There was a general growl of agreement from the massed bandits. They did look like they’d been sleeping rough for some time.
“The book is in the Abbey Library,” said Jack. “But you can’t have it. You couldn’t even look at it. You’re not worthy, any of you. The very words on the page would blast the eyes right out of your head. Forget this foolishness. Go now. While you still can.”
And there was something about this little old man, with his grey hair and wrinkled face, leaning quietly on his staff—something cold and certain and somehow dangerous—that silenced the small army of bandits and sent a chill up their spines. Until Gambler Gold laughed suddenly, breaking the silence and the mood.
“You’re good!” he said. “Nice try! But we’re not leaving without the book. If it is as dangerous as you say, thanks for the warning; we’ll be sure to wrap it in your bloodstained robe for safety after we’ve taken it off your dead body. Because no one talks to me like that and gets away with it.” He glanced back at his men. “I gave you an order! Round up the monks, kill a few of the slower-moving ones to motivate the rest, and get them all out here. Brother Holier-Than-Thou here will assist me in finding the book. And afterwards I think we’ll burn this whole place to the ground, and crucify all the monks along the outer wall . . . just to show what happens when someone talks back to Gambler Gold. And his men.” He smiled at Jack. “See what you did?”
“Not going to happen,” said Hawk, hefting his great battleaxe easily.
“Not while we’re here,” said Fisher.
“I am going to bite your balls off and gargle with them,” growled Chappie, looking right at Gambler Gold.
“It’s talking again!” said one of the bandits, cringing away and crossing himself repeatedly.
“Then kill the bloody dog, if it’s bothering you so much!” said Gambler Gold. “Now move! Rip this Abbey apart! Anything you find you like the look of is yours, apart from the book!”
The bandits roared a series of battle cries and surged forward; and Hawk and Fisher and Chappie went to meet them. Hawk swung his axe double-handed, the great blade smashing into the first bandit he met, punching through his rib cage and out again, in a flurry of blood, before flashing on to slice right through another bandit’s throat. Hawk moved on without slowing, and brought the axe head swinging down to smash clean through another man’s shoulder blade and lodge in his breastbone. The sheer impact drove the bandit to his knees, crying out in shock and pain and horror. Hawk jerked the axe free, kicked the dying man onto his back, and looked around for a new target. Grinning nastily all the while. Blood dripped from his face and chest, none of it his.
Fisher’s sword flashed brightly as she cut throats, opened up bellies, and stabbed bandits in the lungs. And then she strode forward over the bodies, looking around for more trouble to get into. Long decades of practicing her swordsmanship had made her faster and stronger and just plain better with a blade than most people ever were. Blood ran thickly across the sand and gravel of the courtyard as Fisher went about her bloody work, and men screamed horribly as they died at her hands.
Chappie leapt on a man’s chest and slammed him to the ground, pinning him there with his great weight. The bandit tried to stab him, and Chappie tore the man’s throat out with his powerful jaws. He leapt this way and that, tearing out hamstrings and biting out great chunks of flesh, always moving so quickly that no one could keep up with him. He might be old, but he was still the High Warlock’s dog, and the Wild Magic burned in his blood.
None of them saw Jack watching, or the sad look in his eyes.
Hawk and Fisher and Chappie raged back and forth among the brigands, cutting them up, hacking them down, and tearing out their throats. The bandits fought fiercely, swinging their swords and axes with desperate strength and speed, and none of it helped. They were outclassed and they knew it. Gambler Gold stood back by the empty hole in the wall, watching thoughtfully. He waited till it was clear his men were being wiped out; and then he called for the rest of his men, waiting outside the wall. And another fifty men came rushing in, blades at the ready, fresh and eager for the fight.
Hawk and Fisher and Chappie grouped together and backed away, all of them splashed with blood not their own. They stood together, defying the bandits to get past them, to the defenceless monks of Saint Augustine’s. And that was when Jack stepped forward. And all the bandits and killers who took their orders from Gambler Gold stopped and looked at him. Because there was just something about this small, withered old man . . . They could feel it in their bones. Gambler Gold shouted and screamed at them, and reluctantly they moved forward again. Jack went smiling to meet them, his robes flying, and his long wooden staff moved with horrid, deadly speed.
He moved swiftly among the bandits, and broke arms and legs and backs with attacks so sudden no man could stop them. He broke heads with blows so powerful the skulls all but exploded under his staff’s impact. Jack might be seventy years old, but he had been the Walking Man in his time, and God’s strength and speed were still with him, as long as he walked Heaven’s path. It probably helped that as far as he was concerned, he was fighting again only to defend his fellow monks.
Hawk and Fisher fought back-to-back, striking down anyone who came within reach, while Chappie danced back and forth, snapping at legs and slamming men clean off their feet with one great shove from his muscled shoulder. And once anyone was on the ground his throat was Chappie’s. Jack seemed almost to glide through the fight, his face calm, his eyes still subtly sad. But for all their abilities, they were still hugely outnumbered. And there was no saying which way the fight might have gone, if a dozen other monks hadn’t suddenly appeared from the Abbey main entrance.
Some had swords, some had axes, some had vicious mystic energies spitting and crackling around their hands. They waded into the fight, old men with horrid pasts who had not forgotten the men they once were, no matter how hard they tried. Brigands and bandits cried out as they were cut down by skilled old hands, and torn apart by terrible magics that exploded among them. Killed by quiet and secluded monks who had once been far worse than the bandits ever were.
Soon enough it was over. The few surviving brigands threw their weapons to the ground and surrendered. Hands held high, shaking with shock. Their leader had never told them it would be like this. Only Gambler Gold himself still stood defiant, his back pressed up against the inside of the outer wall. He was breathing hard, and glaring wildly about him. Hawk and Fisher lowered their weapons, and leaned tiredly on each other, getting their breath back. Chappie collapsed at their feet, panting for breath, licking blood from his muzzle and grinning broadly. And Jack leaned on his staff and looked around him, at the bloody mess of the Abbey courtyard, scattered with the dead and the dying. He wasn’t even out of breath; but of them all, he seemed to take no pleasure or satisfaction in what he’d done. All around him, his fellow monks had put away their swords and their magics, to kneel beside the dying. To pray for them and do their best to comfort them in their last moments. A few were comforting one another, for giving in to old demons they’d thought banished long ago. Jack moved over to join his father and his mother.
“You did good, son,” said Hawk.
“Nice moves,” said Fisher.
“Badass,” said Chappie.
“I read the stories and listened to the songs,” said Jack. “Ever since I was a small child, I knew all the ballads about you . . . But I never saw you fight before. You really were everything the legends said you were. And still are. You were ready to stand against a hundred evil men to protect innocents you didn’t even know.”
“It’s what we do,” said Fisher.
“Some of your fellow monks did well,” said Hawk.
Jack nodded regretfully. “We all came here to forget the men we were, but they’re always only sleeping, not dead.”
“You think you’re so clever!” screamed Gambler Gold, and everyone stopped what they were doing to look at him. He was holding someth
ing in his hand. “You didn’t think I’d come here unprepared, did you? Without an ace up my sleeve? I’m Gambler Gold! See this!” He thrust his hand out before him, so they could all see the glowing silver sphere he was holding. “Stand back! Nobody move, or I’ll kill us all! This is what I used to blow open your precious door! This . . . is an Infernal Device!”
“No, it bloody isn’t,” said Fisher. “And I should know.”
Jack leaned in close beside her. “It’s current slang for an explosive device, Mother.”
“I said I’d burn this shithole down, and I meant it!” said Gambler Gold hoarsely. “Now get me the book or I’ll do it. Do you think I’m bluffing?”
“No,” said Jack. And moving forward so quickly that he was just a blur, he swung his long wooden staff round and hit the side of Gambler Gold’s head so hard it exploded in a flurry of splintered bone and scattered brains. The body crumpled slowly to the ground, and Jack was there to gently take the silver sphere from the opening hand. He fiddled with it briefly, and the silver light went out. Jack smiled sadly at the headless body kicking on the ground before him, and turned away. Chappie came forward to sniff at the corpse, then looked up at Jack.
“I thought you were a monk?”
“I am,” said Jack. “Just not always a very good one.”
• • •
Eventually, Jack was persuaded to leave the cleaning up to the other monks, and he walked out of the Abbey with his parents and the dog. Together, they headed for the woods at the end of the clearing. It was still a bright and cheerful autumn day, but Jack didn’t feel like talking, so Hawk and Fisher let him be. Chappie seemed quite chipper about the whole business, however. The dragon waited till they were right at the edge of the trees before stepping out to show himself. Jack stopped dead in his tracks, and then a slow, disbelieving smile spread across his face. He bowed formally to the dragon, and Hawk introduced the two to each other.
“Where were you while all the fighting was going on?” growled Chappie.
“You didn’t need me, did you?” said the dragon innocently, and the dog’s pride wouldn’t let him say otherwise.
“You hid yourself very well,” Jack said to the dragon. “I had no idea you were there! And there isn’t much I can’t spot.”
“Dragons have always been good at hiding in plain sight,” said the dragon. “I put it down to an essentially sneaky nature.”
Jack shook his head in amazement, and smiled at his parents. “You really did know a dragon! I was never sure how much to believe in the old stories you used to tell me . . . but the dragon was real after all! Will the unicorn be turning up too?”
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and something unsaid passed between them.
“Unlikely,” said Hawk.
“Not everything lives as long as we do,” said Fisher.
“And not all legends last forever,” said Hawk.
“All right,” said Jack, happy to change the subject. “Where now?”
“We have to find your sister, Gillian,” said Fisher.
“I used to get the occasional letter from her,” said Jack. “Last I heard, she was training young warriors at a Brotherhood of Steel Sorting House not that far from the Forest Castle. I can’t believe she’s in any danger. Surrounded by hundreds of trained fighters. And the Sorting House is nowhere near what’s left of the Darkwood.”
“The Demon Prince lives inside people now,” said Hawk.
“We’d better get moving,” said Jack.
• • •
The dragon flew them all farther into the heart of the Forest Land, following Jack’s directions, towards Gillian’s Sorting House. Jack had a pretty good memory for a man in his seventies, though it helped that he still had Gillian’s last letter. The monks of Saint Augustine’s weren’t supposed to have material possessions, but they made an exception for Jack. No one had to ask why. Hawk thought quietly that if he’d known how much Jack prized letters, he would have written more.
The dragon picked up on the geological details in the letter surprisingly quickly; it appeared that dragons knew where everything was, if you just gave them enough clues. He flew over several Sorting Houses, high enough to keep out of range of nervous archers, before finally closing in on the one Jack said was right. It turned out to consist of several large barracks arranged around an even larger central house, with courtyards and stables and training grounds—once again enclosed by a tall, protective stone wall. Hawk said the place reminded him of Saint Augustine’s, and Jack said something really quite rude, for a monk. The dragon circled round and round the Sorting House, so they could all look it over. He spiralled slowly lower, until a few bowmen got brave enough to send a few arrows arcing upwards. They didn’t even come close.
“Kids today,” said Fisher.
The dragon caught a thermal, and swept up and away from the Sorting House. Because, as he pointed out, if he should happen to lose his temper and do something big and fiery and entirely lethal to the archers, it wouldn’t make a good first impression when they finally went down to ask about Gillian. Hawk said he quite understood, and the dragon found another suitable clearing to land in, within walking distance of the Sorting House. Everyone got off, after they’d prised Chappie’s claws loose, and Jack walked round and round in circles for a while, easing his old joints. Hawk watched but didn’t say anything. It disturbed him to see his son so old, but he didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
“I think I’ll stay here again,” said the dragon.
“Probably for the best,” said Fisher. “I have a horrible feeling we’re going to have to be diplomatic with the Brotherhood if we’re going to spring Gillian. And that’s not something Hawk and I find easy at the best of times.”
“Really,” murmured Jack. “You do surprise me . . .”
“But given that we could end up having to face off against a small army of highly trained fighters . . .” said Hawk.
“You call me and I’ll hear it,” said the dragon. “And I’ll be there before you know it. Ooh, look! Dodos! Crunchy!”
And he disappeared abruptly into the woods.
“How does he do that?” said Jack.
“How else can a thirty-foot dragon sneak up on things?” said Fisher.
• • •
They hurried through the woods, and soon burst out into a wide clearing, cut from the Forest with military precision and more than big enough to hold the Brotherhood of Steel’s Sorting House. The perimeter wall was solid stone, rising up a good ten feet, and the one and only entrance gate was covered with all kinds of military motifs. The outside of the wall looked like it got whitewashed daily, probably by resentful young men and women on punishment duty. Hawk insisted that everyone stay back and stand their ground, while he looked the place over. He had a strong feeling that he and his companions were being observed by hidden eyes. He’d walked into enough traps in his time to feel their presence in his bones and in his water.
But since he couldn’t hope to vault the wall or crash the entrance gate, he walked right up to it, smiling cheerfully, as though he didn’t have a care in the world, his hand just casually resting on the axe at his side. Fisher was right there with him, smiling her usual disturbing don’t mess with me smile, not even bothering to look diplomatic. Jack strolled along behind them, pointing out pretty birds and butterflies to Chappie, who wasn’t really interested in that sort of thing. Unless you could eat them.
As they approached the blocky metal-studded gate, it suddenly swung open before them, and a dozen heavily armed and armoured young men and women came marching out, in strict file and discipline, with an old woman in ornamental silver armour at their head. They crashed to a halt before Hawk and his party, and saluted them with drawn swords, before putting the weapons away again and crashing to attention. Hawk stopped too, and smiled at the old woman in charge. He had no problem recognising Gillian.
She was also clearly in her seventies, but in rather better shape than her br
other, Jack. A tall warrior woman, who wore her chased silver armour as though it were a dressing gown, something comfortable she’d just happened to throw on. Her face had a lot of what Hawk quietly decided he was going to call character lines, but she still looked hale and hearty and a good ten years younger than she should. She carried herself like the professional fighter she was, and always would be. And for all her years she still looked like she could be extremely dangerous if the mood took her. She had close-cropped iron grey hair, cool blue eyes, a pursed mouth, and an attractive if not conventionally pretty face. She looked Hawk and Fisher over carefully, and smiled briefly.
“Of course. I knew it had to be you. The first dragon anyone’s seen in a century, come looking for me . . . Hello, Father, Mother.”
She stepped forward and embraced each parent in turn with brisk emotion, or at least, as much as her armour would let her. And only then looked at Jack, and Chappie. Her mouth twitched in something that might have been a smile if it had hung around long enough.
“Hello, Jack. Looking old. Still busy being holy?”
“Hello, Gillian,” said Jack. “Still busy being violent?”
They both laughed quietly but made no move to embrace each other.
“Play nicely, children,” said Fisher. “Or there will be no story at bedtime.”
“Damn, that takes me back,” said Gillian. “I have to say, Mum and Dad, you’re both looking very yourselves. Just like I remembered you.”
“I know,” said Hawk. “We haven’t aged, and you have. It isn’t fair. But what’s the first thing your mother and I taught you?”
“Life isn’t fair,” said Jack and Gillian, pretty much in unison. “That’s why people have to be.”
“We need to talk, Gillian,” said Hawk. “Can you come out? Or do you want to invite us in?”
Gillian turned and glared at the young warriors she’d brought with her, presumably as an honour guard. All of them still standing rigidly at attention. “See these three, and their really ugly dog?” she said loudly. “They’re with me. If anyone bothers them, I will take it as a personal affront. Understood?”