Free The Spin by Rebecca Lisle Page A

four,’ Al told him. ‘The Squad’s a difficult lot, but they’re best at flying and best at –’
    â€˜Best at being beasts,’ Ralf said.
    â€˜Number one, three, five and seven are Squad,’ Al went on. ‘You need to watch them. There’s a couple on the East side too. Get special things.’
    â€˜Special what?’ he asked.
    â€˜Just things,’ Ralf said. ‘Number four’s OK. He’s gentle, you’ll see.’
    The green spitfyre in the fourth cave was smaller and didn’t spit at him. It had emerald scales around its hooves and a fine blue and turquoise tail.
    â€˜Hello,’ Stormy whispered. ‘I wonder what your name is, lovely one? Dinner’s here.’
    The spitfyre shifted out of the way, squashing itself against the wall, keeping its eyes on the food bucket. He put the food into the trough and filled up the water. As the green spitfyre came over to eat, Stormy laid his hand on its neck and stroked it. There! He’d touched one at last.
    He went out beaming. He could do this. He would do this. He was going to be the best spitfyre keeper’s third assistant ever.
    â€˜That’s better,’ Al said. ‘That’s good.’
    â€˜Scared?’ Ralf called to him.
    â€˜A bit.’
    â€˜You’re bound to be; it’s your first time,’ said Al. ‘OK. We’ll work our way along. You just do the yellow one in nine and the old one in ten and we’ll do the others.’
    â€˜OK.’ Stormy nodded.
    He was surprised to find the caves were so smelly; the straw wasn’t fresh and the troughs weren’t clean. Otto’s rubbish bin was positively spic and span compared to these caves.
    Both the spitfyres he tended had sores where their shackles rubbed. Were the stables ever really clean? Since Al didn’t seem to care about himself, why would he care for the flying horses? Brittel had made their food so carefully for them. It wasn’t difficult to match bucket number six with spitfyre number six. That wouldn’t be hard. He’d do that, and find out their names. Once he knew their names he’d be able to manage them better. A name was part of a spitfyre’s identity; it was their very essence. A sky-rider needed it to understand his animal, to get it to co-operate and work.
    He took as long over the yellow spitfyre in the ninth cave and old grey one in ten as Ralf and Al took to do all the others. The grey spitfyre was arthritic and its wings were crumpled and short. It peered at him with bloodshot eyes and when he patted it, its insides rumbled like a volcano and orange smoke gushed out of its nose. Stormy took this as being a good omen.
    They came to the last stable; it was cut at a right angle into the cliff, so the spitfyre inside was hidden.
    â€˜Thirteen,’ Ralf said. ‘Terrible.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Oh . . .’ Ralf glanced back towards Al and went on in a lowered voice, ‘Even
he
won’t go in there. We just chuck in the food. This one’s dangerous. It’s eaten students, bones and all.’
    Stormy swallowed. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he said nervously. ‘You’re just trying to scare me, aren’t you?’
    But when he saw that Al was standing back by the dragon-wagon, a strained, faraway expression on his lined face, he wasn’t sure.
    Ralf swapped his thork for a long forked metal pole. ‘Use this,’ he said.
    Stormy was shaking as he put the bucket of food down at the cave entrance and pushed it inside with the pole. Something moved in the deep shadows, but he saw nothing more than a sparking flash. The smell was awful.
    â€˜Don’t you ever go in? How do you know how it is?’ Stormy asked. ‘Is it all right?’ he asked Al.
    Al wiped his mouth as if he had a bad taste in it. ‘That spitfyre is not rideable,’ Al said. ‘Not tameable. Not anythingable. Best left alone and