Isle of the Dead

18 – The Sister of the West

Up, up they climbed, hands grasping frantically, feet sliding and slipping. But the beast was close behind them, heaving its vast body effortlessly over the shining rock. Its roars were thunderous in their ears. The smell of it—the dank odour of the sea—filled their nostrils. Again and again its long, bristled tongue shot out, slapping at their heels.

‘It is sorcery! Ava—in another form!’ Barda shouted.

‘No,’ Lief panted. ‘It was in the sea—as we approached Ava’s shop. I thought—it was seaweed. Ava was inside then—sitting by her fire.’

Kree was diving at the monster’s head, snapping and screeching, golden eyes ablaze. But the beast was paying no attention. It did not try to snatch Kree from the air, did not falter for a moment. Its rage-filled eyes were fixed on those who had dared to set foot on its territory, who had dared climb its rocks, glazed by the hardened slime of centuries.

The companions’ chests were aching. Their minds were blurred by pain and fear. Above them loomed the darkness of the cave, and from it streamed the evil power that every moment weakened them.

At the cave mouth the chase would be over. At the cave mouth they would have to turn and fight.

But they could not win. They all knew it. The song of the Sister of the West would beat them to their knees. The rage of the beast would overwhelm them.

Lief hauled himself up onto the broad ledge that lay before the cave. He heard Barda and Jasmine clamber up beside him. He struggled to rise, fumbling for his sword.

His eyes dimmed. He could hardly see. Again he tried to get to his feet, but a great weight seemed to be pressing him down.

The monster was bellowing just below him. He could hear its vast body, its trailing mane, slapping on the rock. He tried to draw his feet back, imagining the long blue tongue curling around his ankle, pulling him down.

Then Jasmine screamed.

Lief thrilled with pure terror. He struggled to his knees, then to his feet, and his sword was in his hand. Wind tore at his hair and beat on his face. Wildly he looked around for Jasmine.

And she was standing beside him. She was standing there unharmed, her dagger raised, her hair flying around her head, eyes wide with shock.

For below, a battle was raging. The mottled beast had reared up, its vast body rigid, the fleshy strips of its mane swollen and whipping around its head, its terrible teeth bared. And clawing at it from the air, great purple wings blocking out the sun, purple fire belching from snarling jaws, was Veritas, the amethyst dragon.

At first it seemed that the monster’s death was certain. How could any beast of land and sea, however vast, however savage, defeat a dragon?

But Veritas was weakening. Lief could see it—see it in the dimming of the purple scales, the ragged beat of the leathery wings. The flight from the Sleeping Dunes had nearly exhausted what little strength the dragon had. And the monster was defending its territory. Its rage was terrible.

He watched in terrified suspense as Veritas lurched downward, talons spread.

The monster’s tongue lashed out, curled around the dragon’s leg and jerked backward. Wings beating vainly, the dragon fell, crashing to the rock. And then the beast was upon it, teeth like knives tearing savagely at the pale, exposed underbelly.

The dragon roared. Flame gushed from its mouth and seared the monster’s mottled hide. The monster lifted its head and bellowed its pain and fury, dragon’s blood dripping from its jaws.

Then the dragon was twisting away from it, launching itself awkwardly into the air. Blood streaming from its terrible wound, it rose higher, higher. The beast below reared up, but could not catch it.

Lief, Barda and Jasmine fell back, beaten by the wind of mighty wings as the massive purple shape rose, rose to hover beside them, then dropped heavily to the ground in front of the cave.

The song of the Sister of the West rang on, mingling with the bellows of the beast.

Slowly the companions crawled to their feet. ‘Lief, see to the dragon,’ Barda rasped. ‘It is all that can save you now. We will defend… for as long as…’

He could not finish. He was swaying. His sword hung from his hand as if it was too heavy for him to lift. But still he stood facing attack, and Jasmine stood with him, though her eyes were blank, and her shoulders sagged.

Lief staggered to the dragon’s head, fell to his knees beside it and pressed his cheek to the dimming scales of the neck. With all his might he willed the strength of the amethyst to flow through his body and into the wounded beast.

He could hear the beat of the dragon’s mighty heart. His own heart leaped as he saw the faded scales brightening.

The voice of Veritas whispered in his mind.

Where is the dragon of the diamond?

‘The dragon of the diamond is dead,’ Lief said.

Ah…

Lief looked back to where Barda and Jasmine stood together, bowed by the evil power of the cave.

The beast still had not reached them. It was still raging just below, lunging upward then falling back, wallowing in a mess of dragon’s blood and its own slime.

Why does it wait? Lief thought in amazement.

‘The evil in the cave holds it back,’ hissed Veritas, as though he had spoken aloud. ‘It will force its way up here at last, but it will not enter the cave. There we will be safe.’

The massive body quaked, and Lief realised with astonishment that the dragon had laughed.

‘Safe! Ah, that is a great joke,’ Veritas snorted. ‘Dragonfriend would have liked that. Move aside!’

Lief moved hastily out of the way. As the dragon heaved itself to its feet he saw that the wound on its belly had closed. The long tear was still raw and red, but the blood had ceased to flow.

Jasmine and Barda turned. Lief beckoned urgently and they began stumbling towards him.

The mottled beast below them roared in rage. It reared, and with a mighty effort threw itself upward.

But it was too late. By the time it reached the place where its enemies had stood only moments before, they had gone—gone where it could not follow.

The darkness of the cave had swallowed them up.

At first Lief could see nothing, but gradually he realised that the cave was dark only in contrast to the blinding light outside. Slowly he began to make out the shape of the dragon, the shapes of his friends, and the walls of a huge cavern shrouded in spider web.

The floor beneath his feet was thick with dust, but beneath the dust it shone, like the rocks outside. Once then, long ago, this cavern had been the den of the monster of the Isle—the same beast now bellowing outside, or that beast’s ancestors.

Lief’s ears throbbed with the sound of the Sister of the West pulsing from the back of the cave.

But he could hear the dragon too. The dragon was close beside him. He could hear its heart beating. He could hear its hissing breath.

Behind him, his companions stumbled and groaned.

Lief wet his lips. ‘Jasmine. Barda. Come no further,’ he said, his voice a croak he hardly recognised as his own. ‘The dragon and I will go on alone.’

Neither Barda nor Jasmine replied. But still they followed him.

Step by painful step they struggled on. Every step was an effort. Every breath was pain.

Lief’s sword was in his hand, but he doubted he could lift his arm. It was as if the Sister’s song had penetrated every bone, every muscle of his body, poisoning his blood, spreading an aching weakness.

Then suddenly the end of the cave was in sight.

Lief’s skin crawled. A dim shape hunched there. A dim, pale shape that was the source of the sound, the source of the evil, the source of the poison.

He forced himself forward, bracing himself against what he might see.

Then he felt the dragon shudder. He heard the dragon’s heart begin to thunder in its chest.

And he saw what the pale shape was.

It was a man, sitting on a carved throne of stone—a man so ancient that he seemed almost transparent. A long white beard trailed down his chest. Long white hair fell to his waist. His rough garments were grey with age and dust. Spider web floated about him. Spider web netted his gaunt face, sealed his eyelids and covered the bone-thin hands that rested on the arms of his throne.

But he was alive. Shallow breaths stirred the white threads that spanned his withered lips.

And the Sister of the West was inside him. From the frail chest, pure evil poured.

Lief’s head was roaring. He could not breathe. He heard the sound of Barda’s sword clattering to the ground behind him.

The man’s eyes opened beneath the veil of web.

The hazy grey stare fixed on Lief for a moment. Then it drifted away, to rest on the dragon. Web threads broke and drifted as the pale lips parted. The voice came, like dead leaves rustling.

‘Veritas.’

The dragon was quivering all over.

‘Doran,’ it hissed.

Lief’s heart seemed to leap into his throat. Suddenly his mind was burning with the memory of the Shadow Lord’s evil, gloating voice.

The upstart has the fate he deserves…

With horror such as he had never known, Lief stared at the ancient, tormented being on the throne.

So this had been the fate of the upstart, the one who had dared to try to foil the plan of the Four Sisters. This had been the punishment of Doran the Dragonlover. Enslaved by the Shadow Lord’s sorcery, he had been condemned to centuries of half-life as the guardian of the very evil he had tried to destroy.

The grey eyes moved to meet his. The lips opened. And again came the faint, rasping voice.

‘You—wear the Belt of Deltora. You—are the king.’

‘Yes,’ Lief said. ‘I am Lief, son of Endon and Sharn, heir of Adin.’ It was hard to speak. The power of the Sister of the West was beating him down. But his heart was aching with pity and rage equally as he gazed into those suffering eyes, and he made himself go on. ‘And you are Doran the Dragonlover, beloved by the tribes of the underworld, saviour of the dragons of Deltora. The one whose map led me here.’

Doran’s eyes flickered. A tiny spark seemed to leap within them.

‘The Four Sisters…’ he whispered.

‘Only two remain,’ Lief said. ‘The Sisters of the West and of the South.’

‘The Sister of the West is within me,’ rasped Doran. ‘Kill me and destroy it, as I could not.’

‘No!’ groaned Veritas. ‘No, Dragonfriend!’

The grey eyes warmed. The dry lips curved into a smile.

‘This is not life, but living death, my friend,’ Doran said gently. ‘To me, true death would be the greatest gift. Would you deny me?’

The dragon bowed its head.

‘I will die knowing that my life was not in vain,’ Doran murmured. ‘I will die knowing that the Enemy may be at last defeated. And I will die in happiness knowing that you live, Veritas. You and your kind…’

His voice trailed away. His faded eyes grew puzzled. ‘But… I was forgetting,’ he said. ‘This is the land of the diamond. Where is—?’

‘That dragon is dead,’ Veritas said stolidly.

Shadows of grief crossed Doran’s ancient face. ‘And so, despite all, her tribe has ended,’ he said. ‘I would give much that it was not so.’

Lief could not bear it. He forced his hand to his pocket and lifted out the baby dragon. It seemed to him larger and heavier than it had before.

The baby made a small, complaining sound, but did not wake as Lief held it where Doran could see it.

The amethyst dragon moved uneasily.

But Doran’s face was transformed. Relief and love lit his eyes as he gazed at the small, glittering creature in Lief’s hands.

‘Make haste, Veritas, I beg you,’ he said suddenly. ‘Give me your gift… in this moment…’

The dragon of the amethyst bent forward.

‘Farewell, Doran,’ it said softly. ‘I will see you again, in the place above the clouds. There we will be young, and we will fly together once more.’

‘Veritas, my true friend, we will,’ said the man.

The dragon moved closer, bending its neck till its head masked the figure on the throne. It paused for a moment, then drew a deep, shuddering breath.

And when it moved back, Doran’s face was peaceful, like a face that was sleeping, and the gossamer threads around his mouth no longer stirred.

‘What—?’ Lief heard Jasmine choke.

‘He is gone,’ whispered the dragon. ‘I took his breath, as he wished.’

Freed at last from its bondage, the ancient body on the throne began to crumble. A few coins, a silver flask and a strange, many-coloured stone rolled to the ground as Doran’s garments, hair, flesh and bones fell to dust. But the horror that had been concealed within him remained.

There on the carved rock, revealed at last, was a rippling, jelly-like thing, creamy white and veined with pink and grey.

Malice streamed from its shapeless form, and its song was poison, hatred, doom and despair.

The Sister of the West.