Septimus Heap Complete Collection

  At the top of the Wizard Tower was a large and very ancient Dragon Window that led into Marcia’s sitting room. Outside the window was a wide ledge made for the perching of dragons, which was also useful for the perching of ghosts who were unused to exercise. Feeling thankful that as an Apprentice he had once—very briefly—climbed out onto the ledge for a dare, Alther hovered there while he recovered enough strength to DisCompose himself and go through the window. He peered through the glass but could make out very little. The room was dim, lit only by firelight. There was, he thought, a figure sitting by the fire with her head in her hands, but it was hard to tell.

  Some minutes later Alther had regained enough strength to DisCompose. He took the ghostly equivalent of a deep breath and walked through the Dragon Window.

  Marcia looked up. Her glistening green eyes widened and her mouth fell open. She did not move.

  “Marcia . . .” said Alther very gently.

  Marcia leaped to her feet and squealed—there was no other word for it. “Alther! AltherAltherAlther! It’s you. Tell me, it is you?” She raced across the room and, forgetting that he was a ghost, she hurled herself at him, Passed Through and cannoned into the Dragon Window.

  Alther reeled with the shock of being Passed Through and fell back beside Marcia.

  “Oh, Alther!” she gasped. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. But . . . oh, I can’t believe you’re here. Oh, you don’t know how pleased I am to see you.”

  Alther smiled. “I think I do. Probably as pleased as I am to see you.”

  Up in the Pyramid Library a windswept Marcia closed the tiny window that led out onto the Pyramid steps. She looked amazed. “I saw his tail! What, for goodness’ sake, is he doing up there?”

  “Keeping safe, I suppose. He must have found the expansion point where the SafeShields meet and slipped in,” said Alther. “I am guessing that is where they meet?”

  Marcia nodded. “I’ve not had much luck with sticking things together recently,” she sighed.

  “No defense is ever impregnable, Marcia. You seem to have done a pretty good job to me. Besides, a dragon may slip in and out of a SafeShield in a way that a Wizard cannot.” He paused. “I am sorry I cannot be more help, Marcia. Septimus thought I could UnDo the Darke Domaine because unfortunately, Merrin Meredith and I were both Apprenticed to the same Wizard.”

  “Heavens, so you were. I’d never thought of it like that,” said Marcia.

  “I try not to myself,” said Alther. “Septimus had hoped that the more senior Apprentice could fix the junior’s mess. But as I am no longer Living the rules don’t apply. I only wish they did.” Alther sighed. “So it is down to you, Marcia. Your dragon awaits. As indeed does your Apprentice.”

  “And that little piece of vermin.”

  “Indeed, although I doubt Merrin Meredith is exactly awaiting you.”

  A few minutes later Marcia closed the Dragon Window with a bang.

  “He won’t come. The wretched beast is ignoring me!”

  “Well, if the dragon won’t come to the ExtraOrdinary Wizard, the ExtraOrdinary Wizard must go to the dragon,” said Alther.

  “What—up there? At the top of the pyramid?”

  “It can be done,” said Alther, “take my word for it. I wouldn’t recommend it, but desperate times call for . . .”

  “Desperate measures,” said Marcia, steeling herself.

  Some minutes later, if anyone had been able to see through the Darke Fog they would have picked out the arresting sight of Marcia Overstrand climbing shakily up the stepped sides of the Golden Pyramid on top of the Wizard Tower. The wind blew her purple cloak out behind her like the wings of a bird as she moved through the fuzz of Magyk beneath the Magykal indigo and purple lights, following the fainter figure of a ghost—similarly clad in purple—who was guiding her up toward a dragon that roosted on the flat square at the very top of the pyramid.

  As soon as Marcia reached the dragon’s tail she grabbed hold of one of the spines. “Got you!” she gasped.

  Spit Fyre raised his head sleepily and looked around. Drat, he thought, it’s that irritating one in purple again. Spit Fyre’s Pilot had never told him to come when the Purple One Called, but he had instructed him to let the Purple One fly him. She wasn’t very good at it from what he could remember.

  Spit Fyre patiently allowed Marcia to clamber into the Pilot Dip and waited while she Reversed her cloak to give some protection from the Darke Domaine. When she told him “Spit Fyre, follow that ghost,” he stretched out his wings and, with great control, he flew slowly upward, following Alther as the ghost headed up toward the tiny expansion gap where the four SafeShields joined. As he approached, Spit Fyre performed a rare arrow maneuver—he folded his wings close to his body and then flipped into a completely vertical position, leaving Marcia to use the Panic Spine for what it was meant for—hanging on in a panic. With his nose pointing up to the sky, like a dragon-shaped bolt from a crossbow, Spit Fyre shot through the expansion gap at a tremendous speed and left it as undisturbed as he had done when he had arrowed in two days earlier.

  Ghost and dragon flew off through the Darke Fog, heading for the Maker’s Mile Tally Hut.

  Down below in Marcia’s rooms, the big purple door recognized Silas Heap. It opened and Silas stepped inside.

  “Marcia?” he whispered.

  There was no reply. The firelight flickered, casting weird shadows on the wall of . . . a dwarf and . . . someone balancing a pile of doughnuts on his head?

  Silas felt a little spooked. “Marcia—are you there? It’s only me. I came to see if you were all right. I . . . well I thought you looked a bit lonely. Might need some company? Marcia?”

  There was no reply. The bird had flown.

  Chapter 45

  Dragons

  It’s so lovely out.” The Witch Mother’s voice carried like a bell through the Darke. From the cover of the Maker’s Mile Tally Hut, Jenna, Septimus and Nicko watched the five shadowy figures of the Port Witch Coven stroll by, as carefree as if they were out for a walk on a summer’s day. A slightly less carefree figure—Nursie under a Darke blanket—scuttled behind them.

  “There goes your Coven, Jen,” whispered Septimus.

  “Stop it, Sep,” hissed Jenna. The sight of the five misshapen shadows trolling past made her remember how scared she’d been in Doom Dump. She suddenly felt a little less fond of her witch’s cloak as they watched the witches disappear jauntily down the Ceremonial Way.

  Jenna, Septimus and Nicko were waiting for Spit Fyre. They had chosen somewhere out of the way where the dragon could easily land. Alther had gone to collect Spit Fyre; he had promised to be as quick as he could, but they all knew so much could go wrong. Every minute in the Tally Hut felt like an hour, but the moment when they saw the shadow of a dragon hovering above felt like forever. No one—not for one second—thought it was Spit Fyre.

  So different from the elegant Spit Fyre in flight, the six-winged Darke dragon descended clumsily through the Fog and, after three attempts, landed with a resounding thud on the raised circle that marked the center of the Makers’ Mile. It shook the Tally Hut to its foundations.

  Jenna, Septimus and Nicko shrank back into the depths of the hut, convinced that the dragon Knew they were there. The frantic beating of its wings during its landing attempts had cleared away the Fog and they could see the Darke dragon frighteningly clearly. Its massive size was the first shock—it made Spit Fyre seem like a delicate dragonfly in comparison. The dragon squatted awkwardly, shifting its bulk from one tree trunk leg to another, while a white forked tongue flicked in and out of its red slash of a mouth. It shook its lumpen head and rolled its eyes—all six of them—as it looked around. The eyes were arranged so that the dragon had virtually 360-degree vision—its blind spot was a mere ten degrees compared with the standard dragon blind spot of ninety degrees. The all-seeing eyes swiveled like glistening red ball bearings as the dragon surveyed the ramshackle remains of the market. Pointed spi
nes barbed like fish hooks ranged down the dragon’s back, and its four huge feet were equipped with curved black talons, each one shaped like—and as sharp as—a scimitar. It was a terrifying sight, but the most horrifying thing of all was that one talon had speared a scrap of blue cloth, which had something red and meaty stuck to it. Jenna covered her face. That, she thought, had once been someone, someone who lived in the Castle—someone like her.

  A sharp nudge from Septimus made Jenna look up again.

  “Look,” whispered Septimus. “In front of the Pilot Spine. There’s someone there.”

  The Darke dragon’s Pilot Spine was, like Spit Fyre’s, the tallest of all the spines. But unlike Spit Fyre’s, which was solid and straight, with a rounded top, it curved forward with a razor-sharp barb on the end of it. Sitting in the Pilot Dip was a figure swathed in grubby scribe robes. Jenna knew exactly who it was.

  “Merrin Meredith,” she whispered.

  “Yeah,” said Septimus. “He’s gotten serious now, hasn’t he? He’s not just an irritating little tick anymore—he’s for real.”

  “I can hardly believe it,” whispered Jenna. “He’s so pathetic, but he’s caused all this to happen.”

  “It’s the Darke, Jen. He’s got that ring and now he’s got its power. And he’s so stupid, he doesn’t care what he does with it. He just wants to destroy everything.”

  “You in particular.”

  “Me?”

  “Beetle said he was ranting on about you, Sep. You know, about how he was Septimus Heap first. How he was going to get you. Then he’d be Septimus Heap. With a ten-times-better dragon.”

  “Yeah. Well, he’s got a ten times bigger one, that’s for sure.”

  “Not better though.”

  “No way. Spit Fyre’s the best.”

  Suddenly the Darke Dragon raised all six wings and brought them down fast; a terrific rush of wind swooshed into the Tally Hut along with a foul smell that sent the occupants reeling. It also dispersed the re-gathering Fog and gave them a clear view of what happened next. The dragon shuffled awkwardly around and began a lumbering run down the broad space of the Ceremonial Way, its wings rising and falling like black sails. They watched it go, getting faster and faster until it reached the Palace gates, where it finally took off, rose slowly into the Fog and disappeared into the night.

  “Phew,” breathed Nicko. “It’s gone.”

  “I was so scared Spit Fyre would come while that thing was here,” whispered Jenna.

  Septimus nodded. He had been too, although he had not dared to think it. He believed what Aunt Zelda always said: the thought is the seed for deed.

  But a few minutes later something happened that Septimus had definitely not thought of: the Darke dragon came back. It landed with a thud, the Tally Hut shook, the red eyes swiveled and everyone held their breath. And then once more it lumbered into a turn and galumphed down the Ceremonial Way until at last it took off. Three times the Darke dragon came back and each time the occupants of the Tally Hut prayed that Spit Fyre would not choose that moment to arrive. Each time they became more frightened, convinced that the dragon knew they were there—why else would it keep returning? It was not until the third time when the dragon was a little more skillfully heading into his takeoff that Jenna realized what was going on.

  “He’s practicing,” she whispered. “It’s the only space in the Castle where a dragon that big can land and take off.”

  And they all knew what the dragon was practicing for—the assault on the Wizard Tower.

  A few minutes after the Darke dragon had taken off for the fourth time, the smaller, more delicate—and infinitely more welcome—two-winged shape of Spit Fyre came down through the Fog, heralded by the swooping figure of Alther, arms outstretched in his favorite flying mode.

  Spit Fyre landed lightly on the very spot the Darke dragon had so recently vacated. He sniffed the air uneasily, in the way a house cat might sniff a pile of lion poo left outside its cat flap. The next thing Spit Fyre knew, three figures were hurtling toward him, one of which was his Pilot. Spit Fyre felt relieved. It had been a nightmare flying with The Purple One. Now she would get off and let his Pilot sit in his rightful place.

  The Purple One, however, did not get off.

  Pleased as he was to see Marcia once again, Septimus was not prepared to let her fly Spit Fyre. They needed to get away fast and he doubted her ability to do it. He got to the point right away.

  “Get off!” he yelled through the weight of the Darke Fog.

  “Hurry up, Marcia,” said Alther, who shared Septimus’s opinion of Marcia’s flying skills. “Get off and let the Pilot fly his dragon.”

  “I’m getting off. My cloak’s caught. Oh these stupid spines . . .”

  Septimus was hopping from one foot to another in impatience. He yanked the Reversed cloak off a small spine and Marcia clambered down. She surprised Septimus with a fierce hug, helped him up to his seat in front of the Pilot Spine and then took Jenna’s place behind him in the Navigator seat. Jenna stifled her irritation—this was neither the time nor the place to argue about where she sat—and she and Nicko squeezed on behind Marcia.

  Septimus took Spit Fyre up fast with Alther keeping pace alongside. Marcia tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Manuscriptorium!” she yelled into the clear air created by the beating of Spit Fyre’s wings.

  Septimus wanted to get Spit Fyre out of danger. He most definitely did not want to fly to the Manuscriptorium. “Why?” he yelled.

  “Merrin Meredith. Code!”

  “Merrin Meredith’s cold?”

  “Not cold, Code! Paired Code. He’s got it! He’s at the Manuscriptorium!”

  Now Septimus understood.

  “He’s not there!” he yelled. At that moment a massive shadow cruised overhead, accompanied by a foul downdraft of air. “He’s up there!”

  They all looked up. The wake of the Darke Dragon cleared the Fog just enough for them all to see the cruel talons, black and bloodied against the white underside of its belly. For the first time ever Septimus heard Marcia say a very rude word.

  “I’m taking Spit Fyre out after that thing,” said Marcia. “I’ll get Merrin Meredith if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Septimus thought it probably would be.

  “Septimus, fly Spit Fyre back to the Wizard Tower at once. Land him on the dragon platform. You three can get off.”

  Septimus had no intention of getting off his dragon, but he knew better than to argue just then. He turned Spit Fyre around and headed back to the Wizard Tower. Spit Fyre arrowed through the join and took them into the bright, buzzing, Magykal air that surrounded the Wizard Tower. He landed perfectly on the dragon ledge.

  “Wait there, I’ll open the window,” said Marcia, slipping down from the Navigator seat. She ushered Jenna and Nicko inside and stood waiting impatiently for Septimus to relinquish his place in the Pilot Dip.

  “Hurry up, Septimus. Let me get on.”

  Septimus did not move.

  “Septimus, get off. I am ordering you!”

  “And I am refusing,” said Septimus. “I’ll get him.”

  “No, Septimus. Get off at once.”

  The stalemate might have lasted a while had not the orange warning lights zipping up and down the outside of the SafeShield suddenly stopped flashing.

  Marcia gasped. “The SafeShield’s failing! Septimus get off! Now!”

  The blue and purple skin of the SafeShield began to take on a dull, reddish hue. A movement above caught Septimus’s eye—tendrils of Darke Fog were beginning to drift down through the join. Suddenly a great curved black claw reached down through the gap.

  Septimus knew what he had to do.

  “Up, Spit Fyre,” he said. “Up!”

  Before Marcia could do anything to stop him, Pilot and dragon flew up through the dim glow of the failing Magyk to meet dragon and pilot.

  Chapter 46

  Synchronicity

  Septimus and Spit Fyre burst thr
ough the top of the SafeShield and Spit Fyre’s nose spine slammed into the Darke dragon’s soft white underbelly with a jarring thud. Spit Fyre was sent reeling backward, but the Darke dragon seemed no more upset than if it had been stung by a wasp.

  Spit Fyre recovered fast and snorted with excitement. He was at the age when, in ancient times when the world was full of dragons, he would have been looking for his first fight. In those days the dragon community would not have regarded him as an adult until he had fought another dragon—and won. And so, deep down in his dragon brain, Spit Fyre wanted a fight.

  So did the Darke dragon’s pilot. Merrin leaned out between the bristling spines, his eyes wild with excitement. Using a popular Castle insult for Apprentices, he yelled, “I’ll get you, caterpillar boy!”

  “No chance, rat face!”

  Merrin pointed his left thumb at Septimus like a pistol. “You’re dead. And your toy dragon. Yeah!”

  In answer Septimus and Spit Fyre shot up past the Darke dragon before it had time to register what was happening. They whizzed by so close that Septimus could see Merrin’s zits blazing out of his pale face and the look of hatred in his eyes—which shocked him more than the close-up view of the Darke dragon. As Spit Fyre shot past, Septimus made a very rude sign at Merrin. He left behind a stream of obscenities hemorrhaging into the Darke Fog.

  Septimus and Spit Fyre stopped at the very edge of the Fog and looked back. Far below them, at the bottom of the clear tunnel of air that their wake had created, they saw the huge bulk of the Darke dragon. Behind it they could see the fading blue and purple Magykal glow of the Wizard Tower changing slowly to a dull red.

  As they hovered above the Darke Domaine, suspended between the stars above and the blanket of silence below, a stillness spread through Septimus and his dragon and together they entered a state that is much sought after by dragon Imprintors but rarely achieved. It is known in dragon manuals (see Draxx, page 1141) as Synchronicity. Dragon and Imprintor became One, thinking and acting in perfect harmony. They hovered for a moment on the edge of the Darke Domaine and looked down at the Darke dragon far below at the end of the trail They had left in the Fog. They knew they must use the line of sight while they had it.