Tilda and the Dragons of Nargan: The Chronicles of Issraya, #4

By Katherine Hetzel

A wide-nostrilled black snout. Two bulbous eyes, shining white underneath a thick ridged brow. An opaque frill of leathery skin framing the face. Hints of purple light glinting on black scales. A long body, supported on four stumpy legs with widespread toes, and claws as long as a man's fingers. A thickened tail, almost as long as the body, dragging on the ground.

 

Tilda saw it all in a split second, and whimpered, "Dragon!"

 

In Book 4 of the Chronicles of Issraya, Tilda, Mage of Merjan, is exiled to her own region and blocked from using her Power as punishment for her bone-shattering actions in Kradlock. While the other Mages deal with unusual crop destruction by the dragons of Nargan, Tilda is escorted by a Mage-appointed steward from Academy to Academy to gain a working knowledge of the people of Issraya. 

 

Frustrated by her imposed schedule, Tilda sneaks away from her steward and secretly travels to Nargan to help with the rampaging dragons. But before she reaches her destination she is attacked by one of them instead. Rurik, a local Healer, saves her and tends to her wounds. 

 

While recovering from her injuries in Rurik's hut and without the use of her blocked Power, Tilda stumbles upon a connection with the marauding dragons and discovers the source responsible for their destructive tendencies. 

 

Desperate to share her new knowledge, Tilda sets off with Rurik, hoping she's in time to show the Mages there's more to the crop destruction than just the dragons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dragonfeather Books
• Release date: Oct 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215480472

Book preview

Chapter 1

Crab Fishing

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HARRI TIPPED THE last of his catch into the bucket. It had been a good day; there were a good dozen or so of the large pink-shelled crabs crawling over each other, trying to escape the steep sides of the container. He grinned. This lot would fetch a pretty penny when he dropped them off at the Running Rabbit, cos the ones he picked up here were always twice the size of any brought in by other crabbers. The climb down the steep cliff was a bit hairy at times, to be sure, but it was always worth it. The crabs seemed to know they were safe here—at least from most crabbers—because a reef of jagged rocks prevented any boats from accessing the narrow entrance to the rocky cove.

My little secret, Harri muttered. And he was good at keeping secrets, was Harri.

He dropped the lid on the bucket and cast a glance sea-wards. It still paid to be careful. He didn’t want to be spotted, cos then—he frowned. What was that, in the water? Something limp and white, floating in the sea, cove-side of the reef.

The swell of a wave moved the object; an arm broke free of the shapeless mass, a hand clearly visible at the end of it.

Power! Harri slipped and slithered over the wet rocks and gasped as he plunged into the biting cold sea. In a few strong strokes, he’d reached the exhausted swimmer. S’alright! I got ya!

He caught hold of—Power, a woman!—and turned her onto her back. Kicking hard, he swam awkwardly, towing her dead weight further into the cove until shingle rolled under his boots. He pushed hard against the stones, and ended up on his back, half in and half out of the waves, the weight of the woman pinning him there.

Waves lapped at his body, creeping higher each time.

Tide . . . Move . . . Groaning with effort, Harri heaved the woman off him and rolled over. Then he pulled the bedraggled woman’s arm across his shoulders and heaved and hauled until they were both on their feet. He half dragged, half carried her to a point above the waterline, where he unceremoniously dropped his burden and collapsed to his knees.

Thank Power, she was alive, even if she was lying like a wet rag on the shingle and spewing saltwater.

You made it, Harri gasped, panting and shivering from the exertion of the rescue.

Hexallortray . . . urgh . . . fraginmis asto . . . blurgh . . . latal, the woman muttered between heaves which emptied the saltwater from her gut.

A chill that had nothing to do with being drenched in seawater ran down Harri’s spine.

The woman reached out with one clawed hand, its palm and fingers lifted to the sky and scarred with part of a pattern of interlocking rings. A purple-black shadow appeared at her fingertips, growing and spreading until it enveloped her entire body.

No! Power, no! Harri twisted away from the shadowed woman and headed for the cliff path. The sixth! He had to warn—

Sarsauki til dauda.

Harri’s world exploded in a single moment of exquisite, unbearable pain.

Eventually, the woman stopped heaving and retching, and managed to stand. Wisps of purple-black shadow continued to dance around her body as she pushed sodden hair out of her eyes and rolled her shoulders, easing her body back into alertness. She made her way towards where the man had fallen; his crumpled form lay lifeless.

However, there was life in the bucket he’d knocked over. Its lid had dislodged, and several pink shelled crabs were attempting to escape. The woman waited for the first crab to break free.

When it did, it paused momentarily, savouring its freedom.

The woman raised her foot and brought it down, hard. She smiled grimly at the sound of cracking shell.

She was not beaten. Yet.

Chapter 2

Home, Sweet Home?

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THE SEA HORSE made its final approach towards the little dock on Ring Isle, and Tilda, shivering, drew her jacket tighter around her shoulders. The sun was shining; both the sky and the sea were brilliantly blue, yet a deep coldness filled her body as she stared up at the castle’s many windows. Was anyone looking down, wondering why two of the powermages had returned to Ring Isle so soon after they’d left?

She’d not had long to enjoy her visit to Kradlock. One minute, she had been exploring the tombs, the next . . .

She daren’t speak—or even think—about what she’d done.

Afterwards, Kamen hadn’t wasted any time. He’d commandeered the first suitable boat which had arrived at Hanging Rock and ordered it to sail straight back to Merjan City—with himself, his steward Maddi, and Tilda on board. And no sooner had they set foot on dry land there, than they were off again, the captain of the Sea Horse happy to transport them onwards, to Ring Isle. 

And now, they’d arrived. Someone had definitely seen the boat, because servants in their distinctive black and grey uniforms were already running down the steps to secure the boat and unload any luggage. 

Welcome back, Lord, Lady, one of the servants called. We’ll run your flags out as soon as we’ve got you inside.

Tilda glanced up again at the castle looming out of the rock. The new crystal dome on the tallest of the castle’s towers glittered in the sunlight, but the other five towers were unremarkable, empty at the moment of the coloured flags which usually flew when any of the five powermages were on the island. She’d arrived once before, when the towers were empty of the flags; then, she’d been angry.

Now, she was terrified.

I will come to you tomorrow, Tilda, Kamen said when he reached the bottom of the long flight of stone steps which led to the different entrances into the castle. Weariness and worry had deepened the creases on his dark face. How much of that had been as a result of Tilda’s recent actions? In the meantime, get some rest. 

It was the most he’d said to her since they had left Hanging Rock.

He didn’t say anything else, simply leaned on Maddi’s arm and slowly climbed the steps until he reached the first point at which they split, and took the left-hand branch towards the Kradlockian tower’s main entrance.

It was a much longer climb—one hundred and twenty-seven steps, if she remembered right—before Tilda reached the oak doors standing open at the base of the Ambakian tower where her Uncle Vanya had his apartment, and which was her home. Inside, she hurried past the decorative tiles painted in earthy hues and ignored the view from the high balconies, until she reached Uncle Vanya’s door. She burst through it, ran up the stairs, flung open the door on the little landing—and she was home. The sight of the familiar kaleidoscope-coloured living room brought tears to her eyes.

A familiar head poked out of the workroom doorway. Who’s–? Tilda! Aunt Tresa hurried across the room and pulled Tilda into a hug. You’re home! She drew back and held Tilda at arms’ length, beaming. How did you find my home region, then?

Tilda blinked back the tears and swallowed hard. What could she say? I liked it.

Let me put the kettle on and you can tell me all about it. I thought you’d be gone a month at least.

That was the original plan, Tilda admitted, shrugging off her jacket and throwing it onto a chair. She sat down at the table and stared at her hands. We had to come back. There were . . . complications.

What kind of complications?

Luisa complications, Tilda muttered.

Power, that woman again? Tresa tutted as she set the kettle on the stove. Thought we’d heard the last of her. What’s she done now?

Where to start? Tilda picked at a loose thread in the tablecloth. She wanted to attack Ring Isle. Use the Living Bones against the powermages. She looked up.

She what? Tresa spun round, her eyes wide with surprise. How—?

She managed to bring them to life, tried to sail away with them.

Tresa’s face reddened. "How dare she? Using our ancients like that? I hope you and Kamen stopped her."

Tilda squirmed where she sat. Um . . . well, we did, but . . .

Tresa crossed her arms. But what?

Would it lessen the impact if she said it quickly? Tilda took a deep breath. To stop her, I made the Hanging Rock fall so it could crush most of the Living Bones. Then Kamen sank the ship the rest were on.

Tresa’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out of it. She reached blindly for a chair at the table and lowered herself into it. "You did what?"

Tilda couldn’t bear to see the shock and grief on her aunt’s face; she looked away. I’m sorry, she mumbled, and waited for Tresa to say something—anything—to fill the heavy silence stretching out between them, endless and awful.

The kettle’s shrill whistle sounded.

Well, then. Tresa sniffed, wiped her eyes on the corner of her apron, and got up. She moved the steaming kettle to the pot stand, but did not reach for the teapot. Instead, she leant against the worktop, head bowed.

Aunt Tresa?

Tresa’s head lifted, but she did not turn. I think . . . I think you ought to move into your own apartment. Live in the Mage of Merjan’s rooms.

Tilda gasped. This couldn’t be happening. Aunt Tresa couldn’t throw her out of Uncle Vanya’s rooms without asking anyone. Silviu said I had to live with you and Uncle Vanya until I got my own steward.

I’m sure he won’t mind.

He will, you know what he’s like. We need to wait, check he’s happy with—

Enough! Tresa spun round. Two livid spots of colour burned in her cheeks and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "That Kamen had to act in such a way against his own people is bad enough to hear. But to tell me that you, a Merjanian, took it upon yourself to destroy the heritage of my region, and you still expect to be made welcome here, in my home? She averted her face and raised a hand to block her view of Tilda. I can’t bear to look at you, let alone share a living space."

Tilda’s head snapped back with the shock of Tresa’s words. Her stomach lurched, and nausea rose up from her belly which she swallowed back down with difficulty. What could she say—what could she do—to make this right?

Before she could do anything, there was a knock at the door.

Tilda twisted in her chair as Tresa stamped over to the door and flung it open. Yes?

I’ve got the Lady Matilda’s trunk here.

Tell him to bring it in, Tilda begged silently. You can’t have meant it . . .

But Tresa didn’t even hesitate. Take it straight to the Mage of Merjan’s apartments. The Lady Matilda will be staying there in future.

Could she not have said so before I lugged it all the way up these stairs? Suppose I’ll have to lug it all the way back down again. Would’ve been a lot easier of I’d known from the off. All that extra . . . The sound of footsteps and the voice faded away.

Aunt Tresa was still holding the door open. Except now she was staring straight at Tilda. Well? Shouldn’t you be going, too?

So that was that.

Tilda pushed her chair away from the table and rose shakily to her feet. In a daze she picked up her jacket and moved towards the door, numb with disbelief.

Thank you for everything, she murmured quietly as she squeezed past her aunt. Then she stepped out onto the landing and turned back quickly. Aunt Tresa, I—

I’ll send the rest of your belongings on, Tresa said, and shut the door firmly in Tilda’s face.

Chapter 3

The Mage of Merjan’s Apartment

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TILDA FOUND HERSELF walking along the familiar red and orange corridor with no memory of how she got there; she pulled up short.

Um, Lady? Are you alright?

A manservant was looking at her. A manservant carrying a greenwood trunk. Her trunk. He’d stopped, was looking at her with concern.

Where was she going? She had no idea where the Mage of Merjan’s rooms were. The only time she’d even been in the Merjanian tower was when Kamen had rushed her briefly through it in secret, in the dead of night . . .

Tilda took a quivering breath. I . . . I don’t know where to go. 

The servant looked relieved. Well, that’s easy solved, ain’t it? You just follow me. This way. He jerked his head, indicating the direction. I’m guessing you’ve not got the keys then, Lady?

Keys?

No, she didn’t have keys. She didn’t have anything. Apart from what was packed in that greenwood trunk the servant was carrying, everything she owned was in her little orange bedroom back in Uncle Vanya and Aunt Tresa’s apartment. Fresh tears welled in her eyes, and Tilda bit her lip hard, trying not to let them fall.

The servant shuffled his feet, obviously uncomfortable at the sight of her distress. Look, why don’t we head there anyway, Lady? If we can find a room open, you can wait there an’ I’ll go hunt for the keys.

Power, his kindness was really going to make her cry. Tilda swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and smiled a watery smile. Thank you. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.

It’s Egon, Lady.

Then lead on, Egon.

It wasn’t long before they were out of the red corridors of the Ambakian tower and walking along corridors whose walls were tiled on their lower halves in shades of blue and grey, and painted with seascapes above, which Tilda vaguely recognised. She paused in front of a painting of a stormy sea and ran her fingers over the small boat caught in the trough of a wave. This was where Kamen had opened the secret door, she was sure of it. If only she could remember the words he’d spoken . . . She’d say them herself, run down the twisting spiral staircase to the docks, jump on a boat, and escape from Ring Isle and everything she’d done . . .

Makes me feel seasick, that one.

Tilda nodded. Me too. Though she suspected the feeling had less to do with the storminess of the painting and much more to do with the fact that Aunt Tresa had thrown her out. 

Many of the doors here were padlocked, just as they had been on Tilda’s previous flying visit, but Egon kept trying the handles of those that weren’t. Eventually he got lucky.

This one’s open, Lady. And it’s not a broom cupboard. Egon flashed a grin in Tilda’s direction. He pushed the door open and manhandled her trunk inside.

Tilda followed cautiously. Chinks of light, falling through cracks in the curtains, cut through the gloom, but there weren’t enough of them to help her see what might be here.

There was a thump—Egon must have set the trunk down—then the swish of curtains. Light flooded in. 

Think you’ll be comfortable enough here, Lady, while I find the keys for all those padlocks. I’ll be back as soon as I can. The door clicked shut behind Egon.

The small room was empty, apart from Tilda’s trunk and a seat—a bench—which could not be removed because it was built into the bay window. And yet the walls were swathed in sheer blue fabric, which wafted gently in Tilda’s wake as she walked over to