.
To make it worse, the mouth opened wide and it spoke. “Awake. Good. Report.”
With that, the creature flew out of her sight. Woozily Heather sat up. She was in a room, a small round room, its walls and floor the same cold gray stone as the ceiling. The bat thing
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