Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [142]
Taking care that the Darke dragon always had Them in his line of sight, They began a cat-and-mouse game with Merrin and his monster, venturing temptingly near for swipes of the scimitar claws—but never quite near enough to make contact. Once or twice the claws came a little too close for comfort and They felt the breeze ruffle Their hair as the blades flew past Their head. And so, taunting and teasing, parrying and feinting like a skilled swordsman, They lured the Darke dragon onward and upward—with no resistance from its whimpering pilot.
They shot out of the Darke Fog like a bullet. Focused only on the tempting barb of Their tail, which was less than a wing’s breadth in front of its nose spine, the Darke dragon followed. It hit the cold clear air like a wall. Stunned, it stopped dead. For the first time in its short and nasty life it was without a Darke safety net—there was nothing but the cold black river running below. Its pilot opened his eyes, looked down and screamed.
Feeling its powers begin to trickle away, the Darke dragon threw back its head and bellowed with distress. Released from the muffling effect of the Darke Domaine the noise was loud and terrible. It sounded out across the countryside and sent people for miles around diving for cover under their beds. Far below, in Sally Mullin’s Tea and Ale House, Sarah Heap and Sally Mullin looked anxiously out into the night.
“Oh, Sally,” whispered Sarah. “It’s so awful . . .”
Sally put her arm around Sarah’s shoulders. There was nothing she could say.
Outside, beside the newly returned Annie, Simon Heap was pacing the pontoon with Marcellus Pye. Simon had been telling Marcellus that he had decided to go into the Castle. He had so much to offer, so much knowledge of the Darke. At last he had an opportunity to put it to use for good—and that was what he intended to do. But Marcellus had not heard a word Simon said. His last sight of Septimus in the little coracle spinning into the whirlpool haunted him; it played over and over in his head and he could not escape it. The more he thought about it, the more Marcellus doubted Septimus had survived. He had led his dearest Apprentice to his death. Marcellus felt utterly wretched.
The Darke dragon’s roar cut through his thoughts. Marcellus looked up to see Spit Fyre, illuminated by the lights shining from Sally Mullin’s Tea and Ale House, dropping out of the night sky. The dragon had come to exact revenge and Marcellus didn’t care. He deserved it.
Sally Mullin saw Marcellus looking up into the sky. “Some-thing’s going on up there,” she whispered.
“I wish Simon would come inside,” Sarah said. “I wish . . .” But right then Sarah wished for far too many things to even begin, although at the top of the list was a wish to see Septimus again. To take her mind off the hundred awful things that Sarah had imagined might have happened to Septimus, she watched Marcellus.
“He’s a bit of a drama queen, isn’t he?” Sally whispered mis-chievously, hoping to cheer Sarah up.
Right then Marcellus did look rather dramatic. The light from the lamps in Sally’s long line of windows caught the gold embellishments on his cloak as he raised his arms up in the air, hands outstretched. They saw him suddenly spin around and shout something to Simon, who came running.
“What is going on?” muttered Sally. “Oh! Oh my goodness. Sarah! Sarah! It’s your Septimus. Look!”
Sarah gasped. Hurtling toward the river and—she was convinced—to certain death, was her youngest son on his dragon. And when she saw the horrific shape of the Darke monster that was chasing Them, Sarah screamed so loudly that Sally’s ears rang. Sarah and Sally watched the Darke dragon diving like a hawk after a sparrow, its razor claws poised and ready to grab, and when it drew so close to Spit Fyre that it must surely tear the dragon and its rider to pieces any moment, Sarah could bear it no longer—she gave a cry of