Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,8

La Fargue's back, the dragonnet uttered a brief hoarse cry. Already, whinnying could be heard outside.

'Seven,' Alessandra informed them in a calm voice. 'There are seven of them.'

'Stay right here!' the old gentleman commanded over his shoulder.

He left the chamber, closing the door behind him, and entered a neighbouring room where Almades joined him. Through a gap between the planks in the window, they saw seven armed riders come charging into the courtyard.

'Where is Saint-Lucq?' asked La Fargue.

'Down below. He's the one who saw the riders coming.'

'Damn it all!'

Leaving the Spaniard standing there, he returned to the chamber at the end of the corridor.

It was empty.

'Merdel'

But the little door at the rear was standing half-open.

Behind it, some very steep stairs led to the attic. La Fargue climbed them and, pushing through a trap door, he rose up into the deafening fury of the storm. As he had guessed, a portion of the roof was missing leaving the attic open to the sky, directly exposed to the weather. And there he saw Alessandra, already in the saddle, struggling to force a wyvern to turn towards this exit. Its wings spread to keep its balance, the great reptile was resisting, digging its two clawed feet into the floor.

It was frightened by the storm.

'This is madness!' the old gentleman shouted.

Keeping a firm grip on the reins that ran along the wyvern's neck to the bit in its mouth, the young woman smiled confidently at the captain.

'Worry instead about the plot and plead my case with His Eminence! You must believe me and, in turn, the cardinal must believe you ... Be persuasive! The future of France depends on it!'

'Renounce this matter, madame!' La Fargue insisted, just before a blast of wind almost knocked him over.

Lightning was striking ever closer. Not far from the inn, a tree had burst into flame.

'Inform the cardinal. We shall meet again soon, in Paris.'

'Where? How?'

They could barely hear one another, even shouting at the top of their lungs.

'Tomorrow evening. Don't worry. I know how to find you.'

'Madame!'

Alessandra's wyvern launched into the air and was already flying away into the storm, trailed by the fluttering silhouettes of the twin dragonnets.

La Fargue cursed, powerless to stop her. Then, remembering the riders, he went back down into the inn. Almades followed in his wake as he passed. They reached the ground floor and emerged into the courtyard that was now one immense, slippery mud puddle beneath the deluge of rain.

His back to the door, Saint-Lucq was facing seven horsemen who, forming an arc, had dismounted and drawn their swords. Clearly expecting trouble, they were dressed for combat, wearing wide hats, thick leather doublets, rough breeches, and riding boots.

Beyond that, they were not human.

They were dracs, La Fargue realised, as a flash of lightning gave him a glimpse of the nightmarish scaly, jowled faces beneath the dripping brims of their hats. Worse still, they were black dracs.

Dracs had been created long ago by the Ancestral Dragons to serve and fight for them. In time they had freed themselves from the tutelage of their creators, but they remained cruel, brutal beings who were rightly to be feared. Dracs enjoyed violence. They were stronger and tougher than men. And black dracs were even stronger and tougher than the ordinary kind.

'We're here, Saint-Lucq,' said La Fargue from the doorway, moving forward.

Without turning round or looking away from the dracs, the half-blood took two steps to his right.

The captain occupied his place while Almades covered their left. The trio had their swords in hand, but still waited before placing themselves en garde.

La Fargue noticed that the dracs stood in a pool of black mist that rose to their ankles and did not disperse.

Sorcery, he thought to himself.

'The woman!' the drac facing him snarled in a hoarse whistling voice. 'We want the woman!'

He was the biggest and most muscular of the seven, which had no doubt earned him the right of command. His face was

marked with bright yellow lines that followed the contours of certain facial scales to form complex, symmetrical patterns that La Fargue recognised.

'Impossible,' he declared. 'She is no longer here.'

'Where is she?'

'Gone. She flew away.'

'What?'

While La Fargue devoted his attention to the leader, Saint-Lucq and Almades were watching the six others. The dracs were tense and nervous, obviously making an effort to contain the desire for battle that consumed them. They were almost quivering, like starved dogs forbidden from throwing themselves upon a scrap of bloody meat. Only their fear of their chief held