The Last Dragonslayer

  ‘I wish to meet with the Duke of Brecon,’ I said to an officer who came running up.

  ‘I shall take you to him, gracious Dragonslayer,’ said the officer, bowing low.

  ‘No,’ I replied, staying safely behind the buzzing marker stones, ‘I would be grateful if the Duke would come to see me.’

  The officer told me that the Duke didn’t make house calls, but when he saw I was adamant, ran off. I sat down on the grass and waited while the soldiers asked me what it was like to live in the Kingdom of Hereford, where they had heard the roads were paved with gold, cars were given away free with breakfast cereals and a man could make a million pounds in a year selling string. I tried to put them right and it wasn’t long before they all drew apart as a tall man dressed in a heavy greatcoat walked up the hill towards us. He had with him three aides-de-camp, all dressed in the costume of the Breconian Royal Guard. All of the foot soldiers were cleared back so we could talk in private, and for a moment we both stood there, facing each other across the humming boundary. One of the aides-de-camp took it upon himself to make a formal announcement.

  ‘May I present his Worshipfulness, his Worthiness, his Beauteous—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ The Duke of Brecon smiled in a kindly fashion. ‘Miss Strange, I am at your service; my name is Brecon. Please join me.’

  He clicked his fingers and two chairs and a table were carried up and placed upon the grass. The table was set with a candelabra and a bowl of fruit.

  ‘Please!’ he said, indicating the chair.

  I was suspicious and stayed behind the boundary marker where he could not reach me. He nodded his head and strode over to where I was standing, tossed some dust into the barrier to see where it was and held out his hand just inches from the force-field.

  ‘Then allow me to shake the hand of the last Dragonslayer?’

  I put out my hand almost instinctively, through the force-field, and grasped his. It was a mistake. He held my hand tightly and pulled me through to his side of the boundary, and I cursed myself for falling for such a stupid trick. I had expected to be set upon but instead the Duke released me.

  ‘You are free to return, Miss Strange. I only did that to show that you could trust me.’

  Not one of his people moved as Brecon sat at the table.

  ‘Come,’ he said, ‘sit with me, and we will talk like civilised human beings.’

  From television reports and the papers I had always supposed him an ogre of a man, but he seemed quite the opposite. To be truthful, those news stations were Hereford- and state-controlled so I reasoned there was a natural bias involved. I sat down opposite him.

  ‘I take many risks in coming to see you, my Lord,’ I began. ‘I want to avoid war at all costs.’

  The Duke tapped his fingers on the table.

  ‘Your King thinks ill of me for wanting to expand my territory into the Dragonlands when Maltcassion passes on. He does not appreciate that my Kingdom is one tenth the size of his and considerably poorer. But Snodd’s designs are not wholly centred on the Dragonlands. He has been looking for a good reason to invade my country for years; if a battle starts on the Dragonlands it will end in only one way for me: the invasion of our territory and an end to the Duchy of Brecon. Wales is suffering disunity at present, and would be a walkover for King Snodd. I would expect this to be the first step in a potential invasion. Snowdonia might put up a fight, but Hereford has many friends in the east who might willingly form an alliance – the tourism dollars of the mountainous nation alone are potentially worth billions.’

  ‘The King would never do that!’

  ‘Alas, I think he might. You are too young to remember the previous king’s annexation of the Monmouth Principality on the grounds of historical ownership, but I am not. Snodd is looking to increase and consolidate his lands, and I will not let him do it.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong.’

  ‘He has thirty-two landships,’ remarked Brecon, ‘when it would take only one to crush my small duchy. Think about it, Miss Strange.’

  Brecon’s words had the ring of truth about them. It had always been thought that the King of Hereford simply liked having parades, but perhaps there was a more insidious reason for his love of military hardware.

  ‘How will you react?’ I asked. ‘When the force-field comes down?’

  Brecon stared at me for a moment.

  ‘Come Maltcassion’s demise we do not aim to move into the Dragonlands at all.’

  ‘Then what are the soldiers for?’

  ‘Defence,’ replied the Duke, ‘pure and simple.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ I asked, not understanding why Brecon should be giving me delicate state secrets.

  ‘I tell you because I know I can trust you. The Dragonslayer is historically a neutral party, belonging to no kingdom, making no decision for one dominion in favour of another. King Snodd appears a fool but is well advised – I suspect he has offered you inducements to help stake claims within the Dragonlands.’

  I thought of the promises that King Snodd had made to me, the land, money, freedom and title in exchange for staking his claim.

  ‘So you will make me a better offer?’ I asked, thinking naively that Snodd and Brecon were different fleas on the same Quarkbeast.

  ‘No,’ asserted the Duke, ‘I offer you nothing and will pay you nothing. Not one Breconian groat. I simply ask you to abide by the rules of your calling.’

  I noticed that several excavators were starting to build large defensive ditches for the expected invasion on Sunday afternoon. It would be a waste of time. Landships would pass over them as if they were not there. Brecon had nothing compared to the military might of King Snodd.

  ‘It will be bows and arrows against the lightning,’ I told him.

  ‘I know,’ replied Brecon sadly, ‘my artillery will barely dent the landships. But we will fight to maintain our freedom. I will be here, next to my men, defending my beloved country to the last shot in my revolver, and the final breath in my body.’

  ‘I wish you luck, Sire.’

  He thanked me but said nothing. He had a lot of work to do. I returned to the Dragonlands deep in thought. Right now, I couldn’t see anything but bad news in every direction. And it suddenly struck me that everyone kept forgetting about Maltcassion himself, even though he was at the heart of everything that was happening. And the fact remained that the pre-cogs had spoken of a Dragon death at the hand of a Dragonslayer. Destiny had me killing Maltcassion at noon on Sunday. But the fact of the matter was, if Maltcassion didn’t transgress the Dragonpact, I didn’t have to.

  I slipped back to Zambini Towers to tell Tiger what had happened. More sorcerers and magicians had arrived, and a party seemed to be going on. All the retired magicians of the lands were making their way to the small kingdom, following an instinct to lend whatever power they had to the Big Magic.

  Dragon Attack

  * * *

  I was awakened by Gordon van Gordon, who was pulling on my sleeve and urging me to wakefulness. I had been dreaming of Dragons again, but not all the dreams were good ones. Maltcassion had been looking at me with a grim expression, explaining what it meant to him to be a Dragon, but I hadn’t really been listening and missed something important, which annoyed me.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the red phone.’

  ‘I don’t have a red phone. And what are you doing in Zambini Towers?’

  ‘We’re not in Zambini Towers.’

  He was right. I was in the Dragonstation. I hurried downstairs. The red phone was kept under a glass dome a little like a sandwich cover just next to the sword Exhorbitus, and the phone was wailing slowly to itself. If a Dragon had done something wrong, then this was how a Dragonslayer would know about it. With shaking hand I picked up the receiver and listened intently. The news was not what I had wanted to hear.

  It was five in the morning, and the low sun was just spreading its rays across the land as I
drove towards Longtown, a town right on the edge of the Dragonlands. A ‘Police line do not cross’ tape was stretched across the road near the castle, and I parked the Rolls-Royce next to a large contingent of police cars. I introduced myself to a policewoman, who guided me among the many emergency personnel and news crews. The road underfoot was awash with water and the sheer number of fire appliances made me uneasy.

  ‘We meet again, Miss Strange,’ said Detective Norton, who was standing with Sergeant Villiers near an upturned eighteen-wheeled truck. ‘I should arrest you right now for withholding evidence.’

  ‘I didn’t know I was the last Dragonslayer then.’

  ‘That’s your story.’

  ‘Events have moved on,’ I told them. They looked me up and down.

  ‘Kind of young for a Dragonslayer?’ said Norton finally.

  I stared back at him.

  ‘Perhaps you’d tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘We found the claw marks in the cab.’

  He beckoned me to follow, and we walked towards where a large ConStuff truck was lying upended in a field. It had been completely gutted by fire, and the water used to extinguish the flames had run down the field and flooded the road with mud. Norton pointed. On the bodywork, just below the roofline, were two large grooved holes, as though something very massive and very strong had simply squeezed it.

  ‘Vandals?’ I asked, somewhat dubiously.

  Detective Norton stared at me as though I were an imbecile.

  ‘Talons, Miss Strange, talons. This van was taken from Gloucester last night and turns up here. When the fire services arrived they were positive there were no wheel tracks; if you look here . . .’

  He indicated an area of damage to the rear of the truck, which had been heavily stoved in – the back axle had almost been torn off.

  ‘It looks as though the truck was dropped from a great height.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ I asked him.

  ‘You tell me, Miss Dragonslayer. Looks as though Maltcassion picked up this van, tried to fly with it back to the Dragonlands but dropped it on the way. To try and disguise the crime, he torched it.’

  ‘A truck hardly counts as livestock, does it?’

  ‘A technicality. The Dragonpact cites damage to property as a punishable offence. I think what we’ve got here is a rogue Dragon.’

  ‘That’s sort of far fetched,’ I said, trying to play the incident down. It was a serious accusation. A rogue Dragon was a Dragon out of control; one that had transgressed the rules of the Dragonpact. Such a Dragon could legally be destroyed. That’s the trouble with premonitions; they have an annoying habit of coming true.

  ‘Did anyone see it?’

  Norton looked at his feet.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anyone hear anything, see it being flown out here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then by the rules of the Dragonpact I’m going to have to see at least two other uncorroborated incidents of Dragonattack before I can even consider this a rogue Dragon.’

  Norton rounded on me angrily.

  ‘It’s pretty clear cut—!’

  ‘Then you punish him, Norton,’ I responded. ‘I’m going to need to see better evidence than this.’

  I left Norton, lifted the ‘do not cross’ tape and was instantly assailed by a wall of journalists.

  ‘Was this an attack by a Dragon?’ asked a reporter from The Whelk.

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘How could you know it wasn’t Maltcassion?’

  ‘I didn’t say it wasn’t.’

  ‘Is it true that you studied zoology at GCSE level?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And that you once gave money to the Endangered Buzonji Fund?’

  ‘Many people do.’

  ‘And you aim to study Maltcassion?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Then you have a vested interest in keeping the Dragon alive?’

  ‘What are you saying?’ I asked, scarcely able to believe where this questioning was going.

  ‘We’re wondering whether you are qualified to make an objective decision on Dragondeath. Perhaps in light of your dubious conflict of interests you had best leave Dragonslaying to someone else. We understand Sir Matt Grifflon has just held a press conference in which he stated his eagerness to assume your duties; has he contacted you?’

  I didn’t answer and another reporter took a turn as I walked in the direction of the Rolls-Royce.

  ‘Sophie Trotter of the UKBC,’ announced the reporter. ‘Miss Strange, does the prospect of having to carry out your duty fill you with trepidation?’

  ‘It won’t come to that.’

  ‘But if Maltcassion reneges on the Dragonpact, you will act to destroy him?’

  ‘If he does, I will carry out my duty.’

  ‘Do you think King Snodd’s declaration of “no confidence” in your abilities will make you reconsider your decision to resign?’

  I stopped so fast the pack of journalists nearly walked into the back of me.

  ‘King Snodd said that?’

  ‘At Sir Matt Grifflon’s press conference late last night. He called for your resignation and endorsed Sir Matt taking your place. Such an undertaking is allowed under the Dragonslayer’s charter, we take it?’

  ‘I can transfer my calling . . . but only to a knight,’ I murmured, realising that I was being steadily outmanoeuvred.

  ‘So will you be resigning?’

  ‘Listen,’ I replied somewhat testily, ‘I am the last Dragonslayer. I will uphold the rule of law as laid down by the Dragonpact of 1607 to the best of my abilities. I have no plans to do otherwise. Excuse me.’

  I climbed aboard the armoured Rolls-Royce. Gordon van Gordon was in the driver’s seat and we pulled away from the mob and headed back to town.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure. I was hoping to be able to study Maltcassion at my leisure; that hope is rapidly fading.’

  Gordon nodded in the direction of the truck.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Villiers thought it was a Dragonattack; talon marks on an eighteen-wheeler. Even if it was Maltcassion – which I doubt – it isn’t enough to have him destroyed. If he does it several times, then I might have to do something. The good thing is that no one was killed. So long as no lives are lost, I can drag this out for a month at least.’

  ‘So who if not Maltcassion?’

  ‘Who knows? Both Hereford and Brecon could have done it. The Dragonlands are of great strategic importance to them both. I’ve got no way of knowing who is telling the truth. Brecon says he doesn’t want the land at all and is fearful of being invaded, whereas King Snodd is convinced that he wants to take over the whole area. I don’t know who to believe, so I’ve cancelled them both out like opposite ends of an equation. I’ll have to judge all this on merit as we go along.’

  I lapsed into silence as we drove back to the Dragonstation. There were a lot of reporters there too, but I avoided them all as Gordon drove me straight into the garage. The news of my refusal to kill the Dragon without corroboration spread quickly and I had to leave the phone off the hook after some unpleasant calls. A jeering mob started to yell outside the Dragonstation that I was a coward or something, which went on for an hour until some animal-rights campaigners turned up on my behalf. There was a short battle and the police waded in with water cannon and tear gas. I don’t think anyone was hurt but a brick came through the front window.

  ‘Tea?’ said Gordon with a masterful piece of good timing. ‘I’ve made a cake, too.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Mr Hawker

  * * *

  I was reading The Dragonslayer’s Manual over breakfast and had just got to the bit about using a banana to sharpen Exhorbitus when there was a sharp rap at the door. I opened it to reveal a small man dressed in a worn suit. He was flanked by two huge men whose knuckles almost touched the ground.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘M
iss Strange, Dragonslayer?’

  ‘Yes, yes?’

  ‘My name is Mr Hawker. I represent the Hawker & Sidderley debt collection agency.’

  The alarm bells started ringing. I had expected King Snodd to make life difficult, but this was not what I had anticipated. Hawker handed me a sheath of papers, all headed with the Kingdom’s judicial seal and looking terribly formal. I was in no doubt that it was all official, very legal, and wholly dishonest.

  ‘What does it mean?’ I asked Hawker, who seemed to be enjoying himself.

  ‘This property has been given rent free by the Kingdom for almost three hundred years,’ he explained. ‘We have discovered that this was a clerical error.’

  ‘And you found out just this morning, I suppose?’

  ‘Indeed. Back rent, back electricity bills, gas bills, rates, you name it. Three hundred years’ worth.’

  ‘I’ve only been here two days.’

  Hawker – and the King’s advisers, presumably – had already thought of that.

  ‘As Dragonslayer you are legally responsible for yourself and the previous members of your calling. The Kingdom has been generous for many years, but feels now that circumstances have changed.’

  He looked at me with a smile.

  ‘You owe us 97,482 moolah, and forty-three pence.’

  I patted my pockets, drew out some change and handed it to the debt collector, who wasn’t laughing.

  ‘Now how much do I owe you?’

  ‘I think you fail to appreciate the seriousness of the situation, Miss Strange. I have a warrant for your arrest if you do not pay the monies owed. Failure to pay will result in you being jailed for debt.’

  He obviously meant it. I could only assume that the King thought a brief stay in jail would make me more compliant. But I wasn’t about to be arrested just like that. I asked Mr Hawker to wait and called Gordon to fetch the accounts. Brian Spalding had said we had funds available in the bank.